Uncle Mack

Old Uncle Mack had a long life, seen alot, racism and civil rights, picked cotton in a hot summer field for a man who didn't care for him. He rode the rails for most of his life, seeing things and meeting people, landed a nice retirement check. Humor and wit seemed to pour out of Uncle Mack like the Country Blues he could play on that old Martin. I met him late in his life in the deep old South of this nation through a friend. He wasn't really my Uncle, he became much more than that. I help him do the things he needed to do. He taught me how to play the Blues and told me stories of days long gone by. On a hot July day my friend called to tell me Uncle Mack had quietly passed away that night. At the funeral I was the only white person around, some of the family questioned me. After the preacher said his say and the tears were falling, I began playing my guitar the way Uncle Mack had taught me and let my tears fall like rain. All were silent when I was done, I threw my guitar pick in the grave and walked away thanking the Lord I'd met this man, my "Uncle Mack".