Officially it may not be winter yet, but once snow arrives, ownself decides it's here and with the arrival of snow, for some reason, every season my thoughts wander back to both of my crazy uncles named Jack. Neither are here now, but both, one on each side of our family, were very entertaining.
Indian Head Jack and Yorkton Jack were cut from different cloth. It was Indian Head Jack I was remembering the other day. He was a true character, a former teacher/principal who loved to drain a dram of whiskey once in awhile and once he did, especially during the Christmas season, he would begin to expound on the wonders around us, or, if the mood fit the occasion, he would roll out some historical, hysterical poetry that kept we teenagers enthralled.
"Oh no," my aunt Velma would proclaim, as Uncle Jack would wind up his vocal chords for a poem, but not just any ordinary poem for him. He had a steel trapped memory bank and his rendition of Horatio at the Bridge had to be heard complete with explanations, as any good educator would have you believe is necessary.
Uncle Jack would wend his way through Horatius and Spurius Larthius and Herminius, and brilliantly painted Lars Porciena as the Dr. Evil of the piece he was reciting.
But then he'd wander off into Caesar Crossing the Rubicon and the Battle of Munda, which he paraphrased as the Battle of the Mundane.
"Caesar glanced askance," he would tell his enraptured audience. "Askance being a small village on the other side of the Rubicon."
We'd roll on the floor with laughter as Uncle Jack wandered from one poetic piece to another without losing pace. He didn't care if he was in Gaul, Italy or somewhere in Spain. If the story needed to be spun, he'd spin it.
He would wander on, comparing Caesar's stupidity to Horatio's supposed bravery and we never did know whether or not Horatio's bridge spanned the Rubicon of Caesar's liking or whether it was some other body of water. It really didn't matter.
Of course three-quarters of the way through, he'd proclaim that the magnitude of the rivers was of no consequence and did we know for example that the so-called Mighty River Jordan was, in fact, nothing but a little creek that wouldn't do a Saskatchewan coulee any justice?
He would eventually round up all the scattered details into one finale package that would again have us weeping with laughter and declare the poem completed. He did not entertain questions either. After all, when you fabricate fact, fiction and unencumbered imagination ... there ain't no straight answers, just entertainment.
If he were here today, I'm certain he would have embraced social media as part of his pontifications. I can hear him now ... "Bring me your weak, your lame, your algorithms. Bring me my horse, my kingdom for a horse and some apps and I shall slay mine enemy with twitters."
Yep, listening to Uncle Jack recite his version of Horatio at the Bridge with a side trip to the Rubicon to visit Julius Caesar with a touch of Biblical and ancient historical and mythical references thrown in for good measure ... was my choice for Christmas season entertainment. It sure beat The Night Before Christmas, by a long shot.
Yep, when that snow flies, I, for some strange reason, start thinking about crazy uncles.
