Times of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and Beyond Chapter 3

Times of Uncle Ernest -

Chesapeake City and Beyond

Chapter 3

Certain times in life are special times, Nina. Let me tell you about a few other happenings that occurred in the forties, when life in Cecil County was so different. Let me take you back to one of those times; I won’t keep you long. I recall one special evening on our farm near Chesapeake City.

You know how it is after the sun goes down yet the light still lingers? Well, it was one of those early spring evenings, when the chill replaces the sun’s warm beams and you’re cold all of a sudden. But before running outside that evening, I had been watching television for a while with my grandmother. The TV set was one of the first to come on the market. It was a large box full of tubes the size of large salt shakers. The programs were all in black and white in those early days, and the screen, about 8 or 9 inches square, was always distorted in some way, usually with “snow” blurring your view.

Every couple of weeks, when the set broke down, my father would take the back off, pull out most of the vacuum tubes, and take them to an electronics' shop in Elkton to be tested. If the tubes were not the problem, he would have to call the TV repairman, who usually took several days to show up.

At any rate, we had had the set for about a year, and that evening my grandmother was seated on the edge of her rocker, with her body thrust forward from the left side of the set and her face six inches from the screen. She was watching “The Cisco Kid,” one of the first cowboy shows to air on TV. Often she would comment on the action: “Watch out! There he is behind that tree. Be careful. Oh, he’s no good!” She was captured—taken prisoner—by those early shows.

And that was a strange thing for my young mind to figure out, Nina, because a year earlier my grandmother would not even look at the TV set. It was a frightening oddity, a near impossibility to her who had lived so many years without it. At first she would go upstairs to her room whenever it was turned on. Then, one early evening, I saw her seated at the top of the stairs, peering across the room at the TV from under the banister railing, with her head up against the white banister posts. As the months went by I noticed that she would move closer and closer to the set until, finally, after about a year’s time, her eyes would be several inches from it.

Now, Nina, as I started to tell you earlier, before TV interrupted, I had run outside on that one special evening at sunset, that one special spring evening that still scurries around the halls of my brain, stops, and stamps its feet for my attention when I’m least expecting it. The sun had dropped below Annie Boyko’s woods, yet patches of warm light still shone on parts of our hillside farm. Wiggsey and I played in it—moved with its warmth—until it dissolved into the ground, leaving us in the chilled shadow of evening. Looking farther up the hill towards the garden, I watched the last patch of its brilliance disappear.

Even Wiggsey felt the loss. He was a big, Chesapeake Bay Retriever, and when I looked back at him he had flopped himself down onto a bare area that he had scratched out next to his box. He lay, feet and tail folded under him, in a complete circle, a perfect curve to his body, with his muzzle resting on the trunk of his tail to form a blended oval. I was surprised that a dog’s spine could curl that much. Nina, he was a brown donut with eyes, a black-button nose, and moveable ears that twitched when I whistled through my teeth.

As far as television was concerned, by the time I was a teenager it had not improved very much. Better forms of entertainment, when I was not much younger than you, were our Rio Theater on George Street, the Elkton Theater on North Street in Elkton, and the great Elkton Drive-In Theater off Route 40 in Elkton. Drive-in theaters sprang up all around the country from the late forties until about the late seventies when they all closed down for various reasons.

But when I was a teenager—before I got my license and after—the drive-in was the place to be for fun. Before we boys—my friends in the area—started dating girls, we would get together with a guy who was old enough to have his licenses and access to a car. Then five or six of us would all pile into the car and head for the Elkton Drive-In. It was located where the WalMarts is now, Nina, and the road that led to it from Route 213, Whitehall Road, is still there, but at that time it was all gravel.  

Well, we would swerve onto that road, sometimes fishtailing as we spun around the curves, and when we got to the edge of the drive-in area, the driver would stop and we would all get out. The outside edge of the drive-in area on the 213 side was a strip of land overgrown with saplings, bushes, and other undergrowth that hid the drive-in parking lot from view. Well, the driver would go to the ticket booth, pay for his ticket, and go in and park with the other cars.

In the meantime, we boys would sneak around the hidden boundary to the very back of the drive-in. From there, which was directly underneath the enormous white screen, we would enter into a small playground area, mingle with the legal patrons, and eventually find our buddy’s car so we could watch the movie in comfort.

