Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) "The Boat" Chapter 6

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 2, “The Boat” – Chapter 6

And do you know, Nina, that it was at that same Burnt House that Pop also taught me how to fish? After rigging my bamboo pole with string, float, hook, and sinker, he helped me get the squirming, alarmed worm on the hook. Then he stood behind me to help me cast the rig into the water.

“Watch the float, Boy,” he said; “watch the float and when it bobs under you have a bite and can pull in the fish.” Well, Nina, I’ll remember this till the day I pass on to my Heavenly Rewards. When the float bobbed, I snatched the pole as hard as I could and knocked Pop—who, as you recall, was standing directly behind me—square on the forehead.

Geez! That must have hurt something fierce, and it made me feel terrible. My, but he was mad at me. He cussed a blue streak and held his head. But, you know, the thing I remember most, besides feeling awful for what I had done, was that Pop tried not to act as mad as he was. Despite the obvious pain, he held back his anger to save my feelings and to save, for me, the rest of the fishing day. Why, Nina, do you suppose that this event, an incident from so many, many years ago, is still so vivid in my mind that it could have happened yesterday?

Then, interrupting my bitter-sweet thoughts, Uncle Ernest returned, sat down with a sigh, and continued the tale of his journey. “Yeah, Moose, Rocco and I caught that cattle boat just in time. Rocco had known in advance that it was bound for Rio de Janeiro, the festive city of Brazil. We steamed down the Atlantic, passing Miami and then Key West. When we were off the coast of Cuba, Rocco and I couldn’t sleep, so we were out on deck enjoying the moonlight as it sparkled and danced on the churning wake.”

“It was about four in the morning so no one else was around. Then, all of a sudden we heard someone crying out in Spanish. Looking over the side towards the bow, we saw a man in the water hugging a whiskey barrel with one hand and flailing around with the other, trying to move closer to our boat. Rocco threw him a rope with a life ring attached and we hauled him in.

“I mean to tell you, he was an awful looking sight. He had long, scraggly hair, a full mustache and beard, and he was wearing army fatigues and leather boots. We took him back to our quarters next to the cattle stalls and dried him off. ‘Why you no picka me up sooner? You dumbino loco ignoramisos,’ he screamed, and when I said something to him in English he yelled with annoyance, ‘No specka da Englais, mucho stupido amigo.’

“To be sure, Moose, I could tell when I had been insulted, so I let Rocco, who knew Spanish, translate what the ungrateful fellow was bellowing. The guy then left for a while and returned with a box of big cigars that he must have stolen from one of the sailors or something. He fired one up, not bothering to offer us one for sure, and began to talk in an agitated, arrogant way, blowing thick smoke in our faces all the while.

“Unlike Winnie, who smoked his cigars with class and dignity, this character, who never told us his name, smoked in a vulgar, slovenly manner. He puffed greedily, flicking ashes everywhere as he sneered at us obnoxiously. Rocco wanted to go for him and toss him back overboard, but I reasoned, ‘Naaa, let it go, Rocco; if anybody were to see us we’d be in deep trouble.’

“The guy said that he hated the leader of Cuba, and that he was going to meet his brother in Columbia, go back to the hills of Cuba, train an army, and take over the country. At this point he started saying some pretty nasty things about the U.S., so I couldn’t take it any longer. Rocco and I kicked his butt out of our quarters and told him to stay out or we’d throw him back overboard where he belonged.

“The next day we were out on deck, where we saw the bearded boob get into a fight with a Cuban fellow from Miami. They were going at it pretty hard until the Miami guy started to get the better of our “friend,” who then pulled out a jackknife and sliced up the Miami guy something pitiful. One of the deck hands finally broke it up, and later that day they put the bearded fool off at the next stop.

“The last we saw of him he was being dragged off the boat, beard flowing in the breeze, and yelling in Spanish, “Death to the imperialist swine.” Do you know, Moose, I sure hope that somebody shot that goon, because if he were ever able to take over a country—which, obviously, would be unlikely—it would be a real shame. Can you imagine the damage a lout like that could do if he were ever in charge of a town, let alone a country?”

“Good riddance to that clown,” I said. “I’m just glad he didn’t try to knife you or Rocco. What happened next, Unk? Did you get to Brazil in one piece?”

