Days of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and the World – Billy, Chapter 1

Days of Uncle Ernest -

Chesapeake City and the World – Billy, Chapter 1

The very next afternoon, Nina, after supper, I was bouncing around in our hammock and, bored out of my mind waiting for Uncle Ernest to come out and continue his weird story about sailing up that river with Lizzie, I hopped on my bike and spun on down under the towering, awkward osage tree in the middle of our garden. As I stood, straddling my bike, I looked up into its twisted branches and then down at the area around it. And, do you know, the same eerie feeling came over me that still does whenever I linger there.

I told Granny once about the strangeness there, and she said, “Oh, that; that ugly, worn-out thorn apple tree—a young'n shouldn’t have to bear that. Don’t bother me with that foolishness.”

“Tell me about it, Granny. Please!” I begged. “Tell me, will you?”

“Nonsense. I’m fagged out now, but if you’ll leave me be I’ll say what I know. It happened there ages ago, before the Civil War, before even I was born. Why, this farmhouse was build back in the 1850,” she went on, gesturing towards the inner room, as she sat there in our ancestral kitchen, remodeled with modern pasting—crass makeup on a noble woman.

She sat hunched over on a straight-back, wooden chair, looking out the window, and as she talked (grudgingly it seemed to me) her swollen, arthritic fingers stroked the radiator grates under the window. “This farm,” she continued, not looking at me but out at our unpainted garage, “was once a few hundred acres or so; it took in all the land in this area, from the edge of town to way beyond where that simple McNatt is now. Why, this kitchen was part of the original farmhouse, owned by the Hudsons, who built it and farmed all the land. Now then, old Al Hazel married one of the Hudson girls, Jane—your great grandmother, don’t you know—and that’s how come you’re living here today.”

“Geez, Granny, I didn’t know our place was that old and so big back then.”

“Yes, well, there’s a lot you don’t know, Bub,” she said, moving back in her chair and folding her brown, large-knuckled hands in her apron. “Why, it was lazy old Al who told me about them, living back there in a shack like livestock,” she said, shaking her snow-white head in disgust. “Well, don’t you know, it was his father-in-law, Bill Hudson, who told him about that day. Lordy be, I still shudder just thinking about it.”

“Wait a minute, Granny. Who lived back where? What day?”

“Oh mercy, leave me alone boy. I’m tired of your foolishness. Leave me be; goodness, I’m not worth anything anymore. I just wish I could get my hands on that shotgun out there; that’s all I wish.”

“Granny,” I asked quietly, so shocked that my stomach felt queasy all of a sudden, and laying my hand on her shoulder (cloth covered bones), “were there friends of yours hurt out there?”

“Hush!” she hissed. “Don’t be talking nonsense, fool; they were colored—slaves, and that’s all I know; I’m worthless any more and I’m goin’ up to my room to lay down.”

“But Granny, what happened out there that day by the tree?” She didn’t reply, but stood up and walked—bent body shuffling along—to the stairs, grabbed the black banister railing, and started laboring up. “Please, Granny, what happened that day; won’t you tell me some more?” Then she turned, sighed, sat down and, clutching the small, white banister post, looked down at me with a scowl before lowering her head.

So odd, Nina, that I see her still, bent over there above me on the steps: the brown, gnarled left hand grasping the post, her bowed head—pure white hair swirled in a knot—supported by her right hand, and her long, clean-white skirt draped over her legs and covering all but her cotton stockings, which drooped in crumpled folds about her ankles, concealing partially the tops of her work shoes.

“Gracious, why bother an old, worn-out woman? You should be out doing something useful—lazy lout! Why, you’ll never amount to a hill of beans … lazy. If you must know, there was a slave shack out by that tree you fancy. There was a stable out there too, with cows and horses. The tornado came out of nowhere that day, and it destroyed the stable, killed horses, and killed a darky who was in there taking care of them. It knocked a limb off of your tree as well, and if you look up there you’ll see where it was ripped off. Now leave me be; I’m gonna lay down; I’m fagged out from your nonsense.”

And that was all I was able to get out of her, Nina, and snapping out of my trance, I scanned the area once more, looked up into those tortured branches, ran my bike up the slight incline towards home and, seeing Uncle Ernest settle into our double-facing swing, spun on down at top speed.  [To be continued Tuesday, 8/21/2012

Days of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and the World – Lizzie, Chapter 8

Days of Uncle Ernest -

Chesapeake City and the World – Lizzie, Chapter 8

“And so, once again I had to comfort Lizzie for quite a while.”

