Me and Uncle Emil have been hashing this story out for a few days. First it goes one way, then it up and reverses course. Can't seem to make up its mind. What we've been talking about is a pretty touchy subject for both of us. Kinda personal. Not something you can lay your hands on and its been around us for a couple of decades. When you let something like that out of the closet, you don't know where its gonna go and who it'll mess with on the way. And who'll decide to come back on you, thinking you're whining, being downright offensive or are totally Looney Tunes, when all you're doing is making an out of the ordinary observation. So please take the following as a case of merely stating the facts. At least so far as those facts are seen by a couple of Minnesotans sitting in a canoe on Hovde Lake up by the inland sea called Leech (with a couple of pauses now and then for the finest dead fisherman in the northwoods to play and land a small bass).
One second. Before I wade into this story I've got to warn you that Uncle Emil has his serious side. And he's not exactly who you think he might be. Once in a while his ramblings might even have a point of thought hidden in the absurdity. Sometimes those points are down there so far below the surface that I miss them completely. But that's my fault for not playing close attention. Balancing that out is his tendency to lighten up the load once in a while. He knows my brain has its soft spots and can't take too much wisdom in one sitting. So he'll shovel in a little at a time kinda like throwing food scraps on a compost heap. Over time and a few turnings, even garbage becomes gold. The man knows what he's doing so I give him his due.
Like I said a few entries ago, I'm not sure who made up who. Emil's name is a case in point. When I was wandering around Pequot Lakes gnawing on that turkey leg, it was more like I was trying to remember his name than make one up. When the name Emil popped up, there was no doubt. A 'that's it' moment. The name Emil had been hanging around the shadows of my life for as long as I could remember, just waiting to be recalled and given a face. I instinctively like its Old World, man of the soil, sound. Can't say going to grade school in the '50s would have been a good time to have such a name. But for an uncle of age, on the money. Emil knew who he was, where he was coming from and why he was there. It was me who had to be clued in. I be a little slow on the uptake.
When I was young, dumb and not willing to listen to anyone without a figurative club in his hand, Emil was there. Biding his time, waiting for me to ripen a bit. Since I wouldn't listen, once in a while, at just the right moment, he'd give me a push in the right direction. What might seem to be the dumbest thing I could do under a set of circumstances would sometimes work out to be the best move I could have made. Three days AWOL on the way to Vietnam prevented me from joining up with my training Company. They went to the 101st Airborne Division and a little bit of hell on Hamburger Hill. Instead I found myself winging south to the 9th Infantry, the first division pulled out of The Nam. The how, why or meaning is up to you. Me? I think Uncle Emil had his finger in that pie.
Lets get one thing straight. Our shoe sizes may differ but I'm about the same as most everyone else. Maybe with a little different angle of outlook but more or less the same. We're all in the same boat. Live, die, look for a meal and a little love in between. Variations on a theme. And if you're a man kind of person, the odds are you're dumb as a stump until your mid-thirties. I know for a fact I was. In those early years you think and act like you're gonna live forever and pretty much consider yourself God's unique gift to Life just waiting for recognition. That might be a little harsh but no more than a little. However, the flow of Life says an outlook like that can't go on forever. Either it goes or you go.
At least that was the gist of what me and Emil were talkin' about up on Hovde. The bass there aren't all that big. A thin two pounds is about tops. Not enough for them to eat, I suspect. On the day in question we were floating in the mouth of a little bay on the southwest side. The bass were hunkered down in the cabbage beds. There were a lot of them and all seemed anxious to spit our spinners in mid-air. Uncle Emil had a fondness for my squirrel tail, red bladed lures and lucky for him, so did the bass. Emil would break into rambles as the mood struck him. After a few of them I noticed the stories came after every third fish. Never varied. A Dutchman is a Dutchman. He'd invariably lip that third bass, hold it up sideways to admire the color, chuckle, give it an outward flip, rinse his hand, wipe it on his right thigh, pull out his ancient Zippo with RSN engraved on body then fire up a Lucky. The following conversation came in the four minute smoke breaks between popping drags.
"Remember that dream you had back eight or nine years after you killed me off just to win twenty bucks at a liar's contest? Twenty bucks? Think about that. Even the Bible says you should get at least thirty. By eight or nine years I'm referring to 1984. You wiped me out in 2002 your time and 1975 my time. Don't do the math. Truth be known, I'd been hanging around for your whole life but that contest was the moment I figured it was time for me to introduce myself, thank you. 'Spose it seems kind of odd that someone who never was, at least flesh and blood never was, could up and die. Believe me, I have just as hard a time getting the sense of it as you do. But here's my take on it. You ready for this?
I didn't exist until you were born. And even then I was nothing but a faceless form. Guess I didn't need a face at that time. But I would someday. Back then I could see you, give you a nudge in the right direction once in a while. But talk to you, do stuff like this with you ? Not in the cards.
Then somehow, someway you opened up a door for me and I walked through. At that very moment I was given a face and a body. I was born on that January, 1984 night. Born with as much of a past of my own as a newborn infant has. Nuthin'. Zip. So I grabbed on to whatever was floating around in your brain that more or less fit what I was gonna let you in on. But I screwed up. Had too much to say. Tried to get it all out at once. Came out as so much gobblety-gook. Sorry about that. But it sure as hell got your attention didn't it?
Hang on a second while I fire up another coffin nail... Let me skip ahead to the liar's contest. Up to that day I was no more than the memory you had of that dream and also the next one. You thought those were three separate guys but they were all me. Well not exactly but we'll get to that later. In the years after, I sure liked it when you visited once in a while to ask me questions. And you have to admit I never hesitated to give you answers. Honest answers. On the money, God's truth answers. You didn't always like what you heard but you knew I wasn't peein' on your shoes and telling you it was raining. But I still wasn't the real me, Emil. It as during the turkey leg munching saunter - I sure do like that word, saunter. Makes me feel like I'm making a pilgrimage - that the two of us came to an agreement as to who I really was. I needed you for that to happen. Do you understand what I'm saying? Lord knows you needed me. And I needed you so that I could have a life. Think of me as one of those paint-by-numbers. Until you opened the door, I was a blank sheet. I needed you to draw in the outlines of my life, then give it color. Together, we'll either get it done - whatever that 'it' might be - or we won't. Not even sure if it matters one way or the other.
Lets see now. January 1984. You're 36, almost 37. Broken ribs. Going back to work in a couple of days. Hadn't smoked dope for three days. I believe those numbers are accurate. Also on target was the feeling you had that smoking weed was becoming a problem. No one else seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary concerning your behavior but you sure did. Trouble was, you were too much of a wimp to make any big changes on your own. Typical baby boomer crap. Life too easy for your own good.
Your smoking closed the doors of your mind to a life with any real meaning. All those pseudo-intellectuals talking about drugs opening up the mind had their heads up their groovy kiesters. And you fell for their spiel simply to justify stupidity. Life calls for a person to stand on his own. No crutches. No regrets. But your doors were closed. And locked from the inside by some hookah wielding trollop who'd made herself at home in a place she had no right to be. And you'd invited her in. Dumbass move boy.
Then those three days came along. One small door opened, I stuck my foot in and set the kind of grandiose scene you'd take seriously. So would the little lady. For whatever reason you'd cleared your head, it was you who pushed it open (even though I might have given you a little nudge in the right direction).
Heckuva night, wasn't it? How many times have you been through thunder, lightning and a snowstorm at the same time? Don't look at me. I had nothing to do with the weather. Really. That was all Mother Nature's doing and she's way too grand an entity for the likes of me. Gonna have another smoke. You finish the story. I'll cut in when necessary."