“Sure did, Moose, but you’ll have to take a rain check on the rest of the story,” he said, knuckling my head before he went inside to prepare for a night of partying in the bars of Wilmington.

“Nuts!” I thought. “Who knows how long I’ll have to wait before I could find out what happened in Brazil?”

[To be continued Tuesday, 1/31/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) "The Boat" - Chapter 5

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 2, “The Boat” – Chapter 5

Alone again, Nina, while Uncle Ernest made his house call, my thoughts returned to the Burnt House, that swimming spot at Back Creek. My friends and I, arriving at the grassy bank, after sweating from the bike ride through the dump, would pull off our clothes, yell, “Last one in’s a rotten egg,” dash down the bank and splash, naked, into the cool water.

It was Pop who first taught me to swim at the Burnt House. I remember well how swift the current was there, and how abruptly you'd drop off into the channel if you walked out very far. A clean, sandy area was just opposite the lighthouse, which was actually a coast guard channel marker. I recall an area of sharp sea grass at the water's edge. The area was a few yards up towards the Chesapeake Boat Company, and if you happened to walk that way the grass would slice nasty cuts into your legs. But if you stayed by the lighthouse and didn't venture out too far, it was a perfect place to swim or fish.

As I started to tell you, Nina, that's where my dad taught me to swim when I was about six; I'll never forget it. He led me into deep water, put his hand firmly under my belly to shift me horizontally and keep me afloat. I thrashed my arms about like mad without getting anywhere, but did better after Pop told me to kick my feet. It took several of those training sessions, Nina, before I finally learned to doggy-paddle on my own. But what an accomplishment! A few years after that, I'd be diving from the lighthouse into the deep channel. I'd swim to the middle of Back Creek and tread water for long periods of time. And, many times, my buddies and I would swim all the way across to the Marine Construction Company's wharf, where we'd sit in the sun and shoot the bull for a while before swimming back to the Burnt House.

Ah, but that was in the ancient days, Nina, hundreds of years ago. The channel has been deepened, the lighthouse has been dug up and destroyed, and the Burnt House has been gouged away and replaced with huge, grey rocks. Not the slightest trace remains, except for electronic bits in the brains of those who were there. But one thing I know: Pop's hand is still here, firm under the belly. And arms are still thrashing to stay afloat. And Pop's voice still rings in the air, sounding above the surging water: "Kick your feet, boy. That's it! Keep kicking." [To be continued Friday, 1/27/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) "The Boat" - Chapter 4

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 2, “The Boat” – Chapter 4

When Uncle Ernest disappeared into the house I watched the traffic spar in the busy street. As I listened to the blaring horns, screeching brakes, and smelled the street stench, my thoughts took me back to my home on the farm. I thought about how much I missed jumping on my bike, cycling the narrow country road to town, and continuing through the broken cement streets of town to the dirt road that led to Back Creek. I would spin through the smelly dump, hold my nose through the smoky areas, negotiate the gigantic potholes, and arrive finally at a spot we called “The Burnt House.”

It’s funny, Nina, because I never saw any burnt house, but I would veer off the dirt road to the right, descend down the sandy, winding path to the  hedge of saplings, honeysuckle, and wild rose bushes, fling my bike down in the sand, and run through the narrow, wooded area until I reached the grassy bank overlooking the river. And there it was: the great Burnt House beach, where I first learned to swim and fish. And there, bent in the water, about fifteen feet from the shore, stood the red lighthouse that I jumped or dived from so many times. I thought back to how swiftly the current used to whirl past its base, and how much effort it took to swim back to after diving off.

Just then Uncle Ernest returned, sat next to me in the other wooden porch chair, and continued his story. “So, Moose, at dawn the next morning, after helping Rocco find a pair of shoes and a shirt, we headed towards the Hudson River to catch a cattle boat to Brazil. Then, as we walked past an alley fairly close to the Empire State Building, we saw a frightening scene. A gang of thugs with knives had a stout, older man up against the wall trying to get his wallet. Except for his cane, he was unarmed, but he was trying to put up a good fight. ‘Away you cowards; back off you blighters!’ he yelled, brandishing his cane.

“The hoods were laughing derisively and ready to slice him apart with their knives. I mean to tell you, you should have seen Rocco go into action. He dropped kicked them, butted their heads together, and sent them scampering down the street in pain.

