The Collectibles Read Free Page A

Joe’s shoulder. Looking into his eyes, he said, “Joe, it ain’t been easy for you with your mom and dad gone at too young an age. Your Aunt Lettie and I love you like our own son. I wonder sometimes whether we’ve been good ’nough for you. We prayed many times askin’ for help from the Almighty. Lettie and I couldn’t be more proud of you if we tried. We think you’re a fine young man. Lot of people ’round here think so, too. You talk about not wantin’ to be average. I ain’t the reader you are, and I don’t know all the words you know. But it don’t seem to me that you were average when you won the All State swimmin’ meet last month. You ain’t average in school, ’cause you’re at the top of your class, winnin’ all kinds of learnin’ and athletic awards. You already got them colleges writin’ to you about scholarships, both for your grades and your swimmin’ and wrestlin’.” Howard looked up at the moon, stood, turned and added, “I don’t call it average when you went down into that crevice and brought that young fella from New York City back up after he fell in and broke his arm. Funny name. Started with a ‘P.’ You saved that boy’s life.”
    That was more words at one time than Joe could remember Howard ever saying.
    â€œHis name was Preston. And you had something to do with saving him, the way I remember it,” Joe replied with a grin, stoking the fire.
    â€œYou did the savin’, I just did the haulin’. Anyhow, don’t be changing the subject. So what’s average about all that?”
    â€œWhat I mean, Uncle Howard, is, well, I’m five-foot-nine, and I’ll probably never be taller. I can only lift so much, and I sure can’t do the carrying like you. And I listen to the way you talk to the men you guide, and I see the look in their eyes and hear the tone in their voices when they talk to you. They don’t just respect you, Uncle Howard, they idolize you. They’re never going to be like you. I’m never going to be like you. And I don’t think I’m going to be like them either. I hate being average.”
    Joe watched Howard get up and walk around the fire, stretching his arms and neck. He went over to the lean-to and laid out his sleeping bag in front of his backpack basket. He arranged a few more of the pine boughs on each side of the lean-to and prepared himself for sleep. But instead of crawling into the lean-to, Howard came over to Joe, put his hands around Joe’s shoulders holding him square, and again looked straight into Joe’s eyes.
    â€œSon, you’re right. You can’t help bein’ average. But that don’t mean you can’t be uncommon.”
    â€œUncommon?” Joe asked.
    â€œYep, uncommon.”
    â€œHow do you be uncommon?” Joe asked, amazed that Howard had said this much to him and praying that he was not pushing his uncle too far.
    â€œWell, I’m just an old mountain guide, but seems to me there are three ways. Do what the other fella can’t. Be what the other fella ain’t. And then help the other fella.”
    â€œThat’s it?”
    â€œThat’s enough,” Howard replied, and crawled in the lean-to.
    Joe thought about his uncle, how he had worked these mountains he loved since he was a young boy, how he’d lived for sixty-eight years outside the small town of Mineville, on the eastern side of the mountains in the foothills, in a large, two-story, wood-frame house that he built with his own hands. Winding behind the house was a fresh brook, home to endless numbers of trout. Behind the brook were seven small green-and-white wooden cabins he had also built. These cabins were rented from time to time to the business executives and others who came from the cities to bag a deer or catch a big trout with the help of Howard as a guide.
    They returned year after year,