Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) Section 5, “The Bird” – Chapter 2

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 5, “The Bird” – Chapter 2

Were you surprised that he did it? Now, Nina, what do you do with such an uncle? I was just a small boy at the time, and believe me I was puzzled. But for now, let me take you back to Uncle Ernest’s predicament at the harbor in Baltimore. Let me relate to you the weird tale that Uncle Ernest told me as we swung on that same front porch swing that we were on when he talked about the strange people he had met in that city.

A week had passed since our talk, however, because Uncle Ernest had gone on one of his long, liquid escapades. After he returned he was quiet for about a day and a half, but one evening he appeared at the swing, and as I was propelling it airplane-like, crashing from pole to house and house to pole as I tried to keep it on course at warp speed, he applied the brakes by grabbing the chain and gradually decelerating it enough to slide in next to me like a stable, no-nonsense copilot. “Howdy, Moose-the-Goose,” he grinned, as he knuckled my head as always.

“Hi Unk,” I said, squirming loose from his headlock with a giggle. “Are you feeling well enough to finish the story about what you did next in Baltimore?”

“Sure, Moose,” he replied, as the new ice cubes slid up to his nose when he took a long, steadied swig of his drink. “As I stood there in the harbor,” he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand, “I noticed that the skyline was dominated by the tall, brick tower that Ed had told me was called the Shot Tower. Ed had explained that during the Revolutionary War, cannon balls were formed by dropping hot leaden balls from the top into the water. Gravity formed the balls nearly round, making them suitable for firing at the redcoats.

“Believe me, Moose, I had never heard anything like it, and I decided to climb up to the top of the tower to get a good look at the city and to see what it would be like to drop an object something down the middle of a thing so high and narrow. I thought about how much fun it would be to hear it plop when it hit the bottom.”

“But Unk, weren’t you afraid a cop would arrest you and fine you? It could have been expensive fun.”

“You know something, Moose? There are times when, if an exciting idea strikes you, you just have to act upon it; sometimes a thing just has to be done. And expensive you say? Why, what do you think is the most expensive thing you can spend?”

“Be darned if I know."

“Time is the most expensive, Moose,” he explained in a serious tone of voice that I didn’t often hear him use, “and do you know what the cheapest thing you can spend is?”

“Nope,” I said.

“Money,” he answered, winking at me with delight.

“Silly,” I thought, but nodded just the same. Well, Nina, I’ve thought about that advice given by my loony uncle so many, many ages ago, and do you know, I think Uncle Ernest just may have been on to something. What do you think?  [To be continued Friday, 3/30/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) Section 5, “The Bird” – Chapter 1

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 5, “The Bird” – Chapter 1

Now, as you know, Nina, the last time we talked I was telling you Uncle Ernest's story about how he was stranded in Baltimore’s Innard Harbor, after riding submarine-style in the belly of that channel cat. Well, knowing Uncle Ernest, you might imagine how anxious he was to return to Chesapeake City to enjoy the fellowship of his family and friends.

Before I relate to you the tale about his peculiar return trip, however, let me tell you about a later adventure that Uncle Ernest had concerning his sausage business. I remember being with him a few years after he stayed with us on our farm. Yes, I was with him in Wilmington during his entire ordeal. I recall one rainy Saturday when Uncle Ernest went on a—shall we say—week-long vacation with his favorite relative, Ole Granddad.

When he returned, and after several dormant days, he told me that he had decided to invest in a new business. He explained that he had always enjoyed the sausage that a certain bar and grill had served. Many of his friends loved sausages and he reasoned that they and hundreds of other people would indulge in many more sausages if he could select the combination of ingredients that kept the great taste but reduced the fat content by sixty or seventy percent.

After much thought he decided that a variety of poultry and unique seasoning would do the trick. He hired a poultry expert and the two of them concocted a sausage, or a type of knockwurst really, consisting of chickens, turkeys, ducks, geese, dove, and pheasant. Experimenting with the proper spices and herbs, and different proportions of fowl, they finally got the taste almost right … almost but not quite. Back to the drawing board—or cutting board I should say—they went. Two more months of research and hard work led to failure; they couldn’t get the taste just right.

