Uncle Charley had been leading the lifestyle of everybody else, well maybe with a few exceptions. One day he went deer hunting with some of his friends. Nothing had been heard from him for over an hour. They were hunkering down with hand-held radios that allowed them to keep in touch.

The world seemed to stand still. A tiny, timid breath of air rustled a leaf on the ground. One of the men sighed heavily. Suddenly, a scratchy sound came from the radio. They all jumped slightly.

His friends had started to suspect Charley's mind was wandering. Final proof came that day. Uncle Charley had wanted to hunt alone and crouched behind his own bush. They usually didn't break radio silence unless there was game in sight. Even Charley would stick to that rule.

Here he was, however, whispering with excitement. Charley breathed the words out, "Hey, listen! It's comin' your way right now. Get ready! I swear it's a Unicorn."

The way his eyes were focused, it did look to Uncle Charley like it had only one horn.

His companions checked Uncle Charley's canteen. Sure enough, it was filled with strong drink. That was how he missed a five-point buck when it walked right past him.

"I tell you. It had only one horn! That's a Unicorn. Y'all know it too." He muttered a few more impolite words and dropped the subject.

Uncle Charley had always carried an old U.S. Army canteen with him, no matter where he went. It was one of those scarred and bent aluminum canteens used by Combat Infantrymen in World War Two.

He explained it this way, "It served me well when I crawled through the hedges and gullies of Europe." Uncle Charley would grin and add, "I'll just blamed well carry it with me in peacetime too."

His friends told Uncle Charley to start enjoying new things, take up a hobby, or something.

Set in his ways, but not without imagination and a sense of adventure, Charley asked, "What do you think I could do?"

"Stock Car racin'," somebody suggested.

"Me? Barely drive, myself."

"No. Go watch!" Those words changed Uncle Charley forever, probably for the better.

In this part of the country Stock Car racing was a cherished tradition, important to anybody in small southern towns. The community had paved a smooth circular track and put up spectator stands. A modest admission price was charged, not much.

One day Uncle Charley decided to see what it was all about and paid for a ticket. He took his seat. Holding the canteen in both hands, Charley gazed at his surroundings. The other people were a rowdy bunch.

Sitting to his right was a woman who wore her thirty-nine years badly. She had a sunburn that extended from the top of her blouse to both ears. Uncle Charley wondered if this might be why Yankees call southern people Rednecks. He shook his head and

took a small swig from the canteen.

Uncle Charley turned to the woman, smiled and asked, "What's happenin'?"

She said scornfully, "They're at it again. The pistons are doin' all the work. Listen to 'em."

Uncle Charley's throat moved rapturously as the beverage seeped down into his soul.

He cleared his throat and asked, "How can you tell?"

"Listen to 'em pistons talkin'. Each cylinder fires in order. It's like music."

"What order?"

She sounded like those people you see on television, claiming they were abducted by UFOs.

"Who are you, woman?"

She stared at him in disbelief. "Don't you know nothin'? That black Camaro there. With its big-block Chevy engine."

"What about it?" Uncle Charley took another swig. His mind was drifting. Well, this was something new. Might as well get into the mood. He gulped again. It soothed him.

The woman sighed. Here was another one, never been to a Stock Car race before. He was probably drinking something strong out of that canteen. She knew his type.

The woman decided to educate him and began, "Well, it's 1-5-3-7-4-2-6-8. That's a Chevy's firin' order. Important? You bet."

"Oh." He looked at the engine and concentrated his mind on it.

Since he had never attended an event such as this, Uncle Charley did not know how spectators were supposed to act. It was one thing to be enthusiastic, but this woman seemed weird.

Uncle Charley grew slightly dizzy from her chatter and could begin to see pistons moving. They were following the rhythm of her speech. Up and down, up and down they went.

She continued her lecture about the firing order, "And it's important! See now?"

Uncle Charley nodded. He was beginning to hear the pistons talking amongst themselves. Charley wished the race would begin and wondered if anticipation eventually turned into anxiety. With some people it was probably sooner, rather than later.

This was a really hot southern day in August. Side-by-side two cars sat on the track, their engines idling happily. They had drawn front row slots in this race. Lined up behind them was a long string of two dozen more cars.

Uncle Charley's beverage was doing its job in his stomach.

Pride caused the black Camaro's Number One piston to make a long speech. Some of the other pistons were embarrassed. A few were jealous. Pistons should purr, not talk out loud.