“Wow, Unk. That’s awfully sad,” I muttered quietly.

“I know, and afterwards I held her for a long time and gave her some nice long kisses, and she held me tighter and said, ‘My goodness, Ernie, I’ve never had a beau like you before.’ And, Moose, I swear, I can still smell the musky moistness of her warm, tear-soaked face against mine, as I held her close to me on that evening so many years ago.”

“Knock it off, Unk!” I yelled, kicking the dust up at our feet.

“But it was wonderful, unbelievably wonderful: that effluvium of heated breath softly panting against my cheek.”

“Give me a break.”

“Then I whispered in her ear a line of poetry that a teacher made me learn in the eighth grade:

Ah, Lizzie, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicaean barks of yore,

That sailed swiftly out to sea

For lovers from a distant shore.

Just so, your splendor brings me home

To the glory that was Greece

And the grandeur that was Rome.

"100% Junk!" I yelled, jumping up and down on the chair.

"No, Moose, no, that did the trick. I thought Lizzie would squeeze me half to death, right there on the spot. ‘You know, Ernie,’ she whispered, ‘all of my knights wrote me poetry but nothing as nice as yours. They were all trying to gain my favor. Isn’t this neat what Andy wrote to me last week?’ And, unfolding a piece of paper that she pulled from her pocket, here is what she read to me:

 A hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze:

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand for the rest.

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For Lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

“ ‘That’s pretty cool, Liz,’ I told her, ignoring her weird statement about her knights.

“Then I remembered some lines from another great American poet, and I recited it softly to her as I held her gently in my arms. ‘For you Lizzie,’ I whispered:

                       

Unearthed in an ancient land

The lantern fell to me

Who cleared the dust

To see its spell

        Shimmering free above the lamp,

        As softly flow the Persian silks,

        Her eyes with flickering brilliance ply

        The magic, bright for all to see.

        What need for wishes?

        What need for mystic feats

        Or swirling carpet rides?

        An awed master, mastered by a Lizzie

        Fleshed with spirited delight—

        Her presence deed enough.

        For now this charmed globe I’ll lay aside—

        Apt companion for the darkened ride.

        When void of light I’ll find and gently move,

        And frenzied hands of joy will rub it smooth.

“Well, Moose, with this her meltdown was complete. That night we were boyfriend and girlfriend, and overlooking that beautiful, enchanted river, we drifted into a serene sleep …

“ ‘Wake up, Ernie. Wake up, dear,’ Lizzie whispered the next morning. The gentle words and soft stroking of my hair finally roused me from my deep, peaceful sleep. ‘After breakfast we’re taking a trip up river to visit a good friend of mine. He writes plays for our little theater in town. I think you’ll like him, Sweetheart.’

“ ‘Terrific,’ I groaned, stretching widely to full wakefulness. Yeah, and that’s exactly what we did, but I’ll have to tell you about it some other time.” And then, Nina, as Uncle Ernest trudged to the house to prepare for a big night of partying on the town, I swatted a mosquito that was feasting on my neck, listened for a few minutes to the whippoorwills—who had just begun their beguiling love songs—and, skipping up the steps and through the old screen door, heard it slam for the last time that evening.  [To be continued Friday, 8/17/2012]

Days of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and the World – Lizzie, Chapter 7

Days of Uncle Ernest -

Chesapeake City and the World – Lizzie, Chapter 7

“Those bloody heads are terrible, Unk,” I yelled, as he headed towards the screen door once again, and when I heard it bang I ran out to the pump trough, stuck my bare feet in, and pumped some cool water all over them.

When Uncle Ernest returned he brought me an ice-cold Coke from the ice box. “Here’s to a fine afternoon,” he said, as he clinked his glass against my bottle. Then he raised his glass high and pronounced:

Through the lips,

Past the gums,

Watch out stomach.

Here it comes.

Nina, I wish you could have heard how pompously he recited those lines. As the cold, sweet, carbonated soda watered my eyes and hurt my teeth on the way down, I thought about how lucky I was to have such a clever uncle. “Yeah, Moose, Lizzie was pretty subdued for a while as we sailed on up the Thumes. After a while we tacked east into the mouth of a small, beautiful river.