At last they were forced to consult an ornithologist. The ornithologist didn’t come cheap, but he tasted the sausage, took home link after link to re-taste, consulted his manuals, and thought deeply. Then, one night, as he related to Uncle Ernest later, after a period of deep sleep, it hit him: the Orange-bellied Kenyan Whistler! This was the one bird, a member of the tern family, that would make the sausage taste great—like no other sausage in the world.

Uncle Ernest was elated. Depressed because of his apparent failure, he had begun imbibing heavily, and the hooch and worry had affected his health. But now, though, his pallor, sunken eyes, and tic diminished, so that I hardly noticed them. He contracted with the ornithologist to fly to Kenya to find this special bird. The ornithologist outlined the cost of such a venture, and Uncle Ernest related to me the necessary expenditures that the ornithologist would incur.

He would need money for transportation, special clothing, specialized equipment, environmentally appropriate cages, a reliable African guide, and bribes for the Kenyan officials and the United States officials. But fully assured that in the long run the exotic birds would be worth it, Uncle Ernest went for it.

Going for it meant that he had to borrow a lot of money, but in two weeks he got it together and the ornithologist was off to Africa. Uncle Ernest heard not a word from him for three weeks. Finally his telephone call awakened Uncle Ernest at 2 a.m. He told a dazed Uncle Ernest that a strain of African virus had invaded his body and he was not expected to recover for another week at the earliest. Uncle Ernest told me that the ornithologist’s voice was weak but just strong enough to request more money.

The worry caused Uncle Ernest's health problems to reappear, but he borrowed more money and sent it off the next day. Despite his ill health, he was still hopeful, and justifiably so, because after three weeks the ornithologist called at 2 a.m. again to explain that he had, indeed, captured six of the rare birds but needed more money to get them out of Africa and back the U.S. Exulted at the prospect, Uncle Ernest borrowed and sent him more money.

What happened next was completely unexpected. When the ornithologist returned, he rented an apartment and would not tell Uncle Ernest where he was. The guy got nasty, Nina; he told Uncle Ernest that he wanted $2,000 per bird. As one might expect, Uncle Ernest was very upset. He started losing his hair and his eyes became more sunken. I was appalled by his drawn, haggard face and his frequent snorting tic. Such frustration!

Oh, to have just one of those glorious birds, a bird that would make his sausage the rage of the world! Should he borrow that enormous amount in addition to what he’d borrowed already? Do you think he should have, Nina? Well, he didn’t sleep; he didn’t eat; he became emaciated. I agonized along with my poor uncle. Should he buy a bird or should he give the whole thing up? What was he to do? Such a momentous decision, such frustration!

I shared Uncle Ernest’s misery; I felt his pain and did what I could. And it was about this time, Nina, that it happened … that he did it. Uncle Ernest did it. My Uncle Ernest took a tern for the wurst. [To be continued Tuesday, 3/27/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) Section 4, “The Fish” – Chapter 8

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 4, “The Fish” – Chapter 8

“After checking out a few more sights of Baltimore, I returned to the harbor and gazed into the murky water out of which I had emerged the day before. At that time the area was called ‘The Baltimore Harbor.’ As I looked over towards a small seafood restaurant, I noticed a group of people looking and pointing at something in the water. Moose, You’ll never believe what was out there, thirty feet from the wharf.”

“A killer whale?” I cried out.

“Guess again, Moose; it was that big catfish that had swallowed me. He was floating belly-up, dead as a doornail. All the heat and smoke from my big stogies did him in. I guess he was killed by second-hand smoke, an awful way to go. He looked extremely big floating out there, and the smell coming from him was terrible. The crabs must have got to him because everyone could see the glistening, shimmering innards erupting from his white belly.

“Later that day, the port authorities had to pull him far out to sea with a tugboat. I know this is a disgusting incident to relate to you, Moose, but I’m only doing it in the interest of linguistics, because that catfish caused such a stir and became so famous, that people started calling the area ‘The innards Harbor’ instead of the anemic ‘Baltimore Harbor.’

