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]