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.
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