"I found myself in a mountain scene. Felt like the Alps though I had no idea what the Alps might feel like. Vaguely I remember ascending from meadow to meadow. When I ran into any problems, there were always animals around to help me. Can't say that was much more than a feeling I had. Don't remember any specifics at all. The same with the climb. When I reached the top, I knew I'd come up through twelve levels of meadows but had no specific recollection of the how. Once in the twelfth meadow, I came upon a stone tower built on the rock ascent at the end of the valley. It also had twelve levels. On the twelfth story I found a seer, a kind of alchemist dressed like he'd stepped out of the pages of Faust."
Emil: "Yup. that was me. All that symbolically mystical twelfth level of the twelfth level was just the kind of mumbo-jumbo someone like you would fall for. The outfit I chose out of the corners of your memory was a kind of Nostradamus meets Whatever's-in-the-Closet. Nice touch, don't you think?"
Coolfront: "Gotta admit, I fell for it. You standing at that font-like stand, face hidden by your hood, water swirling away. Then explaining in great detail the meaning of the four quadrants on the sides the font's basin. Didn't have a clue what you were saying. It all came at me so fast. But I knew it was important. Just couldn't understand a single word of it."
Emil: "Easy enough. I was simply telling you, in detail, your entire life, beginning to end. But it all came out at once. Words piled on words piled on words. I also knew you were a generation from any understanding of it. Not a problem. Like you said yourself, you were under the impression you were God's gift to creation but had no reason for thinking so. Classic bonehead. Like you could understand anything of meaning at the time (Emil laughs softly)."
Coolfront: "So who was the old guy in the salt and pepper suit?"
Emil: "That was you. About the same as I am you. I realize at first you thought it was your father. A little later your ego kicked in and you thought it was Carl Jung. Double wrong. But it was only you. When a person is born, their whole life is locked into place. At least so far as the major events that effect the flow of existence. Lucky for us that's not as much as you might think. On the individual level, the piss-ant level, the one you can relate to, there's a wise old man in every baby boy's future. The function of that geezer is to coerce the boy into living long enough to become the geezer. Kind of strange isn't it? I am you and you are me but we're each of us our own man until we become one at the end. Somewhere in the middle, between the boy and the old man, we meet. Some write that meeting off as so much BS. Go out and buy a Corvette. You didn't."
Coolfront: "I appreciate your gift of the green and gold t-shirt with 'Why Do I Smoke?' written on the front. Running t-shirts were always important to me so I took the gift as my task. Turned out that the 'Why' was the challenge. Took a lot of digging and a lot of steps backward. Can't say I ever did find the answer. But the thought and work involved made it worthwhile. A man needs work. On all levels. A life unquestioned and all that happy crap....
And then a few days later you go and get Biblical on me."
Emil: (Laughs and lights another Lucky. All that smoking'll be the death of him. Guffaw.) "Someone should give me a medal for that, don't you think? Dressing up like Moses and showing you how to draw water from the ground with a staff. That's a hoot if there ever was one. Nearly strained a muscle pattin' myself on the back. Then you got the water flowing on your own, first try. I sure didn't see that coming. Made me smile. But when you fell into your own itty-bitty stream and thought you'd be swept into Deadman Lake. Now that made me laugh. 'Course you were too busy sputtering and squealing like a little girl to notice. How you could be so skilled and so clumsy at the same time was beyond me. Like Snoopy retrieving soap bubbles between his teeth and always tripping in the way back."
Coolfront: "Thanks a lot old man. Of course, then the wind roared and blew the big white pine down onto the cabin. I'll give you a 9.75 on the imagery. Crushed flat all the work I'd put into that structure. When I crawled into the wreckage, I immediately figured there was no point repairing the damage. Then, I saw the wood stove, fire and all, driven deep down in the earth where it could do no harm. At that moment I knew my life was not beyond repair. I looked around and I was alone."
Emil: "But you ain't now. So pass me another spinner. I've bent this one so many times its like to break in half. A red one if its not too much trouble for your Royal Boneheadedness."
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Pink Cadillac
Can't begin to say out of which blue Uncle Emil's '57 Chevy Nomad arose. That blue is beyond my ken. Simply put, when I pictured Emil in a car, that was the one I saw. I tried to change the image several times, ran a whole series of cars and trucks through my mental projector with no luck. Always turned out as a red and white Nomad. Interesting, eh? Until I saw him in it, the Nomad was nothing more than a name to me. But in my mind's eye, I knew what it had to look like. And so did Emil.
Truthfully, what I saw was actually a '56. However, I knew from almost buying one in 1967, that the biggest engine in a '56 Chevy wasn't the 283 V-8 I wanted Uncle Emil to have. So I tried my damnedest to make the change to a '57. Just didn't work. That later model didn't look like the car that my Uncle was driving so I guess I had to give in. Emil seemed to think that's a good idea.
Consider Herman Melville. Ahab seeks revenge and wants to kill Moby Dick, a white whale. But Melville has been to sea and knows the bigguns are the blue ones. So Moby Dick turns blue. Ahab pisses and moans in Melville's mind for months on end, "White, Herman, white. The whale has to be white." Finally, Melville relents and page by endless page of scratch outs, Moby turns white.
I guess the moral of that aside is that both Emil and Moby Dick swim in the same sea but the whale has a better sense of horse flesh.
We find Emil standing and stroking his chin, deep in thought. Fifty-one years of age. Kids grown and gone. A few bucks in his pocket, money in the bank. His life good and on cruise control. The idea of midlife crisis has never entered the man's head. What the hell was that to a man during the war years and the decade that followed? For Emil, life was about being honest with himself, not always an easy thing to figure out and do. But he gave it his best shot. He wasn't rich, wasn't poor, had his good times and his bad, enjoyed a beer once in a while and had a thing for brussel sprouts. Mostly he was thankful for being alive. He wasn't out to change the world in any way, shape or form. His aim in life was to not screw things up too much and hoped enough people felt the same way. Simple, doable and maybe even effective.
Where exactly do we find Emil standing, staring and stroking? The Chevrolet dealership in Alexandria eyeballing the '56 red and white, two door Nomad of course. Rumor had spread its spidery little fingers all the way north to the hinterland of Parkers Prairie that there was this hot shot wagon gathering dust on Gieske's lot for the better part of three seasons 'cuz nobody in his right thinking, Minnesota mind could see any possible use for a two door station wagon. How you gonna put the kids in the back or load groceries for the Pete's sake? Seems one of the Kleinschmidt twins, Weird Wally no less, had up and ordered it on a whim and fifty bucks down. Son of a gun, turned out his blushing bride wasn't nearly as pregnant as she'd claimed two months before their shotgun wedding. By then the Nomad had arrived. However, Terry was now having the second thoughts he should have had a few weeks earlier and could see no possible use for a station wagon regardless of the number of doors. Fortunately for both Wally and Gieske there was a way out. Seems there was also a new two door Bel Aire on the lot, kind of puke green in color, that Gieske was willing to part with for full sticker price. Terry thought it over for about three seconds and drove off a wiser young man.
