Waywee’s Cheeb

Duane Hayworth was in the Navy. He would ride his bicycle around Boulder, every day, like clockwork, in his sandals and socks. He had a pool table, but if you wanted to play you had to take the slightly damp laundry off of it and find the balls. Our Aunt Peggy seemed to do all the work outside and inside the home, and sometimes brought newfangled snacks from her job at a store, like Goober & Grape and Shake-a-Puddin‘. He had mammoth forearms, tattooed, and in my mind was Popeye. He could draw a good Popeye, too. “I wanted to be an artist,” he’d say, in that funny jaw-jutted way of his.

We called him Uncle Waywee because we couldn’t say Duane as two-year-olds, but he may also have had a speech impediment—or something may have happened in the War. He sounded something like Carl from Slingblade. Whenever we went to his house, he’d pull out his pocket knife and whittle off a hunk of Longhorn cheese. And he’d say,

“Want some cheeb?”

Now we think of him whenever we slice cheese.

—from Dave and Dan Caven

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Filed under Food, Uncles

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