I make this sound pretty easy, Nina, but there’s something I forgot to tell you. The owners knew, somehow, that some people were sneaking in, so they had a man in a jeep riding around the edge of that overgrown area looking for intruders with a spotlight. Many a time, as I snuck through the briars and honeysuckle, I saw that beam of light flashing. So I had to dive to the ground or jump behind a tree. It was sure scary, but that made it more fun and, of course, it made the free movie that much more enjoyable.

How can I explain the enchantment of that drive-in theater? I wish you could have experienced it, Nina. As you steered your car up next to the ticket booth, you could hear the music from the loudspeaker and see the suspended screen high in the distance. You’d then cruise around the lot, checking things out and looking for a good place to park, not too close nor too far from the screen and fairly close to the refreshment building. You’d pull into your spot close enough to the pole that held a small, metal speaker. You’d hang the speaker on the door, adjust the volume, settle back, and wait for the show that darkness would bring.

You had the whole evening ahead of you in the privacy of your car—entertainment in comfort and seclusion. There you were, out-of-doors with the windows down, and maybe a breeze would stir through your car, cooling you and making you feel as if you were on top of the world. Then, abruptly, the show would begin: first an ad about the available food and drink, then the coming attractions, then the cartoon, and finally the movie. Time would go by so fast that soon you’d start your engine, turn on your lights, and get in line to begin what seemed like a long exit.

Now, Nina, if you want to know about taking dates to the drive-in, that’s another story. When I got my driver’s license at sixteen and started dating your grandmother, I had to pay to get in the drive-in. For some reason she would have balked at the fun of sneaking in—not that I asked her to; I was smarter than that. However, Nina, I need to tell you about a problem I had with her. I, naturally, was always interested in watching the movies. They showed great ones, such as “Tarantula,” about a giant spider whose favorite food was humans, and “The Hand,” about a murderer’s severed hand that came alive and started strangling people.

Anyway, as I said, I wanted to watch the shows but, do you know, all your granny wanted to do was smooch. That’s right, and it was awfully hard on me. Geez, the windshield would get all steamed up so that I couldn’t see the screen. I recall wiping off the inside of the windshield with the palm of my hand. But it was no good; it would fog up again in no time. In fact, all the windows would steam up from her romancing. The only break I got was at intermission, when I could get out to catch my breath and visit the refreshment shack to load up on hot-dogs, French fries, and sodas. Then the movie would resume and it all started again. But, obviously, I survived, Nina, and after all these years I’m glad to be able to tell you about it.

I think now of the changes: my granny’s gone, Wiggsey’s gone, and the drive-in’s gone. Your granny and I still watch movies, fogged over now with drowsiness instead of condensation. And the sun still descends on special evenings, leaving us bereft of light, just as it did so many years ago, when Wiggsey coiled within himself, mourning the loss of its warmth.  [To be continued Tuesday, 5/01/2012]

Times of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and Beyond Chapter 2

Times of Uncle Ernest -

Chesapeake City and Beyond

Chapter 2

Well, Nina, I was just about ready to jump up and run down Schaefer's long wharf to look for crabs along the pilings, when I felt hands squeezing my shoulders, rocking me back and forth. Then I felt a hand roughing up my hair and I knew it was Uncle Ernest.

"Moose the Goose," he said. "don't go falling in the drink. I'd hate to have to dive in and save you."

"I can swim, Unk; you know that."

"Not in that current, Moose," he said, slouching down next to me with effort, sort of grunting and almost spilling his drink. He was checking up on me, and after swirling the ice cubes around in his glass a few times—sort of gathering his thoughts—he gestured towards the canal and remarked, "That channel out there is deep enough for my submarine to move through."

"Submarine?" I asked. "You never told me about that. Where is it? Could we ride in it?"

"Now, Moose, don't get excited; it's no big deal. It was one I used to travel in. I don't have it now but, since we have plenty of time on our hands, let me tell you about it." So I sat up against the piling, leaned back, and listened as he began to relate his strange adventure.

"A while back I was home with my ear up to the radio, listening to the last race of the day from Delaware Park. Well, I lost big, and I felt so low-down that I caught a trolley to the waterfront, where the Wilson Line docked. The old steamer, the City of Wilmington, was there in her berth. I just stood there daydreaming, with my arms folded, gazing out at the dark water. In a few minutes I saw an old woman shuffling towards me. When she got closer I could see that she was in terrible shape. She was wearing a pair of beat-up boots that some worker had discarded. Her dirty, faded dress had been made from a feed sack. It had flowers painted on it the size of your fist, and printed in letters at the bottom edge were the words, 'Eastern States.'

