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]