Therefore, once summer came (and in order to give my grandfather a break), we grandchildren were taught how to navigate around the riff raff and neighborly do-gooders who sat back and snickered as nieces and nephews begged, cajoled, teased, threatened – whatever it took – to convince our man with his ‘drinking problem’ to come on home. 

I was initiated into this summertime ritual at 10 years old.  (I was good at it, ok?)   I could usually coax Uncle Charles to come home with a bribe of his favorite dessert:  Southern style banana pudding.  And he would normally be very charming and come right on home.   

Which always made me ponder – why drink?  Matter of fact, when Uncle Charles wasn’t drinking he was a nice-enough guy.   He taught us how to tie our shoes, how to cross the city streets, and how to count money.   Some people even said, “Charles should have been a kindergarten teacher.”

I agreed. 

But over the years, there were other times when going to pick up Uncle Charles could be a real, embarrassing pain in the ---.  (You know what.) 

Especially when Uncle Charles was being ornery, or if he was sick or asleep on the sidewalk. 

And especially when we had teen male company.

Anyway, one night my Grandmother called down to the stoop for me to go and get Uncle Charles.  I didn’t want to go so I grumbled and complained a bit too loudly.  She spat down a threat to me and reminded me of how my uncle had taken care of me after I caught pneumonia.  And how ungrateful I was.  (Heath family code talk:  That meant that no other family members were allowed to go with me.  Ungratefulness was next to UnGodliness!)

Embarrassed to the bone, I asked non-family kids on the stoop if they’d seen

Uncle Charles lately?   And looking around, I asked who wanted to go with me to bring him back?

Nobody answered.  Not one offer.

So of course, in my shame, I turned on our friends, and kicked everyone off the porch and stoop.  If they couldn’t help me when I needed them – they needed to get on somewhere and stop drinking our family lemonade and taking up our family space! 

Dennis Jordan jumped up, yelled out that he would make a phone call back to me if he saw Charles anywhere.  He and his friends laughed as they walked on down the street.  I picked up a rock and hurled it towards them.  Somebody howled.  Then they took off in a leisurely run. 

I turned back to the stoop.  Empty.

Suddenly a lone, deep voice spoke from over my shoulder, “My Sweetie, I’ll go with you to get your uncle.”  (Sweetie?)

I was speechless.  I turned slowly to face my newest hero.  It was Jamey.

I was in shock and speechless over the whole thing; the offer, the rescue and especially the “My sweetie.”  Jamey reached down and grabbed my hand. 

I lost all my anger and did a baby swoon.  (DON’T LAUGH!)

Bugsy, my youngest sister, handed me my “Uncle Charles” sweater, meant for a shoulder for him to either cry on or to get sick on. (It’s a drunk man thing.  Unless you have one in your family; you won’t understand.)

I quickly folded the sweater and tucked it under my free arm – as far from Jamey as I could.  (When was the last time I actually washed that thing?)

I took a deep breath and glanced up at Jamey as we walked off towards what was to become a weekly ritual for us; going to collect Uncle Charles from the gritty, ghetto streets.  Jamey was so easy and yet no one dared tease or mock us as we headed for our drunk man retrieval task.