“People would say, ‘Oh, Yes, we visited the Innards Harbor and saw the Constellation.’ As time went by, however, it was shortened to ‘The Innard Harbor,’ and I’d be willing to bet that the area will be known by that name forever. Don’t you agree? What an amazing phenomenon, Moose. You're looking at the only person alive who knows how the harbor got its name. But now, you know, and can tell the world the truth.”

With this prophetic announcement, Uncle Ernest slid off the swing and was about to make his way to the door to prepare to go out on the town for the evening. Sometimes he returned at dawn and other times we would have to scout around town to find him and bring him home.

The light had faded by this time, for only a faint glow could be seen in the west, just to the right of old Dave Herman’s immense oak tree. I tugged at Uncle Ernest’s shirtsleeve and asked, “Unk, did you, maybe, stretch those stories about the baseball player and the sad guy in the garret?”

“Not at all, Moose; not at all. Why in the world would I do that?

But do you know what? As he stood in front of me, there in the semi-darkness, I caught a glimpse of his hands as he held the whisky glass. And, now, I’m not sure, and to this day I can’t be positive, but I think I saw his fingers crossed in the micro-second before he turned away. What do you think, Nina? Did he have them crossed or not?   [To be continued Friday, 3/23/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 4, “The Fish” – Chapter 7

“ ‘My splendid fellow,’ Ed continued, ‘I’ll now partake of that fine decanter of spirits that you previously offered.’

“ ‘Certainly,’ I said, relieved that I still had two cans left. As we sat there, Moose, in that eerie candlelight, sipping our beers, he told me about himself. He said that he was writing stuff and trying to sell it without success. Have you ever heard of anything so silly?”

“Nope,” I answered, shaking my head and letting the concrete scrape my bare soles as we swung. “How did he get money to survive?”

“Ahh, well, he let it slip that his uncle gave him money once in a while. He told me, also, that he was mourning the recent death of his thirteen-year-old cousin. Oh, it was all mysterious and scary, and do you know, as he sipped on his beer, he became more and more agitated and started to say bizarre things. I’ve forgotten most of his tirade, but I remember ranting words such as ‘murder,’ ‘death,’ ‘evil eyes,’ ‘buried people,’ and all kinds of unsavory stuff. I tried to settle him down but he only got worse, and I wished that I had not given him that beer. It became obvious that the slightest amount of alcohol made him crazy and uncontrollable.

“But do you know, Moose, he was an excellent storyteller, for after a short nap to recover, he told me to lean back in my chair, relax, and let his tale captivate me. Then he told me a story that lasted about an hour. I was completely under his spell. I don’t remember much of it now, but it had to do with a poor woman who was buried alive and had to escape from the grave to get her revenge.”

“Yuck! That’s awful.”

“Awful, sure, but the way he told it was fascinating—spellbinding. And do you know that the telling of that story drained all the energy out of Ed. His head slumped down on the table; he became dead to the world. I, too, was tired. I’d had a long day, Moose, so I fell asleep on an old blanket that I found lying in a heap on the floor. I was awakened twice during the night, once when Ed yelled out in his sleep, ‘Annabell! … Annabell!’ and again when he screamed, ‘Madman! … madman!’

“When I awoke at dawn, Ed was in the same position and snoring loudly. I shook him but he didn’t budge, so I wrote him a note saying, ‘Thanks for the hospitality, Ed. Take care of yourself. Your friend, Ernie.’ Then I descended those cramped stairs with difficulty and stretched widely in the early morning sun of Baltimore. As I ventured down the narrow street that bright morning, I stuck my fingers in my pockets to protect them from the morning chill. In my right pocket was a piece of paper. ‘What in the world is this,’ I wondered. Guess what it was, Moose?”

 “Beats me.”

“It was a note from Ed. During the night he must have awakened, written the note, and slipped it into my pocket.”

“What did it say, Unk? Did he want you to come back to visit him or what?”

“Now, now … hold your horses; you can read it yourself while I take a walk.” Uncle Ernest then gave me the paper, which he had folded up in his wallet. It was dirty and crumpled but easily readable in bold, erect handwriting. So I wouldn’t forget it, I copied it down and will let you read it now. This is what Ed wrote to Uncle Ernest, Nina.