So there stood Emil alongside a white shirt and tie wearing young buck named Rick. Both were appraising the merits of the slowly aging wagon in front of them. To this point in his life, the only thing Rick had been able to sell was his virginity for ten dollars down in St Cloud. Unloading the Nomad would be a major step up from his cherry popping though it would no doubt take longer than ten seconds. Emil quietly explained that he had $2200 cash, on the nose, to spend. Nothing more. Nothing less. Rick did the salesman thing and ran off to his boss. Old man Gieske got a chuckle out of the offer. Seems the total cost with transport, dealer prep and license was $3152. Seeing as how the car had been gathering dust for a while, he shagged Rick back with a counter offer of $3000. Long story short, Rick sweat through both shirt and tie on his repeated trots before Gieske came out to personally deal with Emil, his firm $2200 offer and the rubber banded roll of hundreds in his left hand. With Cheshire cat smile on face, the big shot offered his hand and said,
"Arlen Gieske's the name. Rick tells me you're Emil Schonnemann and it appears he wasn't pullin' the wool over my eyes about your wad of cash. But, and this is a big but, I ain't about to go any lower than twenty-four fifty on a thirty-one hundred dollar car. Particularly when I'm dealing with some bullet head from Parkers Prairie. So if you ain't interested in upping the ante, I strongly suggest you put your roll back in your pocket, point your pickup north and skedaddle on home."
All the while this speech was going on, Emil is quietly scanning Arlen Gieske's overly prosperous jowls and sunglass covered eyes. Doesn't look at the car. Hasn't once asked to test drive it. Heck, he knew what he was looking to buy. Didn't even kick the tires, though the idea of doing so purely for comic effect, had crossed his mind.
After Gieske's done letting off his steam, Uncle Emil slowly slid the roll back into his khakis and matter of factly asked, "How many times have you had to wash that car, Mr. Gieske?" Then turns and walks off toward his Ford.
Emil picked up the freshly washed, fully gassed Nomad at 2:00 the next afternoon and never looked back. He treated that car like he wanted it to last forever. Did all his own maintenance, had the engine rebuilt twice and the body re-sheetmetalled as needed. Washed once a week and waxed twice a year, it most always looked younger than its years. For Emil, that Chevy lasted as close to forever as his lifetime would allow. Drove to the moon and part of the way back with it. "Fanciest fishin' car north of the Cities," as he put it. "Sometimes it seems a shame that car couldn't have been treated nicer. Seen way too much gravel and backroads offa backroads." The Nomad was loaded with gear for another run North on that mid-summer morning he didn't wake up. Aunt Lena - don't want no Ole and Lena guff from you manure spreadin' Gopher lovers. My aunt's name was pronounced Layna, not Leena. Always was. - said we should plant the old bugger sitting in the driver's seat and leave the car fully loaded. But it didn't work out that way. Outside of the fishing pole that is.
All that background is well and good but not the modus operandi for this particular remembrance. Picture Emil's garage, oversized two car with single overhead door. Walls are indistinct and fade off into nothingness. If you're thinking dreamlike, that's close enough. On the clean but cracked floor sits his immaculate, red and polished aluminum, fifteen foot Lund on a light weight Dilly trailer, spare tire attached to stem. I'm on the front bench, Nothing Runs Like a Deere mug filled with Emil's patented diesel that cream can't penetrate, in hand. The mud is steaming 'cuz its two below outside, topped off with a stiff wind that smells like Alaska by way of South Dakota. Emil's in the stern seat fiddling with the Johnson, almost but not quite, going vroom, vroom. Inside the garage its warm enough to get by with only three layers, stocking cap and a pair of choppers. I've had mine since I was 15. The right mitt has a cigarette burn from cupping Chesterfields before I could legally smoke. Me and my friends spent a lot of time outdoors getting more than our share of fresh air during our pubescent years. Cigarettes will do that to you. Done fiddlin' for the moment, Uncle Emil turns toward me, picks up the humuhumunukunukuapua'a mug I'd brought him from my year at Schofield Barracks, takes a smoking sip and starts:
"Seems to me I said something about an Elvis Presley story a couple of days ago. Don't prejudge me about my feelings towards Elvis before I finish this story. I wasn't one of those people who thought he was Satan incarnate. Also wasn't anything close to a fan either. He was just somebody you couldn't ignore back then.
It might have been '58 but most likely it was '57 that me and Lena were down in Memphis. Lena's cousin Bobby Lee had passed away so we decided to drive down for the funeral. Kinda made a vacation out of it. Figured since Bobby Lee was dead, he didn't much care what we did. But it was a chance for Lena to visit family. It'd been an heckuva long winter in Parkers and the thought of May in the south sounded kinda fun. The idea of all that good southern cooking might of had a little to do with it also. So we packed up the wagon and headed on down the river.
I don't want to jump ahead of myself but before I forget it... You probably never saw the picture of Elvis standing in front of his pink '55 Cadillac and mugging for the camera while a Memphis cop was writing him a ticket. Most people who see that photo assume that Elvis was gettin' a speeding ticket. Well, he wasn't. And that's not the only photo of that scene. But its the only one with just Elvis and the cop in it.
So at the funeral lunch I got to talking with a couple of local boys, Bobby Lee's buddies, who, it turns out, were hot into bass fishing. They gave me a bunch of grief about the 'bait sized' bass we had in Minnesota. Not to be out done, I assured them that it was true our bass were smaller than their big ol' bass but ours were also a whole lot smarter. Kind of like the anglers in the Northland. That brought on a bunch of hootin' and hollerin' from those boys. Good time.
As the lunch wound down, we worked our way around to the subject of southern cooking. And in Memphis that meant ribs with red beans and rice, And ribs meant a place called The Rendezvous. Said it was up a back alley off to the side of a hotel called The Peabody. "Y'all know. The one with the ducks on parade." Whatever the heck that meant. Bunch a goobers.
So me and Lena hopped in the Nomad the next day and headed to downtown Memphis for lunch. We parked. Dumped a fistful of nickels in the meter and started to wander. My plan was if we circled The Peabody and kept our eyes open, we'd find the joint for sure. Second trip around, two strangers and a doorman later, we finally saw the sign. Ribs were definitely okay but nothin' to write home about. Me? I kinda like the oven baked ribs with sauerkraut down at Chick's in Melrose a whole lot more. Service wasn't all that hot either. Grain Belt? Never heard of it.
I learned a lesson that day about choosing a parking spot when south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Given the choice, don't ever park with the rear end of your car butted up close to a crosswalk if there's any chance some duck-tailed halfwit in a pink '55 Caddy is anywhere within ten miles. A spin of tires, a cloud of burnt rubber on a right turn and bingo! Left tail light's spread all over the street. Bad move on his part. That pink Caddy was about the only one in the country back before the days of Mary Kay and there was about a half dozen police cars parked down the block in front of a donut shop. Looked like one of those old Keystone Cop movies the way those boys in blue piled out onto the sidewalk.
So there's Elvis mugging for the camera. White pants, penny loafers, blue, striped short sleeved shirt with the sleeves turned up once. Cop writing a ticket for reckless driving. Me and Lena back by the Nomad keeping, as requested, the hell out of the way. After the photographer from the paper left, the cop tore up the ticket. Life of a big shot in a small potatas town.
Then it all turned around. Elvis invites us out to his new house just south of town. Nice spread. Lena and I end up in the kitchen with his mom Gladys and his dad Vernon. Salt of the earth people with no pretensions. Elvis wanders off saying he's got a phone call to make. By now its late afternoon and Gladys asks if we all are hungry. So Lena says, "If its no trouble Mrs. Presley, how about the two of us make some sandwiches?"
That was the first time I ever had a peanut butter, banana and bacon combo. Better than those ribs any day. Went well with the Pepsi and that's coming from a dyed in the wool, as you well know, Coke man.
