Uncle Joe

Here's a story that was told to me by my uncle Joe T (Joe Thomas) years a go. Joe T died some years ago but every once in awhile he'll cross my thoughts. Today was one of those days. Joe T was the most likable man you'd ever meet, that is untill he started to drinking. He would work his ass off while he was sober, and would do anything for anyone, and had quite the funny side too. But when he got to drinking there was nothing he wouldn't do. If he was drunk you had better hide the keys for your car and anything else of value. It was anything for the next drink when he got started. He would drive you crazy when he was drunk, a lovable drunk or a fighting drunk, it depended on how much you could put up with. He was a good size man so he wasn't that easy to deal with when he got some liquor in him. Me and Joe always got along good, hell I was just a kid back then. Most of his shit was funny to me.

Most of the bars back then were down on main street, and Joe was known in every one of them. If he had money he was buying for everyone and they loved him. But when he ran outa money and was all fired up on the hooch they avoided him like the plaqued. Now the lady folks they loved him too, he was quite the handsom man, I know that because anytime his name comes up the women always start with " he was such handsom man".
Well I guess it's of no suprise that with his drinking the way he did that he spent some time in the county workhouse (jail). Matter of a fact he spent quite a lot of time there. They knew him on a first name basis. When he wasn't doing time you might even find him doing work for the warden or one of the guards at their homes.
Joe had a compassionate side to him. Thats where this story comes from.
When Joe was doing time at the workhouse he would work different jobs there at different times but the one I remember most was when he was the grave digger. Madax and shovel and a whole lota sweat he would say. Not that they didn't have backhoes and stuff but they had to keep work for the prisoners so digging graves was something to keep them working. The graves he dug was for prisoners that had no family or anyone that would claim them when they died. Not that there was a lot of graves to dig but ever so often one would kick the bucket and they'd have to bury them outback in the paupers cemetary. A plywood box was all that was used, maybe sometimes a metal one was used. As you can see in the pics there is no names on the tombstones, just numbers. There is supposed to be records with names and dates but Joe said some were never recorded and just buried. Joe said the workhouse would keep collecting money on them from the state for a while after they died.
In telling me his story I could tell he had compassion. He was in there once and he had buried a man just befor he got out, and as it turned out his drinking got him back in there in less than a month. On his return in there he resumed his job of up keep on the cemetary and he noticed that someone had died and the prisoner that had been doing his job while he was out had buried someone on top of another grave. He said there was fresh dirt where he had buried the last guy and he asked what had happened and he was told the guy that was doing the digging during that time just dug where it was softest, on top of another grave. The dead guy had no family and the guard didn't care what was done,...just get it done as quick as possible. At least my uncle had respect for the dead, he got them to let him rebury the guy in another grave. Joe dug him up and put him in his own grave. He said prisoner or not, the man deserved his own damn grave. Now this was years ago, 40 or so, somewhere around there, illegal as all get out but back then but society didn't really know or care how things were done "inside" a prison as long as they didn't have to see it.
This story is not so much about prison or prisoners, or even death and cemetarys, but about my uncle Joe. A great guy, do anything for anyone kinda guy . But this story he told me showed a compassionate man who cared about others, dead or alive. A man which alcohol took over and shadowed the best part of him from other people. I could see both sides of him, sober and drunk. I chose to remember and embrace the sober compassionate side.
I loved my uncle Joe, and today while sitting there in that paupers cemetary I could picture him sitting there under one of those shade trees taking a break and wiping the sweat off from digging.
I said a prayer for him and then I drank a beer with him. I had to grin a little, he was probaly watching me drink that beer and was shaking his head..saying.....crazyass kid.

Some called him a drunk, a prisoner, no good, trouble looking for a place to land. And yes at times I'm sure he was all those. But I also remember him for having respect for those in that cemetary who had no one, a compassionate man,....just a good ol boy. He's been gone for awhile now, but he lives on.
One of his favorite sayings was "who loves ya baby?"

Joe...who loves ya baby?.....I do.