"Good grief, Moose, she looked like something the cat drug in. She had a filthy shawl draped over her, and I don't think she had a tooth in her head. I say that because as she walked past me I said, 'Howdy Mom,' and she grinned at me and then glanced around the place as if trying to find something. Then she spied it, up along the dock farther. Moose, it was a garbage can, which she went over to and started digging into for scraps to eat. So I went over to her, took her by the arm, and led her to a coffee shop across the street. Well, I bought her coffee and a donut, and she really savored them, eating slowly and taking long, audible slurps from the cup.

“When I started to leave—sort of depressed and thinking about taking a vacation with Old Granddad—she blurted out, 'Wait, Sonny, I got something to show you.' 'Geez,' I thought, 'what have I got myself into?' After a short walk she led me to a deserted, rickety wharf that extended out into the water. 'There it is, Sonny,' she cackled, flashing me that toothless grin and pointing to a black canoe tied to a piling. 'Step in there, now, and try it out,' she demanded. But, Moose, I certainly did not want to get into that thing, which looked as unsafe as it was ugly. But she insisted, so to humor her I climbed into it gingerly as it rocked under my weight. Well, Moose, as soon as I plopped down onto the seat, eerie things started to happen. That canoe began to expand; it grew larger and wider, actually started enveloping me, and I felt … well, you know what it's like to have a bizarre, unworldly dream?"

"Sure I do, Unk. I once dreamed that I could jump long distances—first twenty feet, then 100 feet, then 100 yards. Pretty soon I was flying all over the countryside."

"Well, then, you know my feeling, only this was no dream. That canoe turned into a small submarine. Incredibly, it was lighted inside, and it had portholes and a cool periscope. Moose, I didn't know what to do, just sat there bewildered. I was trapped, and just as I started to panic the sub's engine started to purr." I'll tell you, Nina, Uncle Ernest really had me wondering, and before I could ask a question he rose from the dock edge, ruffled my hair, and with a "Sit tight, Moose," he went back into Schaefer's to refill his glass of booze.  [To be continued Friday, 4/20/2012]

Times of Uncle Ernest

Times of Uncle Ernest

Chesapeake City and Beyond

Section 1, “Didie” – Chapter 1

My Uncle Ernest was one crazy man, Nina. He was my mother's only brother, and I'm sure you remember that during the early forties he used to stay with us on our farm near town here in Chesapeake City. Uncle Ernest soon became a familiar figure in the bars of our town, on both sides of the canal. His favorite bar was the great Hole-In-the-Wall, on the South Side of the canal. Right next to the bar was Slicher's Shoe Store, where my mother took me one afternoon to get a new pair of shoes. When we walked into the store, the first thing I saw was a colorful statue of a parrot. Slicher sold Poll Parrot Shoes, and that bird was so real that I thought at first that it was alive.

Well, Mom stood there, looking around impatiently and holding my hand, until old Mr. Slicher shuffled over and nodded. He was a short man with a big, shaggy mustache. The thing hung unevenly over his lips, Nina, sort of balancing the equally shaggy growth above his eyes. And it was stained, beautifully discolored from, I suppose, tobacco juice and coffee. When he started talking I took notice because he did so with great effort. He had advanced asthma, causing each phrase to be followed by a series of wheezing, a sound that startled my young ears.

After buying the shoes, we went next door to the Hole-in-the-Wall to see if Uncle Ernest was shooting the breeze with Birdy the Bartender. He wasn't, so we walked across the Lift Bridge to Schaefer's Restaurant where, sure enough, he was enjoying a drink and the company of John Schaefer. Then Mom joined the conversation and forced a few glasses herself just to be sociable. She sent me outside, where I sat at the edge of the wharf, facing the canal, with my legs dangling below the rough board ends. I watched the current swirl past the black, splintered pilings below. Seaweed, discolored foam, and occasional driftwood rushed by, sometimes clinging to the pilings, causing small whirlpools to spin for a while before disappearing into the dark water.

