This is a really good time to mention my Aunt Flonie.  Well, it’s actually “Aint Flonie.”  That’s not because she ain’t got nuthin’.  Quite the contrary.  That’s just the way Alamance County North Carolina folks say the word “aunt” when it comes to those born in the early 1900s or before.

Aint Flonie was Mama Moon’s sister.  Mama Moon was my grandmother.  Aint Flonie did okay for herself.  She married a man described as a philanthropist, industrialist and a “giant in the textile world.”  Walter Williams was his name.  He donated the land where the main high school in Burlington still sits.  It’s called “Walter Williams High School.”

Flonie and Walter never had children.  And I believe Aint Flonie was the last of Mama Moon’s family to pass on, and that was a couple of decades after Uncle Walter.  So that meant that one of my dad’s siblings had to become the executor of Aint Flonie’s estate.  That seemed to just sort of naturally fall into the hands of my dad’s younger brother, Uncle Gene.  Uncle Gene always took care of family and stuff like this.  My guess is he was quite attentive to Aint Flonie in her final years.

Now when Aint Flonie died, all five of Mama Moon’s young-ins were still alive.  So what was left of Flonie’s estate in 1975 should have naturally been split equally among my dad and his four siblings and maybe a cousin or two.  Well, I remember my dad and uncles and aunt getting a rather small check from the executor of her estate.  I remember my dad being a bit surprised that the check was so small.  After all, the woman was the wife of Walter McAdoo Williams, a philanthropist, industrialist and a “giant in the textile world.”  But, as with most not-right things he encountered, my dad kind of shrugged it all off.  And he cashed the check.

But the next fall, my dad met Uncle Gene and other friends and family from his hometown of Graham, North Carolina at a University of North Carolina football game.  It was sort of a regular occurrence for all those guys to gather at a game or two.  But at that particular game, Uncle Gene and others arrived in a brand new and loaded custom Chevrolet van.  This was just a few short months after my dad received his tiny check from Aint Flonie’s estate.

Well, needless to say, my dad, his oldest brother and one of their cousins who also had a stake in the Flonie estate, raised a little hell about it.  “How come did the executor of Flonie’s estate end up with a high-end custom van, while everybody else got almost nothin’?”  It was a natural question to ask.  But I can assure you that had the Flonie predicament not provided the hell raising on that occassion, certainly something else would have.

Naturally, fingers were pointed and accusations were made.  And Uncle Gene’s reaction was mostly just gritting his teeth in a hard and almost embarrassed smile while laughing and vigorously rubbing his hands together at all the allegations.  It was all in fun.  Those guys all loved each other.  And Uncle Gene was as honest and decent as any man I have known.  Still, my dad or someone, from that football Saturday, named that van, “Flonie’s Van.”  And most times when my dad’s family would gather at that vehicle, the story of Flonie’s Van would reemerge.

The tailgating days at Flonie’s Van are over.  I guess.  Most of that crew is no longer with us.  But Uncle Gene’s daughter tells me that one day we are going to set up a wide screen television in Flonie’s Van’s garage and watch a game while eating ham biscuits and sipping bourbon and Sprite.  Just like the old days.  We will surely toast Uncle Gene on that occasion.  As well as the others.  And we will toast Aint Flonie, too.  For all the years of pleasure and fun and laughs she gave us.

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