Elvis joined us for the sandwiches. Turned out he'd called the body shop that had done the pink paint job on his car. They said they'd do whatever it took to make the Nomad look like new and have it ready in the morning.
Anyhow, that's how me and Lena got to spend the night in Graceland. Elvis said we could come back anytime. He was a little odd in some ways but underneath all the Brylcream, he was a good kid. With a heavy foot once in a while.
By now the coffee was cold. Uncle Emil dropped his Lucky stub in the cup and said it was time to go in and warm up. At the door he told me there were a lot more road stories where that one came from.
Truthfully, what I saw was actually a '56. However, I knew from almost buying one in 1967, that the biggest engine in a '56 Chevy wasn't the 283 V-8 I wanted Uncle Emil to have. So I tried my damnedest to make the change to a '57. Just didn't work. That later model didn't look like the car that my Uncle was driving so I guess I had to give in. Emil seemed to think that's a good idea.
Consider Herman Melville. Ahab seeks revenge and wants to kill Moby Dick, a white whale. But Melville has been to sea and knows the bigguns are the blue ones. So Moby Dick turns blue. Ahab pisses and moans in Melville's mind for months on end, "White, Herman, white. The whale has to be white." Finally, Melville relents and page by endless page of scratch outs, Moby turns white.
I guess the moral of that aside is that both Emil and Moby Dick swim in the same sea but the whale has a better sense of horse flesh.
We find Emil standing and stroking his chin, deep in thought. Fifty-one years of age. Kids grown and gone. A few bucks in his pocket, money in the bank. His life good and on cruise control. The idea of midlife crisis has never entered the man's head. What the hell was that to a man during the war years and the decade that followed? For Emil, life was about being honest with himself, not always an easy thing to figure out and do. But he gave it his best shot. He wasn't rich, wasn't poor, had his good times and his bad, enjoyed a beer once in a while and had a thing for brussel sprouts. Mostly he was thankful for being alive. He wasn't out to change the world in any way, shape or form. His aim in life was to not screw things up too much and hoped enough people felt the same way. Simple, doable and maybe even effective.
Where exactly do we find Emil standing, staring and stroking? The Chevrolet dealership in Alexandria eyeballing the '56 red and white, two door Nomad of course. Rumor had spread its spidery little fingers all the way north to the hinterland of Parkers Prairie that there was this hot shot wagon gathering dust on Gieske's lot for the better part of three seasons 'cuz nobody in his right thinking, Minnesota mind could see any possible use for a two door station wagon. How you gonna put the kids in the back or load groceries for the Pete's sake? Seems one of the Kleinschmidt twins, Weird Wally no less, had up and ordered it on a whim and fifty bucks down. Son of a gun, turned out his blushing bride wasn't nearly as pregnant as she'd claimed two months before their shotgun wedding. By then the Nomad had arrived. However, Terry was now having the second thoughts he should have had a few weeks earlier and could see no possible use for a station wagon regardless of the number of doors. Fortunately for both Wally and Gieske there was a way out. Seems there was also a new two door Bel Aire on the lot, kind of puke green in color, that Gieske was willing to part with for full sticker price. Terry thought it over for about three seconds and drove off a wiser young man.
So there stood Emil alongside a white shirt and tie wearing young buck named Rick. Both were appraising the merits of the slowly aging wagon in front of them. To this point in his life, the only thing Rick had been able to sell was his virginity for ten dollars down in St Cloud. Unloading the Nomad would be a major step up from his cherry popping though it would no doubt take longer than ten seconds. Emil quietly explained that he had $2200 cash, on the nose, to spend. Nothing more. Nothing less. Rick did the salesman thing and ran off to his boss. Old man Gieske got a chuckle out of the offer. Seems the total cost with transport, dealer prep and license was $3152. Seeing as how the car had been gathering dust for a while, he shagged Rick back with a counter offer of $3000. Long story short, Rick sweat through both shirt and tie on his repeated trots before Gieske came out to personally deal with Emil, his firm $2200 offer and the rubber banded roll of hundreds in his left hand. With Cheshire cat smile on face, the big shot offered his hand and said,
"Arlen Gieske's the name. Rick tells me you're Emil Schonnemann and it appears he wasn't pullin' the wool over my eyes about your wad of cash. But, and this is a big but, I ain't about to go any lower than twenty-four fifty on a thirty-one hundred dollar car. Particularly when I'm dealing with some bullet head from Parkers Prairie. So if you ain't interested in upping the ante, I strongly suggest you put your roll back in your pocket, point your pickup north and skedaddle on home."
All the while this speech was going on, Emil is quietly scanning Arlen Gieske's overly prosperous jowls and sunglass covered eyes. Doesn't look at the car. Hasn't once asked to test drive it. Heck, he knew what he was looking to buy. Didn't even kick the tires, though the idea of doing so purely for comic effect, had crossed his mind.
After Gieske's done letting off his steam, Uncle Emil slowly slid the roll back into his khakis and matter of factly asked, "How many times have you had to wash that car, Mr. Gieske?" Then turns and walks off toward his Ford.
Emil picked up the freshly washed, fully gassed Nomad at 2:00 the next afternoon and never looked back. He treated that car like he wanted it to last forever. Did all his own maintenance, had the engine rebuilt twice and the body re-sheetmetalled as needed. Washed once a week and waxed twice a year, it most always looked younger than its years. For Emil, that Chevy lasted as close to forever as his lifetime would allow. Drove to the moon and part of the way back with it. "Fanciest fishin' car north of the Cities," as he put it. "Sometimes it seems a shame that car couldn't have been treated nicer. Seen way too much gravel and backroads offa backroads." The Nomad was loaded with gear for another run North on that mid-summer morning he didn't wake up. Aunt Lena - don't want no Ole and Lena guff from you manure spreadin' Gopher lovers. My aunt's name was pronounced Layna, not Leena. Always was. - said we should plant the old bugger sitting in the driver's seat and leave the car fully loaded. But it didn't work out that way. Outside of the fishing pole that is.
All that background is well and good but not the modus operandi for this particular remembrance. Picture Emil's garage, oversized two car with single overhead door. Walls are indistinct and fade off into nothingness. If you're thinking dreamlike, that's close enough. On the clean but cracked floor sits his immaculate, red and polished aluminum, fifteen foot Lund on a light weight Dilly trailer, spare tire attached to stem. I'm on the front bench, Nothing Runs Like a Deere mug filled with Emil's patented diesel that cream can't penetrate, in hand. The mud is steaming 'cuz its two below outside, topped off with a stiff wind that smells like Alaska by way of South Dakota. Emil's in the stern seat fiddling with the Johnson, almost but not quite, going vroom, vroom. Inside the garage its warm enough to get by with only three layers, stocking cap and a pair of choppers. I've had mine since I was 15. The right mitt has a cigarette burn from cupping Chesterfields before I could legally smoke. Me and my friends spent a lot of time outdoors getting more than our share of fresh air during our pubescent years. Cigarettes will do that to you. Done fiddlin' for the moment, Uncle Emil turns toward me, picks up the humuhumunukunukuapua'a mug I'd brought him from my year at Schofield Barracks, takes a smoking sip and starts:
"Seems to me I said something about an Elvis Presley story a couple of days ago. Don't prejudge me about my feelings towards Elvis before I finish this story. I wasn't one of those people who thought he was Satan incarnate. Also wasn't anything close to a fan either. He was just somebody you couldn't ignore back then.
