Tales of Uncle Ernest - Chapter 6

Chapter 6  Tales of Uncle Ernest

Uncle Ernest returned and sprawled out on the grass beside me. After setting his glass aside, steadying it carefully in the turf, he grabbed me, wrestled me around, and got me in a headlock before I could break away. I squirmed out of it easily of course as I always did, and with ruffled hair and sore ears I asked him to finish his story.

“How did you get out of that ocean, Unk?” I asked, frowning with concern.

“It wasn’t easy, Moose, because the weather turned really dirty. A vicious, driving storm drove us north, and after five or six days of being blown and battered by the wind and rain, we began seeing white chunks in the water.”

“It was ice, right Unk?” I yelled.

“Right you are,” he replied, tilting his glass towards his nose, “and as we advanced they got larger. A while later Chuck pointed to a gigantic iceberg off to our left. We were now in the Northern Atlantic and we both were shivering something awful. It was soon after this, after we paddled past the iceberg, that we saw a deadly sight.

“A mammoth ship, an ocean liner, was half submerged in the sea, its bow under water and its stern almost straight up into the sky. Chuck, whose eyes were better than mine, said that the liner looked almost new, and its name on the bow was scraped off except for the last four letters that were, he thought, ---anic. I can’t image what the name could have been. Do you think it may have been called The Panic?”

“Maybe,” I said, wracking my brain with the puzzle.

“This is the part of my story that I don’t like to tell, Moose, because people were screaming and crying something awful. It was about this time that we saw him bobbing in the water and clutching a five gallon can. When I paddled over next to him, Chuck reached down and pulled him aboard. The fellow was almost an iceberg himself, so Chuck and I used our own bodies to warm him up. Then I wrapped him up in the sail that had been Em’s trench coat.

“Suddenly the little fellow started yelling, ‘Nine, nine! Ach mine leeber got.’ And I saw why. A fat man with a big, red nose, brown tousled hair, and a Boston accent was flailing towards us doggie-paddle style and yelling some dreadful obscenities. ‘You dirty sons of britches,’ he screamed. ‘I’m an important man. Get me the hail out of this water you fools or I’ll have you shot.’ When he reached the canoe he almost capsized it, so I had to bust his hands with the paddle. The last we saw of him, his red, bloated face was bobbing in the water as the current carried him away.”  [To be continued Tuesday, 1/3/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest (Continued)

Chapter 5  Tales of Uncle Ernest

At last Uncle Ernest knelt heavily beside me, chuckling softly under his breath, apparently from his bantering with Birdie, and continued his account of his sea journey. “I had no idea in the world where I was, Moose, but of course I had the sun for direction so I paddled west for nothing better to do. By golly, after a while, when I looked over my left shoulder, I saw something large floating in the water.

“When I paddled up to it I saw three sorry looking, water soaked guys, hanging for dear life to a log. The first one to come aboard must have had a strong will to survive, because he rushed ahead of the other two frantically. The other two flopped aboard and I helped them dry off with a fish rag I had in my pocket.

“Chuck, the first aboard, said that the three of them had been old school buddies—had done a lot of drinking together—and that their ship, the H.M.S. Bagel, a majestic Jewish steamer, had foundered on its voyage through the Bermuda Triangle on its way from the Galapagos Islands to England. Chuck said that he had persuaded his two buddies, Sid and Carl, to sail to the Galapagos Islands with him to keep him company.

“I got the impression that Chuck was some kind of important person because he said that he had written a book called The Beginning of the Spacies, a science fiction story or something of the sort, but to tell you the truth I thought he was some kind of kook, because every so often he would raise his fist and yell, ‘Only the fit will survive.’ Moose, he was overdosed on salt and sun.

“Well, pretty soon, as we drifted along, Carl, the somber guy with the bushy black mustache, started dominating the conversation, and then the three of them started arguing viciously. Apparently, Moose, the three of them were all pretentious scoundrels who had written books, and when I found out that the books didn’t even have pictures in them, I sort of lost interest. It was just my luck that I would drift into three worthless boobs who wrote dry nonsense instead of the fellows who wrote Popeye or Superman, stories that had some impact on us regular people.

“Anyway, each one insisted that he had written the best book. Carl was the most arrogant, saying that his Das Capital was the best. For hours he ranted and yelled about such things as ‘the masses,’ ‘dialectical materialism,’ ‘the proletariat,’ and ‘the bourgeoisie.’ Moose, I didn’t understand a word he was saying, and I hesitate to tell you this, but when the others were asleep I clubbed him overboard with my paddle and I don’t think he lasted very long out there.