Geez, Moose, I've never, ever seen a guy fight that hard, not even in the great Hole-in-the-Wall bar.

 The chubby guy was grateful indeed. ‘Thank you, chaps, thank you exceedingly; my name is Winnie; charmed to meet you,’ he boomed with a deep British accent. ‘I could have dealt with those scoundrels, lads, but grappling with that quartet of blackguards may have exceeded my pugilistic prowess, I fear,’ he pronounced with a voice that held your attention.

“He then insisted that we have a drink on him at the next bar we ran into. We explained that we didn’t have much time to spare, but that we could force a few before our boat sailed. As we sipped our glasses of eighteen-year-old Scotch, which Winnie insisted on buying, he told us his story. Nice as the fellow was, and though his speaking appeared intelligent, he was a real loony bird.

“This is what he told us, Moose, so judge for yourself: ‘Before those noxious hoodlums accosted me, my chauffeur was driving me through the New York streets to see the sights. We had just returned from Washington—after conferring with your secretary of war and your able president, Mr. Roosevelt—when our limousine broke down. And while Hopkins worked under the hood I ventured a stroll to see your fine city first hand.’

“As he sat across from me,” Uncle Ernest went on, “gesturing with his big, Cuban cigar—he must have smoked four or five of them during our conversation—I was charmed by his use of the English language. He had a full face, with hanging jowls, and his eyes sparkled as he told us about the war England was waging with its enemy. Here, Moose, you might as well hear, as Rocco and I heard, the extent of his anger:

       We shall defend our island, whatever the

       cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches,

       we shall fight on the landing grounds, we

       shall fight in the fields and in the streets,

       we shall fight in the hills; we shall never

       surrender.

“Moose—now, you'll think I'm silly, but—as I related those words to you just now, I had chills running up my body. What a shame that the world didn’t have a leader like that when it needed him, one whose very words could so inspire. Explaining further, Winnie went on: ‘With your country’s help, chaps, we can defeat the vile invaders.’ And, as if to illustrate his sense of humor, the last thing he said, as we left him waving his cigar and enjoying a last sherry, was quite unusual.

       “He said, with his deep, expressive, British accent, ‘My friends, as long as there’s a Fort Knox, there will always be an England.’ You know, Moose, I have met all kinds of people in this world, but who would ever think that some plump, British bozo, a limey bum it seems, and languishing homeless in New York, could act and talk like that? If his words and expressions could inspire me, a nobody who had never even been to England, just think how they could have motivated the people of that country in their hour of need. I swear, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen and heard it in person.” [To be continued Tuesday, 1/24/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) "The Boat" Chapter 3

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 2, “The Boat” – Chapter 3

Later that day, after he compared me to Hitler and Mussolini, Uncle Ernest and I were sitting on the front porch looking out at the busy city street and the people who walked by on the pavement. I was a farm boy, transplanted temporarily to the city. I was accustomed to the company of trees, farm animals, and peace and quiet. The city noise and sights were new and fascinating. 

I remember it so well. It was after dinner and a very pleasant evening about an hour before sunset, and thinking back to those long lost years of youth—hundreds of year’s past—I can still see the gray paint of the porch floor, the cracked city pavement, the drug store on the corner, the clothing store and the small sub shop across the street, and the busy city street with its two-way traffic of cars, busses, trucks, and trolley cars.

And somehow, Nina, my mind’s ears, though plugged with time’s cotton, can still hear the clacking and scuffing shoes of the strange people coming and going on the pavement, the impatient horns, the screeching brakes, and the laboring engines of the many vehicles. And emerging more clearly through time’s cloud are the clicking and clattering of the rods and wires of the old trolley cars that transported so many people through the streets of Wilmington.

Even the smells of the city were so different. The odors of the dirty streets and the stench of exhaust smoke from the vehicles and factory stacks were especially unpleasant. I was slightly younger than you, Nina, and I was trapped in the city. I was taken there to live for about a year and, emotionally, it was no picnic.

That year was during the Second World War and a song called “Don’t Fence Me In” was broadcast often over the radio. Here’s how it goes:

“♫ Oh, give me land lots of land under starry

     skies above.

Don’t fence me in.

Let me ride in the wide open spaces that I love.

