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]