Uncle George
Wendell Logan
Uncle George came to live with my family when I was just eight years old. Uncle George was 91. I had never known anyone that old, but then, I had only been alive for eight years and outside of my family and my schoolmates had not had many opportunities to do so.
Uncle George was not really my uncle but that is what everyone in my family as well as even casual acquaintances called him. He was the brother of my great-grandmother who had already passed away some two years earlier. For more years than anyone could remember Uncle George had lived in a small tar paper and wooden two room shack on the back forty acres of one of the richest landowners in the county. He had made his living most of his life working for the farmers and ranchers in the area. He apparently was well known in several counties as the best fence builder money could buy. Even though he was not a full time employee of the rancher on whose property he lived, he was allowed to live there, presumably because of his skill as a fence builder and all around excellent worker.
He worked until well into his eighties, but time, injuries and illness had taken its toll and he had to move in with relatives. It must have been a terrible indignity for such an independent person to now be dependent on relatives and friends for his survival. There were of course homes for the indigent or those without family or friends willing to take them in and care for them in their advanced years. Like most of our friends however, our family would never allow a family member to be taken in by the county poor house. Since my own grandmother, who was really uncle George's niece was too cantankerous to live with for anyone except my grandfather, who I believe must have been a saint to have lived with her, the job fell to my mother.
I came home from school one day to hear my mother apparently talking to someone in the screened in porch at the back of our small house. I immediately wondered who was visiting at that hour of the day and headed that way to see if it was anyone I knew. My mother met me at the door and taking my hand said “James,” I want to you come say hello to Uncle George. You must remember him, although I know you haven't seen him in quite a while.” I did remember him, although vaguely. My recollection was primarily one that brought memories of a funeral service for what would have been my great grandmother, who as I have said was the sister of Uncle George.
Our back porch was a wonderful hide-a-way and a place where I spent many summer afternoons indulging myself in the latest escapades of The Lone Ranger, Buck Rogers or anyone of a number of characters that came to life through the pages of the small books or comics that I was so fond of reading. Uncle George lay on the small single bed that occupied a corner of the small room and the one that I had always assumed was my own private sanctuary when I wanted to indulge my latest fantasies of making sure that good overcame evil. Now it seemed Uncle George was holding sway over my private domain.
Lying on the bed that I has spent so many wonderful summer afternoons, reading my comics and listening to the gentle breeze or the soft, warm rainfall that was so common in Oklahoma in the long afternoons of July and August, was Uncle George. I was taken aback at his frail appearance for I had remembered him as a giant of a man from my memory of not so long ago. Now I saw a small wizened figure which could not have been much larger than myself, propped up by the pillows my mother had placed there for his comfort. He looked at me with piercing blue eyes that peered out from white shaggy eyebrows that dominated his small face. He extended his hand for me to shake and as I grasped it in my own small grip I felt the worn calloused fingers that must have strung thousands of miles of barbed wire and dug an equal number of post holes for the fences that he was so well know for. His hand was strong and steady as he held my own for some time and surveyed my face as if searching to see if he could conjure an image up from his past. Finally satisfied that my face brought back no memories hidden from so long ago he released my hand and asked,“What's your name boy?”
“James,” I answered meekly, trying not to avert my gaze from the steady one he held on my face.
“That's a good name, a good solid one, like the apostle,” he said. “Be sure you live up to it boy,” he said, as he slumped back on the two pillows.
I wasn't sure exactly who the James was that he was referring to but I had an idea it was someone from the Bible that my dad was so fond of reading and quoting from. My mother, as she so often did, came to my rescue by placing her hand on my shoulder and heading me toward the door to let me know the conversation with Uncle George was now officially over.
“You run along now James and finish your homework before supper, I will be in shortly, she instructed me. I was more than happy to have the opportunity to leave as I had no idea what my purpose was in being there. I headed straight for the kitchen and quickly snatched two Hydrox cookies from the package in the cabinet, hoping my mom would not notice the missing evidence until she filled my lunch pail the next morning. I rushed to my room and immediately consumed the incriminating evidence before pulling out my homework where I could pretend to be busy when my mom came in as I knew she would. Sure enough within two minutes she came in and sat down on my bed.
“James,” she began, “Uncle George will be staying with us for a while, so everyone will have to make some adjustments while he is here. That includes you.” “All of us will have to pitch in and make sure he is comfortable while he is here,” she continued.
“How long will he be here,” I asked?