It might have been '58 but most likely it was '57 that me and Lena were down in Memphis. Lena's cousin Bobby Lee had passed away so we decided to drive down for the funeral. Kinda made a vacation out of it. Figured since Bobby Lee was dead, he didn't much care what we did. But it was a chance for Lena to visit family. It'd been an heckuva long winter in Parkers and the thought of May in the south sounded kinda fun. The idea of all that good southern cooking might of had a little to do with it also. So we packed up the wagon and headed on down the river.
I don't want to jump ahead of myself but before I forget it... You probably never saw the picture of Elvis standing in front of his pink '55 Cadillac and mugging for the camera while a Memphis cop was writing him a ticket. Most people who see that photo assume that Elvis was gettin' a speeding ticket. Well, he wasn't. And that's not the only photo of that scene. But its the only one with just Elvis and the cop in it.
So at the funeral lunch I got to talking with a couple of local boys, Bobby Lee's buddies, who, it turns out, were hot into bass fishing. They gave me a bunch of grief about the 'bait sized' bass we had in Minnesota. Not to be out done, I assured them that it was true our bass were smaller than their big ol' bass but ours were also a whole lot smarter. Kind of like the anglers in the Northland. That brought on a bunch of hootin' and hollerin' from those boys. Good time.
As the lunch wound down, we worked our way around to the subject of southern cooking. And in Memphis that meant ribs with red beans and rice, And ribs meant a place called The Rendezvous. Said it was up a back alley off to the side of a hotel called The Peabody. "Y'all know. The one with the ducks on parade." Whatever the heck that meant. Bunch a goobers.
So me and Lena hopped in the Nomad the next day and headed to downtown Memphis for lunch. We parked. Dumped a fistful of nickels in the meter and started to wander. My plan was if we circled The Peabody and kept our eyes open, we'd find the joint for sure. Second trip around, two strangers and a doorman later, we finally saw the sign. Ribs were definitely okay but nothin' to write home about. Me? I kinda like the oven baked ribs with sauerkraut down at Chick's in Melrose a whole lot more. Service wasn't all that hot either. Grain Belt? Never heard of it.
I learned a lesson that day about choosing a parking spot when south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Given the choice, don't ever park with the rear end of your car butted up close to a crosswalk if there's any chance some duck-tailed halfwit in a pink '55 Caddy is anywhere within ten miles. A spin of tires, a cloud of burnt rubber on a right turn and bingo! Left tail light's spread all over the street. Bad move on his part. That pink Caddy was about the only one in the country back before the days of Mary Kay and there was about a half dozen police cars parked down the block in front of a donut shop. Looked like one of those old Keystone Cop movies the way those boys in blue piled out onto the sidewalk.
So there's Elvis mugging for the camera. White pants, penny loafers, blue, striped short sleeved shirt with the sleeves turned up once. Cop writing a ticket for reckless driving. Me and Lena back by the Nomad keeping, as requested, the hell out of the way. After the photographer from the paper left, the cop tore up the ticket. Life of a big shot in a small potatas town.
Then it all turned around. Elvis invites us out to his new house just south of town. Nice spread. Lena and I end up in the kitchen with his mom Gladys and his dad Vernon. Salt of the earth people with no pretensions. Elvis wanders off saying he's got a phone call to make. By now its late afternoon and Gladys asks if we all are hungry. So Lena says, "If its no trouble Mrs. Presley, how about the two of us make some sandwiches?"
That was the first time I ever had a peanut butter, banana and bacon combo. Better than those ribs any day. Went well with the Pepsi and that's coming from a dyed in the wool, as you well know, Coke man.
Elvis joined us for the sandwiches. Turned out he'd called the body shop that had done the pink paint job on his car. They said they'd do whatever it took to make the Nomad look like new and have it ready in the morning.
Anyhow, that's how me and Lena got to spend the night in Graceland. Elvis said we could come back anytime. He was a little odd in some ways but underneath all the Brylcream, he was a good kid. With a heavy foot once in a while.
By now the coffee was cold. Uncle Emil dropped his Lucky stub in the cup and said it was time to go in and warm up. At the door he told me there were a lot more road stories where that one came from.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Red and Black Plaid Swimtrunks
The three of us are heading south tomorrow. Uncle Emil hasn't seen the ocean since his days with the Royal Swedish Navy and says he's 'hot to trot.' He's had his chances in the past but always chose to stay near his home in the Northwoods. Don't know why he's decided to hook onto me lately but I'm not complaining. Its my pleasure.
Emil always was a fanciful sort, 'a regular fart in a lantern' and assures me that though his path takes him where it wants, it will surely cross ours now and then. Took me a minute or two to get a handle on what he was saying with, "Your trail runs parallel to sea level, left-right. Mine rises and falls like a roller coaster on the dark side of time. I'm always with you but sometimes I'm below. Sometimes above. When we cross paths, I'll yell out the window from my '57 Chevy Nomad. Great wagon. Holds up well in Eternity. No salt on the roads there. Whatever I call out, you can claim as your own. Or just say, 'Emil sent me.' See you somewhere down the road, maybe when you see The King in Memphis. Got a story about him."
With that I'll say goodbye for a day or two. Maybe more. Maybe less.
Coolfront
Emil always was a fanciful sort, 'a regular fart in a lantern' and assures me that though his path takes him where it wants, it will surely cross ours now and then. Took me a minute or two to get a handle on what he was saying with, "Your trail runs parallel to sea level, left-right. Mine rises and falls like a roller coaster on the dark side of time. I'm always with you but sometimes I'm below. Sometimes above. When we cross paths, I'll yell out the window from my '57 Chevy Nomad. Great wagon. Holds up well in Eternity. No salt on the roads there. Whatever I call out, you can claim as your own. Or just say, 'Emil sent me.' See you somewhere down the road, maybe when you see The King in Memphis. Got a story about him."
With that I'll say goodbye for a day or two. Maybe more. Maybe less.
Coolfront
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Ode to Bruno
Uncle Emil was a master of factual information. And, more to the point, claimed to hold a Doctorate of Factual Fabrication from the University of Imagination. Even had a diploma to that effect made up which held a place of honor above his fish cleaning table next to the shed. In short, he knew enough to be dangerous. When it came to numbers, he placed a lot of faith in the primes. He'd fire them towards the unsuspecting innocent at .713C ( the speed of light) +/- 2.371%. Get my drift? Sports trivia? He could tell you the name and credentials for Joe Dimaggio's proctologist. Whether the Yankee Clipper ever had one, held no interest for my Uncle. The juxtaposition of the dignified Dimaggio and the normalcy of his bodily functions tickled Emil pink. Fact was foremost in my Uncle's mind. Truth merely coincidental. Case in point:
I was about nine years old at the time. We were fishing for bluegills on Lake Aaron a few miles west of town. Uncle Emil liked the Old Testament connections of that name. He was heard to claim after church that if it wasn't for Aaron, the Israelites would still be in Egypt waiting for Moses to overcome his stammer and spit the words out to Pharaoh. It was a good fishing morning on a good panfish lake. Worms, red and white bobber, easily unhooked sunfish; I could handle all of that by myself allowing Emil time to fire up a Lucky and let his mind drift. When he lit up a smoke and was quiet for a few seconds you knew the spirit was upon him. Time to put your seat belt on for there was a mighty crock about to arrive. Of course, I bought his ramblings hook, line and sinker. Kinda like the sunnies we were throwing in the basket. At nine, I took it all as Gospel. When older I developed my suspicions but was smart enough to keep my mouth shut. Not all of his yarns were gold but there was treasure enough to make digging through worth my while.
