If you read my last post, you know that Uncle Boog and the Dogfight ended up being too short to publish as a novel but too long to publish as a short story. Soooo...my first choice is to lengthen the story so that I can make it into a short novel. I need 12,000 words added to the story to get to a minimum of 50,000 word. My plan is to add a lot more country sayings, a bit more background, and some of the odd things that country folks might think about or have knowledge about that regular city folk may not ever think about or say out loud. If you did not get a chance to read Uncle Boog and the Dogfight as a serial story the last time I did it, here is your shot to read the newly revised version, starting out with Part One. Enjoy the story, and please, tell me what you think!
Uncle Boog and the Dogfight
Part 1: What’s in a Name?
Let me explain something before we get started. My Uncle Aron’s full name is Aron Ray Bugler. Most people think the last name should sound like what you call someone who plays a brass horn instrument called a “bugle.” You know, like what the Army guy blows on when he plays Reveille of a morning at seven. But Bugler is my last name too, and “Byoogler” is not the way the name is pronounced nor who my people are. Our last name is spoken like plain ol’ “bug” and then “l-e-r” the same as anybody would pronounce “ler” like in the word “antler,” “butler,” or “traveler.” Bugler is it, plain and simple, even if it looks like it should be pronounced another way. I just wanted to get that straight before I told the next part which is another word play on our last name as far as I can tell.
Way, way back in the 1970’s, before I was even born, somebody started calling my Uncle Aron, “Boog.” You know, like a ghost would say “Boo!” and then put a “g” like “guh” on it. His nickname doesn’t sound like “Bug” as in the first half of our last name, but the way I just described it, “Boog.” I reckon somebody just called him that on a whim one time, but as soon as they heard it, everybody took it up. That being so, I’ve never heard him as anything except Uncle Boog, and I’ve known him all my life as he happens to be my daddy’s youngest brother and my grandma’s youngest son. Even people who don’t know him very well call him “Boog,” but they don’t add the “uncle” part. Only I do that. Oh, and my two brothers. So, three of us call him Uncle Boog. which is not many. Whatcha gonna do?
Anyhow, somebody called my uncle “Boog,” the name stuck, and so that’s who he is and always will be, I reckon. His first name “Aron,” which nobody ever calls him, is not spelled like the Bible-name “Aaron.” You know, Moses’s brother, the one who forged the golden calf at the bottom of Mount Sinai. Most people remark right away about the odd spelling when they see it, but they need to know that his name came off the single-A spelling of Elvis Presley’s middle name. Most people know that Elvis’s daddy, Vernon, spelled Elvis’s name “Aron” on his birth certificate so that it would be like the middle name of Elvis’s twin brother who died at birth. The dead boy’s name was Jesse Garon. However, few people know that Elvis changed his middle name back to “Aaron” later on, and so “Aaron” is the spelling on his tombstone. Flo just told me that most people do not know about Elvis’s middle name. Huh? I figured most people would. Elvis was a pretty famous feller.
Well, whatever Uncle Boog’s name is it has nothing to do with his personality nor his character, and no worthwhile purpose is served by accidentally associating him with Elvis, Elvis’s daddy, or Elvis’s dead twin brother. I wish I hadn’t mentioned anything about all of that, but I done did, and I’m sorry that I did. Those men, all long dead and cold in their graves, have nothing to do with this story. My point is that I don’t reckon I’ve ever heard anybody call Uncle Boog anything but Boog Bugler, just Boog, or Uncle Boog. That’s it, those three names and nothing else.
Uncle Boog has been labeled a lot of things besides names though, most of them not very nice nor said in an unemotional tone of voice. One of the kindest stamps ever branded upon his pretty much worthless hide is that sometimes he could be a bit of a mischievous rascal. His mama--that is my grandma on my daddy’s side--believed that he was a good, heaven-bound boy with a kind heart and a generous soul who happened to be easily tricked into carrying out careless, irresponsible, and devilish acts by wicked, manipulative friends and pants-wearing, Satan-worshipping women. Well, nothing was further from the truth about him being good or heaven-bound if what I learned in Sunday School has any merit, but nobody wanted to argue with or disappoint Grandma, who really was a pure, goodhearted soul, if a bit naïve, so everybody let her keep her ignorant beliefs regarding the true nature of her youngest son’s actions. Everybody figured there was no harm in it. By that, I mean her beliefs about the goodness of Uncle Boog would never harm anyone. Lots of people have been hurt by the things that he’s done. Could be, some have even died. I wouldn’t bet against it. Wouldn’t bet for it neither because I don’t know.
Grandma never knew a lot of things that I knew about what Uncle Boog really did when he was out of her sight, and now she’s dead and will never be aware of anything different. God rest her uninformed soul. I reckon some of her lack of knowledge about Uncle Boog’s transgressions could be blamed on me as I was as guilty of hiding Uncle Boog’s offenses from her as anyone else. I was maybe even the worst since I happened to be his near constant companion from the time I was thirteen years old or thereabouts until I was a senior in high school. Yep, during that span of five or six years, Uncle Boog and I spent some time nearly every day together, according to my recollection, and we were best pals in those days, tight as ticks some old folks might say. Maybe we still might be, but we don’t see one another much these days. I figure we became adults and left behind all those foolish and childish ways. It’s hard to say if either of us were just foolish or if we were just children. Maybe, we were, maybe we weren’t, and maybe we both still are. It doesn’t matter. I haven’t sought out his company in thirty years or more nor he me. Whatcha gonna do?
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