After a long pause, during which she seemed to be thinking deeply about something, she simply looked at me and said. “I don't know the answer to that.”
“Anyway, as I said we all have to pitch in and help. Your job will be to take him his dinner every night and then collect his plate after he has eaten. Do you think you can handle that job,”
Not knowing why I was selected for this seemingly important task, and not wanting to disappoint my mom, I assured her that she could certainly count on me.
“Good,” she said, arising from her spot on my bed. Walking over to me she brushed my face with the damp washcloth she was holding and said. “Don't let me catch you eating cookies before supper again young man.”
“Yes mam,” I answered in the most contrite tone I could muster.
And so it began, I was to take Uncle George his supper every night, promptly at 5:30, as my dad like to eat early. After giving him an hour to finish, I was to go to his room and collect the plates and silverware, bring them to my mom for cleaning. I was not to bother Uncle George with foolish questions, which apparently I was prone to asking, and finish my own chores, which were minimal. I could not imagine that anything could have been easier. I was mistaken.
The first week went according to my mother's directions. Each day I would deliver the evening meal to him, wait an hour and collect the remains. Their was seldom anything left, as Uncle George had apparently not lost his appetite with his advancing age. Perhaps he only wanted to please my mother by eating everything on his plate was a thought that crossed my mind. At any rate the ritual continued for a full seven days until on a Sunday, the last day of a full week that he had been with us.
As usual, I delivered the evening meal, pot roast, which was always a staple at our house on Sundays, if it wasn't fried chicken, and after an hour returned to collect the plate. As I began to pick up the dishes, he suddenly put out a gnarled hand to stop me. Sit down for a minute boy, he instructed me, indicating the chair which was near the foot of his bed. With some apprehension, I pulled the chair close to his bedside, unsure of just what he wanted.
“Your name is James ain’t it ?”he wanted to know.
“Yes sir,” I replied.
“How old are you, boy?”
“Eight, sir,” I answered, not at all sure why he wanted to know.
“Do you know how to play checkers?” he asked.
“I sure do,” I said, with what was probably an attitude that said I was pretty good at the game.
“Well then, Uncle George said, shifting his weight to a more upright position on his small bed, go look in that footlocker over there in the corner and get the checkers and board out and bring it over here. He indicated that I was to place it on the small bedside table which now held his supper tray and empty plate.
I did as I was told and opened the box to find the checkers set in the bottom of one corner. I wondered what else I would find if given the opportunity to rummage through the old box as I most certainly would have loved to do. I realized much later that it contained what was probably the sum total of his life's possessions. A life that had spanned some ninety plus years was now reduced to the contents of a small box measuring no more than three by five feet. I reluctantly, closed the locker and set the checker set on the table.
He opened the frayed paper box holding the checkers and began to stack the red ones on my side of the board, indicating that I would play first. I felt pretty good about my chances since I had been playing my dad since I was five years old. My dad was a very accomplished player so I reasoned that it should not be too difficult to beat a 90 person year old person. I could not have been more mistaken. Quickly he had captured three of my reds and I could see that the game for all intents and purposes was over. Half-halfheartedly I moved my remaining checkers in random moves deciding that it was better to end the slaughter than prolong it and show just how inept I was at the game. Mercifully, he captured the last of my discs and swept all of the checkers into a pile and began separating them.
“Don't be discouraged boy,” he said, looking at me from under those bushy eyebrows that told me I was not the first in what was surely a long list of victims. “You played well for a young-un.”
I folded the board and together with the box returned them to the footlocker still wondering what else it contained. I placed his empty coffee cup on the dish with his utensils and picked up the dinner plate. I hesitated for an instance as I looked from Uncle George to the quarter that lay under the dish.
“Go ahead,” he indicated with a gnarled finger pointing at the quarter. “That's for you.”
Sensing my hesitation and seeming to read my mind he said. “I know your mom said you were not to take anything from me but you have a job to do and you have been doing it well. Every man who has a job and does it well deserves to be paid. Now go ahead and take the money, I will handle your ma.”
Hesitating, but only for a moment, I scooped the quarter up and stuffed it in the pocket of my jeans. I was certain my mother would come into the room and demand I give the coin back. However, no such thing occurred and I quickly exited the room after thanking Uncle George who only nodded his assent to the secret we now shared.
