The Whizzer Motorbike, and Uncle Ernest’s Beauty, 1950

The Whizzer Motorbike, and Uncle Ernest’s Beauty, 1950

Foard Brothers’ Hardware Store, circa 1950 (now R. T. Foard Funeral Home). Note Good Shepherd steeple at left.

The C&D Canal, east view, with the Corps of Engineers’ wharf at middle and pump house at right. Note State of Baltimore steamer and Canal Street at left, circa 1940.

How can I tell you about a certain northern sky in one of September’s warm, sedated early evenings? Maybe you’ve even seen one similar to mine, mine with a skyline border of trees of uneven heights, and hues of green so varied that in contrast the beauty of the powder-blue sky above doesn’t even enter the eyes. Instead, its splendor seeps directly into the chest and then flutters into the spine with chills that make you catch your breath, chills that trigger your eyes to finally widen with wonder. Oh sure, you know what it’s like to have stretched out above you a massive horizontal sheet of colored paper, bordered at the bottom by the tops of linked trees so jagged that if you tried to ride your bike across them you’d be jostled out of your senses. I’d never seen a sky of such clear light blue—unblemished and pure as a child’s hug.

But a sky was just a sky back in 1950, because my 14-year-old mind was obsessed with owning a Whizzer motorbike. You may remember the old Whizzer; it was a regular-sized bicycle with a gasoline engine mounted under the top bar. At that time I worked at Foard Brothers’ Hardware Store on George Street (now the R.T. Foard Funeral Home). I heard that Richard Callahan had his Whizzer for sale, and I just had to have that beauty or bust. Not making nearly enough money at Foards’, I had to make it some other way, so I decided to start selling old man McNolt’s sweet corn on the streets of South Chesapeake City.

Local farmer, Dave McNatt, planted the corn in our fields, and I felt bad about stealing it until I learned that he paid Pop nothing to till our farm; I figured he owed us a few dozen ears, so for several days in early September I picked the short, worm-imbedded ears, hauled them into town and at a dollar a dozen made a few bucks. I had some regular customers who always bought that sorry corn. On George Street they were Miss Jenny Whiteoak and Mrs. Ed Sheridan, the Captain’s wife. Mrs. Ebbie Cooling, Mrs. Mason, and Mrs. Ireland, all on Bohemia Avenue, always bought them. And by the time I got to Bennett’s Feed Store I had sold every ear.

Well, I made some of the needed money and, with Pop adding the rest, I bought the $70.00 Whizzer. And, for that year and the next, I had a thousand dollars worth of fun with it. But on one of those steamy afternoons I gave the bike a rest so I could talk to my Uncle Ernest. I jumped onto the porch swing and swung so high that it started crashing against the porch column and the house. That roused Unk, who was resting his eyes on the couch after arriving at dawn from Dolph’s Tavern. He came out, grabbed the chain to slow it down, and then reclined next to me with the exaggerated delicacy of the infirm. He always came intending to help Pop with the farming, but somehow more important things came up. He once told me: “Hard work never killed anybody . . . but I’m not taking any chances!” Anyway, sitting next to me, caressing his refreshed glass as if he held a day-old baby, and after my pleading, he resumed the story he had started on his last visit. You remember, thoughtful reader; it was about his adventure in that exotic country across the sea.

“Oh yeah, Moose the Goose, you remember how I sailed to that backward land, that land of crocodiles, four-sided, pointed, stone towers, and an enormous stone lion with the head of a person? Well, that’s where I saw all those slaves dragging boulders and those whip-wielding slave drivers flailing them. And that’s where I fell in love with Patti, a gorgeous brunette with milk-chocolate skin and alluring dark eyes. And when she stepped down from that crude sled (they hadn’t invented the wheel, remember?), I took her hand as she gazed lovingly into my eyes.

“Then, as we smiled at each other, she winked at me so I kissed her dainty fingertips and told her that she was cuter than a frog’s ear. And so, I guess because of my handsomeness and clever manner, she hugged me and asked if I would be her steady boyfriend. ‘Absolutely,’ I said, ‘and along with that I’m going to make this sorry country a better place.’ And so, I got to work by using the skills I had learned in Chesapeake City. First I told the leaders how to make wheels so that their travel and work would be a lot easier. I made a horse-drawn buggy for my new girl friend; we called it the Patti wagon.

“Next, I showed them how to stuff the bodies of their dead leaders by using my taxidermy skills. Then I sculpted Patti’s face onto the head of that giant stone lion, which made her whimper and hug and kiss me until I couldn’t catch my breath . . . Oh, it was hard on me, Moose! But the best thing I did over there was to free those thousands of slaves. We had a secret union meeting where I told them to meet me the next day on the shore of a river they called the Crimson Sea. I had a plan about how to get them across to the Freedom Land on the other side, the land of beer and pizza.

“I made a guy named Marty, a natural leader, the shop steward. He was a foundling—discovered as a baby floating in the bulrushes of a swamp. He grew up to become a magician, because a fellow told me that he once struck a desert rock with his staff and out spouted a barrel of water. I think that’s stretching things but, anyway, he assembled the whole tribe of those slaves and had them all singing in unison. Yeah, it was sure touching to see him conducting with his staff and hear that multitude singing We Shall Come Over. It brought tears to my eyes, Moose. And do you know that it didn’t bother me at all that the ones singing the loudest were tone deaf, because I knew that the lungs that bellowed out those croaking sour notes were yearning to breath free.

“After four verses of enjoying that uplifting hymn I got to work. Using what I had learned from a drinking buddy from Wilmington named Al DuPont, I made three sticks of dynamite. So, when the horde was poised at the shore and ready to sprint (like the runners at the start of the Boston Marathon), I tossed that dynamite out to the middle and the explosion parted the water long enough for them to scamper through to freedom. Freeing them was a great feeling, even though Patti’s father, King Tootanhanna, was furious.

“But he soon got over it and even gave permission for Patti and me to marry. So you see, Moose, I would have become the king when Tootie died, and I would still be there if it hadn’t been for the tragedy, the awful thing that happened to Patti. One evening, as she fed her pet snake, Aspi, he bit her. So sad . . . she lasted only a few minutes. But I made the best of it: I pickled her nicely and entombed her in the largest of those pointed towers, where she’ll rest undisturbed forever. I was so upset that I returned here to Chesapeake City to be with my kin folks.” “That’s awfully sad,” I said, as Uncle Ernest slid off the swing and lumbered back to the couch.

Oh, I was sad, but not sad enough to keep me from hopping on my Whizzer for a ride to the Corps of Engineers’ wharf to try to catch some catfish lurking near the pilings. And I know you’re saddened also, concerned reader, but you’ll be sure to brighten up when you read my next week’s story.