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]