Don’t fence me in ♫.”

 Naturally the song made things worse for me; I was fenced in the city, anxious to break out and return to kicking up my heels on the farm. I had to endure it, however, and Uncle Ernest made things easier.

As I sat there with my head in my hands, trying to ignore the noise and odor of the busy city street, Uncle Ernest patted me on the back and said, “Do you want to hear a story, Moose?”

“Sure! Can you tell me about the time you were in New York City?”

“You bet I can, but it'll be a bit lengthy; you won’t get fidgety will you?”

“Not with your stories, Unk,” I replied, and I noticed that he had, along with his glass full of cubes, a fifth of Ole Granddad sitting at the ready.

“Now then,” Uncle Ernest began, “I hitch-hiked to New York City a while back just to see the sights. Oh, I saw the Empire State Building, walked up to the top of the big lady with the torch, and took in the circus at Madison Square Garden. Well, one afternoon, as I walked to the YMCA where I was staying, I sat down to rest a while on a park bench. When I glanced over at the guy sitting next to me I noticed that he was shirtless and in his bare feet. He had his head lowered and when I said, ‘How ya doin’, pal?’ he raised his head and nodded and I saw that he was a hero of mine, the great Argentina Rocco.

“I had been a wrestling fan and had loved to watch and root for Rocco. He'd always leap into the ring and bounce around with his bare, hairy chest and bare feet. Usually wrestling a muscular brute twice his size, a person would think that Rocco wouldn’t stand a chance, but he was fast and would bounce circles around the hulk. Then Rocco would drop-kick the brute five or six times, get him in a scissors hold, and pin him.

“I had loved watching it, Moose. At any rate, as we sat there on the bench, we began talking and soon became good friends. When I bought him a drink he told me that people had lost interest in him; they now wanted to see Gorgeous George and Haystack Calhoun. Moose, he was broke. The great Argentina Rocco was broke, homeless on the streets of New York.

“With his thick accent, Rocco explained that he was really from Brazil, and that in Brazil everyone spoke Portuguese. I asked him why he was called “Argentina Rocco” and he said that it sounded better than “Brazil Rocco,” and besides, people in the wrestling world wouldn’t know the difference anyway. We palled around up there for a few days and, after we got to know each other pretty well, he talked me into going to Brazil with him.

“His brother had an ostrich farm about fifty miles southwest of Rio de Janeiro, so we could stay with him. Rocco said he would show me the real Brazil, and we could party in Rio until we dropped. Well, I couldn’t pass up a chance like that, so the next morning we set off for the exotic country of Brazil.”

"Wow!" I howled. "Fantastic!"  [To be continued Friday, 1/20/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) "The Boat"

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 2, “The Boat” – Chapter 2

Now, you know, Nina, mentioning my Granny reminds me of something that happened one ice-cold day in January, 1944. Granny was babysitting me and my little brother here in the farm house. I was not behaving for her at all. I don’t remember what I was doing wrong, but I recall Granny’s warning: “Bobby, if you don’t behave yourself I’m going to go out and cut a switch and go aboard you with it.”

After several such warnings, she took a paring knife, walked out to the lilac bush, and started cutting a switch. I can still see her out there, pulling the thin branch down, holding it with her left hand, and sawing on it with the knife. It was cold. It was so cold that two-foot icicles hung from the shed roof, and one even extended from the roof into the frozen-solid rain barrel.

I remember standing tip-toed, peering through the pane of our shed door. The door’s still there, Nina. Take a look when you get a chance. Then Granny started heading back towards the house, switch in hand, with a determined look on her face. She had expected to have been outside for only three or four minutes, so she had no coat on, just her apron. Well, I looked out at Granny and that switch, and just as she got to the steps I pushed the bolt through the latch in the door, locking her out.

I ran into the living room but could still hear her knocking on the door and calling, “Boy, you let me in there; you hear?” I heard but I sure didn’t open that door. “Now listen,” she shouted. “I won’t switch you. Now you open that door!” She checked out the front door but it too was locked. She pleaded for a while and then gave up. Then I saw her walking down our frozen lane towards Annie Boyko’s house.

