I’m not doing the challenge provided (a family member you dislike) today. Instead, after prompting from the previous post, I’m going to tell you about the Puerto Rican on a Stick. 

My family used to be big. And even when it was big, we had more friends than we did family. I was quite old when I came to the realization that several members of my family weren’t family at all. Not by blood, not by marriage, not by nothin’ other than their proximity to us. 

One of these people is whom I lovingly refer to as the Puerto Rican on a Stick. I don’t know why I thought we were related. I guess because I always knew him. The story goes (what I can get out of anyone, at least) is that he became friends with my uncle Dale somehow, some way, back in the early 1970’s. He lived in New Orleans, so I don’t know how they met. He is very dark skinned, with jet black hair & eyes. Hence the “Puerto Rican”. But he’s not Puerto Rican. He’s Indian, I guess. I don’t honestly know. He had polio when he was very young, & now walks with canes attached to his forearms. Hence the “stick” part. Except to be correct, it should actually be sticks, but that’s not as funny, and, like a lot of stories my family tells, don’t make a lot of sense. 

Anyway, I grew up slightly terrified of Rick. He danced with my Grandmother at my great-grandparent’s 50th anniversary shindig, & I reckon that teed me off to begin with. He used to poke at me with his canes, too, which I didn’t like. Anyway, this story isn’t about me. 

 Rick is an outdoorsman, believe it or not. He enjoys fishing & hunting & all that goes with it. One day, Uncle Dale had him out on the lake in the little aluminum boat. Uncle Dale noticed Uncle Mousey (again, I don’t KNOW why) troll past them several times, without ever speaking or throwing his hand up or nothin’. Uncle Dale thought that was peculiar, & asked him about it a few days later when he saw him. 

“Well, I wouldn’t gonna come over there with that black man in your boat.” Except this was the 70’s & he didn’t say black man, if you catch my drift. 

“That wouldn’t a black man, that was Rick!”

Mousey stood corrected, & ever since, Rick has been called the Puerto Rican for distinguishing purposes. 

One frosty morning, the pair set off deer hunting. It was cold, cold, cold, & Rick had his everything strapped to his back. He & Uncle Dale had split off,  Rick preferring to do things his way, Uncle Dale preferring his own way. Rick marched down the trail-well, hobbled,- his coat making him look much bigger than he was, his tree stand straps dragging to his knees, his canes gaining purchase on the sparkling frosty ground. He stepped over a log that had fallen, lost his balance because of all the crap he was weighted down with, & fell backward. Stunned for a second, & looking much like a turtle flipped on its back, helpless, Rick laid there for just a moment to catch his breath. Then he heard a deep voice from somewhere above ask, 

“Are you alright?”

Rick looked around, and looked…and looked. And he didn’t see a soul. He decided it was God talking to him, & he better get moving before he DID get to meet him. “I’m alright,” Rick answered God & quickly scrambled to his feet & made his way on down the trail to his designated tree. 

A few hours later, after sitting most of the day & never seeing the first deer, Rick did get to see God, dressed in camouflage, climb down out of his tree stand near the log that dropped him like a sack of taters. 

I wonder what the hunter thought & if he has told the story of the crippled turtle as many times as we have. 

And I wonder if God got a belly laugh out of it like I do, no matter how many times I hear it.

And that’s all the Puerto Rican stories I am telling today. The God one is my favorite, & I’ll get to hear it again at Christmas. It’s even better when Rick tells it. 

Someday, I’ll tell you the one about the Union County boy who went to Guam & tried to fight fire.

**postscript, an explanation of Rock’s lineage, from another gentleman who isn’t related to us but might as well be because he’s been around forever. *FYI, Rick is Cherokee, almost if not entirely full-blooded, but I’m not sure exactly how much. He lived across the road, The Pike, from Tiny and Cathy when they were first married. He moved to New Orleans later, after a divorce.