I enjoy this Uncle Harold story so much, Phil, that the last time
you posted it, I saved it.  I think everyone should have an Uncle
Harold!  LOL!
April's Dave in Ohio
----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Phil Scovell" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Thursday, November 16, 2006 8:54 PM
Subject: Uncle Harold


This is an oldie but a goodie.

Phil.

     Uncle Harold was one of my more unusual relatives.  He was
married to one of my dad's sisters and was quite a character in
more ways than one.

     First of all, you never wanted to get into a car with Uncle
Harold when he was the driver.  The man was right down dangerous. 
Fortunately, he did most of his driving in Wichita, Kansas where
he lived.  I well remember, however, the few times he came to
Iowa on vacations to visit.

     After church one Sunday, I wanted to ride with my cousins
back to the house.  We had taken two cars because there just
wasn't enough room for all to ride in one car.  Since my cousins
would be in Uncle Harold's car, I had to ride with him.  There
was not a single time riding with Uncle Harold that something
didn't happen and this time would be no different.  Most of the
way home from church was on a new four lane road divided by a
hump back concrete medium.  The medium was not made to drive over
but it was possible to do so.  Driving over it, however, could
easily do undercarriage damage to the car and you risk the
possibility of getting high centered as well.

     Sitting at the intersection, I knew what was about to
happen.  Back in those days, however, children were taught to be
quiet and never to advise an adult about anything.  So I watched,
without any surprise, as Uncle Harold pulled out and began
driving down the wrong side of the highway.  The car exploded
with shouting and yelling and everything, but cursing, from
everybody including the kids.  Uncle Harold was doing his share
of yelling when he realized all the yelling was directed toward
him and his driving.  "Get over on to the other side," his wife,
Aunt Elsie yelled, who wasn't one bit better at driving than her
husband.  Uncle Harold was yelling something about what a
terrible way of building a highway and how stupid it was to
construct the road in such a ridiculous manner.  Everyone, by
this time, was yelling for him to get over to the other side
before we got killed.  So he did.  Yep, he jerked the wheel to the
right and drove right over the concrete medium.  There was a lot
of bumping and grinding and scraping and screeching as metal and
concrete ground together and the car tilted precariously as Uncle
Harold was determined to manhandle the car over the obstacle come
hell or high water.  As the car slid over, everyone slid to one
side of the car and then back again as the wheels bounced down on
the other side of the medium.  It was a miracle he hadn't ripped
the oil pan right off.  Finally the yelling subsided and nothing
could be heard but the children snickering in the back seat and
Aunt Elsie and Uncle Harold arguing in the front seat.  Uncle
Harold was still convinced they had constructed the highway
incorrectly and he was saying so in a very loud manner.

     Another time I recall riding with Uncle Harold was in
Wichita.  It was raining so hard, you could hardly see the end of
the car.  Uncle Harold was driving incredibly slow but it was
probably because he couldn't see where he was going in the first
place.  Hearing a car splashing its way through the street behind
us, which was now almost a lake, I glanced over to see him pass
us on the outside lane.  He wasn't speeding but was minding his
own business.  All of the sudden, Uncle Harold began yelling and
honking his horn and flashing his lights at the passing car. 
Aunt Elsie asked him what in the world was wrong?  Uncle Harold
said, "Why, because he is passing me on the wrong side of the
road, that's what's wrong."  Of course, no one bothered to tell
Uncle Harold that the man couldn't have passed him on the other
side of the street and the reason no one told him?  Because Uncle
Harold was never wrong.

     Another mode of transportation you were crazy to use when
Uncle Harold was around was a boat.  Unfortunately, Uncle Harold
loved to fish but fishing with this man in the same boat was
absolutely nothing short of life threatening.  The first story I
heard about Uncle Harold and a boat occurred before I was born.