Whether or not my mother ever knew about the arrangement I had with Uncle George is something I still do not know to this day. If she did she never uttered a word to give me a clue. I only know that I continued to bring him meals and we continued to play checkers, which sometimes now included two games after dinner. It was Sunday again and I could not help but wonder if there would be another quarter under his plate. I had to wait of course to find out if my good fortune would continue until he had finished his dinner and we had played our two games which I still lost. After putting the board game away I placed the silverware and coffee cup on the tray and gingerly lifted the plate and there indeed was another quarter. Twenty-five cents from Uncle George matched my weekly allowance which still covered a movie matinee with money for popcorn and a small coke. I was dizzy with the prospects of having twice the money to spend and all without my mom knowing. I must confess I suffered some guilt feelings which I quickly overcame as soon as I pocketed my new found wealth.
My summer vacation was quickly coming to an end and I was now the proud owner of almost three dollars that I had earned. I was almost dizzy with the anticipation of what I would spend my fortune on but also was more than a little nervous as to how I would explain to my mother how I came to have the means to purchase anything except a movie ticket. Of course I reasoned there was no real need for my mother to know about my good fortune since I had no intention of ever divulging my secret.
At any rate summer vacation did end and I returned to school, now in the third grade having just turned nine years old in May. My duties remained the same as to taking care of Uncle George and every Sunday after our checker game I removed his plate and cup to find another quarter for me. I had noticed lately however, that he seemed to tire more easily and was not as involved in the checker game as he had been. I even managed to win a couple of times which was gratifying to me but somehow I felt the was not up to his usual standards as if his mind was somewhere else. He did continue to give me advice, mainly about the responsibility of working hard and being a good provider some day. I listened as attentively as any nine year old would and assured him he could count on me for being reliable.
Life went on pretty much as usual for the next month with school occupying most of my time. I continued to serve Uncle George his evening meal and collect the a dishes along with my usual quarter until one Sunday late in September or early October when I went to gather his plate and cup. I noticed that he had eaten very little and was lying quietly on his bed but still awake. As I picked up the plate he motioned for me to sit in the chair which I always did for our checker game. I knew however, that he was not interested in a game of checkers tonight. He fixed me with that steady gaze that I had become accustomed to seeing when he was about to give me some advice.
“James,” he began, “you have been a good boy and a hard worker while I have been here and I want you to know how much I appreciate it. I especially have enjoyed our checker games and do believe you have some potential. Maybe one day soon you will be good enough to beat your dad,” he said with a little chuckle. “Life,” he continued, “is a little bit like a checker game you see. Whatever move you make in either there is always a consequence to it. Make sure you make the best decision possible whether in checkers or life and you will be OK.” He reached out a gnarled hand that was much softer than the one I had shaken five months before. I took it realizing he wanted to shake and gave him my strongest grip even though I was a little concerned that it might be too strong. He held my hand for moment and then with a nod indicated that I should take his plate and it was time for me to leave.
As I reached the door I heard him say:“Good-bye boy.”
I turned to say good night but he had already turned his head into his pillow and closed his eyes.
I never saw Uncle George again. When I arrived home from school the next day my mother met me at the door and with an expression on her face that told me she had something important to say. What she told me was that Uncle George had died sometime during the night and was now at the local funeral home where she would be making arrangements for his funeral in the next few days. She also told me that he had left me something in his room and I could go get it if I wanted.
I walked to the back of the house and the small room that had been Uncle George's haven for the past five months or so. The door was open and I could see my mom had already changed the bed covers and moved the small chair to another location. Uncle George's foot locker was no where in site and I assumed my dad had taken it to the storage shed in our back yard. My eyes were drawn to the small bedside table where he and I had played checkers almost every day during the summer. I could see the checkers, red and black stacked neatly in two piles on the table. Lying on the table was what I could see was the checkerboard itself and what appeared to be a sheet of white paper on top. Slowly I approached, half expecting to hear Uncle George's voice. I looked at the paper and read the writing which was scrawled in print, but extremely legible. It said: “For the Boy.”
Carefully I lifted the paper off the top and there in the checker squares lay twenty-four quarters. Twelve for the red ones and twelve for the black ones. Six dollars I quickly calculated and realized that my wealth had increased two-fold. I really wasn't thinking about the money however, but instead remembered what Uncle George had said about life being a lot like the game of checkers. Every move you make results in consequences either good or bad. Slowly I reached out my finger and moved one of the quarters to a vacant square. I thought to myself at that point, your move Uncle George.
