Tales of Uncle Ernest – (Continued)

Section 5, “The Bird” – Chapter 4

Against my parents’ wishes, I would often go to visit Bill, who lived with his deaf mute brother, George. I’d walk up to Bill as he stood in his orchard, and he would stand there glaring at me and then say, “Well boooooyeeeee!” He had a unique way of drawing out the vowels slowly with his voice rising at the end. “Come over here and try this.” He would then select an apple off the ground, withdraw his dirt-encrusted penknife (which he always used to cut his tobacco plug), cut me a piece of apple, peel it, and push it towards me as he held it between his thumb and knife blade. I always took it, though, and do you know, Nina, it was delicious. I haven’t tasted a better apple since.

Sometimes I would go into their house, against parental orders, and sit on a cot in his small, crude living room. Careful not to lean back against the wall, which was decorated with smudge marks left after they had crushed bedbugs that they had seen crawling there, I would watch as Bill and George had their meal.

Bill would sit at the head of the small table, and as George (whom Bill called Doc) shuffled in carrying the coffee, Bill—probably not for my benefit but as a matter of course—would cuss him with gusto in a gruff, contemptible voice. Doc would smile and nod affectionately. Then Doc would sit down next to Bill and they would pour the coffee from their cups into their saucers and sip with long slurping sounds. I was impressed.

But the oddest thing I remember about the two was their method of farming. During the years that I knew them they must have had three or maybe four horses, but always only one at a time. Bill named all of them “Babe.” Well, one morning, when I walked down to visit Bill, he and Doc were plowing the field below their house. Bill had Babe harnessed to a single-bottomed plow, and since Bill and Doc were both old and somewhat feeble, they were taking turns working Babe and the plow across the field. Bill would take it across and back, and then Doc would do the same.

I watched them for about five minutes, as I lazily heaved clods of dirt at a thorn tree to test my pitching arm. Suddenly, I saw Babe lurch and rear up on her hind legs. Then she galloped off across the meadow, plow flip-flopping from side to side, and Doc and Bill in pursuit. “Whoa Babe, whoa Babe, whoa, whoa,” they yelled. The plow had uprooted a yellow jacket’s nest; no wonder Babe took off. It was funny and sad at the same time, sights and sounds I’ll never forget.

At the time, Nina, I was fascinated with horses. Heaven for me would have been sitting next to Bill on the seat of his wagon, taking Babe’s reins, saying “Giddup,” and having Babe pull us down the road. And every now and then I’d say “Cick, cick” out of the side of my mouth to move her on faster, and when we reached our destination I’d call out “Whoa, whoa there girl.”

But old Bill only let me take Babe's reins once, from his pasture and through the gate, and do you believe that I clipped the gate post with the wagon wheel on the way out? Yep, and Bill never let me take those sacred reins again.

Sometimes Bill would take me to a sale a few miles away. I would sit up on the wagon seat with Bill, as Babe pulled us along at a creeping pace, and I would have a terrific time. Imagine, Nina, if you will, an uncouth old man and an excited eight-year-old, traveling those dusty roads of ancient times. [To be continued Friday, 4/06/2012]