Clanking steel on steel made me look up to see the roadbed of the lift bridge rising, pulled up by the chains, and as it rose the counterweights on each side descended, rumbling to the base below. I watched a Model A Ford chug to a stop right up against the drop gate there on the North Side. And across on the South Side was a more modern Roadster, also waiting for the ship to sail through. Then I saw it, Nina, an enormous freighter. From Schaefer's wharf it looked as if it was going to ram right into the South Side Bridge Tower.

But then, to my relief, it glided on through and moved broadside to me, a black skyscraper blocking everything else from view. Empty, it rode high on the tide, and as it passed its propeller churned angrily at the water to its stern. I heard a swooshing sound and I looked to the left at the shore. The water rushed out furiously, pulling mud and pebbles as it went. Soon it gushed back to shore with the same vigor, and breakers churned the murky sand. They collided with the piling I was leaning against and, as the ship cruised westward, the pattern continued—rushing water out, rushing water in. But with each series the force diminished until, except for the current softly heading east, everything became calm as before.   [To be continued Tuesday, 4/17/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) Section 5, “The Bird” – Chapter 6

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 5, “The Bird” – Chapter 6

When Uncle Ernest slid off the swing to reload, I thought about what it must have been like. And I think, Nina, that the closest thing to what Uncle Ernest experienced would be hang gliding. But, listen, don’t you take it up; wait until you’re older and have Mom and Dad’s permission. Anyhow, when Uncle Ernest returned to the house the sun had set; the night creatures were tuning their instruments, and some had broken into full-throated anthems.

And then, from the edge of the deep woods, overpowering by far the background music, and assaulting the ears with its shrillness, came the cry of a screech owl. That sound, Nina, is alarming; folks who don’t know better would swear that it’s the shriek of a human in pain. We who know better, though, know that it’s only a girl screech owl, answering the cry of her feathered boyfriend, lost somewhere deeper in the woods.

As Uncle Ernest reclined on the swing, I could tell he was in a good mood, because he was grinning and eager to finish his tale. He would soon be off for a night of fluid adventures in the town’s bars. I could tell because he had put his shoes on and replaced his tank shirt with a short-sleeved one. “So, Moose, what do you think happened next?”

“The eagle brought you home, right?”

“Not exactly. As I dangled there I had the feeling he might head east and drop me into the Atlantic, so I had to think fast. So far, during the flight up the bay, I noticed that when I whistled Yankee Doodle in a low key, he would turn to his right, and when I whistled the tune in a higher key, he would turn to his left. I realized, Moose, that I could control his direction.”

“Neat, Unk. Lucky for you you’re a good whistler.” Now, Nina, I know you’ll be familiar with this area when you get older, so let me outline for you the route that the resourceful Uncle Ernest guided the eagle, on that remarkable journey up the bay.

He directed the bird up the Eastern Shore, past Rock Hall where I used to catch bushels of soft-shelled crabs, past Betterton where the Showboat used to dock, past White Crystal where I used to party as a teenager, past Port Herman Beach where I used to swim on church picnics, past Uncle Ralph’s cove where I used to water-ski, and past Welsh’s Point where I used to hunt ducks.

Uncle Ernest continued directing the eagle by taking the right fork up into Back Creek, past Continental Swamp where I used to trap muskrats, over the old drawbridge, past the Hole-in-the-Wall where as a teenager I managed to get beer for partying, over the Basin where I used to hook school to fish off a barge all day, over the trees of Mount Nebo where I used to hunt rabbits, over Scriver’s field of saplings where I used to cut our Christmas trees, over our farmhouse, and, finally, to the top of the corn crib, where he set Uncle Ernest gently down.

“Yes, Moose,” Uncle Ernest continued, as he swung gently with me, “it sure was a glorious mode of transportation. But do you believe that that unsentimental old cuss didn’t even wave a wing good-bye; he just flew off in a hurry, ascending so high that clear afternoon, that he was only a speck in the sky.”

I'll remember always how the two of us talked softly there in the stillness of that summer evening. Each of us had a hand grasping the swing's chain above us on each side, as the top swivel chirped eerily, almost imperceptibly with the delicate, rhythmic motion, as I sat quietly with my only uncle's other hand on my shoulder, gazing straight ahead at the dry cornstalks rustling gently in the late summer breeze.

