Free Me and Rupert Goody by Barbara O'Connor

they’ll fry it up for you right there.”
    â€œBut that ain’t what we do on your birthday,” I said. I could hear my voice starting to get whiny. Rupert was smacking his gum and getting on my nerves.
    â€œI bet Rupert would get a kick out of trout fishing,” Uncle Beau said.
    â€œBut what about the do-it-your-own-self store and the Sara Lee pound cake and the whiskey?” I protested.
    Ever since I can remember, on Uncle Beau’s birthday, he sits out on the porch and people who come to the store just wait on theirselves. Uncle Beau calls it a do-it-your-own-self store. He buys hisself a pint of Southern Comfort whiskey and sits out there rocking and talking and sipping out of that bottle the whole livelong day. Only day of the year I ever see him drink a drop of anything harder than apple cider. When the bakery truck comes, we get us a Sara Lee pound cake and I put candles on it, and that’s what we’ve always done. I couldn’t for the life of me see why Uncle Beau wanted to go and change things now.

    I whirled around and looked at Rupert. “Rupert,” I said, “which one you like better, fried trout or pound cake?”
    Rupert looked at me and he looked at Uncle Beau and he looked back at me and then he even looked at Jake, who started wagging his tail like he was happy to be included.
    â€œPound cake,” Rupert said.
    Well, Uncle Beau started laughing so hard I thought he was going to fall out of his chair. Myself, I didn’t see what was so funny.
    Then Rupert started laughing, holding his stomach and rocking back and forth like he was a dern comedian or something.
    Uncle Beau wiped his eyes and shook his head. “Rupert, I swear you beat all.”
    Â 
    So on Uncle Beau’s birthday I strung crepe-paper streamers around the porch and blew up balloons and tied a bow on Jake. I put up the sign I’d made four years ago: Uncle Beau’s Do-It-Your-Own-Self Store.
    A few folks came by to give Uncle Beau gifts. A load of firewood. An army knife. A crocheted afghan. I always feel bad that I can’t buy Uncle Beau something nice, but he always makes a big to-do over the things I make. I’m all the time coming across some of the crappy ole things I made when I was little. A clay ashtray (he don’t even smoke). A Popsicle-stick cabin. A crayon drawing of Jake (looks more like a dinosaur!).
    Uncle Beau got out his pint of whiskey and sat out on the
glider. (I guess he wasn’t worried about getting his gizzard fried again.) All day, he sipped and talked and even slept a little.
    We had chili from a can for dinner and corn bread that Lurlene Macon sent over. Rupert tried to take the last piece, but Uncle Beau made us call heads or tails. (I won!)
    After dinner, I gave Uncle Beau his present. Pot holders. He said they were the best pot holders he’d ever had. Perfect size. Nice colors. Sure needed them. Then I’ll be danged if Rupert didn’t go out to the shed and come back with something wrapped in newspaper.
    â€œNow, what in the name of sweet Bessie Marie could this be?” Uncle Beau said, feeling all over the package. He held it up to his ear and gave it a shake.
    â€œIt’s for you,” Rupert said (like Uncle Beau didn’t know that!).
    Uncle Beau tore off the paper and what do you think it was? His hot plate!
    â€œMy hot plate,” Uncle Beau said, looking as delighted as if he was holding a new fishing rod or something.
    â€œI fixed it for you,” Rupert said.
    Uncle Beau’s face turned all soft. “You fixed it?”
    â€œSo it won’t get so hot no more.”
    Uncle Beau laughed. “Well, now, ain’t that something? Where’d you ever learn how to do that?”
    â€œAt the lawn-mower shop.”
    â€œThe lawn-mower shop?”
    â€œOne where I worked.”

    â€œYou pretty good at fixing lawn mowers?”
    â€œI can fix rototillers, too,” Rupert