“ ‘What on earth happened to those poor swans? What turned them black?’ I asked as we glided into a peaceful little cove.

“ ‘Why nothing, Ernie,’ she frowned, ‘these black swans are all along this river, and as far as I know this is the only place in the world where they exist.’

“ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s news to me; they sure are an unusual sight, but pretty though.’

“ ‘I have a friend who lives farther up the river in a little town called Stratfield; we’ll visit him tomorrow and see his swans if you like,’ she explained, as we took down the sails, moored the skiff, and waded to shore towards a small thatched-roof cottage about 200 feet away.

“After a fine meal of roast swan, baked trout, barbecued pork (the whole pig was in the middle of the table, with an apple in its mouth), blood pudding, Irish potatoes, and three-foot long loaves of French bread, we walked hand-in-hand along the shore of that serene, enchanted river.”

“Wait a minute, Unk,” I said, shaking his arm. “What was that you said about some kind of pudding? Did you say what I thought you said … ‘blood?’ ”

“That's right, blood pudding,” he answered, as I made a face and blurted, “Yuck!”

“Awww no, Moose, it was delicious,” he said, grinning his head off. “The cook was from France, Lizzie told me, and was considered the best chef in the whole world. After she showed me the rest of the area, which she called her sanctuary from the world, we sat on a cypress log and watched the setting sun cast its colors on the river as it descended.

        “ ‘It's beautiful!’ I said, but when I looked at her I saw an anguished face with tears flooding her eyes. One was migrating slowly down her cheek, and as I wiped it away the sobbing started in rhythmic pulses until I enveloped her in my arms, smothering the sobs until they gradually subsided into erratic, muffled sniffles. I’ll tell you, Moose, it never fails to tear me up when a woman or child cries like that. Earth-hardened jackal that I am, it still saddens me so.”

“Right, Unk,” I said, unimpressed. “But what in the world was she bellerin' about anyhow?”

“Here’s what I got out of her after a half hour of comforting: ‘Ernie, I’m sorry, but I can’t stop thinking about the woman whose head we saw stuck on that stake on the bridge we passed under. She was so nice and so affectionate. Oh my! It’s political, Ernie, political and it’s awful.’ ”

“ ‘Well, Liz, was she a friend of yours?’ I asked softly.”

“ ‘Yes, and she was wonderful. She used to call me Little Queenie.’ ”

“ ‘What was her name?’ ”

“ ‘Oh my, Ernie. Oh my! Her name was Annie,’ she said, as the sobbing resumed.”

“ ‘I’m awfully sorry, Lizzie,’ I said, soothing her once again. She must have been a special friend for sure.’ ”

“ ‘Ernie! Oh Ernie!’ she sobbed, as her eyes welled up again, ‘she’s … she's … she’s my mother.’ ” [To be continued Tuesday, 8/14/2012]

Days of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and the World – Lizzie, Chapter 6

Days of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and the World – Lizzie, Chapter 6

Lying back there under the tree, I must have daydreamed a while, but when Uncle Ernest lifted my feet so he could sit, I was alert and ready to hear some more of his strange adventure. “Yeah, Moose,” Uncle Ernest said as he took a slow, pleasurable swig from his freshened drink, “when we boarded the sailing skiff, the Miss Ann, Lizzie rigged the sails like an expert, and before long we were underway—cruising gracefully up a river she called the ‘Tums.’ She was a great gal, Moose, but it's a shame she had so much trouble with the English language. Later on, I noticed the name of that river on a sign. Printed clearly on it was ‘The Thumes.’ Now, I would pronounce that ‘Thumbs.’ Wouldn't you?

"Huh? Sure. I guess so. So what, Unk?"

"Hey, I didn't let her funny talk bother me any. I don't look down on people with poor speech. Besides, she was pretty enough to talk any way she wanted to. But that river was really busy with commerce—sailing and rowing vessels—and they all gave us a wide berth. Some of the captains of the large vessels started with surprise and bowed deeply to Lizzie and she would always curtsy back. ‘What’s that all about, Lizzie?’ I asked.

“ ‘Oh,’ she replied nonchalantly, ‘they’re just my subjects, Ernie.’ Now, Moose, when she talked like that I sure was sorry I had ever got mixed up with such a lunatic, especially when she was in the middle of an unfamiliar river, manning a sailboat that I knew nothing about. But, except for those occasional irrational statements, she was terrific and I had a great time with her on that river.

