Uncle Virgil

One of my first memories of Uncle Virgil was when my mother took me to see him and Auntie Florence on their farm between Nevada and Maxwell, Iowa.  It was spring and, as we neared, we could see Uncle Virgil cultivating corn in a roadside field.  My mother stopped the Buick and let me out.  I climbed over the fence and ran toward him waving.  I was so excited.  He stopped the old John Deere, let me climb onto his lap and steer.  He let me cultivate a row of corn.  When we got to the end of the row, I was terrified about turning around and running over the end rows, or through the fence.  His steady hand got us through.  Ever after that, whenever he'd see me, he would remark that the row of corn I cultivated did better than any of the other corn.
Only a few years previous to this corn-cultivating experience, Uncle Virgil had farmed with horses.  I'm the youngest of eight children, and two of my brothers were able to spend summers at Uncle Virgil's farm.  They learned how to ride those work horses the real way—bareback.  I was so jealous.   
One of my fondest memories of Uncle Virgil was when we were all at his house on a weekday.  As we were sitting in the living room, the AE Milkman pulled in the driveway to deliver milk.  Uncle Virgil ran to the door and tried to stop the milkman from leaving.  But he was too late.  Uncle Virgil grabbed me by the arm, and said, “C'mon Curt.”  He shoved me into his old GMC pick-up, and took off after the milkman, driving like crazy, dust from the gravel road flying.  I had no idea why he was chasing the milkman.  Uncle Virgil flashed his lights.  The milkman pulled over.  Uncle Virgil drove up beside him, “Got any ice cream?” Uncle Virgil asked.  The milkman laughed and handed over a gallon of vanilla.  “Here you go, Virg.”  Uncle Virgil wanted us (and him) to have ice cream.
He was a huge old, bib-overall-wearing, German farmer, with hands as big as catcher's mitts, and a heart of gold.  He was also diabetic.  For some reason, Auntie Florence and he couldn't have kids.  And they loved children.  He loved to tell the story about the time he took us all to the “crick” for swimming and wading.  (This was back in the day when you could do that.)  He said I must've stepped in a hole because I went under.  He reached in with one giant paw and yanked me out, and I was “sucking water like an old bull catfish.”  I have no recollection of this. 
I was fascinated by his tractor.  One day when the adults were all in the house, I was outside and climbed on the tractor that was sitting in the driveway.  It had a foot starter.  I stepped on the starter and the tractor roared to life.  It was in low gear and slowly took off.  I panicked.  Uncle Virgil and Dad ran out, climbed on the back of the tractor and got it stopped.  I thought I was in trouble, but Uncle Virgil just laughed and said, “Ha!  Curtie just wanted to cultivate more corn!”

Auntie Florence died and Uncle Virgil was all alone.  He needed to have cataract surgery and, since he was diabetic, in those days, it was a difficult surgery.  He came to stay with us while he was recuperating.  He had a raging appetite fueled by diabetes.  Mom was cooking something on the stove.  When she wasn't watching, Uncle Virgil got into it, feeling by hand since he couldn't see, and ate the scalding food right out of the pan.  Mom called the doctor and had Uncle Virgil's insulin adjusted.
Uncle Virgil had a problem with his jaws locking if he opened his mouth too wide.  One time in the middle of the night, he let out a big yawn.  His jaws locked.  He had to get up and drive himself to the hospital, in that old truck, his mouth wide open, where they were able to unlock his jaws.  Poor Uncle Virgil. 
When I was a college student at Iowa State University in Ames, Nevada was the County Seat of Story County, and still is.  I would have to go there for various business, like license plates, or a run to the County Liquor Store.  (Remember those days?)  While I was there one day, I decided to get a hair cut.  I asked the barber if he knew my Uncle, Virgil Swarm.  “Virg?  Oh, yes,” he said.  “Fine man.  Great checker player, too.  Checker Champ of Story County.”
My sister and I were painfully aware of this, as Uncle Virgil waxed us on a regular basis.|
Have a good story?  Call or text Curt Swarm in Mt. Pleasant at 319-217-0526 or email him at curtswarm@yahoo.com.  Curt is available for public speaking.