One of the ways Ursula Vernon deals with trolls on twitter is telling stories about her (fictional) Uncle Sven. (so far as I know these aren’t collected anywhere, which is a shame). I decided to follow her example, and this is the story that resulted.
While I used some bits of my actual family as very vague inspiration, everyone and everything in this story is fictional and probably wildly inaccurate to the supposed time period, whatever that is.
(CW: references to period racism – in that I say it exists and that people would use words that decent people don’t use these days, poverty, malnutrition, drunkenness, references to pre-antibiotics tuberculosis, illiteracy, corporal punishment at school)
Well, let me get some breakfast and as promised I’ll tell you about my Great-Uncle Bubba. Now, this is of course on my mother’s side. My father’s side is a line of robots running back to the stone age, the ticking heart rewound and passed on to the next as it winds down. No one has ever figured out how they have so much charisma to constantly be getting women (and multiple women for a great many of them). But that’s neither here nor there.
My great-uncle Bubba now, he was all human. Probably, so they claimed, but people claim a lot of things, twice as many on Mondays. But here I am off on tangents before I’ve even begun. Let’s see….
My great-uncle Bubba wasn’t smart. Clever? Sure. Clever as two foxes sewn together with a rat’s whiskers as they used to say. But not particularly smart. Now it ain’t just that he didn’t have no education, which he sure didn’t. He could read the newspaper if somebody helped him the long words, which was pretty damn good in those days. But the man just never turned on his brain if he didn’t have to. Once he did though, whoo-weee, twistier than a tornado making love to an oak tree.
Back then they grew them big and they grew them strong. But my family, well, they didn’t have much more than a cracker tin’s worth of land and less than that of food. When Grandmama when to the tuberculosis sanitarium was the first time Grandpapa had been able to lie down in decades. Not that he ever did much lying down, what with him working 30 hours a day just to keep thems in a scrap of bread a piece.
(Ursula Vernon pointed out: Days were longer back then, on account of there being no daylight savings time to take all those extra hours for the government.
And my reply: Not that the guv’mint didn’t take anything the Company hadn’t already!)
But here I am running down the briar path again.
Great-Uncle Bubba… Bubba weren’t his birth name, of course. That was a couple of initials. AT or ZF or something like that. No, no, he wasn’t the ZF. ZF’s the one that went into the army and had the big ol’ fight with ’em about his name. They insisted that the Z and the F had to stand for something and they sure as sunshine didn’t. Ol’ Zonly Fonly they called him, once that got cleared up.
But back in those days, and these days still, there were a lot of Bubbas. Half the women were called Bubba and three times as many men. Great-Uncle Bubba was Scrawny Bubba, but you ain’t never said that to his face, not if you wanted to keep standing. Ain’t nobody as quarrelsome, except his Daddy and that was only when he was drunk. Which was every day except every third Sunday or so. And Good Friday. Ain’t nobody getting drunk on Good Friday, not in those days, no sir.
Now, great-uncle Bubba (the scrawny, if you weren’t too fond of the shape of your face as it was), he didn’t much education, but he sure tried. He made it up to the fourth grade, which was blessedly good those days. And that was with only taking second three times.
Course, he wasn’t at school most days. Nobody was, what with hunting and planting and harvesting. It just was, Bubba wasn’t there three times as much, cuz with his daddy gone working, Bubba was left to do the farming and hunting. And the farming was in the driest saddest dirt you can imagine, so it didn’t grow more’n a mouthful even if he worked himself to nothing for it. And then the Company took most of it. Hunting was only a mite bit better – they had a rifle, but no money for bullets, so he was hunting with the slingshot his daddy made him. He might kill a possum if he was lucky, but mostly it was squirrel.
There ain’t a lot of meat on a squirrel. More than now, since that was when the Great American tunneling squirrel was still around and them bastards would move a house on their back without meaning to, even houses bigger than a cracker tin. Caused a damn lot of lawsuits, they did, moving everyone’s houses this way and that, till nobody knew what property went with what house.
Anyways, Great-Uncle Bubba, he tried with the schooling, but as the strongest of them (maybe the oldest, this was before years had numbers, you understand), he was ‘sponsible for the family when his Daddy was away. Which like I said was damned near always, working hard. Or so he said, but that’s another story. Grandpapa weren’t known for lying down, but lying was another matter altogether.
Didn’t help Bubba’s schooling none that there was no way of knowing what day it was, ‘cept by the church bells and every church’s bellringer had a different count. Be on the other side of town from your church, catching tunneling squirrels say, and you were likely to get confused. The related churches tried to keep in time, more or less, ‘cept the Baptists, cuz as everyone knows there ain’t nobody a Baptist hates more than another denomination of Baptist. So Bubba’d head to school and wouldn’t you know, half the time it was Saturday. You’d of thought the teacher counted a dozen Saturdays in a week (like days, weeks were longer then, sometimes long as a month if you were unlucky, what with how the moon swung to and fro).