Uncle Charley shook his head. He longed for the solitude of other sports, like deer hunting, and took another sip. Number One sounded more determined than the other pistons.

Today was the day this piston would surely die. Uncle Charley could tell from the tone of its voice. Number One piston would give its life in an effort to win the race.

Seven brother pistons thought it was too proud for its own good.

Uncle Charley was sure the woman believed no greater contribution could be made by any piston than to bust wide open trying to win a Stock Car race. He stole a glance at her.

Number One piston knew this was its day and felt like bragging a little. "I'm strong. I really am. You'll see. Yes, you will."

Uncle Charley took a long pull from his canteen.

Number Five piston was impatient with Number One. It tried to explain, "We're all equally important. You an ignorant thing."

Uncle Charley looked at the woman and wondered if she was hearing it too.

Number One argued, "I know that. But I always turn first."

Charley felt like defending Number One. It sounded so brave.

Number Three joined the conversation, "That's our firin' order in this Chevy engine, you a foolish piston. Your compression is too tight."

Uncle Charley asked the woman, "Know anybody racin' today?"

She nodded. Her friend was the driver of that coal-black, well-polished Camaro idling nonchalantly. His name was Butch. He sat there and waited for the engine temperature to stabilize, when all its well-fitting parts would be reacquainted and hug

each other tighter.

Number Eight could no longer remain silent. "Cool down, Number One. Every time Butch lights our fires you begin thinkin' you run the whole engine."

"I just about do."

Number Three offered an explanation, "I know what it is. The compression in his cylinder is slightly more than the rest of ours."

Number Eight agreed, "That just happened by chance. Sometimes life deals us a small advantage. Then we think we're better'n anybody else."

Uncle Charley's mind drifted again. He thought about the factory where the engine had been built. He figured something could have happened during production, just a tiny mistake. It was so small, but a fatal error anyhow. Perhaps a robot on the assembly line felt confused.

No one ever knew if it was mathematical or mechanical. For some mysterious reason Number One piston was a little stronger than the others.

That unfortunate mistake at the engine factory would lead to historic consequences, not soon to be forgotten in this small southern city where Stock Car racing was as American as Apple Pie and Motherhood.

Uncle Charley took another small drink from his canteen and looked at the woman. She seemed not to notice him.

Number Three piston said, "Yeah. Like those robots in the factory. If the mechanics forgot to oil them and keep the dust wiped away, I bet they'd turn to junk real quick."

Butch exercised his engine,"V R O O M! Vroom . . . vroom!"

"Now we'll see some action." Uncle Charley chuckled and shook his canteen. He grinned at the woman.

Number One piston continued to boast, "See how strong I am!"

Number Eight replied, "You'll get your reward. It won't be long."

Tension filled the air. All the race cars were side-by-side in a long, impatient line with grumbling engines. Blue smoke playfully invaded the spectator stands. Everybody had waited a long time for this moment.

Butch gunned his engine again, "V R O O M, vroom-vroom-vroom!"

The other engines all answered, "VROOM! VROOM! VROOM!"

A few drivers smiled, their lips clenched grimly shut.

The cars were ready. A deep, sensual, rhythmic vibration came from the engines, seeped down through welded frames and perfectly balanced wheels, out onto the track. It caused a pleasant tingling in the spectator seats.

The woman looked wild and said, "I think I can feel my bones vibratin'."

Uncle Charley growled at her, "You're takin' prescription medicine, aren't you?"

"No," whined the woman. "I feel the vibration from Butch's Camaro engine. I can feel it deep in my soul."

She hummed along with the engine,"Umm . . . Umm. Vroom."

"Is that you hummin'?" Uncle Charley wondered why he ever came to this place.

"HUUUUM," she answered.

Charley took another deep drink from his canteen and said nothing. He stared at his shoes and meditated.

The woman was evidently having a mystical experience. What if she fainted? He reviewed the steps for applying CPR, counting them on his fingers. Then he decided. No way could he ever administer mouth-to-mouth therapy to her. Forget it.

Number One piston shouted, "I'll make history today! Nobody will ever forget me."

The spectators could sense it. It was almost time to learn who had the best car. Many days and nights the owners had worked, getting their engines just right.

The hot sweaty, waiting drivers stared straight ahead. Nobody knows anybody at a time like this. The same thought filled all their minds. Rubber on the track, and that's that. That'll tell it all.

