A Generation Gone

My cousin Ronnie passed away this week. He was seven years younger than my mother, so he was a peer of my parents, more of an uncle to me. Because the Baumgarts were so far apart in age, most of my cousins have children my age, which was very confusing in my childhood. I eventually took a shortcut and called everyone 'cousin,' not bothering with 'first cousin,' 'second cousin,' and so on.

My first memory of Ronnie is of him visiting with Dad at the kitchen table in the farmhouse at Butler. Trudi was a toddler and of no interest to play with, Wade was not yet born, and Lori and Marty were too grown up to play with me. I would sit on Dad's lap with a golden reader book and listen to the conversation as the adults smoked, drank coffee, and gossiped.

Ronnie's wife, Virgie, was my uncle's daughter, a blood relative of mine. But that distinction was never made in our family. His brother was married to Virgie's sister, which only confused me further when it was explained. The big story was the mystery of which cousin had peed in the other cousin's boot and who stepped on someone's white tie at Cousin Steve's going to Vietnam party. There was so much laughter and teasing that my overwhelmed brain never did get the full story. I wish I had thought to ask the last time I saw Ronnie.

Ronnie was a part of my childhood background. His laughter, his adventures hunting and fishing with my dad, and the hours our families were together. Ronnie's voice boomed as he and Dad talked about everything from politics to dairy cows. He had to have a booming voice; Virgie and Mom were constantly talking at the other end of the kitchen table.

Ronnie seemed to roll with the flow. If a child needed soothing, he would comfort and hold the child, never breaking the conversation. If the pack of cousins got too rowdy, he would send us outside, then go back to telling the worst dad jokes ever. When he wasn't telling jokes, Ronnie always had a story. Of course, one of Ronnie's stories is in the book.

Mom and I were the background characters. Dad's hunting adventures were legendary. Over the years, they became stories shared around the table with extended family members and neighbors. At the 2019 Baumgart family reunion, Cousin Ronnie assumed the patriarchal role. As the widower of one of my cousins, Virgie, he had reached an age where he had plenty of stories to share with the younger generation.

As we gathered by the lake, he recounted tales of my dad, Reuben’s hunting escapades, to younger generations. Ronnie began, “It was back when Reuben lived at the Wanderi place. I was driving over to visit when the roads were icy, so I was driving slowly. I saw a big old buck just standing in the cornfield, digging through the snow.

I drove up and told Reuben, ‘There’s a buck in your cornfield.’ Reuben grabbed the gun he kept by the door and jumped into the car. So, we rode out to the cornfield, and there was the buck. I rolled down my window because it was all frosted up, so he could see the deer. I thought he would get out and shoot it. But no, he just held up the rifle and shot through my open window. He dropped that buck right there, but I couldn’t hear for shit for weeks after that!”

One of my favorite stories comes from Dad’s later years. As he grew older, it became more difficult for him to hike through the woods in search of deer during hunting season. He drove his twenty-something-year-old pickup to the meadow's edge at dawn on the first day of the season. Dad lit a cigarette and laid his gun on the seat, relaxing as he waited. His instincts were never wrong, and sure enough, a buck and two does walk across the meadow.

Dad sprang into action, throwing his lit cigarette aside, he grabbed his rifle and jumped out of the pickup. Taking a few slow steps away from the truck, he raised his rifle to his shoulder and aimed at the buck. Just as he squeezed the trigger, the gun jammed. Frantically trying to unjam his weapon, Dad stood in the meadow with fumbling fingers, muttering a few choice words under his breath.

While he got the gun ready to fire, the deer had leisurely strolled across the meadow and disappeared into the woods. Defeated, Dad turned to walk back to his pickup, only to find that it was on fire, with thick black smoke billowing out of the open driver’s side door.

In his excitement, Dad had tossed the lit cigarette onto the seat when he jumped out, leaving it to burn on the driver’s side bench seat. Since he didn’t have a fire extinguisher, the best he could do was use his thick winter coat to smother the flames. He slapped his coat into the fire until it subsided.  What remained were the metal springs thrusting upward from the burnt foam. He stuffed his coat atop the springs and drove home.

I was walking out of the house when Dad drove into the yard. Both windows were down, but a cloud of black smoke still obscured the windshield. Dad got out with a disgusted look; he put one hand on his hip, reached up, and took off his blaze orange hunting cap. I knew that look; it was evident that Dad had another hunting misadventure. As he explained what had happened, I grabbed a pail of water from the outside faucet to douse the smoking foam embers. After I made sure the fire was completely out, I couldn’t resist and sang, “Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire.”

Dad was not amused at first. “It’s not funny; I could have ripped my balls off driving home.  And the fucking deer just walked away.”

Dad had a temper, but stronger than his temper was his sense of humor; he loved a good laugh, even at his own expense.  No money was wasted on replacing the pickup seat; the coat remained in the hollowed-out shell of a seat, barely protecting the driver from the springs.  The pickup became “That old ball ripper.”

One hunting season, he jumped out of the car to shoot a deer standing in the field. Especially during hunting season, Dad kept his gun easily within reach. As he jumped out, excited and gun at the ready, Dad accidentally placed the car in neutral instead of park.

After he aimed and shot the deer, Dad heard a loud screeching and then a crashing sound. Turning around, he saw his car had rolled backward down the hill. As it gained momentum, the car crashed through a barbed wire fence and a rockpile. He stood there watching as the vehicle finally came to rest deep in a swamp. Dad had to walk home to get help to retrieve both the deer from the field and the car.  He also had to explain how he happened to be walking.

  At Uncle Bill’s funeral, I sat next to Dad as the minister reminisced about his visits with Bill and listening to Bill’s hunting stories.  I got the impression that more time was spent on hunting than on Jesus during those visits. 

The minister told us a story about Uncle Bill buying a new gun and taking it to show one of his brothers-in-law. The minister said he wouldn’t name the brother-in-law in case he was present. It didn’t take any hints beyond gun and brother-in-law for me to figure out that the unnamed brother-in-law was my father.

The two brothers-in-law ventured into the woods that night to try out the new firearm. After a few hours of hunting in the darkness, they returned empty-handed, with the unnamed brother-in-law carrying the gun. On the farm, a particularly fierce cattle dog resided. What the elderly cattle dog saw was two strangers coming out of the woods and aggressively approaching the farmhouse.

The dog charged at them, growling and snarling viciously. Brother-in-law tried to calm the dog, “It’s me, you fool! It’s me!”  But the louder he yelled, the angrier the dog became. The snarling and barking grew louder to match the yelling. 

  The unnamed brother-in-law panicked and threw Uncle Bill’s new gun at the dog, missing it altogether. The weapon flew out into a field and disappeared into the darkness. The dog paused at the gun flying overhead.  Taking advantage of the momentary pause in the dog, the two men ran towards the house.  The dog chased them, barking and snapping at their heels. According to the minister, by the time the gun was found, a few seasons had passed. The gun barrel was bent from hitting a tree and had rusted into uselessness.

I was in my early thirties and had never heard this story.  I understood that the Baptist minister had most likely sanitized it for a eulogy. I leaned over to Dad and whispered, “That you?”. 

Dad nodded affirmatively, his head hanging in his traditional mourning posture, and then he side-eyed me with a sly smile.  I could say my dad was white trash famous.