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]