Vern, The Boy Who Never Grew Up

There were a lot of unforgettable characters on the farm where I grew up. The one I loved the most was my Uncle Vern, the boy who never grew up. (He’s the boy on the left in this picture, which also includes my mom and uncles.)

Vern was the only child of my Grandma Ina with her first husband Herbert. His dad died in France in a hospital where he was recovering from being injured in WWI. Herbert probably felt lucky to be alive and being cared and was no doubt surprised when the Germans bombed the hospital where he was staying. In any event, he is resting in a cemetery in France which is probably a nice place to spend eternity.

Something happened to Vern as a child — I was never told what — and as a result he didn’t mature past the age of 10. He was a real life Peter Pan, and a perfect companion for a lonely little girl kicking around a fruit farm looking for playmates.

Vern was in his 50s when he became my constant companion. He loved to hook my wagon up to our Golden Retriever, Penny, and cart me around the acreage. When he wasn’t busy helping out by picking strawberries or other tender fruit, he liked to sit on the front step with all manner of musical instruments he couldn’t play, and wail away, often singing songs he heard on Hee Haw or Don Messer’s Jubilee, shows we watched together with Grandma — in addition to Saturday morning wrestling.

Vern stood about five feet tall. He took two sugars in his coffee and smoked roll-your-owns. He also loved cornflakes in the morning.

The best memories I have of Vern involves Hallowe’en. Because we lived on a farm, Hallowe’en was really challenging for a little kid. We had to literally walk miles between houses in the cold and pitch black. My brothers were much older, so they wouldn’t take me. Occasionally, mom would drive me.

But one year, Vern offered to walk me from farm to farm. We didn’t have much money so we didn’t have access to Grade A costumes like the rest of the kids. So Vern and I decided to dress up as our favorite television characters. He was Freddy the Freeloader, Red Skelton’s iconic bum, and I was Gladys Omphby from Rowan and Martin’s Laugh In. I loved that character with her baggy tights and hair tied back and covered with a hair net. One of my childhood pals, Grant Houtby and I used to do the skit where Gladys would hit Artie Johnson’s Dirty Old Man character with her pocketbook.

Because Ruth Buzzie’s character was always draped in glad rags, I had choices galore of frumpy frocks taken from my Grandma’s closet (including the hair net!).

So that one Hallowe’en, Vern and I got all dressed up and we both took pillowcases for our candy. We trudged down what seemed like ten country roads earning our treats while our toes froze. Man, it was hard work. But I didn’t mind because I had my pal beside me. I wasn’t afraid of the Werewolves as I usually was — I had my protector — who probably couldn’t had warded off Lon Chaney Jr. but I’m sure he would die trying to save me.

It makes me feel all warm thinking about Vern who was a bundle of joy and fun. I really loved him.

One day the next fall, Vern took off down the road to visit and chat with the neighbors who were picking apples. My mom had to sit me down and tell me that Vern was gone. He’d had a massive heart attack probably the result of all those roll-your-owns, and heaping teaspoons of sugar.

I was sad for weeks, and lonely. Today, I just think that Vern was a lucky guy. He lived on the farm all his life, surrounded by family, and got to do wanted: eat good food, watch his programs, help my grandparents, and sing out of tune on the front steps.

I still miss him.

I wish more people had fellas like Vern in their lives. Vern made everything better.

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