.
Wendell Logan
Uncle George came to live with my family when I was just eight years old. Uncle George was 91. I had never known anyone that old, but then, I had only been alive for eight years and outside of my family and my schoolmates had not had many opportunities to do so.
Uncle George was not really my uncle but that is what everyone in my family as well as even casual acquaintances called him. He was the brother of my great-grandmother who had already passed away some two years earlier. For more years than anyone could remember Uncle George had lived in a small tar paper and wooden two room shack on the back forty acres of one of the richest landowners in the county. He had made his living most of his life working for the farmers and ranchers in the area. He apparently was well known in several counties as the best fence builder money could buy. Even though he was not a full time employee of the rancher on whose property he lived, he was allowed to live there, presumably because of his skill as a fence builder and all around excellent worker.
He worked until well into his eighties, but time, injuries and illness had taken its toll and he had to move in with relatives. It must have been a terrible indignity for such an independent person to now be dependent on relatives and friends for his survival. There were of course homes for the indigent or those without family or friends willing to take them in and care for them in their advanced years. Like most of our friends however, our family would never allow a family member to be taken in by the county poor house. Since my own grandmother, who was really uncle George's niece was too cantankerous to live with for anyone except my grandfather, who I believe must have been a saint to have lived with her, the job fell to my mother.
I came home from school one day to hear my mother apparently talking to someone in the screened in porch at the back of our small house. I immediately wondered who was visiting at that hour of the day and headed that way to see if it was anyone I knew. My mother met me at the door and taking my hand said “James,” I want to you come say hello to Uncle George. You must remember him, although I know you haven't seen him in quite a while.” I did remember him, although vaguely. My recollection was primarily one that brought memories of a funeral service for what would have been my great grandmother, who as I have said was the sister of Uncle George.
Our back porch was a wonderful hide-a-way and a place where I spent many summer afternoons indulging myself in the latest escapades of The Lone Ranger, Buck Rogers or anyone of a number of characters that came to life through the pages of the small books or comics that I was so fond of reading. Uncle George lay on the small single bed that occupied a corner of the small room and the one that I had always assumed was my own private sanctuary when I wanted to indulge my latest fantasies of making sure that good overcame evil. Now it seemed Uncle George was holding sway over my private domain.
Lying on the bed that I has spent so many wonderful summer afternoons, reading my comics and listening to the gentle breeze or the soft, warm rainfall that was so common in Oklahoma in the long afternoons of July and August, was Uncle George. I was taken aback at his frail appearance for I had remembered him as a giant of a man from my memory of not so long ago. Now I saw a small wizened figure which could not have been much larger than myself, propped up by the pillows my mother had placed there for his comfort. He looked at me with piercing blue eyes that peered out from white shaggy eyebrows that dominated his small face. He extended his hand for me to shake and as I grasped it in my own small grip I felt the worn calloused fingers that must have strung thousands of miles of barbed wire and dug an equal number of post holes for the fences that he was so well know for. His hand was strong and steady as he held my own for some time and surveyed my face as if searching to see if he could conjure an image up from his past. Finally satisfied that my face brought back no memories hidden from so long ago he released my hand and asked,“What's your name boy?”
“James,” I answered meekly, trying not to avert my gaze from the steady one he held on my face.
“That's a good name, a good solid one, like the apostle,” he said. “Be sure you live up to it boy,” he said, as he slumped back on the two pillows.
I wasn't sure exactly who the James was that he was referring to but I had an idea it was someone from the Bible that my dad was so fond of reading and quoting from. My mother, as she so often did, came to my rescue by placing her hand on my shoulder and heading me toward the door to let me know the conversation with Uncle George was now officially over.
“You run along now James and finish your homework before supper, I will be in shortly, she instructed me. I was more than happy to have the opportunity to leave as I had no idea what my purpose was in being there. I headed straight for the kitchen and quickly snatched two Hydrox cookies from the package in the cabinet, hoping my mom would not notice the missing evidence until she filled my lunch pail the next morning. I rushed to my room and immediately consumed the incriminating evidence before pulling out my homework where I could pretend to be busy when my mom came in as I knew she would. Sure enough within two minutes she came in and sat down on my bed.
“James,” she began, “Uncle George will be staying with us for a while, so everyone will have to make some adjustments while he is here. That includes you.” “All of us will have to pitch in and make sure he is comfortable while he is here,” she continued.
“How long will he be here,” I asked?
