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]