     My dad and mom when with Uncle Harold and Aunt Elsie to
Canada.  My oldest sister was probably about 8 years old and
remembers it quite well.  She said they were fishing in a huge
lake.  My sister couldn't swim, by the way, so she was already a
little apprehensive about being in the boat.

     Suddenly, Uncle Harold had a strike.  He was reeling for all
he was worth but the Canadian fish was smarter than Uncle Harold
judge him to be.  Reversing his underwater course, he swam right
under the boat.  Uncle Harold was furious when he saw his line
pass under the boat.  Leaping to his feet, Uncle Harold began
yelling at the fish and leaning far out over the edge of the boat
to try and see where the fish had gone.  My sister grabbed and
held on as my Uncle Fred, normally the meekness man you would
ever meet, was yelling at the top of his lungs at Harold to get
back in his seat because he was going to capsize the boat.    My
sister said she watch the water coming up the side of the boat
she was on until it was only an inch from the edge before Uncle
Harold, snorting and bellowing, sat back down.  The fish was lost
but the occupants of the boat were saved.

     One day, my Uncle Fred, Uncle Harold, and I pulled the
fishing boat out to the lake and launched it.  We motored out to
our favorite spot, bated up and settled in for a comfortable
afternoon of fishing.  Not with Uncle Harold it wouldn't be.

     Uncle Harold had an unusual way of fishing.  His casting was
always wild and if you didn't keep your eye on him ever second,
you were likely to get hooked in the back of the head, knocked
overboard by a wildly swinging oar, have a foot crushed by the
anchor he was trying to toss over the side, or have your favorite
fishing cap whisked off your head by a swinging fishing rod.  Oh,
yes.  You best know how to swim real well, too, if you plan on
being in a boat with Uncle Harold.

     Uncle Harold would reel in and cast out more than I did even
as a 10 year old kid.  In the earlier days, with the open string
reels, he was forever getting backlashes and spending more of his
time untangling his line in the reel than he did fishing.  Once
they came out with newer reels, he was in hog heaven with all that
casting and reeling.

     One of his favorite things to do was to eyeball his bobber
as if it were a living thing.  If there was the slightest of
movement by the bobber, Uncle Harold would jerk backward on his
rod, while he frantically began reeling, as if he had a 200 pound
ocean leaping sailfish hooked on the other end.  As I said, this
was a common practice by Uncle Harold.  Thus it is, I used to love
watching Uncle Harold bobber instead of my own.

     As we were fishing this particular day, I saw his bobber
bounce once ever so slightly.  Uncle Harold gave a mighty jerk on
his pole in hopes of snagging what he thought might have been a
fish nibbling at his line.  He jerked the pole so hard, however,
it loosened his reel and the second he began frantically reeling,
the reel fell off the rod and began rolling around in the bottom
of the boat along with all the rest of our fishing and boat gear;
nylon string unraveling all along the way.  Uncle Harold
immediately dove head first for his reel.  He was yelling and
thrashing around in the bottom of the boat trying to locate his
reel because he knew he had a whale on the other end of his line. 
A good fifteen minutes passed before he was able to reassemble his
gear and reel in his line.  He had jerked his pole so hard, there
wasn't even so much as a worm left on his hook.  Of course, Uncle
Harold believed a wily fish had suck his worm right off and it had
nothing to do with the way he always jerked his pole.

     This same day of fishing with Uncle Harold is one I will
never forget.  When Uncle Fred and I fished together in his boat,
we always took it easy and if we didn't catch anything with an
hour or so, we'd motor in to shore and go out to eat lunch or we
would just buy a bottle of pop in order to get out of the hot sun
for awhile.  Uncle Harold, on the other hand, took fishing much
more seriously than that.  The way to fish, as far as he was
concerned, was to get in the boat and stay in the boat until it
was time to leave.  That was generally when you were so sunburned
you could not be recognized as a member of the human race, when
every square inch of skin itched from hundreds of mosquito bites,
and when it was so dark, you couldn't see your hand in front of
your face.  There was an exception to his rules of fishing,
however, and that was when Uncle Harold had to use the bathroom
and then we had to go right in to shore.

