Out the Front Door

Out the front doorWhen I was seven years old Daddy walked right out our front door and he didn’t tell us where he was going or when he was coming back. When we heard from him next he was living in a little fishing village on the Outer Banks of North Carolina with his sister’s husband, Mackey.  Uncle Mackey only had one eye. Didn’t look much like a fisherman but that is what he was. Uncle Mackey had left my Aunt Irma just like Daddy had left  us.  Aunt Irma kept rabbits in hutches behind her house on Ivalo Street in Norview, Virginia. She was a dietician for the Norview Public School System and loved making fish sticks. I don’t think that is why Uncle Mackey left her. They had a son named Billy Mackey. When I was five he took me on a ride on his motor scooter. I stood between his legs and he pointed the scooter down the steepest hill in Norview. I wet my pants. That was my last ride on Billy Mackey’s motor scooter. Every October John and I rent a house in the same little town where Uncle Mackey and Daddy lived when they were running away from their wives and I alway tell him the story about how Mama loaded us all in the old Ford and drove from Pungo Creek to Avon. Shedrove right up the the shack where Uncle Mackey and Daddy were doing a piss poor job of housekeeping and said “Clarke” (that’s what she called my Daddy even though his real name was Virginius) “Clarke, get your butt out here this instant you are coming back home with me and the girls.” And he did. He walked right out that front door, got behind the wheel of that car and came back home with us. But on the way we stopped in Kill Devil Hills and we all went to the Wright Brothers Memorial and we had a picnic. Don’t you just love happy endings?

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