Life in a Tree and Uncle Ernest’s Adventure

Life in a Tree and Uncle Ernest’s Adventure

Collins’ Market, circa 1970. Both buildings comprised the store. The wooden right side was built about 1885. The building at left was a private school in early days. Lewis Collins, Sr. bought the store in 1941.

John Schaefer’s store, with L to R: John Schaefer, Winifred Schaefer (John’s mother), and Kitty Maloney (John’s sister). Inset at right: famous butcher, Frank Bristow

When I was a poor, lonely pre-teen I used to practically live near the top of our gigantic maple tree alongside of our farm house. Strangely enough, I enjoyed reclining high in its fork of branches, among the secluded, majestic leaves where four of my senses were especially keen. I could see for miles about the countryside: Chesapeake City with its picturesque lift bridge to the north, Bill Herman’s highly cultivated farm (with his work horse, Babe, pacing her pasture) to the west, the wide cornfield to the south, and to the east the grandeur of the deep woods. I had only to look at the bark near my hand to see a tiny ant foraging as if his life depended on it, or glance at an outer branch to grin at a blue jay scolding me for invading her domain.

But don’t think, attentive reader, that I always lounged there comfortably, for I had to readjust my position frequently because of the solid branches compromising my aching bones. Despite that, and the sore hands and feet from climbing the rough branches, I was sensitive to the dialog of the wild geese as they assured one another of the correctness of their flight. I’d hear the Bob Whites’ echoing whistles and the killdeers’ shrill melody. And every evening after dusk I’d be attuned to the haunting cadence of the whippoorwills from the deep woods. And through it all I marveled at the varied aroma of leaves and bark found only in the midst of the great tree, aroma enhanced by the gentle stirrings of the purest air on earth.

The tree was about ten feet from our porch roof, so one day I tied a rope to a high overhanging branch and would swing back and forth between the two. For quite a while it was great fun, but one time—the last time—swinging from the roof, I found myself on the gnarled roots at the base of the tree, moaning with pain. It was the fastest journey I had ever taken, for my hands slipped and in a split second I was lying crumbled on the ground. And someday when I’m sent to the bad place I suppose the trip down might be something like that. When I looked up—bruised but intact—I saw Uncle Ernest staring down at me with a silly grin on his face. He chuckled and quipped, “Nice trip, Moose the Goose; see you next fall!”

My pain subsided quickly because I remembered that he had promised to tell me another true adventure story. He said that he just had time to do so before he was off to spend the night partying with Snake Johnston, the well-liked bartender in Martin’s Tavern, Chesapeake City’s popular Second Street bar. First he said he had to catch the ferry to the North Side to meet at Lewis Collins’ market with Jazz and Eddie, his two best drinking buddies. The trio would then stroll over to Canal Street to get Birdy Battersby and then ride the ferry back and collar Bobby Sheridan, whom they knew would be frolicking with the gang on Postell’s Corner.

Then the five revelers would stride a few steps down the street to Martin’s Tavern for a night of shuffleboard and liquid entertainment until the morning hours. And so, with limited time available, as he sat next to me there in our double lawn chair and, interrupted only by his frequent trips inside to freshen his ice cubes, he told me about his brave escapades in the Brazilian jungle. “Yeah, Moose, a while back I had the urge to visit South America, so I stowed away on a freighter headed there, but some burly ruffian tossed me overboard next to a jungle, many miles north of Rio de Janeiro, where I had hoped to visit.

“I swam ashore, walked a short distance inland, and entered a small encampment of folks who spoke a language that was Dutch to me. And it was a good thing they knew enough English so that we could communicate. But they’d say things like, ‘Guten Morgan,’ and to their leader they’d yell, ‘Heil Dolphie.’ This Dolphie guy was a scrawny devil, with a black, toothbrush-sized mustache and a band of jet-black hair that sort of slashed across his forehead. I’ll tell you, I didn’t like that bird at all. Something he had though was one gorgeous girlfriend, who was as pretty as he was ugly. Her name was Ava, the most beautiful buxom blonde I had ever seen, with luxurious golden curls that sort of tumbled down in ringlets, accentuating her stunningly beautiful face. And her figure . . . how can I tell you about her figure? It was breathtaking, designed and molded with curvaceous perfection, one that would put to shame any model or movie star you’ve ever seen.

“Anyway, after I decided to build a sturdy canoe to get me to Rio, and just as I yelled ‘Timber’ and my axe severed the last fiber of a giant Brazilian nut tree, it fell and busted old Dolphie, who was lurking nearby, right on the noggin, driving him six feet into the Brazilian turf. Well, Moose, to my surprise all the people bowed to me and called me a hero. I discovered that Dolphie ruled them as an evil tyrant; everybody hated him.

“Ava, it turned out, had been kidnapped and dominated by him, whom she hated because of his brutal treatment of people. Anyhow, because I freed her of him—never mind my handsome, muscular looks and my irresistible way of sweet-talking—she fell instantly in love with me. Yeah, and it was tough on me, too, because she embraced me with so many kisses and hugs that I had to beg her to ease up or be smothered. I finally got her to relent by promising to become her ever-lovin’ steady boyfriend and by assuring her that she could accompany me as I sailed to Rio once my canoe was finished and equipped.

“And so, after I finished the canoe we shoved off into the vast Atlantic Ocean. We stayed on course until a hurricane drove us north for several hours. It then blew us up onto a small island, which we soon discovered was moving. Geez, Moose, we were riding on the shell of a giant snapping turtle that had been blown off to sea by the hurricane. It was returning up the coast to Chesapeake City’s Back Creek swamp. And so, with us clinging on for dear life, he carried us up the Chesapeake Bay, past Welsh’s Point, and up Back Creek towards the canal.

But when we got near Schaefer’s Wharf we saw John Schaefer and his sister, Kitty, along with Frank Bristow. They leaped into John’s boat, lassoed that snapper’s head, and dragged us ashore. My, but it was amazing the way Frank Bristow handled that angry turtle. Then John and Kitty got to work and prepared the most delicious snapper soup I’d ever eaten. And, for the next two years the gentle people of Chesapeake City feasted on Schaefer’s Restaurant’s snapper soup.”

         And with that true adventure account, Uncle Ernest jumped up and told me that he was expected at Martin’s Tavern for his night of partying, and I thought that I was the luckiest 10-year-old alive, because what other boy in the world had such a resourceful hero as my Uncle Ernest?