I’ve never known a man quite like my Uncle Bill—just as comfortable, and as happy, standing behind a barber’s chair as he was sitting at a sewing machine. Some of my earliest memories of him consist of him teaching me (and any other kid who happened to be around) everything from how to play a hot boogie-woogie on the piano to how to operate an adding machine. And he couldn’t just weave baskets—he went right on ahead and put electric wires in them, and turned them into house lamps.
And he was the same if you asked him to do anything for you; he went right on ahead and did the next thing. Had I remained in Macon, he might have even managed to teach me carpentry by now. Uncle Bill enjoyed us all. Many of us may not be lucky enough to have such a Renaissance man like Uncle Bill in our lives. But, do pay close attention to the person in your life that teaches you how to ride a bicycle. It was during a camping trip to north Georgia that Uncle Bill taught my son, Brandy, how to ride. A lot of other folks had tried, myself included. Though his words escape me, their essence still remains; for they conveyed to Brandy a belief in Brandy’s ability to ride that bike. Yet, those same words gave Brandy the freedom to succeed—or to fail.
Brandy succeeded, and after a wobble or two, took off like he had wings. I often think of that moment when I find myself worrying about Brandy’s future. My son learned to ride his bike that day; but I learned something about life and relationships with Uncle Bill, while in those lush, green mountains of north Georgia that he loved to tour so well.
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