I cooled my heels for about fifteen minutes until I heard Granny and Annie begging me to open the door. So I went out and unlatched the bolt. They came in and sat by the kitchen wood stove. Annie Boyko then went on home after gabbing for a while. Granny then trudged up the stairs to her room, not saying one word to me. Now, Nina, isn’t that an awful thing to do to your Granny? I still feel bad about it till this day.

I was one spoiled, ornery kid, and I don’t remember if it was the evening after I locked Granny out or an evening after I had done some other awful thing that the following incident happened. It may have been the evening after I had tied my little brother to a tree and left him for an hour that it happened. Or, maybe, it was the evening after I had hurt him in some other way.

Whatever it was, I remember how furious my mother and Grandmother were. They were extremely angry with me. They kept yelling, “You just wait, young man, until your father comes home; he’ll whip you within an inch of your life.” Granny was especially disgusted with me, crying out, “I just don’t know what to think of such a nasty rascal.” My mother cried, “The very idea! Your father will be home soon. You just wait.”

Well, Nina, when I saw Pop’s car rolling up the lane, I ran upstairs and lay stretched across my bed, sobbing to beat the band. Then all three of them came up the stairs, and I could hear their animated chatter in the hall. Then they came into my room. Pop didn’t say a word, but Mom and Granny were both talking at once. I started crying as Pop stood there, belt in hand, glaring down at me.

Then he came at me and in a flash my mother was next to me. She put her arm around me, looked up at Pop and screamed, “You’re not going to hurt him; you’re not.” Almost at the same time, Granny lunged in front of her son, grabbing the belt as she said, “Now, Ralph, you leave him alone. He’s suffered enough; leave him be; you hear?” Pop then stomped out of the room as Mom and Granny comforted me. As I sobbed softly, Granny stroked my head and whispered, “You rest yourself now, Bobby. When you’re feeling better, you come on down and get your supper.” So, Nina, from this you can see the kind of tough domestic life I had; somehow I survived it though. Speaking of survival, let me tell you a few more things about my adventurous Uncle Ernest. [To be continued Friday, 1/17/2012]

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 2, “The Boat” – Chapter 1

Yeah, Uncle Ernest sure was a crazy guy, Nina. But for all of his goofiness, he was a sensitive soul, especially towards animals—for people not so much. I remember a time when I was about five or so; I was sitting in the dirt yard in front of my grandmother’s house in Wilmington. I was either breaking an ant in half or pulling off a fly’s wing. As I did this, Uncle Ernest turned the corner at Keiger's Drugstore, walked up the pavement, and saw me sitting there. He knuckled my head as always and said, “Howdy, Moose the Goose.” Then he saw what I was doing and got mad. “Don’t you know,” he yelled, “that that’s what Hitler and Mussolini do for kicks?”

This reminds me, Nina, of what happened one time on our farm the previous summer, when Uncle Ernest saw a chicken limping and decided that I had hit it with a rock. He made a big fuss about it with my father. I don’t remember stoning that rooster, but I wouldn’t put it past me. I do remember, however, the time I hit old man Dave McNolt with a baseball. Let me tell you about it. This incident took place when I was older than I was when Uncle Ernest accused me of crippling that chicken. I must have been about twelve at the time and thought I was quite a good baseball player. My friend, Tom, was pitching to me and I was cracking the ball pretty hard.

Well, as we were playing, old McNolt trudged by from the South Field on his way to use our outhouse. It was a fine privy, too, a two-seater equipped with a large Sears and Roebuck catalog—an excellent facility. Although we had cold running water in the house and an inside toilet, Pop, my father (your great-grandfather), kept the privy in good condition for your great-great-grandmother. Granny would always say, “It’s not right to do your business inside your house.” Anyway, Nina, let me tell you what happened to old Dave.

Pop let Dave, the main farmer in the area, work our twenty acres of tillable ground, and as far as I know old Dave never paid a cent for the privilege. Dave had fourteen or fifteen kids whom he worked from sunup till sunset in the fields. He wouldn’t even let them go to school. I once heard him say, “I ain’t never had no edication. Why should they?”

Dave did funny things to the English language. He’d say, “Take aholt of this here basket ya lazy cuss an taken it down yonder ta peck up them taters. Hain’t never en my life seen sech a worthless young'n!” Well, just as old Dave lumbered past, scowling over at us two, I whacked a ball that struck his right ankle, and old Dave, hopping on his left foot and holding his bruised right ankle, cussed us fiercely, and I thought he would come after us but he just limped on towards the privy.