“The third guy, Sid, a small wimpy one with a white beard wasn’t a whole lot better. He insisted that his book called The Eddie Pus Complexion or some such thing (he was a Frenchman and couldn’t talk worth a dang) would solve all of the world’s problems. I knew he was an idiot because he said that I had a drinking problem, (I had a jug of that wine aboard that I took a swig from now and then) and that it was caused by a forgotten sexual psychic trauma that I had had in early life. He wanted to hypnotize me, maybe, to straighten me out. Well, I’m a pretty dumb guy, but even I could tell garbage when I heard it, so I booted him overboard too; let him counsel the fish, lecture in their schools.

“The last fellow left aboard, Chuck, was not a bad guy, really, and I think he was secretly glad that the other two bad eggs were gone. Chuck was a scientist and had been studying the animals around Ecuador. I couldn’t understand most of the stuff he talked about but it seemed sensible at the time. He didn’t put his ideas across very well, but I think he believed that all living things, over a long, long period of time, could somehow change into other, different living things. At any rate, I needed somebody to talk to and help paddle the canoe so I kept him aboard.”

As Uncle Ernest uncrossed his legs and rose awkwardly from the grass, his knees cracking with the effort, I turned to watch him trudge in to refill his glass and gab with Birdie, and I thought about what an exciting life Uncle Ernest had led. But I was only seven; my time would come. I peered out at the canal and noticed that it had reached high tide, for the water was almost touching the cross boards on the crumbling granary. The stillness on the proud canal was eerie. The contrast of light and dark images spread out against the silent waters made me feel a little strange.

And then, Nina, from my right side, out of the Basin, a small rowboat slid into view. It was powered by an old, old man whose rowing skills were so good that I could hear only a slight, dull thump of the oars rolling in their oarlocks. The skiff was small and the man, whose face was dark and wrinkled, was rowing in the forward-facing method, the ancient method, which I had never seen before or since.

His strokes were effortless. As he passed in front of me, the oars feathered the still water, hardly breaking the surface as man and boat, centaur at sea, glided past at a surprising pace. After it passed, its gauzy wake was barely visible on the water, a brief remnant of an essence that once was with us. Soon small, silent ripples made their way to the sandy beach, nudging ever so gently the thin strands of sea grass next to the piling.

[To be continued Friday, 12/30/11]

Continued: Chapter 4: Tales of Uncle Ernest

Chapter 4: Tales of Uncle Ernest

When Uncle Ernest disappeared again into the Hole-in-the-Wall, with his words still meandering in my brain, I gazed once again into the moving water. The sun was setting behind me, lengthening the shadows of the buildings before me on the water. To my right—this side of the Corps of Engineers’ peninsula and the Basin where Granny (your great-great-grandmother, Nina) used to skate as a girl so many, many years ago—loomed the long-deserted, dilapidated granary where, a few years later, I would creep under to change into my bathing suit before diving into the canal for a swim.

The clinking of the cubes in Uncle Ernest’s glass broke my trance, and after a prolonged pull on his drink, Uncle Ernest continued his story. “The island was quite small, Moose, because we explored it carefully. It was a haven for many different species of animals and plants, but there was no trace of any humans. We named the island Atlanticus.

“What a terrific time that was; I felt like Robinson Crusoe, only instead of Friday I had Em, one pretty girl. We had all the essentials: food, clothing, and shelter, and we had what it takes to be happy: companionship, variety, and a magnificent, unspoiled, tropical island all to ourselves.

 “Despite the beauty and charm, you might imagine how hard we worked to get a comfortable lifestyle on that deserted island. There was a good supply of food and water—nuts, fruit, vegetables, fish, dove, and a clear, cold spring—all of which we learned to utilize. On the south side of the island I found an arbor of large purple grapes the size of golf balls. Delicious though they were in their own right, I was able to ferment them into a smooth, hearty wine. Most evenings Em and I relaxed on the shore, sipped our wine, and watched our golden globe settle peacefully into our glistening Atlantic.

“By this time we were boyfriend and girlfriend, Em and I, and things couldn’t have been better. But you know, Moose, we don’t fully appreciate what we have until we lose it.”

“I was waiting for this, Unk, because I know that having things turn out well has not been your life at all. What happened?”

“Well, for one thing, after we had been there about six months we noticed that our island was getting smaller and smaller all the time. It was sinking into the ocean, because one third of it disappeared in those few months. We knew that somehow we had to get off, but naturally we wanted to enjoy our paradise as long as we possibly could.