“What happened next I don’t like to talk about because it’s so gruesome. As we sailed smoothly along we saw a long, stone bridge looming in the distance. As we got closer I could see lots of buildings—different sized shacks really—sitting right on the bridge.”

“Wow! No kidding, Unk?”

“Right you are, and I could even make out a chapel and some military towers with cannons shooting out the sides. Then it happened; I saw them ... and they were disgusting. Just before we sailed under I looked up and saw five or six human heads stuck on stakes all along the bridge. They were in varying degrees of decay—some with eyes bulging or missing, and they all had jagged, chopped-up necks dangling from the stakes, uneven where the ax had chopped through.”

“Gross!” I cried. “That’s disgusting; I’ve never heard of anything like that ever happening, not even in Cecil County. Tell me some more, Unk.”

“Aw, Moose,” Uncle Ernest said softly, “I guess I should have left that part out. But, anyway, when we came out from under the bridge there were more heads stuck up on the other side, believe it or not, and one was different from the rest because it was the head of a woman.

“It was fairly fresh because of the blood crusted on her chin. Her long, black hair was whirling in the breeze. When Lizzie saw the head she gasped and when she looked over at me I saw tears rolling down her cheeks. She buried her face in my chest and held me hard for a few seconds. Then, when she grabbed the tiller again, I asked, ‘What’s that all about, Liz?’

“ ‘Oh nothing.’ she said, catching her breath in short sobs. ‘It’s political and I don’t want to talk about it.’ She looked straight ahead as the sobs subsided. I glanced back at the bridge once more and saw gulls, crows, and other carrion birds circling and swooping in for snacks.”  [To be continued Friday, 8/10/2012]

Days of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and the World – Lizzie, Chapter 5

Days of Uncle Ernest -

Chesapeake City and the World – Lizzie, Chapter 5

Looking over towards the lawn chair, I saw Uncle Ernest leaning back with his hands behind his head, so I ran on back to hear more about that strange girl on the island.

“Yeah, Moose, Lizzie really was something. We had exchanged names after a bit of small talk and cuddling, and after a while she said, ‘Splendid, Ernie, and now it’s time for our tea.’ And before I could react she rang a gong and in about five seconds some guy, dressed in funny-looking knickers and a fluffed-up accordion collar about the width of a peach basket, strode up, bowed, and set down a big tray with tea cups, some kind of biscuits, and some jelly that Lizzie called marmalade.

“I’ll tell you, Moose, that goofy-looking guy waited on us as if we were a king and queen or something. Believe me, I was very hungry after that balloon ride. The guy had to make three or four trips with more biscuits and jelly. Lizzie was such a dainty eater—with her little finger stuck out like some kind of royalty or something. She watched me gobble away and said, ‘My, Ernie, but you have a stout appetite.’ As I gorged she told me that she had had a very important father—one who changed the nature of religion in her country—and that she, too, was very important.

“Now, you know what I think of people who talk like that, so I just nodded to humor her. But then she explained that the island was her outlet and that we could not talk about anything serious today but just have fun. Then she said, ‘Come on, Ernie; let’s take a ride,’ and she led me into a little cove where a sailboat was moored and, Moose, before I tell you the weird thing that happened next, I need to take a walk.”

“All right, Unk; hurry back” I said, and as Uncle Ernest pulled himself up from the chair again, I spread out full-length on it and gazed up into our ancient maple. In one of the dead branches about half-way up I watched a woodpecker with black and white ladder stripes across his back break the silence with his sharp “rat-a-tat-tat.” He kept at it for a while and then I must have scared him because he launched himself and flew in a fast, straight line off in the direction of Bill Herman’s house.

You remember Bill don’t you, Nina? He was the old, one-eyed man who used to take me for rides on his farm wagon. Well, years later, when I grew up and had kids of my own, Bill’s brother died, and Bill became so disoriented that he’d walk the roads all day and night with an unearthly stare in his eyes. He had lost his senses, Nina, and one day Sam Caldwell and I took him down and admitted him to the state hospital in Cambridge. We knew that he was in pain and would die soon if we didn’t.