Before Uncle Ernest slipped off the swing to stride down our long, dusty lane on his way to town, I asked him if he was sure that he didn’t slip a few fibs into his amazing story. "Well now, Moose the Goose," he answered, "Be sure you remember what I'm about to tell you. Someday, when you get a chance, I want you to catch one of your pop's laying hens when he's not looking.

"Be sure to grab that old hen by the neck so she can't peck you, and then take a stick and pry open her jaws so you can count her teeth. Now, if you count them correctly and sing out the number … why, she'll cluck a couple of times and lay you a golden egg, which should keep you in bubble gum for the rest of your life."

"Are you sure?" I asked, astounded at the notion.

 Without looking at me, probably anticipating his upcoming night of partying, he answered, “Positive, Moose, positive.”

What kind of an answer was that, anyway, Nina? Do you have any idea? I'm sorry to say that time got away from me, so I never got a chance to catch that hen. But, come to think of it, you still have time to catch one. Let me know how you make out.

It's so sad, Nina, as you and I sit here now, so quietly as night approaches, remembering poor Uncle Ernest. Thinking about his later and very last visit to our farm makes me feel awfully miserable. I was a good bit older by then, a junior in high school, and I thought I knew everything there was to know.

 But I could never have predicted the bizarre thing that happened to my uncle that summer. Shortly after he arrived he started having a strange fantasy. Incredibly, he came to believe that he was a hyena. Ahh, yes, I see that smile, Nina, but, unfortunately, it's true. Oh, we were all worried about him all right.

He would run around the farm on all fours, barking and howling. He would come to the window at night when we were all relaxing, listening to the radio, and look in with his tongue hanging out with a big, idiotic grin on his face, and jump up and down over and over again. In the daytime he'd chase the settin' hens all around the farm, and sometimes he'd climb into the pig pen and howl at the startled hogs. And, Nina, you must know that those were extremely difficult times—depression times, in fact. Nobody had any money so we couldn't afford to send him to a doctor. And besides … we needed the laughs.

 [End of “Tales of Uncle Ernest.” New book, “Times of Uncle Ernest,” to be continued Friday, 4/13/2012]

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

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 5, “The Bird” – Chapter 5

Hearing the swing creak, I knew that Uncle Ernest had finally returned, so I descended in a flash, skipped to the porch, and plopped on the swing with a jolt next to a startled Uncle Ernest, who clutched his glass with both hands to keep it from spilling.

“Hold your horses, Moose. Take it easy!"

"Did you really climb that big tower in Baltimore, Unk?"

"You bet I did. But first I borrowed a hunk of lead from one of the fishing boats. You know, the stuff they melt down for sinkers and net weights. It was a chunk about the size of a shot put. Anyhow, with the lead in one hand I climbed the narrow, rusty ladder to the top. I stood upright at the peak and looked all around at the city.

“It was quite a sight, that old city by the harbor. I then looked down the inside of the tower at the dime-sized speck of water at the bottom. Wow, what a long way down! Then I dropped the lead, heard the hollow whoosh, and saw the tiny splash when it hit. Moose, it was like looking through the wrong end of a telescope.”

“Neat!” I yelled. “But weren't you scared up there?”

“Not in the least, Moose, at least not until I saw a huge bird gliding right towards me. As it got closer I could see that it was a gigantic bald eagle. He must have had a twelve-foot wing span, and he had his talons lowered. At his approach I closed my eyes and put my head down. I thought he would cut me in half, but, instead, he scooped his claws under my belt from behind and lifted me high in the air over the city.”

“Unbelievable!” I cried, as my eyes bugged out in amazement. I’m sure you can imagine how I felt, Nina. How could one uncle have so many crazy adventures?

“Well, luckily the belt was sturdy, and luckily that old bird had good aim (although his talons did break the skin where they slid in next to my belt), because I was now about 600 feet above the Chesapeake Bay, headed home in an unexpected way. The eagle hardly knew he had me, for his flight was effortless. It was the best ride I have ever had; he glided smoothly, flapping those majestic wings every so often to maintain his altitude.”

When Uncle Ernest tramped into the house again for a refill, I just sat there with my eyes and mouth wide open—mesmerized. But suddenly, before I knew it, a black, noisy cloud-mass surged low overhead, so I grabbed my BB gun and started firing up into it. Well, Nina, I didn’t hit even one of those pesky starlings, but I did get them to swoop the other way and stop, momentarily, the racket they made. There were thousands of them chirping in unison as they flowed in undulating waves across the sky. Night was approaching, and they were headed to the deep woods to roost.

