The Snowman of New Market, Alabama
Before I find myself up Little Tallapoosa Creek with a screen-door paddle, just know that any and all resemblance to bonafide events or legitimate persons alive or dead — especially a specific uncle of Myra Beth’s — in this middling tale are purely coincidental. Besides, my mother-in-law, Marie, granted me, her favorite (and only) son-in-law — permission. So there’s that. My mother-in-law has a gaggle of brothers. Too many, she’d tell you. Don’t make me count them all because “mathing” has never been my thing, but I’d surmise there’s at least a baker’s dozen. I’m on a first-name basis with all of them. Most of them I’ve met; one, however, remained as cryptic and legendary as Sasquatch or the East Tennessee wampus cat. For me, Uncle Jerry has always been “the Snowman.” Well, at least that’s my moniker for him. Despite sharing the same, er, handle in real-life as the actor/singer/Coors Banquet beer-runner of Smokey and the Bandit fame, he fell into the Sasquatch/East Tennessee wampus cat category largely because of the legends surrounding his name. According to local legend, “ the Snowman,” who celebrated his 89th this year, once rewired a neighbor’s Massey Fergueson tractor using a couple of metal coathangers, salvaged transistor radio parts, and a half gallon of Milo’s tea, extra sweet. “He’ll give you the shirt off of his back,” my mother-in-law told me, and added, “unless he thinks you’re a Georgia fan or it’s a particular shade of crimson or houndstooth.” Roll Tide Roll. And to think, thirty years after being welcomed into the family, Uncle Jerry and I have never crossed paths. “He’s a bit of an eccentric, but has always been the smartest of all my brothers,” my mother-in-law once told me, “because he could build anything. Back in the ‘70’s, before it was a thing, he took four, yellow Bluebird school buses, slapped them together, painted them crimson, of course, and raised a family out of them.” She also added that he could tell you every Crimson Tide recruiting class since its inaugural season in 1892. Rammer Jammer, yellow hammer, and all that. At the same time, I inquired about his hit country songs, “When You’re Hot, You’re Hot, “East Bound and Down,” and “She Got the Gold Mine (I Got the Shaft).” She cackled, pleaded the 5th, and added something about his surname being spelled with an “e-i” and not with a double “e” bookended with an “R” and “d”. You know — “R.E.I.D.” Don’t tell my mother-in-law, but, suffice it to say, I had my doubts. Also, don’t tell my twenty-something daughters, but to this day, they have believed the great-uncle-I’ve/they’ve-never-met had a hound dog named Fred, crossed the Mississippi in a 1974 Kenworth W900A big-rig running illegal suds, and cut a few number one country hits, because I’ve poured high-octane gas on the proverbial family legend. “You should call him for one of your newspaper stories. He doesn’t have a cell phone, just a land line. Something about the government having snooped in his business affairs. Oh, and he doesn’t give a flying you-know-what about folks from Georgia,” my mother-in-law concluded and smiled. Last week, I followed through on that suggestion. I mean, what could go wrong, you know? It went something like this: [Phone rang and rang. Uncle Jerry, a.k.a. “The Snowman,” picked up on the other end.] “Jerry speaking. Who the [redacted] is calling my landline?” “Hi Snow-, I mean, Uncle Jerry! This is Myra Beth’s husband, Jamie. We might be “east bound and down” through New Market next-” “Well, son of a [redacted]! You’re one of them [redacted] yappin’ Bulldog fans, aren’t you? My sister, Marie, said you were from Georgia.” “Uh, well Uncle Jerry, I mean, sir, I’m a Yellow Jac-” [Uncle Jerry to a dog barking in the background.] “Hush Fred! [Then to me.] You sound like a mangy, flea-bitten [redacted] mutt who’s living under my sweet niece — Myra Beth’s — roof!” “Sir, I-” “In my opinion, she should lawyer-up and get the goldmine and give you the shaft! They should split it all down the middle and give her the better half! Roll [redacted] Tide.” Click. Odd. I swear that Uncle Jerry “Reid” (or “Reed”) half said, half sang those last few rhyming lyrics — er, I mean — words. It reminded me of a certain country tune by a certain country music performer, I thought, as the dial tone roared in my left ear like the heavy-duty Grover Organtone air horn on a ‘74 Kenworth W900A. You see, that’s how I officially validated over thirty years of family conjecture and concluded that Sasquatch and the East Tennessee wampus cat ain’t got nothing on The Snowman of New Market, Alabama. East bound and down indeed.