When he came out he glared at us again and cussed some more, and I—distracted—threw the ball back to Tom low and he missed it. The ball hit the hard dirt and bounced up and cracked Dave’s left shinbone. Old Dave, dirty bib overhauls, discolored straw hat and all, went down in a heap. Now, I’ve heard some splendid cursing in my day, but old Dave emitted the finest and most innovative selections of all.

Tom and I ran behind the house and peeked around the corner. Old Dave stood up carefully, still cursing loudly, and started shuffling towards his team of horses in the South Field. And as you know, Nina, he’d been hit on both legs, so he couldn’t even limp! [To be continued Friday, 1/13/2012]

Chapter 8 - Tales of Uncle Ernest (Continued)

Chapter 8 - Tales of Uncle Ernest (Continued)

“Well Moose, my story has kind of a slow ending, because Chuck headed back to London to write about those animals, Al caught a bus to Jersey, and I hitch-hiked back to Wilmington to see if I could have better luck with the horses.” For a long while Uncle Ernest and I just sat there and watched the sights on the canal. He told me some stories about things that happened to him as a little boy.

One that he told me I still remember. "I have a vague memory of this, Moose," he said, "but mostly I think I recall my parents talking and laughing about it. It seems that when I was three or four years old we had goldfish, and one day, when my mother went down to the drug store, leaving me in the house along, I caught one of the fish and cooked him in the frying pan. When Mom came back I had the blackened fish on a plate ready to eat. 'Me tooked him, Mommy,' I said, as she yelled at me in disgust. Yeah, Moose, I've never been able to live that one down.

His glass empty again, Uncle Ernest made for the bar, but would be quick to return. He didn’t want to leave me alone in the dark for long and he was worried because my father hadn’t come to get me yet.

Did you ever watch the darkness set on the water, Nina? It’s an odd sensation if you catch it just right. As I sat there alone, waiting for Pop to pick me up, the current had started moving the other way, and the moonlight, pinch hitting for the sun, illuminated the surface, giving the colossal, living body of water an enchanting, silver glow. The vast giant was on the move again; the world was in motion, breathing once again. Everything was going to be all right.

Creeping up behind me and knuckling my head for the last time that evening, Uncle Ernest, probably thinking with pleasure about his imminent night on the town, turned on his heels and strode briskly back towards the Hole-in-the-Wall. When he got as far as the patio, I called out to him, “Hey, Unk, were you kidding me about any of the things you told me this evening?”

“Moose,” he called back, turning just his head in my direction, “may I be struck down if I did. Every word was the truth, so help me.”

I’ll tell you, I was startled out of my britches, because just as Uncle Ernest said that he tripped on a loose brick and fell flat on his face. I rushed over but he was all right, though, because when I started to help him up he winked at me and said, “You behave yourself now, Moose the Goose.” But, you know, Nina, I wonder. That fall was surely just a coincidence. Nobody in his right mind could make up the things he told me that evening. What do you think?

[To be continued Tuesday, 1/10/2012]

Chapter 7 - Tales of Uncle Ernest (Continued)

Chapter 7 - Tales of Uncle Ernest (Continued)

“Later, when things settled down, the new arrival, who had been on the ship with the obnoxious bugger, explained that the fat guy had harassed people aboard the ship, especially the weak, and that when the ship was sinking, after a lifeboat loaded with women and children was about to set off, he had leapt into it and started throwing off some of the old women to make room for himself. He was prevented from doing more damage when two heavy-set women tossed him overboard.

“These types of people exist in the world, Moose, I’m sorry to say. Al, the new guy, in a thick German accent that I could hardly understand, went on to explain that the fat man was a rich lawyer, and that his brother was a Massachusetts bootlegger named Kennelly, who had made his millions by exploiting people during the war. I guess these unethical traits are hereditary, so we can only hope that we’ve seen the last of that family.

“But luck must have been on our side once we got rid of that scoundrel because we got caught in the Gulf Stream current, which carried us west towards the good old U.S. of A. Before we sailed into Maryland’s Ocean City Inlet, we learned more about Al, the little guy who almost drowned in that icy water. He was not very talkative, and when he did talk he was hard to understand. He sure was an odd looking man, with an unruly mustache and hair that was fluffed up on the sides of his head. He told us that the first time he ever did anything for fun was to sail on that ocean liner, and if we promised not to tell anybody he would tell us about himself.