     Uncle Fred and I got to taking a big three gallon bucket
with us when we fished.  We would fill it with lake water and all
the fish we caught, we put into the bucket.  The lake had lots of
snapping turtles so we had learned the hard way by threading our
fish on a stringer and hanging them over the side of the boat. 
There is nothing more disappointing to a fisherman than pulling
up your string at the end of a good day of fishing, only to
discover the turtles have eaten all but the heads of your fish.

     We caught several fish this particular day and the bucket
was full and situated in the middle of the bottom of the boat. 
Uncle Harold was seated in the middle of the boat, I was at the
front, and Uncle Fred was back by the motor.  Catching a
bluegill, I unhooked it and not wanting to risk striking Uncle
Harold with my fish by tossing it passed him and trying to hit the
bucket, I held out my fish to him and very politely said, "Uncle
Harold, would you mind putting my fish in the bucket for me,
please?"  He took one look at me and one look at the slimy fish
and turned around and glanced down at the bucket which was
immediately behind him.  Without laying down his pole, he reached
back for the bucket of fish.  There must have been a good twenty
fish in the bucket of water.  Water is supposed to weigh
something like eight pounds per gallon so just the weight of the
water alone, not including the weight of the bucket itself and
the fish, was at least 24 pounds.  Did I mention Uncle Harold
wasn't a very large or tall man?  He was actually quite scrawny. 
Fear gripped me when I realized what my crazy uncle was about to
do.  Seizing the metal handle of the bucket, Uncle Harold began
to lift.  Yes, indeed.  He was going to lift that heavy bucket of
fish situated behind him and swing it over the seat upon which he
sat in order to get the bucket out in front of him.  I knew it
was never meant to be.  I let my eyes drop to Uncle Harold's feet
as I heard him straining to get the bucket off the bottom of the
boat.  Jerking his pole, as you recall, was his way of snagging
nibbling fish and this was the same technique he employed in
order to get the heavy bucket of water and fish free from the
bottom of the boat.  He gave a mighty tugged, at first, and I saw
his feet rise from the bottom of the boat about an inch.  I
wanted to say something to him but as I said, in those days, we
were taught never to give advice to our elders.  So I watched in
helpless fascination as my poor Uncle Harold jerked and tugged at
the heavy bucket of water.  His feet rose higher and higher.  I
prayed silently it wouldn't happen but it did.  Since the bucket
of water was not rising faster than Uncle Harold's feet, you can
guess the rest.  I should, in retrospect, have reached out and
grabbed Uncle Harold's feet as they rose faster and faster from
the bottom of the boat but I found it impossible to believe
anybody, in their right mind, would have attempted such an
amazing feat of strength.  When Uncle Harold's feet got about as
high as my head, he went over backwards into the bucket of fish,
rolled over sideways, and began thrashing around violently in the
bottom of the boat; trying to gain his balance.  The boat rocked
and reeled dangerously from the desperate acrobatics of the
desperate man.  I tried, I really did, my best not even to smile
but it was simply impossible.  I laughed so hard at what I had
just witnessed, I nearly fell out of the boat.  I watched my
uncle regain his composure to the point he was able to climb back
on to his seat.  No words passed between us as, this time, he
took the fish from my trembling hand and tossed it into the
bucket.  The show was far from over and I knew it was retribution
time for me.  There would be a big price to pay for my
disrespectful burst of childhood laughter.  It wasn't long in
coming either.

     I watched Uncle Harold straighten his hat upon his head,
silently bate his hook, adjust his sinker and bobber, and cast
out.  Soon he had a nice bluegill on the line and,
uncharacteristically for him, he quietly reeled in his catch. 
Holding the fish high above the water at the end of his line, he
began to swing his pole in my direction.  I knew it was coming
but couldn't do much to avoid the inevitable.  When the wet
wriggling fish smacked me up side the head, Uncle Harold calmly
said, "Why, Phil.  Would you mind removing the fish from the hook
for me."  I did as he requested and handed him the fish.  Nothing
was said and finally the day was over and no one had been killed
or drown.  A small blessing of the Lord.