“One morning, about two months before we had to leave, I had some tropical fruit juice and an omelet of grouse eggs, gave Em a long kiss, and pushed our dugout canoe into the water to fish on the western side of the island. I anchored out about two hundred yards where I knew the fish were plentiful, and in about ten minutes, after the tide changed, started catching flukes the size of wash tubs.

“Distracted by the frenzy, I didn’t see the storm coming up until it was too late. It swept me many miles out to sea, and when the fury subsided I rigged the sail, one of Em’s old trench coats, and tried to return to Atlanticus. But it was no good. I was hopelessly lost in the immense ocean.”

“Man, what a shame,” I blurted out. “Unk, you have the worst luck of anyone alive. Where did you end up?”

“First of all, Moose, that wasn’t bad luck. When one of my ponies doesn’t place or show, that’s bad luck. What happened to me on that island was my own stupidity, and I agonize over it till this day.” Righting himself on the grass, a sad Uncle Ernest ruffled my hair and said, “And as far as where I ended up, be patient; I’ll be back in a minute.”

He must have been telling Birdie a story because he took a while to return this time, so I got up and skipped some flat stones across the water. When I got to be a little older, Nina, I used to dive into the canal and swim all around for hours. Sometimes I would swim across to Ticktown; I’d take my time and let the current carry me; I’d float a while on my side or on my back; I’d try the breaststroke, then switch to the doggie paddle, but usually end with the powerful side stroke, which worked best for me. I would always end up far from where I had been on the other side, either east or west depending on the direction of the current.

Swimming was such a great joy for a country boy with nothing to do on those long, lazy summer days. But as you know, Nina, school got to be such a bore for me. I remember how frightened I was, though, when I first entered school. When I sat next to my buddy, Junior, on the first day of first grade, he could tell I was upset and said, “Don’t worry, Bobby; it’ll be all right. This is my second year in here; I’ll tell you what to do.” Well, Nina, I knew then that I could make it there but I wasn’t so sure about the second grade. As things turned out, though, I did make it. I even made it to the eighth grade, where I spent the best three years of my life.

In those ancient days of glory, Nina, I would hook school and spend the day fishing on a barge in the Basin. And I think that when I die and go to heaven, when everyone else is praying in a celestial church service, I’ll be lying in the sun on an old rusty barge, reclined easily on my wings, trying to hook a nice catfish or yellow Ned.

[To be continued Tuesday, 12/27/11]

Whimsical Tales of Uncle Ernest - Chapter 3

Chapter 3 Whimsical Tales (Continued)

A pair of canvasbacks swooped abruptly into the little cove, set their wings in unison, glided down softly in a semi-circle and, with resistant, expanded wings, landed with a flutter—disturbing for an instant the flowing water in front of me. As the pair fled towards deeper water, wary of my presence, Uncle Ernest sat down next to me on the grass. “Were you frightened up there under that plane, Unk?”

“Yeah, Moose, I sure was,” he answered, pulling with pleasure a long draw on his drink. But, you know, it wasn’t that bad at first because I just stretched out and enjoyed the view. Porpoises were frolicking below about forty miles out, and about eighty miles out I watched a pod of blue whales feeding on the gulf stream plankton as they rose to the surface to blow out their breath. After a while, though, I started to get really cold; the steel I was lying on started to hurt my body, and the pounding of the plane’s engine started to give me a nasty headache.”

“Geez, Unk, how did you get down from there?"

“I did the only thing I could do. I started rapping on the bottom of that plane with my penknife so they’d let me in the cockpit with them. They heard me, threw me a rope ladder, and I climbed up and sat down between them with my teeth chattering to beat the band from the cold.

“The lady pilot, whose name it turned out was Em, said she was amused that I would do something so dangerous, but Freddy, her copilot, was not too pleased. He didn’t bother me at all though, because I liked Em at first sight and that was all that mattered. Despite her getup she was sure pretty, with her light hair, freckles, and bright smile. I swear it just about knocked me dead every time she flashed it. We got along fine, but then everything went wrong. Fog so thick that we couldn’t see the end of the wings drifted into us. A loon and later a large gull spattered into us, besmearing and cracking the windshield.

“But the worst thing of all was that we had no idea where we were headed, because when Freddy threw me the rope ladder the compass somehow went out with it. Scared? You bet I was, but I didn’t panic the way Freddy did. He started yelling and pulling his hair out. Strapping his parachute on and screaming, he flung open the door and prepared to jump. When I grabbed him he kicked me in the gut and leaped out. But do you know, Moose, that throughout it all, Em kept her composure. ‘These things happen,’ she said, reassuring me. ‘We’ll get out of this somehow, Ernie.’

