Ain't no sense in chasin' after what you ain't never gonna catch, Uncle Shad observed from his place on an upended barrel in front McIntyre's Store. He sat with his slouch hat pulled over his eyes against the sun, small piles of wood shavings accumulating around his feet and one cheek puffed out from snuff. Mind your footin', boy! he periodically yelled at my brother who was wading in the cove, trying to catch fish practically barehanded, Them rocks be slippery and I ain't no mind to fetch after you! My brother paid no attention - intent on snaring an unwary mackerel, he was hip deep in ocean, holding his home made spear, a pocket knife securely lashed to a thin tree branch. Too much book learnin', Shad muttered and spat tobacco juice at the precise moment my grandmother emerged from McIntyre's. Shadrach! she barked at him, That's a filthy habit! and Uncle Shad winced and wiped his mouth with one flannel sleeve, Ayuh, he agreed, It be that. The other men gathered around snickered at this reprimand although they carefully shaded their smiles from my grandmother's eyes, none wishing to be her next target. After the old Lincoln had pulled out in a cloud of dust and gravel, they prodded the wizened, elf-like little man good naturedly about not standing up to a woman but he refused to take their bait. Ain't much time we be given on this earth, he told them mildly, Best to pick your battles.
It was sound advice, worth keeping and taking, but I didn't know it at the time - a thirteen year old, rebellious tomboy hasn't much use for philosophy and at the time, in a relentless war with my mother, the only thing that seemed worth the fight was independence and the far off possibility of winning. My grandmother was on my side only randomly, when it suited her to join the battle for her own purpose, otherwise I felt on my own and outnumbered, dismissed and set aside. Uncle Shad, having raised two daughters alone after his wife's death, knew about conflict and loneliness in young girls and knew that at the approach of the Lincoln, I had run for cover behind the crumbling old Westscott steps. He pocketed his knife, returned the barrel to it's place and began walking down the road toward the dance hall and The Old Road. At the steps, he paused and called my name. Walk with me, child, he called quietly.
We walked past the fishing shacks and the post office, the barber shop that only opened it's doors only on Saturday nights, the picture show, the dance hall, and the old breakwater. The tide was coming in, gulls were gathering and there was a light, salt breeze. The sun was going down over Brier Island and we stopped to watch the sky turn to pink and blue and fiery red - a late boat chugged through the passage, passing Peter's Island and heading for the last wharf, making slow but steady progress against the choppy waves and all the while Uncle Shad talked to me, about my mother, about growing up, about winning and losing and what it all meant. There's more'n one way to win and more'n one way to lose, he told me as we took the shortcut through Uncle Willie's pasture, then across the road and to the path through the strawberry field. I could smell supper and hear the dogs as they came bounding toward us.
Make up your mind what matters, Uncle Shad called over his shoulder, and then pick your battles.
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