by Merrell Palmer

Created on: April 18, 2008   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

THE LEGACY OF A PURE HEART

"Twin?" He asked, "Could you take me to the store?"
He stood outside my bedroom door and waited, hopeful.
"Twin?"
In my teenage annoyance at being disturbed on a Saturday before noon, I pulled a pillow over my head and wished he'd go away. He sighed, and then I heard the clink of glass as he sat a carton of empty soda bottles on the floor before walking slowly back down the hallway toward his room.

I have heard those words a thousand times and even now they still echo in my memory.
His name was Sydney Merrell, but to all of us kids he was simply "Uncle Bud." He was a large man, almost 350 pounds, with a heart as big as his body. The only son born into a family of seven daughters, he was injured at birth in March of 1933 and never mentally developed beyond preadolescence. He remained a child, with the mentality of a 12-year-old, in a big man's body. He was my mother's brother and he lived with us as far back as I can remember.
As a child surrounded by a large extended family with its own fair share of oddballs, it never occurred to me until I was older that Uncle Bud was not normal. He had been accepted as he was, and so it was.
Uncle Bud was invested in all family activities and proved to be an important cog in the hub of our daily lives. Each morning he collected a carton of empty Pepsi bottles from the previous day's consumption and exchanged them at the little neighborhood store for a fresh case at a discounted price. In our household of eight, everyone had a cold soda waiting in the refrigerator before lunchtime. In addition, he brewed a pot of tea everyday, and had the technique and consistency down to an art.
He helped with chores and accompanied my mother on trips into town. He loved car rides and would sit in the front seat anticipating pending trips. If the driver tarried in the house, Uncle Bud began beeping the horn.
He had a soft spot for babies and animals, and worried if our pets were not fed by mid-morning. The cats loved the expanse of his ample girth, and curled up often on his chest, purring to the beat of his heart.
Despite his size, Uncle Bud was fairly active and daily walked the streets by our home with a couple of Beagle Hounds in tow. He had a passion for singing and knew the entire refrains of many old hymns. These he sang on his walks and in the small church my mother pastored.
He loved to bat baseballs, and begged, harassed and cajoled kids lounging around the house into chasing his hits. He never tired

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