My memories of spending time with an aunt and uncle in Grand Saline, Tex., are of boutonnieres and bull riders. I recall the scents of white carnations and the brown stuff flailing horses left behind on the rodeo grounds.
There are recollections from that summer of my first time in a storm shelter, a terrifying tour of a salt mine, of Henrietta and Old Spice after shave.
Everybody was surprised when Uncle Buddy quit his job at the paper mill and moved to Grand Saline to run a flower shop. It seemed out of character.
He was my mother’s only brother and one of her favorite people, but even she referred to him once in a while as a “hell-raiser.” That was harsh language for her.
But Buddy had gotten rough around the edges fighting Germans in Europe and strangers in saloons. He was unscathed in the war but had a mis-shaped nose from the bar brawls.
It was the 1950s and I was a teenager when I visited him. He had swapped his khakis and steel toed boots for brown and white, two-toned shoes, slacks, sport coats and floral ties.
There was a white bottle of Old Spice in his car, and he splashed some on every morning on the way to work. I tried it one day, and it burned my face a little but smelled good.
Buddy liked making wreaths, bouquets and funeral sprays. He had a big smile, and people stayed around the shop to talk with him even after getting their flowers or placing their orders.
A widow named Henrietta came by every Saturday to get a corsage for church. Buddy asked what color dress she would be wearing and made corsages to match. He always told her there was no charge, but she brought him homemade brownies.
When there were big funerals or weddings coming up, Buddy drove to Dallas an hour or so away to stock up on flowers. One of his employees rode up front with him in the panel truck. I rode in the back with the gladiolas and roses.
One morning when I was sweeping the shop, a beautiful girl about my age came in with her mother. Her name was Cherry, and she had dark hair and brown eyes.
I had not started dating, but girls were beginning to interest me. Her mother learned that I was a visitor and invited me over to their house that afternoon for lemonade and tuna fish sandwiches.
There was an underground storm shelter in their back yard. I had never seen one, and Cherry gave me a tour. There were jugs of water and cases of pork and beans for survival. I remember thinking that I might just take my chances with the storms.
REPRINTED FROM THE NATCHITOCHES TIMES