Suddenly . . . without warning . . . when least expected, BLINK! The green flag dropped.

Everybody had been wanting it to drop. Not one driver failed to see it. Down went more than two dozen gas pedals to the floor, no less and no more. The collective roar pleased spectators and drivers alike. Then that crowd of waiting spectators took a deep, collective breath and tightened their jaw muscles.

It sounded to Uncle Charley like, "Suck . . . wheeze . . . gnash."

Butch's foot had slammed down hard, all the way to the floorboard. The Camaro's transmission bands were clamped deathly tight.

Even the birds and wildlife listened, standing stone still in the surrounding woods and bushes. Uncle Charley tilted his head to one side and barely breathed.

An old cow on the hillside a mile away allowed an enormous horsefly to make itself comfortable. She could have felled it easily with one light flick of her tail. But she remained motionless, out of respect for Butch's beautiful engine.

Now, with determined precision, power from the screaming engine was transmitted along the drive shaft, out the axles and into both rear wheels.

Two balanced tires had been waiting to serve their master. They spun once. And the sound the tires made, it was like something heard by lion hunters on a safari.

Birds and small animals stiffened. The old cow chewed her cud and thought about things. The horsefly cringed.

With deep hostility, many tires began to claw the pavement. Their drivers demanded serious, heavy scratching on the asphalt.

But alas, disaster struck. A terrible explosion was heard throughout the spectator stands. It sounded like distant thunder, sort of a muffled boom-clank-clank, then a groaning sigh.

Uncle Charley dropped his canteen. It turned slowly and fell between his feet.

His voice squeaked when he asked, "What in the world was that?"

The old cow, all the birds and small animals, even the horsefly, they all knew what had happened. Their sympathy was overwhelming, except for the horsefly. It grinned devilishly.

The woman groaned, "Butch's engine just let go."

She sounded deeply concerned, like her life was forever changed.

All eyes turned upward. Everybody saw it. A part shot out of Butch's engine. It flew in a graceful curve through the sky toward the spectator stands. The thing was about the size of a coffee can and trailed a thin streamer of black smoke. It was coming straight toward Uncle Charley.

The smoking object landed harmlessly on the race track and rolled toward the front row of seats. Plunk, plunk, it tumbled once or twice before stopping three feet from Uncle Charley and the woman.

"Oh, dear me," she wailed. "That looks like Butch's Number One piston."

Uncle Charley said sadly, "My goodness. Aww, shoot. Is that right?"

He looked at her. Her face was distraught. She seemed frail.

The woman had been carrying a single, red rose all day, waiting to give it to Butch when he won, as he surely would have done.

Bending over the fence reverently, she sobbed, "Might as well put this rose where it belongs."

Everybody turned and watched as this pitiful, wailing woman placed the rose tenderly on Number One piston. A tear mixed with her mascara fell to the track. She was honored by great clapping of hands and many shouts. A few raised their voices and called out Butch's name politely.

Birds began to sing. Small animals resumed their play. The old cow chewed, as polite cows always do. The horsefly, however, wanted a closer look and flew down to the spectator stands.

Uncle Charley swatted at the invading insect. "Why didn't you stay with the cow, you fiend?"

"Ladies and Gentlemen," said the announcer. "There will be a small delay while we clear the track. Free drinks and snacks are available at the refreshment stand. Somethin' historic has happened here today." He was still shaking his head.

Later on, toward twilight, the old cow went down the trail to her stall in the barn. Milk production was affected little, if any.

For weeks there was lingering sadness throughout the small town and surrounding farms.

It seemed nearly impossible, but life went on in this beautiful southern community. Despite the broken hearts, folks would always remember that mournful sound when Butch's engine self-destructed.

Hereabouts, Stock Car racing was just about as important as Apple Pie, or Motherhood.

Monday morning, bright and early, right after opening time, Uncle Charley sat on the porch at the General Store and Gas Station. He had been telling his tale to everybody who stopped to shop, or buy gas.

"And I say to you. It's true." Charley sounded less and less convinced as the morning wore on.

Uncle Charley whittled on a stick and stared into the distance. He seemed to be listening to something far away. People thought he looked different that morning.

The lad pumping gas knew what it was and asked, "Uncle Charley, where's your canteen?"

Hanging his head sadly, Charley sighed and said, "I dropped it."

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