Joe Watts

My cousin Deborah mentioned in an earlier blog post just how much I loved hats, boots and guns as a child. What she failed to mention was my undeniable love of all things knife-oriented. My dad made hundreds of knives, some pretty rustic, but some with really pretty wood handles. I still have a nice selection–my sister Julia even has two matching ones in a shadow box frame.

I think I must have picked up Papa’s love of knives. Unfortunately, I did NOT pick up his skill with power tools. The knives in this photo aren’t ones that my dad made, but they are more or less the first knives I ever had. Both came from my Uncle Bill (my father’s brother who shared a love of knives). He sent them to me by my Aunt Gladys and Uncle Edward wrapped carefully in a box with a note that said “Be Careful. Sharp!”

I’ll never forget the joy I felt when I opened that box. Several years ago, I sent my nephew William a pocket knife with the note “Be Careful. Sharp!” inside.

I had no idea that a picture of this wonderful moment existed. How amazing it was the other day to find the moment captured in my Uncle Edward’s boxes of slides.

Last Friday night, I got what was one of the nicest emails I’ve received in quite a while. A cousin I see with less frequency than I’d like sent this. Makes me very pleased to have such a strong family! (And I did ask permission to put this out, so don’t fear sending emails to me!)

Nollie told Lillian about your blog, then Lillian told me.  What a blessing you have created!  I love Octagon, too.  I wish gasoline weren’t one thousand dollars a gallon (slight exaggeration) and I weren’t so busy so I could go “home” every weekend.

As I have gotten older, I am mortified that I was not prouder of my parents and my upbringing when I was younger.  We really did have idyllic childhoods in Octagon–roaming the woods, playing in the catch-pens, riding Ida’s wagon-of-death down a 90- degree hill, and jumping off the chicken- house roof.  ( You were not born when we used to do that.  Be very grateful.)  Then there was running from Daddy’s schizophrenic red bull. And the time Nollie stuffed feed corn kernels in my ears and up my nose.  And the time we Hinson children agreed to let Daddy sell our pet baby bull, (which we had named Bull-ette and which we had hand-fed with a calf bottle since his birth) so we could buy Hoola-Hoops. And the sad Christmas children we were at Aunt Sadie Lou’s house because we had to wear Sunday clothes and sit and be polite and use good manners. And leave our new toys at home.

Your Mother’s Day tribute to your Mama was lovely.  Your mother was a remarkable woman.  I am so grateful that she was my aunt.  I wanted to contact all of her children on the anniversary of her tragic death, but I couldn’t find the words.  There are no words.  But Aunt Sis was brilliant and wise and warm and lovely and genteel and kind and wonderful.  I think of her and miss her every day, as I do Mama and Daddy.

Your mother and father; Mammy and Papa; my Mama and Daddy; Uncle Clifford; Aunt Sadie Lou and Uncle Larry; your Uncle Edward and Aunt Gladys–they all influenced the adults whom all 17 of us Hinson first- cousins would become.  I am sure I would be a better person if I had paid more attention to the advice and love they gave when I was a child and adolescent.  I like to think that I absorbed some of their wisdom through osmosis, if not through minding them and taking their instruction to heart.

Although I was nearly grown when you were born, I remember you well as a little boy.  You always wore hats and you usually wore boots and carried a gun.  Your parents were so proud of you.  A son at last!

Cousin Deborah Hinson Kelly

(Well, I couldn’t find photos of myself with a hat, boots AND a gun, but I managed to find a good collection of hats and one with a great toy gun! I really did love a good hat–the captain’s hat was my all-time favorite, though. I think I need another.)