A couple of weeks later I went down to see how he was making out. I’ll tell you, I almost didn’t recognize him. He was outside under a tree, sitting on the edge of his bench and leaning with his hands on the crook of his cane, which was between his spread knees. He had the air of authority and I’m sure that he told the doctors and nurses the right way to do things. “How they treating you, Bill?” I asked.

“Well, booooyeeee,” he drawled in that singular gruff voice, “pretty fair … but, you know, they’ll scrub the hide off you down here, and ever morning I have the dickens of a time because they keep pokin’ all around my mouth with a stick. The messin’ with me is a botheration, but I reckon I can stand it a might longer.” I didn’t know what the “stick” was, Nina, until I was driving home … and then it hit me. They were brushing his teeth.  [To be continued Tuesday, 8/07/2012]

Days of Uncle Ernest -

Chesapeake City and the World – Lizzie, Chapter 4

“Yeah, Moose,” Uncle Ernest said—pausing to raise his glass, as I watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall with the swallow— “she was a beauty despite the strange get-up and the weirdest English accent I’d ever heard. Her talk was precise, educated but hard for me to understand. The closest thing I can compare her accent to is the speech of the older folks on Smith Island, off Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

“Her vowel sounds were drawn out and emphasized—really funny, and I couldn’t help giggling a bit when I first heard her. And when she saw me laugh she gave me a dark look that would have killed a lesser man. ‘What are you doing here, on my island, dressed like some fool?’ she fumed. ‘Don’t you remember that death is the penalty for setting foot on this island?’ Her ‘can’t,’ Moose, came out as ‘cauln’t.’

“ ‘Well, Miss,’ I said, surprised at her anger, ‘I just dropped in to take a look at all of those pretty flowers and shrubbery that you have all fixed up here, and I thought they looked gorgeous until you walked out; now they just look kind of dull.’ She then looked at me and, believe it or not, I saw her melt right before my eyes.”

“Geez, Unk, I hope I’ll be able to think like that if I ever need to in the future.”

“Uh Huh,” Uncle Ernest said with a quick wink, “but the strange thing is that I don’t usually think that quickly; something told me that she was very special. ‘Please pardon my rudeness kind sir,’ she said in a soft, gentle voice, and, Moose, she then took my hand and led me through that exquisite garden, pointing out which flowers and bushes were her favorites. Believe me, the place would put any of the botanical gardens in the world to shame.

“Then we sat in an elaborately-decorated double chair, under a huge chestnut tree, and I was surprised to see that she was still holding my hand. I took hold of both of her hands, pulled her closer to me, and whispered in her ear that she was prettier than a frog’s ear. She drew her head away to look me seriously in the eyes and, seeing a twinkle there, her face lit up with the prettiest smile I had ever seen. Always remember, Moose, that next to a compliment, the thing a woman likes best is humor.”

“Right, Unk,” I sneered. “What do I care about that?”

“Oh, you will,” Uncle Ernest said, smiling as he rose to go through that screen door again.

Shaking my head over such a dumb uncle, I leapt off the chair, and ran over towards a young rabbit that was nibbling the clover near our lilac bush. As I approached, he raised his head and hopped off towards our dirt lane. When I ran faster after him he zigzagged frantically across the lane into the weeds of our South Field.

That guy was too quick to catch so I walked back and sat on our steep hill—the hill that I had sledded down so many times that winter—and  looked down towards the woods where Dave-the-Colored-Man lived in his run-down, gray house in the clearing. He lived alone and, when I climbed his steps and tapped on the glass pane of his door, he was always glad to see me and treated me wonderfully.

The best things about visiting Dave were hearing him play his guitar and shooting his .22 rifle. I would say, “Can you play your guitar for me, Dave?”

“Sho thing, ah kin, Sonny,” he would say, and get it from another room, sit down heavily on the old couch (he was a big man), and pluck out boogie-woogie tunes for about a half hour. I loved it and can hear still the deep, rich tones of that marvelous guitar.

I kept asking for more until he completed his repertoire, and then he would chuckle deeply, put the instrument away, and say, “We kin shoot the gun ef you want to, Sonny.”

“All right,” I’d say. “Great!” Then Dave would get the rifle and a small box of .22 shorts. Dave would walk over to his wooden well top to set up six or seven tin cans while I sat on his back steps holding the gun with the barrel pointing towards the sky. When he came back he’d load a round into the chamber—it was a single shot rifle—and let me shoot first.