To my fair fellow, Ernie:

I extend to you my most sincere appreciation

for the splendid evening we have spent together.

Your companionship and conviviality brightened

what would have been just another of the dreary

midnights of insufferable solitude.

Here is a poem for you that has never been

published and never will be. You are the only

human who has ever set eyes upon it. I hope

You like it, Ernie, my friend.

A most heartfelt farewell,

Ed

The Hound

(for my friend, Ernie)

Long into the night I lie and listen

To the hollow howl of the black dog.

His moans smother my music

And his wail

Rumbles, rumbles over my song.

Each night his baying loudens

And soon I will see him slink into view.

Eyes glinting in the moonlight,

And hackles raised in recognition,

He will skulk towards me

On sunken haunches.

His heavy head will froth its juices,

 And closing in, his breath

Will implant the stench.

One night he will pounce

And bury fangs into my throat,

Spattering the life,

Gnawing the bone.

Isn’t this a strange, somber gift, Nina? Maybe someday, when you are a lot older and in college, you can explain it to old Pop Pop. For now, though, let’s return to those olden days of Uncle Ernest. In a trance from reading this amazing note, I didn’t hear Uncle Ernest return. The creaking swing brought me back to reality, though, and after a hearty pull on his glass, he continued his story.

[To be continued Tuesday, 3/20/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) Section 4, “The Fish” – Chapter 6

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 4, “The Fish” – Chapter 6

This time, when Uncle Ernest stumbled through the door for a new supply, I jumped off the swing, grabbed a stone and heaved it at a blackbird perched on the electric wire overhead. I just nicked its tail feathers, so I flung myself, spread-eagle and face-up on the grass. Off in the sky towards town, over the field of saplings, I watched five or six buzzards circling, circling overhead. Some dead animal lies exposed in that field, I thought, but those buzzards would soon clean it up.

Those birds are all feathers, Nina, so don’t even try to shoot one, and if you ever see one sick or wounded, don’t try to help him, because he’ll vomit all over you. Then Mom and Dad will have to burn your clothes because the smell would never come out. When I was eleven or twelve or so, my buddy and I went out shooting with our .22 rifles. Oh, we shot a starling or two, shot at a squirrel, and probably shot at a couple dozen buzzards during the course of the afternoon.

And do you know, Nina, that when a bullet hit one of those old birds—and I hit a lot of them—it would zip right through the feathers, not hurting the buzzard at all because his body is so small compared to all his feathers. Despite all the times I hit them in my life, I never even hurt one of them; they would just flap their wings a little faster and sail off in another direction.

I had yet to learn those things, lying there in the grass so many years ago, and looking over I saw Uncle Ernest settling into the swing, so I bolted over to join him, anxious to hear some more of his story. “You know, Moose, it’s sad to think about how many good athletes never get a chance to prove themselves; George is a good example of that for sure.”

“What did you and Ed do next?”

“Well, it was starting to get dark so Ed invited me to stay the night with him in his garret, as he called it. When we arrived at his street I noticed how the houses were built right up against one another, so close that a guy could spit out his window and it would land in his neighbor’s living room. ‘Repair with me, my noble companion, to my humble abode, and we will confront the evening with superb camaraderie,’ Ed said to me with a flourish of his top hat. As you can see, Moose, Ed still talked like a goof, but I let it pass; I couldn’t help liking him despite his problem.

“Ed lived on the third floor, so we started climbing the stairs. You wouldn’t believe how narrow, steep, and crooked they were. Ed was quite small so he climbed them like a monkey. I’m average-sized but I had a tough time ascending them. A large man wouldn’t make them at all. When we entered Ed’s room I was alarmed to see how small it was. There were gaps between the wooden floor boards and jagged cracks in the plastered walls and ceiling.

“Stacked about the room were large volumes of books, and on a platform in the corner was a large, pure-white stature of a person's head and shoulders. It looked like a curly-headed woman to me. After Ed lighted a candle I took a look at the head more closely and saw what looked like dried bird droppings encrusted on the forehead, nose, and lips.”

“Gross, Unk!”

