The Special Gift

The Ride to Elkton

 

The Elkton Train Station, circa 1946

 

The Gotham, with the North Side ferry slip at right, circa 1946 

It was the summer of 1946 when my father got the notice from the Chesapeake City Post Office. World War II had just ended the summer before when the Japanese surrendered, and I was sure glad they did. I was nine when they gave up and for some time had worried my head off about them. They were responsible for the red rationing tokens that my mother had to use at the American Store; they were responsible for white margarine that we kneaded to give the appearance of butter; they were responsible for the frightening news reports on the radio.

I had dreamed about them, and one of the nightmares I remember clearly. In my dream, I had cycled into town to Beiswanger’s for an ice cream cone. Well, instead of old, stooped Mrs. Bieswanger grudgingly dipping out the ice cream, and short, dapper Mr. Beiswanger fumbling around in the back, there—replacing them in the store—were three or four Japanese clerks. And there, looking right at me from over the ice cream counter was one with protruding teeth and a demented, kamikaze smile. Before I turned and ran, I looked around to where Mr. Beiswanger usually was and saw another Japanese, who was even wearing a leather aviator’s helmet—with goggles.

                             Then the dream ended. But the worry remained even though they had surrendered, and by that summer of 1946 I was still not over the fear. My Uncle Warren was in the war and at that time was in occupied Japan. We all worried about him, yet we were pretty sure that he would be home soon. But on that Saturday morning, when my father told me what the notice from the post office said, I was pretty excited. It said that we were to go to the Elkton Train Station to pick up a large package addressed to me.

“What’s in it, Pop?” I asked.

“Don’t know, boy,” he said. “We’ll go get ’er and find out.”

So after we fed the chickens, dumped some scraps and corn into the hog trough, and made sure that they had water, Pop changed out of his work clothes and we drove down our long lane, swerving to avoid the areas mined with potholes. Then we reached the asphalt road, and we were off—bound for Elkton. At that time Pop had a black ’41 Ford. Oh, she was beautiful on the outside, but under the hood she was dirt-ugly. The thing would hardly run, so going anywhere was always an adventure.

We chugged into town, up the hill to George Street, past Foard’s Hardware Store, turned right onto Third Street, past the Methodist church, and headed down Ferry Slip Road. Halfway down we had to stop to wait in line to board the ferry. Riding the ferry was nothing new to me; it had been there since 1942, when our bridge was taken out by a tanker, so I had ridden it many times.

Finally, we saw it enter the slip and after a while we drove up the ramp and boarded it, coasting in on one side and braking abruptly behind the car in front of us. We made the crossing and Pop drove off the ramp with a clatter and soon we started laboring up Sisters’ Hill. The rings were worn out in the old V8 and about halfway up the hill large puffs of blue-black smoke began flowing from the exhaust pipe, causing the car behind us to fall behind. Pop just shook his head and kept the accelerator down. For a minute or two I thought we’d have to get out and push, but she finally made it, barely creeping over the crest and leaving an amazing cloud of smoke behind us.

We made it to Elkton all right, crossing over the bridge at Elk Creek and rolling into the parking area of the train depot. We went in and I followed the clerk and Pop to a dark room cluttered with packages and large articles of all kinds. The clerk rummaged around for a while but then found our item standing up in the corner. It was a long, slim wooden crate, addressed to me. I started carrying it out, but soon realized that it was too unwieldy, so Pop put it over his shoulder and took it to the car.

The long package wouldn’t fit across the back seat so we put it lengthwise from the back window ledge and across the seat between our heads. The crate was about five feet long, eight inches wide, and four inches thick. It was exciting and mysterious to me because I had no idea what would be in such an unusual package. And I don’t think that Pop knew either. I read the label on the crate; it was to me all right, in “Chesapeake City, Maryland, USA.” The crate was made of rough wooden slats, nailed together—solid.

We drove on back from Elkton and our Ford descended Sisters’ Hill like the most powerful vehicle on the road. When we got to the ferry slip the boat was just pulling out. We were the first car in line so we sat there with the gate down in front of us and peered across at the South Side. We could see the Mindy Building over at the government peninsula, where the old Causeway used to be. We watched a tug surging against the current with a barge in tow. Rees’ warehouse next to the wharf loomed in the distance and, of course, the famous Hole-in-the-Wall where, Pop said, the drunks would have riotous fights when everybody else was home in bed.

Then we saw the ferry on its way across. But something was wrong. The current was strong and the wind had picked up. And both were taking the ferry east, away from the slip. Oh, it was struggling hard for sure—bereft, askew—and belching black smoke from its stack. Smack in the middle of the canal, it lost its battle and was blown east about as far as the old waterwheel near the Corps of Engineers’ office. I sat bewildered as Pop explained what was happening. Then, somehow, it straightened itself and, favoring the North Side, fought its way back to beyond the ferry slip.

It made a big circle and came in towards the slip, sideways like a crab in the current. Then it came roaring in, churning swirls of water as it maneuvered through the black, heavy pilings. It bounced off the east pilings and sloshed, banged, and hissed into the slip like some squat, bulky sea monster. Pop looked at me, chuckled, and said that Captain Ed must not be on duty today. Captain Ed Sheridan was our cousin and the best pilot on the water.

So we boarded and got back to the farm without incident, and Pop put the crate on a bench in the shed, and with a hammer and a small crow bar opened it. I couldn’t believe what lay in that box. Filmed with a thin coat of grease was a full-sized Japanese rifle. It had a heavy wooden stock and a shiny, black barrel. The front sight was bigger than any I had ever seen, and the back sight could be adjusted for long-distance firing. Pop read the note that was in the box: “For Bobby from Uncle Warren. Hope you like it.”

Pop lifted it out of the crate and wiped off some of the packing grease. We took it outside and he let me aim it at the corn crib in the distance. I could hardly hold it level it was so heavy. But it was wonderful; my Uncle Warren was wonderful. Pop put it back in the crate and we stored it in the corner of the shed for years to come. As I grew up there on the farm, I would take it out once in a while and have great fun with it. Because we had no shells to fit it, there was no danger. Then, later, in my late teens, I bought some 7.7 millimeter shells and fired it a few times.

About six months after the rifle arrived, Uncle Warren returned home to his family in Wilmington, bringing with him a framed picture of himself in uniform, painted by a Japanese artist. He was to visit our farm often on Sundays and, tilting his beer, he’d joke about the Geisha girls in Tokyo.

But on his first visit after his arrival from Japan, I ran to his car, and when I smiled at him through the open window he said, “Do you like the gun?” And I could tell by his eyes and his voice how much pleasure he got from sending it to me. And I’m sure that he could tell just how much the gift meant to his ten-year-old nephew. After that I didn’t worry or dream any more about the Japanese invading our town. Why should I? I had their gun.