So Bubba’s heading back from school one Saturday (by the Roman Catholic’s bell anyway) and he sees a new store. Now new stores didn’t pop up like they do now. Seems like you can’t turn around these days without one popping up behind you while the empty ones blow around like tumbleweeds.
A new store was interesting, cuz a new store meant new people nine times outta ten. There weren’t never new people like Bubba cuz the Company had them shackled to their plots, so new people were Rich or Educated or Yankee and all of that meant they’d be trying to take advantage of folks.
But this new store wasn’t new people. Inside was Bubba – well they called him something polite folk don’t say these days. Bubba White, let’s say, that being his surname, since he was Black, you understand.
Now if folks didn’t have no money and didn’t go nowhere, that was ten times more true for Black folk, cuz if a family like mine started from nothing, Black folk started from a hole to China worth of nothing, and not even a bit of heat from it.
But Bubba had no mind for that so he’s just looked around the store, trying to figure it out. There was books, which as you might think, Bubba wasn’t too fond of, even more then, still being on his second try of his second try of second grade (they didn’t count the first one, as the teacher had to go to the sanitarium half way through). A bunch of the books had plenty of pictures, but Bubba couldn’t quite puzzle them out.
Finally, he asks Bubba White (who was Black, you remember) “What’s all this about?”
And Bubba White, he puffs up his chest, just as proud as he could be, and deservedly so, running a new store and all, and he says “This is a magic shop!”
(This ain’t how I heard it, naturally, but I’ve learned enough from Black folk kind enough to teach, that me trying to use Black English is just gonna make me look like a fool. And I can manage that just fine in my own talk, thank you very much)
Now Bubba’s eyes narrow – Grand-uncle Bubba, not Bubba White – cuz as much as Christian folk don’t like magic these days, they sure didn’t like it that much more back when it still happened here and there, even if not much in Company towns as the Company’d bottle it up and sell it quick as a whistle.
But Bubba White continues. “Not nasty voodoo magic or witch magic, but wholesome lejer-day-man. Clever hands and clever words, no devil about it.”
Now Bubba perks up about that, cuz as I said, he was clever and it was the one thing he had to be proud of – sometimes too proud, but that’s, well, that’s a book’s worth of stories for another time. Ain’t nobody forgot about Grandpappy cutting off his thing and how’s Bubba was the only one clever enough to fix it without having to get no company doctor, nor about when all’s all the books in town went blank till my Great-uncle Bubba filled the dictionary back. It weren’t right, but it kept the Company Man away until his biggest sister could come back with a proper dictionary from the City.
Now, Great-uncle Bubba had a whole hay-penny that he ain’t been able to spend without feeling guilty for wasting it on something he’d seen a dozen’s dozen times before. And you know there ain’t nothing more painful to a kid than money they can’t spend. Now, when I say hay-penny, I don’t mean the proper bit of money, the ha’penny or half-penny. This was Company money. Ain’t nobody had guv’mint money in town. This was a penny made of hay, the only bit of change small enough for what a man got back at the end of the day. Had the Company’s founder’s face on it and everything, all proper-like, though everybody know it ain’t worth a spit outside town. And Bubba had earned it, a whole hay-penny of his own, working every Sunday he had (after church, mind, my family were proper church folk back then, and went to a proper church for the proper 23 1/2 hours every Sunday) for a whole year’s worth of Sundays (which was only half a school year, with how they counted it then, and a quarter a Company year, most years anyhow).
So Bubba looks around – and nothing was priced back then cuz glue hadn’t been invented yet for holding the tags on things and a grease pencil was too expensive to waste on something like that – and finally picks up the smallest plainest box.
“What’s this then?” he asks.
And Bubba White beams, ready to be as good as salesmen as you’d ever want, and says “That’s a good ole classic. You ain’t never see it these days.” – cuz those days still had before days, long as you didn’t count the circle years. The circle years was at least 20 years – nobody can know for sure – when before came after and after came before and sometimes now was a week ago. And everybody starved cuz you didn’t know if you were supposed to be sowing or reaping. That was before Great-Uncle Bubba’s time, of course. And nobody remembered them anyhows, cept Great-Great-Great-Uncle Bubba who pulled the years back into a line again.