       “She was right, too, because the fog cleared somewhat and Em steered the plane towards an island off to the left. She guided that machine in perfectly, landing on a fairly level area near the beach. We leapt out, hugged each other, and kissed the ground, but we were in the middle of nowhere, marooned on an uninhabited island, somewhere in the vast Atlantic. [To be continued Friday]

Whimsical Tales Continued - Part Two - New chapters Posted on Tuesdays & Fridays

Part Two

“Before I knew it I was in Miami, and as the train chugged past the airport I noticed a large crowd of people around a single-engine plane. I’ll tell you, Moose, there were police everywhere, politicians in suits strutting around (a scary sight for sure!) and a whole herd of newspaper men writing in their notebooks and popping camera bulbs like mad. When I slipped through the crowd I saw a women pilot and her male copilot.

“Dressed in a man’s leather jacket, wearing a leather football helmet, and sporting goofy goggles, she was waving to everybody as she was about to take off. The guy next to me said that she was famous, that she had been the first woman to fly across the Atlantic and now she was trying to become the first to fly around the world.

“Now, Moose, you know what it’s like when you get an urge to do something different, and, despite the risk, you just have to do it no matter what?”

“Sure, Unk, I felt that way when I threw those snowballs at the school windows but I did it anyway. And after I got those three whacks on the butt from the principal I sure lost the urge.”

“That's good; then you know how I felt when I saw that plane ready to take off. The plane was roped off from the public so I had to slide under when nobody was looking. I crept under the tail and went between the wheels to take a look at the underbelly.

“In those days I was really skinny so I was able to climb up into the angle iron of the landing apparatus. It was nice and cool up under there but the smell of oil got annoying, so I was about to hop off when the blamed thing started moving, and by the time I untangled my legs the plane, with that lady in the funny-looking outfit steering, was airborne.”

When Uncle Ernest went back into the bar to talk to Birdie and freshen his drink, I gazed out at the sights on the canal. The current was still flowing swiftly, carrying along assorted driftwood, foam-covered seaweed, and other debris as it swept past. Towards the left the jet-black drawbridge was raised to its height to accommodate the barge and tanker. I could see a line of cars on each side waiting for the bridge to lower.

To the right of the bridge was Schaefer’s restaurant, the old fine restaurant before it was renovated and corrupted into a high class eatery for the rich. None of the local folks could afford it after that. But the old Schaefer's made fine crab cakes and, Nina, let me tell you, they made the best sloppy Joe hamburgers I’ve ever sunk a tooth into. [To be continued Tuesday]

Tales told to Granddaughter, Nina. Part One.

I remember well, Nina, the things Uncle Ernest told me when he stayed with us on our farm for several summers in a row. He was supposed to have been helping my father on the farm, but I don’t think Pop ever got any work out of him on those long afternoons and evenings. Uncle Ernest sure did some funny things sometimes, but what I remember most are the stories he liked to tell about his younger days. And as my granddaughter I think you’ll remember them too, Nina, and maybe tell your grandkids about them someday.

       I was about your age at the time, seven or so, and on this particular evening I had gone with him to the famous Hole-in-the-Wall bar in Chesapeake City. When Uncle Ernest went into the bar to get his drink and chew the fat with old Birdie the Bartender, I ran over and sat on the canal bank grass and peered across. What a sight, Nina. The bright canal stretched out in front of me as I sat there crossed-legged on that warm July evening.

The tide was coming in swiftly and to my right a laboring tug boat was fighting the current as it pushed a fully-loaded barge along. Large, billowing puffs of black smoke hovered above as the barge moved at a pace so slow that I thought for a moment it was standing still, running in place you might say. The tug ran as if it were mad at the water, its prop churning vigorously, leaving a wake that would suck large pebbles down the shore, and surge in all the way to the naked tree roots on its way back. Pretty far behind it, towards the Delaware end, an empty tanker sat high in the water, looming like a black skyscraper in the distance.

Just about then Uncle Ernest sauntered out of the side door of the Hole-in-the-Wall, knuckled my head with his free hand, reclined lightly next to me in the grass, and said, “Well, Moose the Goose, how’s the world treating you?”

“Unk, will you tell me about the time you were in the airplane?”

“My memory is not as keen as it used to be, but that airplane adventure stands out pretty well,” he said, tapping his temple with his free index finger. “I had just lost a bunch of money on the ponies, and was feeling pretty low, so I figured I should get away from it all for a while. I hitch-hiked down to the Wilmington train station, waited for my chance, and hopped a freight train headed for Florida. Luckily I had my favorite relative, Ole Granddad, for my travel companion; I enjoyed his quiet yet potent company greatly, but slept through most of the journey.”