     Many years later, after I was married and had children of my
own, my mom asked me to go with her to a family reunion.  We
drove from Denver to Kingman, Kansas and my youngest sister came
along.  It was fun seeing all of our cousins and aunts and uncles
we hadn't seen for all those years.  Before leaving town,
however, mom felt it important that we stop by and visit our
dad's relatives before leaving the areas so we drove over to
Wichita and made the rounds.

     On the way to Uncle Harold and Aunt Elsie's home, I told my
sister and mom the story I have just told.  I explained to them
that Uncle Harold would, in fact, bring up this memorable event
and I told them exactly how he would say it, too.

     "Why, Phil.  Do you recollect that time you and me and your
Uncle Freddy went a-fishin his boat and I fell backwards into the
bottom of the boat?"

     "Yes, Uncle Harold," I would reply, "I remember."

     "And," he would continue as if he hadn't heard me,  "do you
remember how I got back at you by smacking you upside the head
with my fish at the end of my line?"

     "Yes, Uncle Harold, I remember," I would reply.

     He would then laugh and slap his knee and say, "Boy, that
was a good one, wasn't it Phil?"

     "Yes, Uncle Harold," I would reply, "it was a good one."  
Until my Uncle Harold died, this story was always told by him and
how he got back at me.  He brought it up every single time I saw
him.

     My Uncle Fred sold his home on the edge of Wichita when he
was 82 years old and moved to Denver to live with my family. 
Sandy and I had three children at the time and for nine years,
Uncle Fred was like a father and a grandfather to us all.  Once,
during those nine years and to my amazement, Aunt Elsie and Uncle
Harold flew on an airplane to Denver and spent a week with us in
Denver.  They were in their late seventies and had never been on
an airplane in their life.  It was sort of funny because Uncle
Harold worked for Bowing all his life in Wichita.  Anyhow, that
week Uncle Harold and Aunt Elsie stayed with us in our home was
the most unusual week of probably my entire life because I came
to know my Uncle Harold in a way I never dreamed possible.  So
let me tell you about that week.

     By this time, my Uncle Fred no longer drove, which, in and
of itself was a good thing, but Uncle Fred wanted his sister and
brother-in-law to see some of the Colorado sights.  My oldest
sister drove them to a car rental place and they rented a nice
car.  Later, my oldest sister told me how Uncle Harold talked to
anybody and everybody he saw as if they were neighbors and before
his conversation had hardly begun, Uncle Harold would be quoting
Bible verses to them.  This was a character trait I had noticed
about Uncle Harold when I was very young.  He was always saying,
"It's just like the Bible says," and then he would quote
Scripture.  He didn't do this just occasionally, he did it all
the time.  It didn't matter whom he was speaking with or where
they were at the time, nor did it make any difference what the
discussion was about; Uncle Harold always had a Bible verse for
every situation no matter what.

     As a child, I well remember Uncle Harold, and other
relatives, seated in the living room and discussing the Bible
with my father.  Often, as I would drop to my belly and edge up
behind the bookshelves in order to hear better, the discussions
became quiet heated but Uncle Harold would always slap his knee
and laugh and say, "Why, Willie, I just cannot agree with you
there.  Why, I have never heard anybody say that's what the Bible
meant by that."

     Uncle Harold could sing and play the accordion.  Not well,
but he could sing and play.  During his visits to our home in
Iowa, I often would catch him in the backyard, seated on our
picnic table, playing the accordion he had borrowed from my
sisters, and singing hymns to himself.  I would stand high above
him, looking down from my bedroom window, and listen to him
without his knowledge of my presence.  Somehow, I appreciated
what I saw and heard in Uncle Harold when he was alone singing
and playing for his own enjoyment.  In my heart, I know he really
loved the Lord with all his heart and that he was really singing
and playing to the Lord.