Anyways, Bubba White says “That’s a good ole classic, the cups and balls. Want me to show you how it’s done?” There was instructions written of course, but Bubba White knows Bubba (the scrawny, but don’t you call him that) ain’t the best at reading, same as ’bout everyone else and he ain’t gonna say nothing thing to chase off a customer. And Bubba looks at him with squinty eyes, but he’s just as curious as a cat with a mouse it can’t see, and finally agrees.
So Bubba White opens the box, careful not to muss it, and shows him the pieces – cups and balls, like he said. Nice soft cloth balls and pretty blue ceramic tumblers that stacked just as neat as neat can be. And he goes through the trick, once, twice, three times, nice and slow, then nice and fast, and just clumsy enough to show he knows his place. (Cuz, sad to say, even though Bubba White was a full grown man, running a store even, and Bubba was a scrawny little boy still in second grade (again), everybody knew then – and they ain’t all know better now – that Bubba was better than Bubba White, just cuz he weren’t Black. Not that they’d have said Black back then, you mind, but I won’t stand for language like that, even if folks thought it was just fine back then).
But Bubba watches, and he knows that he’s clever enough to do better (not realizing, of course, that this Black Man is just as clever if not more than he is, cuz he’s stuck playing a game that he can’t win and can only hope not to lose) and he sure ain’t seen nothing like it before
And Bubba White finishes with “And just half a haypenny or a whole haypenny with two pieces of candy.” Well, that’s sold Bubba for sure, cuz you can’t get penny candy for a haypenny hardly nowhere, let alone two pieces for half a haypenny. And if the candy was a bit small and a bit rough, well, it was still two pieces for his very self or to split up (even more) for favorite sisters or brothers – ain’t no way to split it up for all of them, cuz like everybody in town, he had a whole passel of them (a passel’s like a bushel, but squirmier).
So Bubba took the trick, back in its box and wrapped up nice (and you know they saved that wrapping paper, cuz you never waste nothing if you don’t have anything), and the candy, and headed home. But he didn’t go in the house. He went to his special thinking spot, which was on land that was nobody’s but the Company’s, so hardly counted to a child like him.
There he sucked on one of the candies and looked over the trick careful. Having seen how it was done, he could puzzle out the instructions now. They had nice easy to read words and lots of pictures all in black lines. And he went through step by step like they said, comparing it to what Bubba White had done. He practiced that trick till the candy was gone – and candy lasted twice as long than it does now, even broken up penny candy – then he packed it up and put it in his pocket. And, feeling pleased, he broke up the other piece of candy to give to his favorite brother and sister just as soon as he figured out who it was that day. (with a whole passel of siblings, you know it changed from hour to hour depending on how the moon swung and who was howling loudest)
Well, his Daddy got home that night, just so tired and sore that Bubba felt sorry for him, so he gave him a piece. And his Daddy, knowing what a candy was worth, ruffled his hair and gave him a sip of his whisky as thanks. And his biggest sister, who worked herself right to the bone, everybody knew, she made such a dinner from the bits and bobs and raw hope, like you rarely saw, that he gave her the other piece. And her, being a set on being a good woman for a good man some day, saved that piece for later and what happened to it is a story for another day. (She didn’t know yet how hard it was to find good men, especially in Company towns where everybody is scraped down to nerves and sinew)
And everybody went to bed, piled on each other like rats in a sack in their cracker tin house, just as happy as one could be while starving and desperate, not that they knew any other kind.
Well, the next day was Sunday, best as anyone could figure, and they packed off to church. And after, well, Bubba knew better than to do magic on a Sunday, even if it was just clever tricks and lejer-da-man (the instructions had said that meant ‘sleight of hand’. Bubba wasn’t sure what that meant and there was no dictionary in the house, just the family Holy Bible, but he could look at school, when he had a chance to go)
The next schoolday – after three Saturdays and another Sunday – off he went, his trick in its box in his pocket. And he got there early and asked the teacher, just as polite as you could ask, if he could use the dictionary a moment. And, seeing as Bubba weren’t never there early – not with a passel of siblings to take care of and no clock but his Daddy leaving – she was so impressed, that not only did she let him take the dictionary back to his desk instead of standing at hers, but gave him a piece of candy as well, after making sure he understand not to get his hands all sticky.
So he pulled out the instructions – but not the trick, not with the natural suspicion of a child and no way of knowing what Teacher would think of magic that was just clever tricks – to spell out the words all careful-like. It was a big dictionary and not only was ‘sleight’ in it – it meant craftiness, and he had to look that up too, but was pleased when he did – but ‘sleight of hand’ was too. Well, it took a good amount of looking and he wasn’t sure how to say them, but this was learning better’n sitting in front of a book that’d been through a thousand other hands.
