Oscar Elmer had never liked his name. The moment he enlisted in the military to fight fascists as a young man, he told the recruiting officer to call him Jack. Long before I was born, everyone in town had been taught the hard way (with his large calloused fists or a swift kick in the ass with his pointy brown boot) that Oscar did not appreciate the name his Mamma had given him. I didn’t even know his real name for more than twenty years—even though technically he was my great uncle and I saw him all the time. I had heard his wife and older brother call him O.E. over the years and seen him snarl, but I’d thought it was a nickname he really didn’t like until Grandma set me straight. She told me to never call him Oscar, not even once. I mentally added that info to the list with the other family members who had chosen new names they liked better than the one they got at birth. The list was not short.
At six foot five with broad shoulders and a large long torso, Jack towered over most people—definitely over everyone I knew. It didn’t matter if he were at home, barefoot, and without his oversize straw cowboy hat or decked out in his best Sunday overalls and snakeskin boots checking out the goods in the hardware store. He always was the broadest, tallest guy around. Out in public, even his voice seemed too big for the spaces it frequented. Townsfolk knew whether Jack was around even before they opened the door to the post office, general store, or the lumber and feed. No space in town was large enough to contain him.
By the time I was born, Jack was already retired and in his sixties. Grandma said right off the bat he was one of my favorite people—I would simmer down and let him keep me on his lap for as long as he wanted. As I grew, that solidified even more. He was always funny, loud, and every other word out of his mouth was expletive. Things were always gonna be fun if Uncle Jack was involved. Even when we were doing things I hated—like working the fields, shucking corn, repairing the hay truck, or selling watermelons of the side of the road, it would be a lot less boring if Jack was there. I learned so much from him—how to play cards and throw craps, ways to cheat at dominoes, the stories about family members nobody else would tell me, how to tell if cantaloupe or watermelons were ripe before you opened them, and to hot wire damn near anything with an engine. I couldn’t get in trouble for what I said or did after spending a few hours with Uncle Jack either, no matter how insulting or inappropriate. The adults knew it wasn’t really my fault. No one could convince Jack to watch his tongue. He didn’t like someone thinking they had the right to tell him what to say or how to say it. Besides, he thought it was downright cute to hear a tiny girl child saying “son of a bitch” every time she couldn’t climb up into a chair on her own. He told anyone who thought different they could eat his fist.
Unlike most of the townsfolk, Jack did not bother with church services. He said there’s no reason to go somewhere fancy to talk to God. Even for funerals he’d only show up at the graveside service unless Aunt Lois made a big fuss about seeing the church part too. We hardly ever went to funerals either—Momma and Daddy said kids shouldn’t have to sit through all that mess. Honestly though, I think neither of them liked going and that was as good an excuse as any other. The first time I ever saw Uncle Jack set foot in a church was for Brian’s wedding. I was in high school then. My sisters and I were in the wedding—two of us as bridesmaids and the youngest as a flower girl. Now, I am no expert at weddings, but I think it’s safe to say that this particular one was one of the weirdest ones ever to hit small town Oklahoma. The ceremony was a hodge podge of all the things Brian liked that his soon to be wife had not vetoed. She’d given three stipulations: 1) no horror movie shenanigans—especially any of that fake blood stuff 2) whatever he did would have to fit under the roof of the church fellowship hall and 3) if they could afford it. I guess since she’d been married already and it was his first, she figured she’d let him do all the work.
Most of the extended family showed up to the church early and were already sitting in their favorite pews way before the ceremony began. Uncle Jack and Aunt Lois showed up somewhere toward the end of the parade of attendants, waved to everyone and sat promptly somewhere in a middle pew—about the only seats left by then. Jack pushed everyone else down the bench so he could sit nearest the aisle. Aunt Shirley was sitting right behind him, working her wrist pretty constant, trying to get a breeze from her paper fan. She started coughing behind Jack and pointed to his hat when Lois looked her way. Lois leaned in and reminded him to place his hat in his lap in the Lord’s house. He grunted, but did as she said and started slouching as low as possible in the pew, knowing that’d be the next thing Shirley would start coughing about.
Brian was dressed in long tails, spats, and a white top hat while walking around to greet everyone with his very expensive silver wolf head cane. It was a replica of the cane Barnabas Collins had in that old TV series Dark Shadows. He was having fun tapping it against the legs of the pews or on people’s shoes. Half of the wedding party was hiding out in the choir room waiting for the right song to come out of the speakers—the theme song from Twin Peaks. That was their cue to exit at the right time for the ceremony to begin. The rest of the wedding crew was in the kitchen ready to make the signal once the bride was set to march. I kept having to go find things for people, or find people for other people, or ask someone something. I was already pretty done with this shindig.
