Could he ‘cuss’? Yep, likely the most colorful style which almost definitely was intended to lift my mother’s eyebrows. After all, she being the daughter of a Methodist minister would most certainly wash her son’s mouth with soap if he repeated one word of it.
Things I remember most was his infinite sense of humor and his love for nature, particularly in the line of outdoor sports such as hunting and fishing. He was a fantastic trainer of his bird dogs and beamed with pride when he talked about them finding the elusive quail.
Uncle Pete Bruner came to spend the weekend and stayed thirteen years about the time I was three years old. The depression years kept my dad’s (W. T. Jamison) nose to the grind stone, so to speak, while raising five children; I was the youngest. He also loved the outdoors but was mostly limited in his off time to care for his cattle. He was a real cowboy at heart.
Uncle Pete took this rambling tow head boy under his wing and I loved every minute trodding behind him and his bird dogs. I would help digging worms, seining ditches for minnows, or crawfish for bait. Fishing was also a priority my great uncle’s relentless quest for the biggest fish no matter what species.
During World War II, this area had few if any plumbers. Uncle Pete was a retired plumber and took on minor jobs as long as it didn’t interfere with his hunting and fishing activities with his skinny little partner. The gas company gave him the job of turning on or off gas meters when folks built a new home or moved. This paid him a whopping $4.00 each, as I recall. Of course, that helped out for shells and tackle.
The Liberty County Fair Grounds no longer held the county fairs during WWII. In fact, it was a prisoner of war camp for German soldiers, most of which were captured in North Africa. A call came from some authorities there asking Uncle Pete if he would direct the installation of showers for the prisoners incarcerated in the camp. They assured him he would not have to do any labor, only direct the prisoners assigned to him with an interpreter. He agreed as long as he could bring his own side kick helper (me). That turned out to be an experience I’ll never forget.
I was a young teenager by then and some of the younger Germans were not a lot older. They were eager to learn English but mostly limited to naughty words of which Uncle Pete was proficient. They were very polite and extremely helpful in proper measurement of the galvanized piping.
The effort was momentarily interrupted by a German army major who briskly approached a U.S. 2nd Lieutenant and saluted the American. “Sir, may I speak (in perfect English)?
The officer said, “Certainly major, what’s on your mind”? “Sir, we would like your permission to bring some of those small stones from the road way to use as a walk in wet areas here”? The young lieutenant couldn’t figure out the “small stones” part but soon realized he was talking about the Highway Department pile of gravel. “Nope, we can’t do that. It belongs to the State of Texas.” He replied, “But sir, we are the army!” The lieutenant smiled and politely said, “That doesn’t work here”.
Uncle Pete lived to a ripe old age. The last picture I have of him showed him sitting on the ground with his agile legs folded under him Indian style and a bird dog in his lap. After all, he claimed to be quarter Cherokee Indian which my mother disputed as another of his tales. Anyhow, the keen eyed outdoorsman was a good sport and much fun to be with even if he did ‘cuss’ a bit.
Bob Jamison is a free lance writer. His stories are on Jamison Wildlife.com