When Uncle Ernest returned, I was already on the swing, ready for him to resume. After a grateful pull on his glass, he continued. “Yep, Moose, I was helpless up there, but I got the feeling that I wasn’t prey, but just an oddity; he was having some fun after a long day of hunting. Before long I could see him descending in the direction of a large sycamore tree that was rooted into the bank of an island. And, to my amazement, he placed me right down into a massive nest that was constructed in the top of that tree.

“Then he flew off somewhere in a hurry, wings buffeting the air with such force that I almost fell out of the nest. His two eaglets—fledglings about the size of pullets—started squawking at me like mad, so I had to quiet them by making a goose head with my hand as I honked like a Canada. When they settled down I took a snickers bar from my pocket, broke it in half, and gave it to them. I had picked up a few bars from that Baltimore soup kitchen, Moose, because I knew they'd come in handy sometime.

“Well, my goodness, I don’t think that they had ever had any sweets before, because they gulped that candy down, stretched their necks, tilted their heads from side to side a few times, came over and perched on my shoulders—one on my left and one on my right—and rubbed their beaks affectionately on the sides of my neck. Geez, what an odd feeling that was! Good Heavens, Moose, I had made two great, new friends. Fowl they may have been, but I think of them fondly till this day.

“But, as you know, all good things come to an end, for as I was showing them some hand tricks (they especially liked it when I took my thumb off and pretended to put it in their mouths), the eagle returned with his mate and I could tell that they had been arguing. He was docile as could be, bobbing his head up and down in compliance. She, however, with feathers rising and falling at the top of her neck, and beak snapping furiously, was squawking at him at a high volume.

“All of a sudden he seized me by the belt again and snatched me out of there with such force that I had whiplash for a week. Surprised? Sure I was, Moose, but, as we ascended, the two eaglets were perched high on the edge of their nest, waving their wings at me. Naturally I waved back and, Moose, this doesn’t happen to me very often, but, believe it or not, my eyes moistened momentarily. As we soared up the bay, however, I was soothed by the beauty of the view. In those days the bay wasn’t polluted as it is now, so I could see schools of rock fish and other aquatic creatures.”  [To be continued Tuesday, 4/10/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 5, “The Bird” – Chapter 4

Against my parents’ wishes, I would often go to visit Bill, who lived with his deaf mute brother, George. I’d walk up to Bill as he stood in his orchard, and he would stand there glaring at me and then say, “Well boooooyeeeee!” He had a unique way of drawing out the vowels slowly with his voice rising at the end. “Come over here and try this.” He would then select an apple off the ground, withdraw his dirt-encrusted penknife (which he always used to cut his tobacco plug), cut me a piece of apple, peel it, and push it towards me as he held it between his thumb and knife blade. I always took it, though, and do you know, Nina, it was delicious. I haven’t tasted a better apple since.

Sometimes I would go into their house, against parental orders, and sit on a cot in his small, crude living room. Careful not to lean back against the wall, which was decorated with smudge marks left after they had crushed bedbugs that they had seen crawling there, I would watch as Bill and George had their meal.

Bill would sit at the head of the small table, and as George (whom Bill called Doc) shuffled in carrying the coffee, Bill—probably not for my benefit but as a matter of course—would cuss him with gusto in a gruff, contemptible voice. Doc would smile and nod affectionately. Then Doc would sit down next to Bill and they would pour the coffee from their cups into their saucers and sip with long slurping sounds. I was impressed.

But the oddest thing I remember about the two was their method of farming. During the years that I knew them they must have had three or maybe four horses, but always only one at a time. Bill named all of them “Babe.” Well, one morning, when I walked down to visit Bill, he and Doc were plowing the field below their house. Bill had Babe harnessed to a single-bottomed plow, and since Bill and Doc were both old and somewhat feeble, they were taking turns working Babe and the plow across the field. Bill would take it across and back, and then Doc would do the same.

I watched them for about five minutes, as I lazily heaved clods of dirt at a thorn tree to test my pitching arm. Suddenly, I saw Babe lurch and rear up on her hind legs. Then she galloped off across the meadow, plow flip-flopping from side to side, and Doc and Bill in pursuit. “Whoa Babe, whoa Babe, whoa, whoa,” they yelled. The plow had uprooted a yellow jacket’s nest; no wonder Babe took off. It was funny and sad at the same time, sights and sounds I’ll never forget.

