Phil,

Thanks for reposting this.  I'm laughing my head off.  Uh oh, now where'd it 
go, LOL.



JulieMelton
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Keep smiling!





>From: Phil Scovell <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Electronic Church <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Uncle Harold
>Date: Thu, 16 Nov 2006 18:54:32 -0700
>
>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.
>www.SafePlaceFellowship.com