I was given a brace to be worn at all times except when sleeping in order to assist in protecting Mr. Dearly Departed's bone donor contribution now residing in my spine. It needs 3-4 months to "take root" and complete the firming up process that should get me movin', groovin', shaggin' to the oldies, and otherwise enjoying life once again. The brace calls up memories of my Uncle Mac and his back apparatus.
Saying Mac was a character is like saying the little lizard that peddles insurance on TV is a T-rex.
Harry McDonald blew into this world on August 27, 1895. He served our country in the U. S. Navy during WW I, and came out determined to catch up on what he missed during his military days. Mac was what the old folks called "a rounder". "Whirlwind" is probably a better description. Mac grabbed life like a shark would grab a ham.
At one time or another, Mac played what passed in those days for semi-pro football, hunted and fished at every opportunity, chased the chase-able, sipped the sip-able, and boxed just for the fun of it. But Mac's true love was for motorcycles. He and a group of his buddies rode at will in the hills and over the dusty roads of Bedford, Roanoke, and surrounding counties. In those pre-Marlin Brando "Wild Ones" days, Indian was the bike of choice and Mac and his buddies spent most weekends "war-pathing" somewhere. Not looking for trouble, mind you, but just enjoying each other's company and the feeling of freedom that was gradually being encroached upon by the heathen god, Progress.
In this picture, Mac is the third from the right, with his arms crossed. The guys were getting ready to trail ride up Sharp Top Mountain at the Peaks of Otter. There's a road part way up now and a trail the last few hundred yards, all very civilized, but back then, you made your own way. Some scratched their heads.....Mac just said, "Let's go". At the top, celebration time.
There's Mac, front row-center with that ear-to-ear grin on his face. I note that some of the other very well dressed biker dudes had a "holy crap we did this" look on their faces. But Mac was just caught up in joy.
After Mac died, I somehow ended up for a while with this huge leather brace thing he wore when riding. It looked a little like a crude imitation of things I've seen weight-lifters wear from time to time. It was most certainly hand made by Mac, as he was the complete tinkerer. Made of solid, heavy leather with 3-4 buckles, I understand how it may have helped during those trail rides. Mine is a conglomeration of plastic, nylon, and Velcro, I'm sure designed by some very smart people. Mac probably said, "My back hurts, maybe a wider belt would help......let's see here".
My mom's sister lassoed the whirlwind and Mac calmed down...........a little. He spent a career with the railroad, provided a good home, and retired in good stead. He continued to tinker in his basement workshop and one day somehow managed to saw off a finger or two on a band saw. He was home alone at the time so he soaked a rag in turpentine, wrapped it around the stumps and drove himself to the doctor. Pure Mac.
Our girls remember Mac as a feeble, shuffling, probably kind of scary, old man, most often in a bathrobe, who would have moved heaven and earth to make sure he had a quarter to give each of them when we would visit.
I've somehow managed to misplace his leather brace and I regret it deeply. When I was younger, it was just something to move around and get out of the way, but now.....oh, but now.
Every morning, for a while, I'll buckle my orthopedic wonder around my waist and I fully expect to hear Uncle Mac saying, "Buckle up, boy....it's time to ride".
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