After a long pause, during which she seemed to be thinking deeply about something, she simply looked at me and said. “I don't know the answer to that.”
“Anyway, as I said we all have to pitch in and help. Your job will be to take him his dinner every night and then collect his plate after he has eaten. Do you think you can handle that job,”
Not knowing why I was selected for this seemingly important task, and not wanting to disappoint my mom, I assured her that she could certainly count on me.
“Good,” she said, arising from her spot on my bed. Walking over to me she brushed my face with the damp washcloth she was holding and said. “Don't let me catch you eating cookies before supper again young man.”
“Yes mam,” I answered in the most contrite tone I could muster.
And so it began, I was to take Uncle George his supper every night, promptly at 5:30, as my dad like to eat early. After giving him an hour to finish, I was to go to his room and collect the plates and silverware, bring them to my mom for cleaning. I was not to bother Uncle George with foolish questions, which apparently I was prone to asking, and finish my own chores, which were minimal. I could not imagine that anything could have been easier. I was mistaken.
The first week went according to my mother's directions. Each day I would deliver the evening meal to him, wait an hour and collect the remains. Their was seldom anything left, as Uncle George had apparently not lost his appetite with his advancing age. Perhaps he only wanted to please my mother by eating everything on his plate was a thought that crossed my mind. At any rate the ritual continued for a full seven days until on a Sunday, the last day of a full week that he had been with us.
As usual, I delivered the evening meal, pot roast, which was always a staple at our house on Sundays, if it wasn't fried chicken, and after an hour returned to collect the plate. As I began to pick up the dishes, he suddenly put out a gnarled hand to stop me. Sit down for a minute boy, he instructed me, indicating the chair which was near the foot of his bed. With some apprehension, I pulled the chair close to his bedside, unsure of just what he wanted.
“Your name is James ain’t it ?”he wanted to know.
“Yes sir,” I replied.
“How old are you, boy?”
“Eight, sir,” I answered, not at all sure why he wanted to know.
“Do you know how to play checkers?” he asked.
“I sure do,” I said, with what was probably an attitude that said I was pretty good at the game.
“Well then, Uncle George said, shifting his weight to a more upright position on his small bed, go look in that footlocker over there in the corner and get the checkers and board out and bring it over here. He indicated that I was to place it on the small bedside table which now held his supper tray and empty plate.
I did as I was told and opened the box to find the checkers set in the bottom of one corner. I wondered what else I would find if given the opportunity to rummage through the old box as I most certainly would have loved to do. I realized much later that it contained what was probably the sum total of his life's possessions. A life that had spanned some ninety plus years was now reduced to the contents of a small box measuring no more than three by five feet. I reluctantly, closed the locker and set the checker set on the table.
He opened the frayed paper box holding the checkers and began to stack the red ones on my side of the board, indicating that I would play first. I felt pretty good about my chances since I had been playing my dad since I was five years old. My dad was a very accomplished player so I reasoned that it should not be too difficult to beat a 90 person year old person. I could not have been more mistaken. Quickly he had captured three of my reds and I could see that the game for all intents and purposes was over. Half-halfheartedly I moved my remaining checkers in random moves deciding that it was better to end the slaughter than prolong it and show just how inept I was at the game. Mercifully, he captured the last of my discs and swept all of the checkers into a pile and began separating them.
“Don't be discouraged boy,” he said, looking at me from under those bushy eyebrows that told me I was not the first in what was surely a long list of victims. “You played well for a young-un.”
I folded the board and together with the box returned them to the footlocker still wondering what else it contained. I placed his empty coffee cup on the dish with his utensils and picked up the dinner plate. I hesitated for an instance as I looked from Uncle George to the quarter that lay under the dish.
“Go ahead,” he indicated with a gnarled finger pointing at the quarter. “That's for you.”
Sensing my hesitation and seeming to read my mind he said. “I know your mom said you were not to take anything from me but you have a job to do and you have been doing it well. Every man who has a job and does it well deserves to be paid. Now go ahead and take the money, I will handle your ma.”
Hesitating, but only for a moment, I scooped the quarter up and stuffed it in the pocket of my jeans. I was certain my mother would come into the room and demand I give the coin back. However, no such thing occurred and I quickly exited the room after thanking Uncle George who only nodded his assent to the secret we now shared.