     During the week he and his wife stayed with us in our home,
Uncle Harold would come upstairs to sit and visit with me.  Since
my father had passed away when I was eleven, I had not heard
Uncle Harold debating the bible with anyone.  I never told him
but I secretly wished, when I grew up, we could continue those
Biblical discussions that he and my dad used to have and so it
was.  In my freshman year of Bible college, I had an occasion to
visit Uncle Harold.  Knowing I was a Bible college student, he
immediately struck up a conversation about the Bible with me that
day.  I know now he was just testing my Biblical knowledge but
back then, being the Biblical scholar that I was, I was proud to
debate him.  That old man likely knew more of the Bible than I
will ever know because he had learn how to live what he believed. 
That is true Christianity.

     One afternoon, Uncle Harold came upstairs during his vacation
to visit with me in the living room once again.  He began to tell
me stories about when he was a boy and I discovered he came from a
very poor family.  For the most part, Uncle Harold had done quite
well for himself and his family as he grew older.  He told me
about the time he became a born again Christian.  My favorite
story was about the elephant.

     Uncle Harold went to the zoo and stood and watched people
feeding the elephants.  They would put nickels into a peanut
machine and gather a handful of peanuts, he said, and feed them
to the big animals through the fence.  Uncle Harold said he
waited until the crowd moved away before he walked over to the
fence.  He waited till no one was around because I knew Uncle
Harold wouldn't have paid five cents for peanuts to feed an
elephant and he wouldn't have wanted others to see his penny
pinching behavior.  He told me that one of the elephants began
pawing at the ground and making noises as if he perhaps wanted
more peanuts.  Uncle Harold then announced that he wouldn't have
paid any five cents to feed an elephant so he just kept watching
them.  suddenly, Uncle Harold said, the large animal dropped his
trunk to the ground, sucked up a trunk full of dry dust, and flew
it through the fence all over Uncle Harold; covering him head to
toe with dust and elephant spit.  I can hear Uncle Harold laughing
about it now and saying, "Why, Phil, can you believe an elephant
would do such a thing?  Why, in all my born days, I never would
have dreamed an elephant could do such a thing.  Can you?"  And so
it went for the afternoon.  Story after story and after each one,
he would say, "It's just like the Bible says," and he would quote
Scripture.

     Uncle Harold has been dead for many years. His wife died
first.  My cousin, Uncle Harold's oldest son, called and told me
when she passed away and told me what Aunt Elsie said to her
husband on her death bed.  She was blessed to have her entire
family nearby when she began to die and so they all came to the
hospital.  They stood around her bed and she spoke to each one of
them.  Aunt Elsie was one of the finest Christian women I ever
knew and I loved going to see her because she loved children. 
When she finally spoke to each of her children and grandchildren,
she came to her husband.  She said, "Well, Harold.  Are you going
to behave yourself when I'm gone?"

     When Uncle Harold passed away, his son called and told me. 
I told him how much his dad really meant to me and that I was
actually proud to have known him.  Johnny knew the nature of his
dad and we laughed together as we swapped stories.  We both
agreed, however, Uncle Harold truly loved the Lord more than
anything in his life.

     I honestly miss Uncle Harold after all these years but I
thank God for his testimony and his love for God and the Bible
which he quoted so often.  He was a greater example of a man who
lived what he believed and practiced what he preached than most
Christians I know today.  Uncle Harold is in Heaven now with
Uncle Fred, Aunt Elsie, my dad, and now my mom.  Knowing Uncle
Harold as I do, he is probably trying to change the Lord's mind
on something he doesn't quite agree on, too.  Lord, make me like
Uncle Harold but you best keep him away from cars and boats and
fishing rods there in Heaven.


It Sounds Like God To Me.
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