what he earned for himself. He bought stock in the Gillette Company and kept up every day with the stock market. Although he led a generally simple life, he wore a suit, a starched white shirt, and a tie wherever he went. That meant he really stood out when he came to Hope for a visit, because no one in my entire family wore white starched shirts, let alone ties or suits.
Uncle Garvin didnât own a car, so he walked or took a city bus pretty much wherever he wanted to go in Houston. When he came to visit us, he almost always came on the Continental Trailways bus, which stopped only a couple of blocks from our house. When he arrived, either heâd walk from the bus stop or one of my parents would be waiting at the station to pick him up and drive him back to our house.
Uncle Garvin came to visit every Christmas, at least once during the summer, and often at Thanksgiving. Since he was more like our grandfather than an uncle, his visits were always special and always predictable. Within an hour of his arrival, he would walk to the neighborhood Kroger grocery store less than a block from our house and buy a whole chicken. That wasnât because he needed to buy his own food; there would be no âStarvinâ Garvinâ at our house! On the contrary, this was his not-so-subtle way of telling my mother what he wanted for dinner his first night with usâher fried chicken.
Donât think for a minute we minded a bit. To this day, I have never had fried chicken any better than what my mother made. If Colonel Sanders had had her recipe, he would have been a four-star general! Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, navy beans (this was a must-have!), and homemade biscuits with sweet tea were as predictable for Uncle Garvinâs first meal at our house as Christmas coming on December 25 each year.
Even when he was just hanging out at our house during the day, Uncle Garvin still wore a starched white shirt and a tie. I thought that meant he must be important and intelligent, since he was the only person we knew who dressed up for work every day. Most of the men in my extended family didnât even own a suit, and those who did wore it only to funerals. When you saw any of my male relatives in a suit, you didnât ask what important event they were going to attend, you simply asked who had died and hoped it wasnât someone that you knew very well. Death in the family always meant two thingsâmen who looked ridiculously uncomfortable and out of place in a suit would try to wear one, and people from the church and neighborhood would bring over a big bowl of potato salad. This was so predictable that when someone died, we rarely used words like dead, death, and passed away. We just said it was âpotato salad time.â
We usually knew what time the bus that brought Uncle Garvin âhomeâ for Christmas was supposed to arrive, so sometime before that, my sister and I would park ourselves in the front yard and wait and watch for Uncle Garvin to appear. It was a big deal when one of us saw him first and started screaming, âUncle Garvin! Uncle Garvin!â He and the well-traveled but stately brown suitcase in his hand were a welcome sight for us. These were the days long before luggage had wheels, and his suitcase was made of tan leather, which alone was reason enough to think he was pretty important. The only suitcase we had in our family was an old, beat-up one made of a stiff card boardlike material. We never used it because we never really went anywhere to stay overnight. Uncle Garvin even had a luggage tag with his name on it, which was a sure sign that he was somebody special.
Uncle Garvinâs visits meant that there would be an adult in the house all day, even when the parents were both at work. Other than his absolute and unbreakable appointment to watch Perry Mason on the old black-and-white TV, there was lots of time for us to challenge him to countless games of checkers.
Uncle Garvin didnât own a car, so he walked or took a city bus pretty much wherever he wanted to go in Houston. When he came to visit us, he almost always came on the Continental Trailways bus, which stopped only a couple of blocks from our house. When he arrived, either heâd walk from the bus stop or one of my parents would be waiting at the station to pick him up and drive him back to our house.
Uncle Garvin came to visit every Christmas, at least once during the summer, and often at Thanksgiving. Since he was more like our grandfather than an uncle, his visits were always special and always predictable. Within an hour of his arrival, he would walk to the neighborhood Kroger grocery store less than a block from our house and buy a whole chicken. That wasnât because he needed to buy his own food; there would be no âStarvinâ Garvinâ at our house! On the contrary, this was his not-so-subtle way of telling my mother what he wanted for dinner his first night with usâher fried chicken.
Donât think for a minute we minded a bit. To this day, I have never had fried chicken any better than what my mother made. If Colonel Sanders had had her recipe, he would have been a four-star general! Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, navy beans (this was a must-have!), and homemade biscuits with sweet tea were as predictable for Uncle Garvinâs first meal at our house as Christmas coming on December 25 each year.
Even when he was just hanging out at our house during the day, Uncle Garvin still wore a starched white shirt and a tie. I thought that meant he must be important and intelligent, since he was the only person we knew who dressed up for work every day. Most of the men in my extended family didnât even own a suit, and those who did wore it only to funerals. When you saw any of my male relatives in a suit, you didnât ask what important event they were going to attend, you simply asked who had died and hoped it wasnât someone that you knew very well. Death in the family always meant two thingsâmen who looked ridiculously uncomfortable and out of place in a suit would try to wear one, and people from the church and neighborhood would bring over a big bowl of potato salad. This was so predictable that when someone died, we rarely used words like dead, death, and passed away. We just said it was âpotato salad time.â
We usually knew what time the bus that brought Uncle Garvin âhomeâ for Christmas was supposed to arrive, so sometime before that, my sister and I would park ourselves in the front yard and wait and watch for Uncle Garvin to appear. It was a big deal when one of us saw him first and started screaming, âUncle Garvin! Uncle Garvin!â He and the well-traveled but stately brown suitcase in his hand were a welcome sight for us. These were the days long before luggage had wheels, and his suitcase was made of tan leather, which alone was reason enough to think he was pretty important. The only suitcase we had in our family was an old, beat-up one made of a stiff card boardlike material. We never used it because we never really went anywhere to stay overnight. Uncle Garvin even had a luggage tag with his name on it, which was a sure sign that he was somebody special.
Uncle Garvinâs visits meant that there would be an adult in the house all day, even when the parents were both at work. Other than his absolute and unbreakable appointment to watch Perry Mason on the old black-and-white TV, there was lots of time for us to challenge him to countless games of checkers.
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