“Laboring with the English language, he told us that he had come from Germany, and although he had had trouble with math in school, he was relatively sure that he knew some new theories about the universe that no one else did. But he made a funny statement that gave him away. He said, in his stilted English—now, Moose, I think I’ve remember it right; he said something about an E equaling a square M. And when he went on about relatives in space and warped time and all, I knew that we had rescued a goofball and, I swear, I almost threw him back.

“I restrained myself, probably because I understand mentally retarded people pretty well because I had worked with them once when I had a job as a bus driver. I had found them to be fine people, enthusiastic and childlike in their innocence; Al certainly fit that description. It made me feel good when he told me that he had managed to get a job at an obscure college in New Jersey called Princetown. For all we know, he may be performing his janitorial duties now, Moose, as we speak; and I wish him well, because I’m a bit of a slow learner myself.”

When Uncle Ernest went back in for another glass-full, I just sat there and cooled my heels on the bank, taking in the sights and sounds of the canal. After a while, I watched a dead-rise fishing boat glide under the bridge and coast lightly into Schaefer's Wharf.

But now, Nina, let me take you forward in time to when Joey Hotra and I were trapping muskrats in Continental, a marsh along Back Creek that in the old days was called Randall's Cove. I won't keep you long. After hearing this you'll know just how much I take after my Uncle Ernest when it comes to being a slow learner. Joe and I were just teenagers; he was about thirteen and I was a year younger. Anyhow, you see, that Continental Marsh had a small stream running through it and was located on the South Side, pretty far below the Burnt House.

We got there at dawn to check our traps, but the tide was so high that the traps were covered so that we couldn't check them. So we went back by a tree and waited for a while. All of a sudden, Joe said, "Hey, it's Sunday morning! I have to go back to go to church. Now you stay here and when the tide drops far enough, you go out there and check those traps."

Well, Nina, after Joe left, there was more light but it was so foggy that I could only see about ten feet out; I couldn't see the canal at all, but I could hear strange noises out there. I was just a kid—twelve or thirteen—and I was scared. I heard rough noises and unusual sounds of activity coming out of the fog. We were trespassing on the Howard property for one thing, and I was worried about that as well. I just sat there crouched under that tree the whole time, while Joe walked several miles to his home, dressed, went to church, changed his clothes again, and walked back to the marsh. When he returned it was still foggy and the tide had started coming in. And Joe was furious. "Why in the hail didn't you check those traps, you jerk," he yelled. I didn't even answer him I felt so bad.

You know, Nina, that muskrat mishap reminds me of another time when I messed up as a teenager. I was working at Kappel's Chesapeake Boat Company, and had just stepped on the wharf to go out and check on one of the yachts, when I saw a fresh muskrat lead. I could tell that the rat had been in there recently, so I thought I would set a trap in there. I jumped down onto the ice-crusted snow and shoved my hand into the hole to see if it had promise. Well, the lead went in about a foot, and as soon as I got my arm in I felt a sharp pain and yanked it out of there. My finger started spouting blood and I realized that a rat had bitten me. Nina, so help me, he had chomped down on the tip of the middle finger of my right hand.

     But I had him trapped, so I stopped up the hole with a heavy chunk of ice and went to get my buddy, Joey Hotra, who worked with me there at the boat yard. I grabbed a shovel and Joe grabbed a club and I started digging him out. It only took a couple of shovel loads and out he came. He was a nice, black muskrat, frantically scurrying—slipping and sliding across the ice—trying to reach open water. Joe and I, also slipping comically on the ice, started whacking at him. I missed him with the shovel and Joe missed him with the club. But after a few swings Joe got him. That was a trophy rat, but I paid the price; there was blood all over the snow—mine and his. I still have the scar on my finger, Nina, after 55 years. See, here it is, just below the fingernail.

At any rate, let me take you back to that grassy bank next to the Hole-in-the-Wall, where, after a few minutes—which to me seemed a lot longer—Uncle Ernest returned and, after a long swig and a sigh, he finished his story about the goofy guys he rescued from the ocean.

[To be continued Friday, 1/6/2012]