“Yeah, right,” Uncle Ernest agreed, “and I was afraid to ask Ed how they got there. Ed then set the candle on a small card table that he was using for a desk. He had several stacks of writing paper, some written on and some not. He unloaded a chair that had books piled four feet high and offered me a seat. He sat in a straight, hard-backed chair, looked at me with those intense eyes, and said, ‘Make yourself at home, my good man.’ ” [To be continued Tuesday, 3/16/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) Section 4, “The Fish” – Chapter 5

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 4, “The Fish” – Chapter 5

After Uncle Ernest slid from the seat to amble once again into the house, I just sat there enjoying the view of the countryside. Our swing faced west, and beyond our fairly large corn field, to the right of Dave Herman’s mammoth oak tree (which still stands, Nina, remind me to show it to you), our immense orange ball settled patiently and inexorably into the line of trees on the horizon.

The evening was coming to an end; it was enchanting, and as Uncle Ernest eased into the swing with the exaggerated softness of the infirm, I was anxious for him to continue his tale.

“Hey Unk, what did you and Ed do next?”

“Well, Moose,” he replied, setting his drink down temporarily between his legs on the empty seat, “what happened next is pretty incredible. Next to the bar where we heard that bouncy piano music was a large field. I mean it was huge, probably several acres or so. As we strolled past the field we heard somebody, yelling so we looked over and saw a guy standing by a wire backstop with a baseball in his right hand and a baseball bat in his left hand. He was yelling, ‘Hey, youse guys! Come the crap over here, will ya?’

“When we walked over we saw that he was a big guy wearing a funny-looking cap and knickers. He was young, about fourteen or fifteen, had a broad, flat nose, and thick lips. As we walked up to him I could see a determined look in his eyes. Bouncing the ball off his biceps playfully, he said, ‘Do ya wanna have some fun?’ When Ed and I nodded, the kid asked me if I was right handed.

“When I said I was he said, ‘All right, then, you pitch to me, and you, Shorty,’ patting Ed on the shoulder, ‘run out into right field and shag the flies.’ Well, Moose, Ed scampered out about 300 feet and I climbed the mound with the bucket of balls that the kid had. Luckily, I had a good arm at the time, sometimes firing that apple over ninety miles an hour.

“The kid was left handed and stood up to the plate looking goofy in that cap and knickers. Now, I had pitched some good hard ball in my younger days, and thought that this kid was a real turkey. ‘Why, he won’t touch a ball I throw,’ I thought. I’ll tell you what, Moose; he really fooled me. There must have been twenty five balls in that bucket, and that kid hit the first one far, far over Ed’s head. Ed had to go back another 200 feet or so to catch the booming shots he hit.

“I couldn’t believe it, because I was throwing really hard. I threw curves, drops, screwballs, and some change-ups. It was always the same; he clobbered them all! We collected the balls and repeated this three or four times, until my arm wore out. Poor Ed was badly out of shape so he was really huffing and puffing.

“When we finished, I shook the kid’s hand and told him that with a bat like that he should try to get on an organized team somewhere. The kid grinned and said that some scout from Boston was supposed to come down to talk to his dad about signing him to a contract. He said that his dad owned the bar next door. By golly, Moose, I’ve seen some good hitters in my time, but I’ve never seen anyone ever hit a ball that far, so I’ll bet he was able to get on a team somewhere and make a few bucks.

“After we said so-long and were walking away, he waved and I called back, ‘By the way, kid, what’s your name anyhow?’ Still leaning on his bat he yelled back, ‘George, George Roof.’ So that tells us, Moose, that he never amounted to anything, because I’ve never heard of any ballplayer by that name. Have you?”

“Nope,” I answered. “He probably stayed on and took over his father’s liquor business.”  [To be continued Tuesday, 3/13/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 4, “The Fish” – Chapter 4

When Uncle Ernest returned I asked him about the man he had sat next to on the curb. “Well, he was all hunched over with his head down, writing in a notebook. As I sat next to him, saying, ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he raised his head slowly and said, ‘Pleasure to make your acquaintance, my good man.’ He was wearing a discolored white shirt, a black, soiled jacket (even though it was summer), and a black top hat.