"I was just about your age Markie me boy, when my big brothers, your uncles Edwin and Agnar, decided it was time for me to see my first Millers' game down in the Cities. That was in the summer of 19 and 15. Got a ride to the train in Alex on the back of a wagon. It was quite an adventure. Took two days round trip.
Back in those days the Millers were the terror of the American Association. Had a manager by the name of 'Pongo Joe' Cantillon. Where the Pongo came from, I never did find out but he was as feisty a cuss as ever ruled a dugout. But he wasn't the reason I was all fired up about our trip down to old Nicollet Park. Gotta remember, back in '15 Nicollet Park was still pretty new. Not like the relic they tore down last year. Anyhow, the reason the three of us went there was to see the Millers' new phenom, Bruno Brontecewski. According to the Independent, nobody in the cities called him by his real name. Called him 'The Brontosaurus', or Bronto for short. Like his namesake, Bronto was a big boy but the real reason they called him that was the widespread rumor that he could be found on his off days, down on all fours in the water, along the Minnehaha Creek in South Minneapolis, tearin' up and grazing on arrowroot just like a real Brontosaurus. Yup, Bronto was an odd duck. Could ya pass me the worms?
But don't think for one moment Bronto didn't have power. Home runs, well, what few there were, landed on roof tops all the way across Lake Street. Pop-ups brought rain. Problem was he had a few issues with pitch selection. Couldn't for the life of him hit a curve ball. Change ups baffled him. His swing was so slow at times you couldn't tell if he was swinging too late for the last pitch or too early for the next. Fastballs? Once in a while, with an east wind blowing in from right field and a falling barometer between 29.61 and 29.57 inches, he'd really tag that pellet. Most times foul but almost always over five hundred feet. And that was in the old days of the dead ball.
Funny thing was Bronto could lay into a spit ball, grease ball or even a snot ball, like there was no tomorrow. Pongo Joe said that was because those pitches were illegal, not on the level, much the same as Bronto's uppercutting swing. By the time a spitter was fallin' off the table, The Brontosaurus' swing was liftin' off the deck. Then whammo! Lake Street here we come.
The game we saw against Indianapolis went twelve innings. Bronto did himself proud. Struck out four times on thirteen pitches. In the bottom of the twelfth with the bases loaded, Pongo pinch hit for Bronto with a nun he chose at random from the stands. We were sitting no more than ten feet from her. Never saw anybody finger the beads as fast as that woman. Like the trooper all nuns are, Sister Mary Margaret, that's what the Trib said her name was, took one on the bean and the winning run scored. All the fans rushed the field, hoisted Sister's unconscious body to the sky and paraded around the field for half an hour. What a game!
That was the only season Brontecewski played in Minneapolis. Tried my best to follow his descent in the pages of the Sporting News but information was sketchy at best. He worked his way around the lower minors for a few years, then disappeared. Rumor had it his last stop was down in Bolivia playing third base with the La Paz Tinhorns. Rock bottom at 13,000 feet.
About six years ago he was found dead on the sidewalk outside the fleabag where he was living in Lincoln, Nebraska. Seems he'd been struck and killed instantly by a ricocheting meteorite. Coupla days later he turned up as a mention in the Tribune's obituaries. Some cub reporter with too much time on his hands headlined the citation with 'Brontosaurus is Extinct.' If that ain't sick, what is?'
With an exhalation of relief, Uncle Emil fired up another Lucky Strike.
I was about nine years old at the time. We were fishing for bluegills on Lake Aaron a few miles west of town. Uncle Emil liked the Old Testament connections of that name. He was heard to claim after church that if it wasn't for Aaron, the Israelites would still be in Egypt waiting for Moses to overcome his stammer and spit the words out to Pharaoh. It was a good fishing morning on a good panfish lake. Worms, red and white bobber, easily unhooked sunfish; I could handle all of that by myself allowing Emil time to fire up a Lucky and let his mind drift. When he lit up a smoke and was quiet for a few seconds you knew the spirit was upon him. Time to put your seat belt on for there was a mighty crock about to arrive. Of course, I bought his ramblings hook, line and sinker. Kinda like the sunnies we were throwing in the basket. At nine, I took it all as Gospel. When older I developed my suspicions but was smart enough to keep my mouth shut. Not all of his yarns were gold but there was treasure enough to make digging through worth my while.
"I was just about your age Markie me boy, when my big brothers, your uncles Edwin and Agnar, decided it was time for me to see my first Millers' game down in the Cities. That was in the summer of 19 and 15. Got a ride to the train in Alex on the back of a wagon. It was quite an adventure. Took two days round trip.
Back in those days the Millers were the terror of the American Association. Had a manager by the name of 'Pongo Joe' Cantillon. Where the Pongo came from, I never did find out but he was as feisty a cuss as ever ruled a dugout. But he wasn't the reason I was all fired up about our trip down to old Nicollet Park. Gotta remember, back in '15 Nicollet Park was still pretty new. Not like the relic they tore down last year. Anyhow, the reason the three of us went there was to see the Millers' new phenom, Bruno Brontecewski. According to the Independent, nobody in the cities called him by his real name. Called him 'The Brontosaurus', or Bronto for short. Like his namesake, Bronto was a big boy but the real reason they called him that was the widespread rumor that he could be found on his off days, down on all fours in the water, along the Minnehaha Creek in South Minneapolis, tearin' up and grazing on arrowroot just like a real Brontosaurus. Yup, Bronto was an odd duck. Could ya pass me the worms?
But don't think for one moment Bronto didn't have power. Home runs, well, what few there were, landed on roof tops all the way across Lake Street. Pop-ups brought rain. Problem was he had a few issues with pitch selection. Couldn't for the life of him hit a curve ball. Change ups baffled him. His swing was so slow at times you couldn't tell if he was swinging too late for the last pitch or too early for the next. Fastballs? Once in a while, with an east wind blowing in from right field and a falling barometer between 29.61 and 29.57 inches, he'd really tag that pellet. Most times foul but almost always over five hundred feet. And that was in the old days of the dead ball.
Funny thing was Bronto could lay into a spit ball, grease ball or even a snot ball, like there was no tomorrow. Pongo Joe said that was because those pitches were illegal, not on the level, much the same as Bronto's uppercutting swing. By the time a spitter was fallin' off the table, The Brontosaurus' swing was liftin' off the deck. Then whammo! Lake Street here we come.
The game we saw against Indianapolis went twelve innings. Bronto did himself proud. Struck out four times on thirteen pitches. In the bottom of the twelfth with the bases loaded, Pongo pinch hit for Bronto with a nun he chose at random from the stands. We were sitting no more than ten feet from her. Never saw anybody finger the beads as fast as that woman. Like the trooper all nuns are, Sister Mary Margaret, that's what the Trib said her name was, took one on the bean and the winning run scored. All the fans rushed the field, hoisted Sister's unconscious body to the sky and paraded around the field for half an hour. What a game!
That was the only season Brontecewski played in Minneapolis. Tried my best to follow his descent in the pages of the Sporting News but information was sketchy at best. He worked his way around the lower minors for a few years, then disappeared. Rumor had it his last stop was down in Bolivia playing third base with the La Paz Tinhorns. Rock bottom at 13,000 feet.
About six years ago he was found dead on the sidewalk outside the fleabag where he was living in Lincoln, Nebraska. Seems he'd been struck and killed instantly by a ricocheting meteorite. Coupla days later he turned up as a mention in the Tribune's obituaries. Some cub reporter with too much time on his hands headlined the citation with 'Brontosaurus is Extinct.' If that ain't sick, what is?'