At the time, Nina, I was fascinated with horses. Heaven for me would have been sitting next to Bill on the seat of his wagon, taking Babe’s reins, saying “Giddup,” and having Babe pull us down the road. And every now and then I’d say “Cick, cick” out of the side of my mouth to move her on faster, and when we reached our destination I’d call out “Whoa, whoa there girl.”

But old Bill only let me take Babe's reins once, from his pasture and through the gate, and do you believe that I clipped the gate post with the wagon wheel on the way out? Yep, and Bill never let me take those sacred reins again.

Sometimes Bill would take me to a sale a few miles away. I would sit up on the wagon seat with Bill, as Babe pulled us along at a creeping pace, and I would have a terrific time. Imagine, Nina, if you will, an uncouth old man and an excited eight-year-old, traveling those dusty roads of ancient times. [To be continued Friday, 4/06/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) Section 5, “The Bird” – Chapter 3

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 5, “The Bird” – Chapter 3

When Uncle Ernest took another walk inside, I bolted from the swing, made a few jumps to our old maple tree ten feet from the porch, and climbed hand over hand and foot over foot to my favorite perch about half-way up. Uncle Ernest said that he would be gone for quite a while this time, so I had lots of time to see all around the countryside of our farm.

It was a late-summer evening, and the view was spectacular; a slight chill was in the air, Nina, and I know that you feel those same sensations—the sights, sounds, and smells of a dying summer—that were mine so many eons ago. And yet, how can I express the magic of reclining in the midst of the leaves and branches of a living tree? Your whole body is in touch with the creature; its limbs are solid in your hands and press firmly under the soles of your feet. And, as you adjust to its contours, you feel under your body the strength of its stature.

And sometimes, when a breeze picks up, you feel the rhythm of its dance, hear its rustling chorus, and see its swaying display of color. So, if you ever feel down for some reason, Nina, wait for a chance and climb high into a tree, and stay there for a while, enjoying the enchantment created by the height, solitude, and greenery.

Glancing down towards the road I could see Bill Herman limping up the lane from his house across the road. He was on his way to see Pop, who was out back feeding the chickens at the time. Bill was probably going to give him some unwanted advice about farming. Bill was one of three brothers, older men of German descent, who were our neighbors. Bill and George lived across the road to the left of where we were sitting that evening, and Dave’s house was slightly to the right, under the large oak tree. It was Dave, a master carpenter, whom Pop hired to help him remodel our old farmhouse.

Pop would never like to pay the old man though, because if Dave got his hands on a bit of money, he would go on a two-week drunk, which prevented Pop from getting any work done on the house. I remember one bitter January evening, with snow and ice covering the ground and parts of the road; it must have been about ten degrees and, as I pedaled my bike up the hill towards my lane, I looked down and saw Dave lying drunk at the side of the road; he hadn’t quite made it home.

As I changed positions on the limb, I looked over to the lane and saw Bill Herman again, limping back down to his house; his talk with Pop had been short-lived, and he was not allowed in our house. Oh, he was dirty—allergic to bath water for sure—and his clothes fairly shed dust when he moved. He chewed tobacco all of the time, often turning his head and spitting out a thick stream of brown juice. He had only one eye, the other had been shot out by a slingshot in his youth, and I remember one time saying something about slingshots and hearing him rage in a cursing fury at the things. He had a brown, wrinkled, weather-beaten face that was distinguished by a large, hooked nose.

But on the positive side, Bill could cuss better than any person, adult or otherwise, that my young ears had ever heard. The cursing, though, was always good cursing, directed mainly at, and for the benefit of, the Christian deities. Bill had a knack for embarrassing and ridiculing Him with an unlimited variety of raucous assaults on His many Personages.

More remarkably, Bill’s tone of voice, accompanying his barrage of words, fully expressed the extent of his unqualified contempt. The result was magnificent … wonderful. His cursing didn’t just accompany or color his speech; it had a purpose all its own. Oh, I was influenced by it, to be sure, Nina, but I never tried to imitate it. I could never have measured up. It would have been like repainting the Sistine Chapel, rewriting Hamlet, or completing Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony. His cussing is to language as the Mona Lisa is to painting.  [To be continued Tuesday, 4/03/2012]