If I missed, his large moon-brown face would light up and his deep, booming laugh would echo across the clearing in the woods. He would shoot next and we’d take turns until most of the bullets were gone. Then I’d run on up the path toward home and he’d wave and call out in his resonant basso, “Come see me agin, Sonny.”  [To be continued Friday, 8/03/2012]

Days of Uncle Ernest - Chesapeake City and the World – Lizzie, Chapter 3

Days of Uncle Ernest -

Chesapeake City and the World – Lizzie, Chapter 3

“You know, Moose,” Uncle Ernest continued, “I was ready for an adventure that day in the park so many years ago. I ran home for some supplies—mainly a couple jugs of Ole Granddad—set up that balloon, climbed inside the basket, hit the inflation button, and rose gracefully above the busy streets of Wilmington on that splendid summer evening.

“Yes indeed, Moose, the wind was out of the west so I sailed east—over the Christina River, the Delaware River, and out above the beautiful Atlantic Ocean. When darkness fell I was still gliding east, so I just went to sleep. After all, the balloon was magical and I trusted completely the drunken guy who turned out to be a wizard or a genie or something. But I never could have imagined the power that was to come from that amazing flying basket.

“I awoke to the sound of cascading surf surging into the shore, and as I looked out at the sparkling whitecaps of the Atlantic, I realized that my basket was not moving but was hovering just above the shoreline, a gently-swaying cradle in the breeze. It was as if it had been waiting for me to wake before proceeding. And when I turned around, inland, I saw why.

“Extending as far as I could see—left or right or above—were pure-white chalk boulders. Moose, you wouldn’t believe the view as the balloon ascended: cliffs of chalk on one side and the blue Atlantic on the other. The balloon kept ascending high above the white cliffs and ocean for my birds-eye view—incredible!

“Then, abruptly, my basket drifted inward, over thatch-roofed cottages and small patchwork farms, some of which were being worked by farmers with large draft horses pulling odd-looking plows. Then my basket descended and started gliding above a river with sailboats of all sizes making their way in different directions. As I was swept along I could see a castle and a tower off to the right, and on the river, on the right, fairly close to the shore, was a wooded island.

“Well, that balloon sailed above the island, hovered above an opening in the trees, and descended softly next to a small cottage. When I climbed out I looked around and discovered that it was a perfect little park, a sort of miniature Longwood Gardens. I was about to take a stroll through the orchids when a young woman, dressed in a purple bathrobe, came out of the cottage wagging her finger at me.”

“Good grief, Unk! Who in the world was that?”

“Moose, I don’t know exactly,” he said, toasting me with his glass of bare ice cubes, “but when I get back I’ll tell you all about her; she was an amazing young lady for sure.”

When Uncle Ernest rose from the white-slatted chair with an audible effort of fatigue, I jumped off and skipped to the roots of our old maple tree. Springing up, I caught with both hands the lowest branch, did a chin-up, threw my leg over, and lay back, legs dangling and head resting on the crusted bark.

With the thoughts of Uncle Ernest’s eerie story in my head, I remembered the old Stubble’s house—the haunted house back in the woods. At the time, a fat, jolly colored man, Dave, lived in the house, and he said that sometimes at night, when he relaxed in his easy chair, he could hear footsteps on the stairs leading to the bedrooms.

He said, chuckling, that he would always sit at dusk and gaze at the wild animals meandering about in the clearing near his well (deer, raccoons, possums, and rabbits were plentiful back there in the middle of the woods). He said that when he went up to bed the chair would be facing the clearing, but when he came down in the morning the chair would be facing the stairs; the spirit of the house liked a different view. When I asked—wide-eyed at the weirdness—if the ghosts frightened him, he grinned as his eyes twinkled in that moon-round, shiny-brown face and told me, “No sahw, Sonny; da doan bodder me an ah doan bodder dem.”

Yes, indeed, Nina, I had and was to have a lot of fun with Dave-the-Colored-Man. I started thinking some other things about him, but just then I looked down and saw Uncle Ernest smiling up at me in his favorite white tank shirt and baggy pants, with his left hand on his hip and his right hand clutching the fresh drink. I turned, dropped, hung for a second or two from the limb, and plopped to the ground, anxious to hear what happened next.  [To be continued Tuesday, 7/31/2012]