With an exhalation of relief, Uncle Emil fired up another Lucky Strike.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
My Apologies to Jonathan Swift
Now and then I sit back and remember one of the stories my Uncle Emil told me. Sometimes as a little boy on his knee. Sometimes in his Lund when we were out fishing. I was a dumb kid - no, make that an innocent kid - and usually took him at his word. In my mind, the mental picture he was painting for me was gospel. Who was I to doubt him? Simply being around his laugh and the way he carried smiles in his pocket and put them on the faces of those he met wherever he went, told me he was something special.
Seems I was his outlet for the oddities that arose in his brain but couldn't be let out back in those older, more proper times. I'd listen and quickly fall in step with his line of questionable logic. Yes, he was planting seeds in my mind. Don't know if that was intentional but those seeds came to sprout, then grow to the beautiful weeds now living between my ears. As I said before, I can't really say where those thoughts come from. Could be Emil (At 63, I think I'm old enough to call him that once in a while). Could be me. But mostly I believe the weirdness comes from the same place for me as it did for Emil. More than that I can't say 'cause I'd only be guessing.
What kind of things? Well, things kind of like yesterday. Lois and I were walking at the Mall of America. Can't say I'm fond of walking at the mall but Lois isn't a fan of cold weather. Seeing as how it's January in Minnesota, if we're gonna go for a walk together.... During a ten second period several facts got together in my brain, danced around for a moment or two, liked what they saw, then let me in on their idea of fun. On January 4th the Mega Millions jackpot rose to $355 million dollars. What could a person do with all that money? On New Year's Eve and Day, the Sci-Fi Channel ran its traditional twenty-four hours of Twilight Zone Episodes. Same old classics. Fun to watch in snatches and to marvel at how young William Shatner once was. During commercial breaks, the ASPCA ran videos of sad faced dogs and cats staring imploringly at the camera through the bars of their cages, with appropriate background music setting the mood.
Putting those two things together and adding a couple of seasonings I blurted out to Lois that if I won the lottery I'd buy up each and every one of those poor beasts. I'd treat them to the best couple of days of their lives. I'd be a regular Canine and Feline Mother Teresa of Minneapolis. Of course, to complete the Mother Teresa analogy, those few days of pleasure would have to be the last of their little lives. The City of Minneapolis has this humongous wood chipper powered by a Detroit Diesel truck engine. Ain't nothin' like the deep throated grumble of a Detroit Diesel turning a mature elm tree to powder. Well, you get the idea. After our visit to the chipper, the kitties and puppies would be squeezed into twelve cubic foot blocks, flash frozen and used to build this year's ice palace on Lake Phalen for the St. Paul Winter Carnival. Act of love between the Twin Cities.
Poor, poor puppies. Poor, poor kitties.
Oops. Did I say something wrong again? Take it up with Emil.
Seems I was his outlet for the oddities that arose in his brain but couldn't be let out back in those older, more proper times. I'd listen and quickly fall in step with his line of questionable logic. Yes, he was planting seeds in my mind. Don't know if that was intentional but those seeds came to sprout, then grow to the beautiful weeds now living between my ears. As I said before, I can't really say where those thoughts come from. Could be Emil (At 63, I think I'm old enough to call him that once in a while). Could be me. But mostly I believe the weirdness comes from the same place for me as it did for Emil. More than that I can't say 'cause I'd only be guessing.
What kind of things? Well, things kind of like yesterday. Lois and I were walking at the Mall of America. Can't say I'm fond of walking at the mall but Lois isn't a fan of cold weather. Seeing as how it's January in Minnesota, if we're gonna go for a walk together.... During a ten second period several facts got together in my brain, danced around for a moment or two, liked what they saw, then let me in on their idea of fun. On January 4th the Mega Millions jackpot rose to $355 million dollars. What could a person do with all that money? On New Year's Eve and Day, the Sci-Fi Channel ran its traditional twenty-four hours of Twilight Zone Episodes. Same old classics. Fun to watch in snatches and to marvel at how young William Shatner once was. During commercial breaks, the ASPCA ran videos of sad faced dogs and cats staring imploringly at the camera through the bars of their cages, with appropriate background music setting the mood.
Putting those two things together and adding a couple of seasonings I blurted out to Lois that if I won the lottery I'd buy up each and every one of those poor beasts. I'd treat them to the best couple of days of their lives. I'd be a regular Canine and Feline Mother Teresa of Minneapolis. Of course, to complete the Mother Teresa analogy, those few days of pleasure would have to be the last of their little lives. The City of Minneapolis has this humongous wood chipper powered by a Detroit Diesel truck engine. Ain't nothin' like the deep throated grumble of a Detroit Diesel turning a mature elm tree to powder. Well, you get the idea. After our visit to the chipper, the kitties and puppies would be squeezed into twelve cubic foot blocks, flash frozen and used to build this year's ice palace on Lake Phalen for the St. Paul Winter Carnival. Act of love between the Twin Cities.
Poor, poor puppies. Poor, poor kitties.
Oops. Did I say something wrong again? Take it up with Emil.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Whence Uncle Emil?
'Long about a decade ago I gave birth to and killed off my Uncle Emil in less than two hours. Poor Uncle Emil. When I rose on that fateful morning he didn't exist. At least not in what is commonly referred to as the real world. Where did he come from? Who knows? Where do any ideas come from? How zen is that? How many rhetorical questions can I ask in a row?
Being it was the Fourth of July week my wife Lois and I were up north at our cabin. The cabin is that and nothing more. Less than a thousand square feet, no running water save the pitcher pump out front, possibly the finest outhouse in the northwoods and not on a recreational lake. A cabin. On Independence Day we found ourselves in Pequot Lakes for their annual parade and bed races. Alongside the site for the races was a haystack for kids to rummage through in search of treasure and ... ta-dah! … around the corner a flatbed stage with microphone for a liar's contest. I'd heard of such contests, been mildly intrigued by the idea but never considered myself to be remotely in the league with general store sittin', snus juice spittin', old timers who'd spent years grooming both their yarnin' skills and gathering the appropriate wardrobe. But I was intrigued by the possibility of what was up there on the trailer bed. Drawn to it. Keep in mind that I'm also a German/Swede hybrid and border on being pathologically afraid of making a fool of myself in public.
With a 'hmmm' in my mind I bought a smoked turkey leg across the street and with Lois, wandered the town. During the stroll Uncle Emil drifted into my brain, made himself comfortable and somehow bound myself to him, if you get my drift. A half hour later the three of us sauntered back to the flatbed where we listened a wide range of stories of varying degrees of humor. The whole time my mind was elsewhere, traipsing through an ever-expanding world on the left side of normal. All the while rocking to and fro on the soles of my feet, silently sweating, doing battle with my fears. "Yes I will. No I won't." While I fretted, Emil's story continued to evolve. A tweak here, an embellishment there. "Yes I will. No I won't." Finally from the stage came the last call for contestants. I whipped out my dollar entry fee, yelled, "Yo mama! I be comin'!" and rushed the flat bed. More likely I shuffled forward and mumbled something closer to, "Please forgive me." What follows is pretty close to what came out of my mouth in the alloted three minutes:
My Uncle Emil Schonemann lived in Parkers Prairie, Minnesota. He took great pride in two things; his prowess as a pike fisherman and his glass eye. The glass one was a perfect match in size and color to his good left eye and he could fool most of the people most of the time. The family story had his right eye being lost when a four-inch lag screw grazed it during an explosion at the fertilizer factory outside of St. Bruno. What was left of the eye was removed by the Schonnemann family doctor. Presenting the screw to Emil the doctor quipped, "Looks like the explosion finally did exactly what you've been saying the factory's been doing to you for the last sixteen years." Ever since Emil said he always voted Democrat 'cause he couldn't see anything to the right (pause for laughter. Hear only shuffling of feet and breeze on hay stack. Trudge on.).
