The Woodcarver

Uncle Willie had lived alone for as long as I could remember. His house sat across the strawberry field from our's, a clapboard, two story in need of paint and other repairs. He lived only on the first floor in a living room with a small kitchen and an even smaller bedroom. He was old and grizzled with skin like well worn leather and an unkempt beard. He smoked a pipe now and then but mostly would roll his own. He would sit in his old rocking chair in the evenings, flannel shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, smoking and reading the paper while we played at his feet - he taught us dominoes and cribbage and hearts -and when it was time for us to go, he always saw us to the door with an old oil lamp and waited until we were safely across the road. Nana would then flick the backporch light to let him know we were home and he would swing his lamp in acknowledgement then return to his pipe and paper. His lights stayed on all night.

He had been a fisherman all his life, Nana said. And had had a wife and raised a family but they never visited and he never left to see them. Nana would mutter something about bad blood but when pressed to explain, she'd give us a half hearted swat and a Never you mind. On Sundays, she would fix a plate and send us across the road with it. Uncle Willie returned the favor by keeping us supplied with homemade ice cream with real bits of ginger. I've never seen ginger ice cream since.

He kept chickens and a couple of goats and during the day he would tend his vegetable garden or sit on his front steps and mend his old, no longer needed fishing nets. Sometimes he would carve or whittle, turning bits of wood into whistles or tiny figures that we carried as good luck charms. He was a solitary, silent carver but I imagined that his wooden animals made up for it. I had an entire
collection of small animals by one summer's end and they all talked to me non-stop. Uncle Willie would listen to these conversations and smile and rock and smoke but say nothing. Now and then a tourist would see his work and stop by the old house - Willie would always oblige them, accepting their money with an I thank ye and a tip of his cap. To them, I suppose he was just another one of the island's many eccentrics, their version of the old Gloucester fisherman come to life. To him, they were just "from away" with more money than sense.

He was well into his 90's when he died and his funeral was held on a clear and bright, beautiful summer day. His daughters and their families came for that last time and Nana worked round the clock to get his old house ready for them but they simply saw him buried and left. People who forget where they come from, Nana told me at the grave, don't get to go nowhere.