Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) "The Pig" - Chapter 2

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 3, “The Pig” – Chapter 2

Now, Nina, talking about our bridge reminds me of something I’ve wanted to tell you. It was near the end of July, 1942 when a ship hit and destroyed our lift bridge. For the next seven years we rode a ferry back and forth. I knew the pilot of the Gotham ferryboat very well and, Nina, he was one funny man. His name was Captain Ed, my best friend’s father.

The old timers still talk about Captain Ed and his antics. One story they tell is when Ed was a student, just like you. Years ago, back in the 20s, all the schools in the county would get together for Rally Day, which was a track and field event held in Elkton. They held the event on Railroad Avenue, near the Armory, in a big area behind the schoolhouse.

The kids competed in all kinds of sports: sprint racing, distance runs, broad jumping, high jumping, and all kinds of other activities. Anyway, Nina, Ed was in one of those races, one of the sprints, and he ran it and broke the county record. He didn't have any track shoes or sneakers so, unlikely as it sounds, he ran on that cinder track in his bare feet. I didn't see the race, Nina, but a friend of mine did, and he told me that Ed would have run even faster if he hadn't stopped and turned around to see who was shot when the gun went off.

Anyway, the official came right up to him and said, “Son, you’ve just broken the county record!” And Ed, still panting from the race, said, “Well, my gosh, I certainly am sorry; I didn’t mean to do it! How much do I owe you?”

Believe it or not, Nina, Ed was our cousin. And the other story that old timers tell about him concerns his abilities as a pilot, and how he got his job as captain of our ferry, the Gotham. When they first brought the ferry to Chesapeake City from New York, men were running it back and forth across the canal, giving it test runs, you see.

Well, Ed had his tug boat tied up at Rees’ Wharf (now Pell Gardens), and was standing there watching the ferry go across and back, and at that time the wind and current were really bad. In fact, when vessels would go out of the Basin—out into the canal into that current—they didn’t know whether they were going to wind up far to the east in Bethel or far to the west, down at the Chesapeake Boat Company. At any rate, on that day, Ed was watching them struggle with the ferry, and one time as it was coming over from the North Side to the South Side, and it was cutting all kinds of capers, our Ed hollered over at the captain: “Hey, what the hail’s the matter with you that you can’t handle that thing any better than that?”

And the fellow yelled back, “All right, wise guy, if you can do any better than this, then come the hail over here.” So Ed went around to the ferry slip, went up into the pilothouse, took her across, and showed them how to do it. And they hired him right then and there. So Captain Ed piloted that ferry for the whole length of time she ran, till the bridge was finished in 1949. After that he was the pilot of the Port Welcome, a large touring boat that ran out of Baltimore.

Now, returning to an earlier time, a few years after the lift bridge was destroyed, Captain Ed’s son, Dick, and I, as teenagers, used to stay overnight at each other’s houses. After hours of basketball until dark, and after shooting the breeze on Postell’s corner, we would eventually get to bed, where we’d talk and listen to radio music long into the night.

Well, one night, Nina, when we had finally drifted off to sleep (at about 2:30 a.m. as I recall), Captain Ed came in from work and yelled up the stairs: “Get on down here boys; get on down here.” So Dick and I trudged on down, so tired that we could hardly keep our eyes open. Ed had a big pan of bacon and slimy, half-raw eggs on the kitchen table. He was diving into them and when we sat down he slopped some on plates for us to eat too. I sat there in a daze, picking at the disgusting eggs, and Ed looked up at me and said, “What’s the matter, Wheeeezle?” His friend, George Cordrey, had a speech defect, so that instead of saying "Hazel" he would say "Weasel." Ed was just having fun at my expense.

Captain Ed was also a very fast talker. His slurred words emitted at breakneck speed could hardly be understood. You know, Nina, about the group called the Slow Talkers’ Association? Well, Ed was a member of the Fast Talkers’ Association. “Eat them eggs boys; come on; eat ‘em up now,” he said. Then, after a bit, he jumped up, threw the dishes into the sink, and cried out, “Get in the car boys; get in the car; let’s go.” Fully awake now, Dick and I went out and got into the back of Ed’s old Chevy.

“Now what?” I asked Dick.

“Sharptown. Mom’s down there and we have to go pick her up.”

“At 3 a.m.?” I asked, astonished. Sharptown was on the lower Eastern Shore, about 100 miles away. Then, Nina, our Ed got into the car, fired her up, and took off down George Street. He hung a left on Saint Augustine Road, motored past my farm, swung around old man McNolt’s curve, and headed towards Sam Caldwell’s S turn.

It was at this S turn that it started: Ed couldn’t keep the car on the road. He’d swerve off to the right onto the grass, wake up from the jolt, keep her straight for a while, and then swerve off to the left and wake up again. I’ll tell you, Nina, Dick and I were afraid we were going to die. But Ed kept going, and somewhere past Middletown he plowed into a ditch and got stuck. After the three of us pushed the car back onto the road, Ed looked at me and said, “Weasel, can you drive?”

“Sure,” I was quick to answer. Nina, I was 14 and thought I could do anything. I didn’t have a license and I had never driven on the highway before. I had driven my Model A around the farm a good bit, but that’s a far cry from driving at high speed in traffic.

“Get in there then, Wheeeezle!” So we took off with Dick next to me and Captain Ed stretched out on the back seat. I realized later that he had not slept for 24 hours or more. Now, Nina, you might imagine how excited I was, steering on down Route 13 with the other cars and trucks at 3 a.m. with my nervous buddy next to me. And, do you know, I almost killed the three of us that morning, because as I sped along at sixty miles an hour, bolt upright with both hands firmly on the steering wheel, a tractor-trailer was creeping along in the right lane, and I jerked the steering wheel to the left at the last millisecond before crashing into the back of it. I just happened to see its lights in time. It was the closest call I’ve ever had, and it was because I didn’t have any road experience. Dick yelled, “Geez, slow down for crap sake; slow down!” But from the back seat I just heard a long sleepy moan. From then on I kept that old car at about fifty.

Something else happened that morning that I’ll never forget. That 1940 Chevy had a metal rim running around the inside of the steering wheel. It was the horn, and I was driving with both hands at the top of the wheel. Well, at every red light my arm would sound that horn accidentally, and every time Ed would wake up from the back seat and say something like, “My God, what was that?” Then he’d moan for a while and fall back to sleep.

So there you have it, Nina. That’s the way we finally got to Sharptown. My first driving experience at 14 was a 100-mile night drive on a major highway, with no license. Later that day, Captain Ed was full of life and having fun, but Dick and I were too tired to enjoy anything. But for now, let me take you back to an earlier, less stressful time, a time when Uncle Ernest was in his glory.  [To be continued Friday, 2/10/2012]