Emil was a died in the wool pike fisherman and had the scars on his hands to prove it. From an early age he worked the little lakes around St. Bruno and the bigger ones closer to Alexandria. Got to know them. But Emil wanted more and bigger. To my uncle that meant Canada. In particular northern Manitoba. He started heading up that way in the late '50s to fish the lakes of the Cranberry chain. Once in a while he portage in and fish the remote lakes. His favorite was Wedge Lake. And it was there he lost his beloved glass eye while hoisting a forty inch pike into the boat. Never found another he liked as much.
Emil passed away in July, 1983 in the little cemetery outside his home town.
Because of Emil's stories my son Allan and I began to head up north to the Cranberry Chain in the late '90s. Yeah, we were pike fishermen just like my uncle. While there we'd kill and eat a couple of walleyes on each trip. It was on one of those occasions while camping on a tiny Wedge Lake island that we found a green glass eye in our dinner's belly. When I saw it there was no doubt in my mind where it'd come from and where it was going. Yup, that eye was going home.
So it was on a clear Hunter's Moon night that Allan and I quietly entered the old cemetery outside of St. Bruno by Jack the Horse Lake. We neatly cut the sod, set it aside, laid a tarp for the dirt then dug down to Emil. The coffin had held up well. With grappling hooks and a come-along hooked to the Jeep, we resurrected my uncle. He was mostly gone but the medium-heavy, fiberglass rod he'd brought with him 'just in case,' looked as good as the day he'd been planted. Allan and I paused for a moment out of respect, then went though Emil's pockets looking for any spare change I might have missed two decades earlier. I gave Allan the honor of reinserting the eye but it fell through the socket and rolled to the foot of Emil's coffin.
Now remained the matter of putting the grave back the way it'd been. Scoping the hole for the reburial, we saw a second box below. This one a simple, slap-dash affair held together with cord and a few bent nails. Thinking more spare change I dropped in the hole and whacked the box open with my shovel. A quick search turned up a wallet which I passed up to Allan. A moment later Al whispered down he'd found a driver's license bearing the name of James R. Hoffa. Holy crap! First I thought, "We're gonna be famous." A moment later the thought changed to, "We're gonna be dead." We spent the remainder of that night carefully covering up what we'd done, even wiped our fingerprints off the grass.
So if you're ever wondering where Jimmy Hoffa ended up, don't ask Al or me. We don't know nothin'.
Being it was the Fourth of July week my wife Lois and I were up north at our cabin. The cabin is that and nothing more. Less than a thousand square feet, no running water save the pitcher pump out front, possibly the finest outhouse in the northwoods and not on a recreational lake. A cabin. On Independence Day we found ourselves in Pequot Lakes for their annual parade and bed races. Alongside the site for the races was a haystack for kids to rummage through in search of treasure and ... ta-dah! … around the corner a flatbed stage with microphone for a liar's contest. I'd heard of such contests, been mildly intrigued by the idea but never considered myself to be remotely in the league with general store sittin', snus juice spittin', old timers who'd spent years grooming both their yarnin' skills and gathering the appropriate wardrobe. But I was intrigued by the possibility of what was up there on the trailer bed. Drawn to it. Keep in mind that I'm also a German/Swede hybrid and border on being pathologically afraid of making a fool of myself in public.
With a 'hmmm' in my mind I bought a smoked turkey leg across the street and with Lois, wandered the town. During the stroll Uncle Emil drifted into my brain, made himself comfortable and somehow bound myself to him, if you get my drift. A half hour later the three of us sauntered back to the flatbed where we listened a wide range of stories of varying degrees of humor. The whole time my mind was elsewhere, traipsing through an ever-expanding world on the left side of normal. All the while rocking to and fro on the soles of my feet, silently sweating, doing battle with my fears. "Yes I will. No I won't." While I fretted, Emil's story continued to evolve. A tweak here, an embellishment there. "Yes I will. No I won't." Finally from the stage came the last call for contestants. I whipped out my dollar entry fee, yelled, "Yo mama! I be comin'!" and rushed the flat bed. More likely I shuffled forward and mumbled something closer to, "Please forgive me." What follows is pretty close to what came out of my mouth in the alloted three minutes:
My Uncle Emil Schonemann lived in Parkers Prairie, Minnesota. He took great pride in two things; his prowess as a pike fisherman and his glass eye. The glass one was a perfect match in size and color to his good left eye and he could fool most of the people most of the time. The family story had his right eye being lost when a four-inch lag screw grazed it during an explosion at the fertilizer factory outside of St. Bruno. What was left of the eye was removed by the Schonnemann family doctor. Presenting the screw to Emil the doctor quipped, "Looks like the explosion finally did exactly what you've been saying the factory's been doing to you for the last sixteen years." Ever since Emil said he always voted Democrat 'cause he couldn't see anything to the right (pause for laughter. Hear only shuffling of feet and breeze on hay stack. Trudge on.).
Emil was a died in the wool pike fisherman and had the scars on his hands to prove it. From an early age he worked the little lakes around St. Bruno and the bigger ones closer to Alexandria. Got to know them. But Emil wanted more and bigger. To my uncle that meant Canada. In particular northern Manitoba. He started heading up that way in the late '50s to fish the lakes of the Cranberry chain. Once in a while he portage in and fish the remote lakes. His favorite was Wedge Lake. And it was there he lost his beloved glass eye while hoisting a forty inch pike into the boat. Never found another he liked as much.
Emil passed away in July, 1983 in the little cemetery outside his home town.
Because of Emil's stories my son Allan and I began to head up north to the Cranberry Chain in the late '90s. Yeah, we were pike fishermen just like my uncle. While there we'd kill and eat a couple of walleyes on each trip. It was on one of those occasions while camping on a tiny Wedge Lake island that we found a green glass eye in our dinner's belly. When I saw it there was no doubt in my mind where it'd come from and where it was going. Yup, that eye was going home.
So it was on a clear Hunter's Moon night that Allan and I quietly entered the old cemetery outside of St. Bruno by Jack the Horse Lake. We neatly cut the sod, set it aside, laid a tarp for the dirt then dug down to Emil. The coffin had held up well. With grappling hooks and a come-along hooked to the Jeep, we resurrected my uncle. He was mostly gone but the medium-heavy, fiberglass rod he'd brought with him 'just in case,' looked as good as the day he'd been planted. Allan and I paused for a moment out of respect, then went though Emil's pockets looking for any spare change I might have missed two decades earlier. I gave Allan the honor of reinserting the eye but it fell through the socket and rolled to the foot of Emil's coffin.
Now remained the matter of putting the grave back the way it'd been. Scoping the hole for the reburial, we saw a second box below. This one a simple, slap-dash affair held together with cord and a few bent nails. Thinking more spare change I dropped in the hole and whacked the box open with my shovel. A quick search turned up a wallet which I passed up to Allan. A moment later Al whispered down he'd found a driver's license bearing the name of James R. Hoffa. Holy crap! First I thought, "We're gonna be famous." A moment later the thought changed to, "We're gonna be dead." We spent the remainder of that night carefully covering up what we'd done, even wiped our fingerprints off the grass.
So if you're ever wondering where Jimmy Hoffa ended up, don't ask Al or me. We don't know nothin'.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)