The groomsmen were wearing denim business jackets and ties over jeans. The bridesmaids were decked out in denim prairie skirts, long sleeved white dress shirts, and matching vests Momma had made from an American flag/Indian headdress cotton print and red ribbon. The bride and her two flower flippers were wearing that typical cheap white lace everyone expects to see at a small town Southern wedding. With the exception of two Twin Peaks songs—the theme song and the love song—all other music during the wedding were contemporary country songs. I was to sing George Strait’s “I Cross My Heart,” right before the swapping of the rings and my sister was drafted for Patsy Cline’s “Blue” to begin the ceremony soon after the bride made it down the aisle.
Standing at the front of the church in borrowed lace up Ropers and all that fabric in the middle of August was getting to me. It seemed like the ceremony would never end and the church had no air conditioning. I am sure my fidgeting was noticeable, as well as the large amount of sweat and makeup I kept wiping off my face with my right sleeve. After the cue for me to sing, I did my best to perform a song I found to be completely cheesy in a key far lower than I usually venture to use. Then I returned to my spot among the bridesmaids on the right side of the choir loft and promptly quit paying much attention to the service. Right before the lighting of the unity candle, Ronnie was to play George Jones’s “He Stopped Loving Her Today” on the sound system. Which he did, after a small delay due to a tape malfunction. The weird tape sound got my attention. I was antsy and knew this to be near the end of the ceremony, which signaled the end of my torment and my complete rush outta this room to hose myself off with freezing cold water and change into comfy summer clothes.
Brian and his bride were standing in the center of the stage in front of the choir loft, holding hands and looking all ditsy at one another while the song played. I like George Jones, but hated hearing this song. It seemed completely inappropriate for a wedding. It’s all about the ending of a relationship instead of the beginning. I started thinking maybe that is really what marriages are—the end. Something like a break up, only slower. Suddenly, Uncle Jack’s voice boomed from the middle of the church, busting through my train of thought. “GODDAMN THAT BOY CAN SING!”
Brother Crenshaw, the preacher from Sandie’s Momma’s congregation, shook his head. All the staunch, upright, overtly religious members of the family stiffened in their seats and sent nasty snarls towards Jack’s direction, appalled that he had sullied the sanctity of the church. Everyone else broke out in huge smiles, and then started laughing heavy. Most of the wedding party had broken form, doubled over laughing or holding on to each other’s shoulders trying to set themselves stiff once again. Brian had doubled over, letting go of his new wife’s hands. He tipped his hat at Uncle Jack and then resumed his place, giving his gal a peck on the cheek. The preacher gave us all a few moments to collect ourselves, and then continued with the final part of the wedding. The rest of us listened without another outburst until the finale when the newly hitched started hauling ass down the church aisle together smiling and waving to everyone while grinding all those red and white flower petals into the carpet.
People were still clapping as I peeled off that vest and gathered up the skirt in my hand so I could run out the back exit in the choir room while everyone else slowly rambled their way out the main doors. Momma darted off that front pew and blocked my exit, her arms crossed over her chest and a scowl on her face. I was going nowhere. Without a word, she grabbed my sister and me by the elbows, pulled us both to the front pew, and pushed us down onto the gold velvet cushion. I told her it was too hot in the church and she told me it didn’t matter—we had to stay. Wedding party photos were going to begin as soon as the church cleared.
Daddy was weaving his way through the folks moving toward the doors, shaking hands and patting people on the back as he went. He stopped next to Uncle Jack, who was waiting for Lois to finish talking to her cousins a few pews away.
“So, you enjoyed listening to the George Jones did you Jack?” Dad asked a bit louder than he normally talked.
“Hell yes I did. That boy’s damned good. Who was it that was singing?” Jack said, pointing towards the groomsmen talking up in front. My dad looked confused. “It was George Jones, Jack. He’s the one that sings that song.” Jack got flustered and pulled at the legs of his overalls.
“No, Damn it, I know that. I mean which one of those boys down front sang it today? Was it the dark one with long hair? I want to shake his hand. Swear to God he sounded just like George. That boy’s got a future, even if he is ugly. We gotta get him a decent haircut and take his ass to Nashville.”