“He had a jet-black mustache that accentuated his exceedingly white face, a face, it seemed, that had never been exposed to sunlight. And something else, something really bizarre … his eyes were small and pure black, and when he looked at me I felt as if those eyes were penetrating into the essence of my being.”

“Geez, Unk, that’s scary, it makes me feel kind of weird.”

“Oh, he was all right though, Moose,” Uncle Ernest said, calming me down with a pat on the back. “He said his name was Ed, and that he lived in the city and would be ‘delighted’ to show me around. That’s how he expressed it, Moose; he said, ‘Why I’d be delighted to enlighten you with the singular beauty of our fine metropolis, with its exquisite buildings and manifestations of melancholy elegance, which will engender in your countenance a brilliance of awareness unheard of in recent times.’

“As you may imagine, I was quite disturbed by this weird talk, and I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right, I don’t take that kind of language from most people and I would’ve decked him on the spot, but he said it so naturally and with such conviction that I let it pass. He seemed like a nice enough sort and I thought that maybe I could teach him to speak right if I hung around with him for a while. He declined my offer to share one of my beers so I knew from that that he wasn’t a wino, but he did say that he might ‘succumb’ to one later for the sake of ‘conviviality.’

“We began walking around Baltimore and the first thing we passed was the big library where Ed said he spent a lot of his time. Then we pushed open and peered into a crowded barroom where loud honky-tonk piano music was playing. Ed pointed to the side where a black man was playing energetically. Ed said that the type of music he played was called ‘towels,’ and that the players name was Scotty, I think he said.

“We stood there listening for a while and I really enjoyed it. Most of the towels he played were lively and bouncy, but a few were slow, soft, and dreamy. Ed explained that Scotty wrote all the pieces himself, but said that he would never become well-known except for this limited area of Baltimore. What a shame, Moose; I could have jived to those towels all night long and sure wish I could hear them again some time.” [To be continued Friday, 3/9/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) Section 4, “The Fish” – Chapter 3

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 4, “The Fish” – Chapter 3

Uncle Ernest plodded through the door to reload his glass, leaving me alone on my airplane swing. I’ll tell you, Nina, I rode that swing so high and hard that I scared even myself. Soaring high, I felt the swing slow down gradually despite my hard pulling. Then I looked over my shoulder and it was just Uncle Ernest slowing it down with his hand on the chain so he could sit down.

“Yep, Moose,” he began, after a strong pull on his drink, “the first thing I did was to find one of those Salvation Army places where they give you soup and clean clothes. After a bath in a tin tub with cold water and a big bar of yellow soap, fresh clothes and shoes (that didn’t quite fit), and a full belly of potato soup, I strolled down the streets of Baltimore just for the fun of it. Lucky for me I didn’t lose the money I had in my old shorts, so I bought a six pack of beer at the first bar I came across.

“Swinging my National Bo with every step, I took in the peculiar sights of that old city; I was on top of the world, Moose. Then a strange thing happened. As I started to cross the street I looked over and saw a man sitting on the curb, next to a fire hydrant. I wanted company in this unfamiliar city so I sat down next to him.”

When Uncle Ernest went in to freshen his drink again, I saw a chicken hawk glide effortlessly over our corn field. It flew north, displaying its tail feathers and white breast with majestic grace—the ruler of the sky. And do you know, Nina, I didn’t say a word, but just enjoyed the sight. I knew that if Pop knew the hawk was out there he would do what he had done the day before. I had been in the living room, roughing up my little brother, when I heard a loud “Thump, thump, thump” that shook the house. And then I realized where the racket came from. Pop, in his bathrobe and slippers, was descending the long staircase two steps at a time.

He didn’t say a thing but had his twelve gauge shotgun in the present-arms position. I heard the screen door slam and then the thunderous report of the blast. Seconds later he walked through the living room with the gun lowered in one hand, shaking his head dejectedly. “The dang thing got away,” he drawled, as he trod heavily back up the stairs. Pop thought the hawks swooped down to carry away his chickens; his hatred was deep.  [To be continued Tuesday, 3/6/2012]