Uncle Cholly's Pot

By Paul Barron

SARA STILLMAN/Daily

It might be a Roman artifact, he thought, forgetting that something so old would have acquired a patina the color of soil. He remembered only that the farmers down South, in Devon, were forever turning over Roman short swords and bags of gold coins. Naturally, the reporters from the BBC would want to interview him and they'd probably run his story at the end of the ten o'clock news, in the spot that was reserved for heartwarming items of human interest. Of course, he would first notify the British Museum, whose curator would shake his hand gratefully, right before handing over a reward check for the priceless whatever-it-may-be. Mr. Feebes waded through the wheat, with his arms swinging, to where he thought he had seen his golden prize.

Meanwhile, my Uncle Cholly, whose garden ended thirty feet from the edge of the field in which Mr. Feebes rummaged, apparently had been trying to remember how to tie a non-slip knot. Among his things, we later found a handful of tattered Boy Scout badges, along with a swimming medal. At perhaps the time he most needed it, my Uncle Cholly's knowledge of knots had deserted him; he had secured the noose with a tennis ball sized mass of granny knots which seemed to grow and multiply like the mass of cells the doctor had told me comprised Uncle Cholly's tumor.

The back of Uncle Cholly's cottage had a view of the Cheviot Hills and if Uncle Cholly, wearing the yellow sweater we later found him in, had taken one last look at the hills from his back bedroom window, he would have seen Mr. Feebes pulling aside the wheat stalks, like curtains that might reveal the fortune on which he could retire. "You reeker," is what Mr. Feebes later told me he had said upon seeing the pot handle glinting in front of him. He could tell as soon as he saw the pot that it was not old, but it was heavy and he knew quality when he saw it. He thought his wife had a set very similar to that hanging on her kitchen wall, though they weren't as deep as this one; the copper was not as thick. This was a superior pot. What a pleasant surprise she would get when he set it on her butcher's. If nothing else, the story of the pot, when rightfully embellished, would hold his friends in suspense and might earn him a free pint of beer one thirsty night at the Trapper's Inn.

Mr. Feebes looked up at the vacant, black windows of Uncle Cholly's cottage and wondered momentarily if he should not inquire there, to make sure that the pot did not belong to Cholly. "But even if it did," began a series of thoughts Mr. Feebes swears he will regret for the rest of his life, "it serves him right; he should take better care of his things. Just for the risk of damage to my combine alone, I deserve this pot."

Those were the words that Mr. Feebes had come to confess, when he shambled into my living room, head bowed, the day after we buried Uncle Cholly.

Paul Barron is a creative writing subconcentrator. Originally from England, he has been a featured reader at the UEA Reading Series.

03-13-97