Perry & Vester Glasgow
Bob Glasgow (lower)
The sun had started a slow descent in the
western sky, a sign of another hot humid Hoosier summer afternoon had come to
an end. The sweet smell of fresh cut hay hung over the valley a signal the work
week was over. It was Saturday night, a time for family and relaxation.
Dad grabbed the Pabst Blue Ribbon out of
the refrigerator, and gave call for us to go with him to grandpa’s house. Dad
grabbed the cold beer from the refrigerator, my brother and I like two faithful
pups on his heels started down the old country road to grandpa’s house.
We lived next door, if you could call it that in the country. There was a field large enough to fit a baseball field, a barn, corn crib, and a stand trees stood on one side of the road, the other side was an open field which ascended into a large hill. There was an old gravel road that ran parallel to the hill.
We walked up our drive made a right to walk to grandpa’s place. A car drove toward us on the gravel road, and it stirred up a large cloud of dust in its wake. When the driver came to the stop, he leaned out the window saying: “Hey, Perry Dale.” Dad responded with an offer of a cold beer, which the fellow was happy to accept. Dad gave him a nod of the head as he pulled out of the drive heading down the same road where we just
came.
As we got close I could hear the family troubadour, uncle Bob sitting behind the house strumming his old guitar singing an old honkytonk tune.
Dad opened a can of PBR, offering hisbrother and dad a cold one as he pulled up a chair. The empty cans next to their chairs indicated that the beer drinking had already started. I put the balance of the beers in the refrigerator. Our true purpose was evident as the beer fetchers and can collectors on this summer evening, as I put the beer in
the refrigerator, my brother was putting the empty cans in the trash.
Bob strummed his guitar while singing a Hank Williams song. A dispute over who was to fetch the round of beers developed between me and my brother. We rolled on the ground throwing punch at one another. Dad cussed us both for fighting, and grandpa told him to let us fight. I connected with a wild right hook which knocked my brother out. He landed at the base of a tree; I thought he was just trying fake me out. Grandpa
retrieved a bucket of water, and emptied most of the bucket of water on my brother. I got the balance of the bucket tossed on me as he passed by to cool me off.
Order was restored until just before dark when a small snake slithered under my chair. Nobody saw the serpent in the twilight, but a quick rap from a stick by dad indicated it had been found, its days came to an end, and uncle Bob didn’t miss a note, playing a
sad country song on his guitar through the all the commotion that surrounded him.
Darkness descended over the valley, and inthe full moon grandpa’s face seemed to glow as he told stories of the Johnson boys, haunted graveyards, good whiskey, and others folks that were long gone. The last round of beers were opened, and Bob picked at his guitar, a cigarette dangled from his lips. The hoot owl’s cry signaled the end of the night. We started back down the road in the light of the full moon just another
country Saturday night.
Joe Glasgow is
a former senior staff writer at Fanstop.com, and is the author of the book Play
Ball! Growing Up With Baseball https://amzn.to/2o4M62h