And weren’t Teacher proud! And he carried the dictionary back – no easy task when it was just about as big as him – and hadn’t even got it sticky, not even a tiny bit (there was a whole section in the Ds that was sticky from children not as careful as Bubba and the Ys were stuck so fast as to be one sheet). And Teacher was proud enough that she didn’t whap him even once and only chided him one or two dozen times to pay attention.
Finally it was lunch time – not that most of them ever had one, nor breakfast neither – and everyone headed outside. Bubba sat just close enough for folks to see and just far enough to be crafty and started doing his trick. Weeelll, nothing like a new thing to get kids interested, you know, and pretty soon there was a crowd around him and he did his trick, once, twice, three times, just as smooth as you please. And even with a dozen other Bubbas nobody called him Scrawny Bubba. Matter a fact, Bubba the Bear (cuz he was covered with hair) gave him a bit of his sandwich, and who ever would expect that?
Looked like things were going just great until Teacher came out and saw the crowd and looked at him, and his trick, with her eyes all squinty. And she didn’t say nothing, which as we all know, is much much worse. Just filed them back in, till they were sitting right, grade by grade (the school couldn’t afford a teacher for every grade and besides who would teach four children, two of which had been in that grade the year before, and one of which would be in it still the next year?)
So Bubba sat during the afternoon lessons, trying to be just the best he could be, but everytime the teacher glanced in his direction, he couldn’t help but squirm like the box in his pocket was burning him up. Well, he got through it, and only got whapped on the knuckles twice, which is pretty good when you’re a boy going through second grade again again. But then came the words, right after “class dismissed.”
“Bubba Silver” – cept it was his actual name – “could I talk to you?” And he slunk up to the desk, wishing he could melt through the floor boards. But scrawny as he was and wide as the gaps between the boards, he ended up standing in front of Teacher’s desk.
“Yes’m?”
“Were you doing a magic trick at lunch?”
“Yes’m. It’s not real magic. It’s just lejer-da-man. That means sleet of hand.”
“Sleight of hand,” she corrected.
“Yes’m.”
“Where’d you get a magic trick?”
And lordy, did he think about lying, but Teacher’s eyes bored into him. So finally he mumbles. “The new shop.”
“What new shop?”
“On the Street.” The Company town might have a bunch of roads, but only one Street, in those days. And you were glad for it.
“Whose shop?”
“Bubba White.” Then not being a fink, as long as you didn’t call him scrawny, and knowing the chances of a Black Man owning a shop were about the same as his chances of going to the moon. “He was in it, that is.”
“I see,” Teacher said. “Well, don’t you let your Daddy see that. Or the Reverends. Or the Pastors. Or the Fathers.”
“Yes’m.”
“You can go.”
“Yes’m.” And you can bet he fled just as quick as he could. But not so fast that he didn’t see Teacher marching over to the New Shop, and like I said, Bubba was just as curious as a room full of kittens, so he snuck round the side of the shop to have a listen.
“Bubba White,” Teacher said – and she did call him Bubba White, because she aspired to be a proper lady, best as she could – “where’d you get money to open a store like this?”
And Bubba White stutters a minute, then says “It ain’t my store, Mrs. Collins.”
“Don’t you lie to me. I taught you and I taught all your brothers and sisters and you all look the same when you lie.”
And you know then Bubba White’s shaking to rattle the windows. “No’m. It ain’t- it ain’t just my store, Mrs. Collins. A bunch of us, we’s went in together to buy it. Saw an ad for a catalog and classes and we wrote off for it. I studied real hard to be a magic shop salesman!” And his voice lifted in pride for that, and well deserved too.
“I know your Momma didn’t raise no fools, but you be careful here, Bubba White. Lots of folks don’t care a whit if it’s black magic or just legerdemain.”
“Yes’m. We’re doing our best. I knows the tricks best, so I’m the one showing them and I shows them right.”
And Great-Uncle Bubba heard the pound pound pound of her shoes on the floor boards as she circles the shop and finally she says, “It’s a fine shop, Bubba White. Just you be careful.”
“Yes’m. We’s got Tommy Reed to look over all the papers ‘fore we sign them and he said he’ll come in regular-like. Just been in this morning.”
“Alright then. Always thought you had a good head on your shoulders.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I tries my best.”
And the pound pound pound of Teacher’s shoes to the door. Great-Uncle Bubba ducked back again, cuz ain’t nobody likes an eavesdropper.
He thinks, well, weren’t that interesting? And he resolved not to let nobody shut down Bubba White’s shop, cuz it was about time there was something new in town, and I’ll tell you it lasted near to this day, but not without Great-Uncle Bubba’s help and Teacher’s too. And my friends, that’s the end of this tale, much as any tale ever ends.
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