Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued) Section 5, “The Bird” – Chapter 1

Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 5, “The Bird” – Chapter 1

Now, as you know, Nina, the last time we talked I was telling you Uncle Ernest's story about how he was stranded in Baltimore’s Innard Harbor, after riding submarine-style in the belly of that channel cat. Well, knowing Uncle Ernest, you might imagine how anxious he was to return to Chesapeake City to enjoy the fellowship of his family and friends.

Before I relate to you the tale about his peculiar return trip, however, let me tell you about a later adventure that Uncle Ernest had concerning his sausage business. I remember being with him a few years after he stayed with us on our farm. Yes, I was with him in Wilmington during his entire ordeal. I recall one rainy Saturday when Uncle Ernest went on a—shall we say—week-long vacation with his favorite relative, Ole Granddad.

When he returned, and after several dormant days, he told me that he had decided to invest in a new business. He explained that he had always enjoyed the sausage that a certain bar and grill had served. Many of his friends loved sausages and he reasoned that they and hundreds of other people would indulge in many more sausages if he could select the combination of ingredients that kept the great taste but reduced the fat content by sixty or seventy percent.

After much thought he decided that a variety of poultry and unique seasoning would do the trick. He hired a poultry expert and the two of them concocted a sausage, or a type of knockwurst really, consisting of chickens, turkeys, ducks, geese, dove, and pheasant. Experimenting with the proper spices and herbs, and different proportions of fowl, they finally got the taste almost right … almost but not quite. Back to the drawing board—or cutting board I should say—they went. Two more months of research and hard work led to failure; they couldn’t get the taste just right.

At last they were forced to consult an ornithologist. The ornithologist didn’t come cheap, but he tasted the sausage, took home link after link to re-taste, consulted his manuals, and thought deeply. Then, one night, as he related to Uncle Ernest later, after a period of deep sleep, it hit him: the Orange-bellied Kenyan Whistler! This was the one bird, a member of the tern family, that would make the sausage taste great—like no other sausage in the world.

Uncle Ernest was elated. Depressed because of his apparent failure, he had begun imbibing heavily, and the hooch and worry had affected his health. But now, though, his pallor, sunken eyes, and tic diminished, so that I hardly noticed them. He contracted with the ornithologist to fly to Kenya to find this special bird. The ornithologist outlined the cost of such a venture, and Uncle Ernest related to me the necessary expenditures that the ornithologist would incur.

He would need money for transportation, special clothing, specialized equipment, environmentally appropriate cages, a reliable African guide, and bribes for the Kenyan officials and the United States officials. But fully assured that in the long run the exotic birds would be worth it, Uncle Ernest went for it.

Going for it meant that he had to borrow a lot of money, but in two weeks he got it together and the ornithologist was off to Africa. Uncle Ernest heard not a word from him for three weeks. Finally his telephone call awakened Uncle Ernest at 2 a.m. He told a dazed Uncle Ernest that a strain of African virus had invaded his body and he was not expected to recover for another week at the earliest. Uncle Ernest told me that the ornithologist’s voice was weak but just strong enough to request more money.

The worry caused Uncle Ernest's health problems to reappear, but he borrowed more money and sent it off the next day. Despite his ill health, he was still hopeful, and justifiably so, because after three weeks the ornithologist called at 2 a.m. again to explain that he had, indeed, captured six of the rare birds but needed more money to get them out of Africa and back the U.S. Exulted at the prospect, Uncle Ernest borrowed and sent him more money.

What happened next was completely unexpected. When the ornithologist returned, he rented an apartment and would not tell Uncle Ernest where he was. The guy got nasty, Nina; he told Uncle Ernest that he wanted $2,000 per bird. As one might expect, Uncle Ernest was very upset. He started losing his hair and his eyes became more sunken. I was appalled by his drawn, haggard face and his frequent snorting tic. Such frustration!

Oh, to have just one of those glorious birds, a bird that would make his sausage the rage of the world! Should he borrow that enormous amount in addition to what he’d borrowed already? Do you think he should have, Nina? Well, he didn’t sleep; he didn’t eat; he became emaciated. I agonized along with my poor uncle. Should he buy a bird or should he give the whole thing up? What was he to do? Such a momentous decision, such frustration!

I shared Uncle Ernest’s misery; I felt his pain and did what I could. And it was about this time, Nina, that it happened … that he did it. Uncle Ernest did it. My Uncle Ernest took a tern for the wurst. [To be continued Tuesday, 3/27/2012]