Whether or not my mother ever knew about the arrangement I had with Uncle George is something I still do not know to this day. If she did she never uttered a word to give me a clue. I only know that I continued to bring him meals and we continued to play checkers, which sometimes now included two games after dinner. It was Sunday again and I could not help but wonder if there would be another quarter under his plate. I had to wait of course to find out if my good fortune would continue until he had finished his dinner and we had played our two games which I still lost. After putting the board game away I placed the silverware and coffee cup on the tray and gingerly lifted the plate and there indeed was another quarter. Twenty-five cents from Uncle George matched my weekly allowance which still covered a movie matinee with money for popcorn and a small coke. I was dizzy with the prospects of having twice the money to spend and all without my mom knowing. I must confess I suffered some guilt feelings which I quickly overcame as soon as I pocketed my new found wealth.
My summer vacation was quickly coming to an end and I was now the proud owner of almost three dollars that I had earned. I was almost dizzy with the anticipation of what I would spend my fortune on but also was more than a little nervous as to how I would explain to my mother how I came to have the means to purchase anything except a movie ticket. Of course I reasoned there was no real need for my mother to know about my good fortune since I had no intention of ever divulging my secret.
At any rate summer vacation did end and I returned to school, now in the third grade having just turned nine years old in May. My duties remained the same as to taking care of Uncle George and every Sunday after our checker game I removed his plate and cup to find another quarter for me. I had noticed lately however, that he seemed to tire more easily and was not as involved in the checker game as he had been. I even managed to win a couple of times which was gratifying to me but somehow I felt the was not up to his usual standards as if his mind was somewhere else. He did continue to give me advice, mainly about the responsibility of working hard and being a good provider some day. I listened as attentively as any nine year old would and assured him he could count on me for being reliable.
Life went on pretty much as usual for the next month with school occupying most of my time. I continued to serve Uncle George his evening meal and collect the a dishes along with my usual quarter until one Sunday late in September or early October when I went to gather his plate and cup. I noticed that he had eaten very little and was lying quietly on his bed but still awake. As I picked up the plate he motioned for me to sit in the chair which I always did for our checker game. I knew however, that he was not interested in a game of checkers tonight. He fixed me with that steady gaze that I had become accustomed to seeing when he was about to give me some advice.
“James,” he began, “you have been a good boy and a hard worker while I have been here and I want you to know how much I appreciate it. I especially have enjoyed our checker games and do believe you have some potential. Maybe one day soon you will be good enough to beat your dad,” he said with a little chuckle. “Life,” he continued, “is a little bit like a checker game you see. Whatever move you make in either there is always a consequence to it. Make sure you make the best decision possible whether in checkers or life and you will be OK.” He reached out a gnarled hand that was much softer than the one I had shaken five months before. I took it realizing he wanted to shake and gave him my strongest grip even though I was a little concerned that it might be too strong. He held my hand for moment and then with a nod indicated that I should take his plate and it was time for me to leave.
As I reached the door I heard him say:“Good-bye boy.”
I turned to say good night but he had already turned his head into his pillow and closed his eyes.
I never saw Uncle George again. When I arrived home from school the next day my mother met me at the door and with an expression on her face that told me she had something important to say. What she told me was that Uncle George had died sometime during the night and was now at the local funeral home where she would be making arrangements for his funeral in the next few days. She also told me that he had left me something in his room and I could go get it if I wanted.
I walked to the back of the house and the small room that had been Uncle George's haven for the past five months or so. The door was open and I could see my mom had already changed the bed covers and moved the small chair to another location. Uncle George's foot locker was no where in site and I assumed my dad had taken it to the storage shed in our back yard. My eyes were drawn to the small bedside table where he and I had played checkers almost every day during the summer. I could see the checkers, red and black stacked neatly in two piles on the table. Lying on the table was what I could see was the checkerboard itself and what appeared to be a sheet of white paper on top. Slowly I approached, half expecting to hear Uncle George's voice. I looked at the paper and read the writing which was scrawled in print, but extremely legible. It said: “For the Boy.”
Carefully I lifted the paper off the top and there in the checker squares lay twenty-four quarters. Twelve for the red ones and twelve for the black ones. Six dollars I quickly calculated and realized that my wealth had increased two-fold. I really wasn't thinking about the money however, but instead remembered what Uncle George had said about life being a lot like the game of checkers. Every move you make results in consequences either good or bad. Slowly I reached out my finger and moved one of the quarters to a vacant square. I thought to myself at that point, your move Uncle George.
.
