[dropcap]T[/dropcap]his is my relative Bing. They called him Bee for short. Though, I’m not sure why, Bing is only four letters – like most of my favorite words. I don’t see why he needed a shorter name.

People say I take after Bee, that I look just like him. The thing is, no one knows exactly where Bee really came from. He was never married. He wasn’t blood related to the family, and he never had any kids. He was just sort of adopted into the clan.

He was crazy as a sack of bees.

Bee lived above my aunt’s garage. He played music, knitted, and built transistor radios out of cotton balls. They didn’t actually work. In fact, they didn’t even look like radios.

Bee’s claim to fame was being the area’s first golfer. Only, Bee played the game different than most folks. He used a dull pickaxe and a cue ball. He would wander through town, teeing off on the sidewalk, mumbling to himself. Local law enforcement didn’t appreciate Bee’s solo sport. Bee won two weeks in the pen for carrying heavy metal through the town. Green blazers weren’t around at that time.

I’m not sure why people think I take after Bee. I’m not nuts.

As a boy, whenever I acted up, Mother would bring up Bee’s name.

“You’re as bad as your uncle Bee.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“Only crazy people deny being nuts,” she’d say. “Sane people can admit they’re crazy.”

To which I’d scoff and say, “I’m going golfing.”

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