Days of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and the World – Babs, Chapter 4 – Last Chapter

Days of Uncle Ernest -

Chesapeake City and the World – Babs, Chapter 4 – Last Chapter

“Buck up, Moose,” Uncle Ernest said, as he returned and ruffled my hair as usual, as I sat hunched over with my head down. Hearing Uncle Ernest swirl the cubes in his freshened glass, I remembered where he had left off and thought of what I wanted to ask him.

“Say, Unk, you must have done a lot more things on that island with Bud and Babs. For crap sake, you were there for ten years.”

“But there really wasn’t much of anything to do, because everything was perfect. In fact, I got bored long before Bud messed up. I had nobody to gamble with, nobody to fight with, no challenge … you know? I had loads of fine grapes and made gallons of wine, but I could never get drunk. Oh, I helped name a few animals and taught Babs a lot of stuff, but after a few weeks I was itching to leave, to get back to the real world, if you know what I mean, Moose.”

“Nope. I don’t know what you mean at all, Unk,” I said, flashing him a weird look.

“Let me put it another way. Say your life is an automobile tire. It’s shiny-new, with full, deep treads and sturdy side walls. Over the years it spins down the road humming its soft tune all the while. Its purpose is clear, directed. During the journeys, though, bad things happen unexpectedly, such as loss of air from a pothole jolt, a nail puncture to be repaired, and—if its side walls are not badly damaged by some mortal impact—its tread, over time, will wear down completely, leaving a thin, weak, rubber husk, to be discarded.

“That, Moose, is the end we all want—old age after a useful life—and for most of us, like most tires, that is what we get. Now, suppose the tire never gets to roll down the road, but sits on a rack in the garage, inactive and unused, to be rolled to new spots now and then and admired perhaps. It will be protected and preserved, to be sure, but never feel the jostling of the road’s pressure, the caress of solid earth bearing firmly upon its treads, or the unexpected occurrence—positive or negative—around the next corner.

“The tire can exist almost forever, but eventually dry rot will rob it of what makes it an individual tire, its essential elements, its essence, its being. This was my life with Babs, Moose, and this is why I would have left soon anyway, even if the island’s landlord hadn’t pulled the plug on perfection.”

“I reckon I get what you’re saying, Unk. You’re sure like a tire today; somebody must have inflated you with about 200 pounds of air and your valve is leaking it out at me pretty fast. Yeah, and hey, you’re getting balder all the time, too,” I laughed, reaching over to rub his ample forehead, which he withdrew from my reach pretty fast, for sure. After another hearty laugh, I said, “But, Unk, there are good tires and bad tires, aren’t there?”

“Oh sure, just as there are good and bad people. You have your Michelins, which are the best, and then there are others, such as Goodrich, General, Dunlop, Goodyear, and so on down the line. But the worst are probably the crappy ones that you buy from those discount auto stores.”

“Well then, Unk, tell me something: if you were a tire, which one would you be?”

“A Michelin, of course, what else?”

“And if I were a tire, which one would I be?”

“Why, that’s easy, Moose; you’d be a retread,” he said, as he laughed and reached over and got me in a headlock, which I squirmed out of pretty quickly, believe me, Nina.

“Well, that still sounds loony to me, Unk; me, I’d give anything to live in a place like that—no school, no doctors, no dentists, no pain. Wow!”

“That’s right, but no real life either,” Uncle Ernest said wearily, as he slid off the swing and stretched before heading in the house to freshen up for a full night of partying.

“Unk,” I asked, jumping off of the swing to follow him in, “I know you wouldn’t fib to your only nephew, but did you sort of expand some of the things that happened to you in those stories?”

“Why, you should know facts when you hear them. I’ll tell you what, Moose; some time when you get a chance, catch a guinea pig, hold him up by the tail, and watch his eyes fall out. When they do, think about your only uncle and all his adventures.”

Geez, Nina, what the heck kind of an answer was that, anyway? What do you think? Did Uncle Ernest, maybe, slip a few in past me when I wasn’t looking? At any rate, I shrugged and ran out to ride my airplane swing, smashing into the wall and post as usual, and then I heard the slam of our screen door and saw Uncle Ernest heading down our long lane. “See you later, Moose-the-Goose,” he called with a wave, as I sat there swinging slowly—idling—watching the dust rise as he walked.

I eyed him until he got about half-way down, but then noticed the barn swallows swoop in graceful arcs up and down and across the sky, almost touching the ground at times. And when I looked down the lane again, Uncle Ernest was gone, so I bounded after him as far as the last telephone pole. But he was gone, Nina, down the hill and out of sight.

I hung my head and sketched my initials in the dirt of our lane with my big toe. It was then that I saw them: Uncle Ernest’s footprints. I walked—lunged—in them, step for step. And to me they were the long, light strides of a guy in a hurry, a guy on the move, a guy who stayed for a while … and then was gone.

[End of Days of Uncle Ernest -  A New Story begins Friday, 11/23/12]