Emil and Pete droned on for about fifteen minutes. Seemed more like hours to me. The cars coming up behind us just got waved through. Times were different back then, no terrorists, no drugs. Just tourists, locals and fishermen like us.
Turned out the two of them went way back. Seemed my uncle made part of his living smuggling hooch across the border in the early years of Prohibition. The guards would just laugh and wave him through. They couldn't believe a sixteen year old, toe headed kid who looked about thirteen, had a cigarette dangling from his lower lip and driving a Model T truck could be doing anything worse than just being a sixteen year old with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip and driving a Model T truck. Liquor aboard? Not unless it was in his stomach.
When they finally figured it out, Emil was gutsy enough to grease their palms. And the border boys ate that up. So cute. Barely old enough for pimples and the kid's a gangster. After some discussion, they figured, what the heck, how much damage can one boy do? And fifty bucks passed in a hand shake went a long way toward paying the bills for a public servant with a family. Yup, times were tough even up in Canada.
I learned years later Emil really did have the smarts with his money. He didn't just throw it away like most of the rum runners back then. No, did all his business in cash and when the stock market tanked, went and bought up all the blue chips his ill gotten thousands would allow. It's not like that made him a rich man but come the end of his Army days in the war he never had to work for a living. Oh, my uncle held a job but only 'cause the work interested him. Bought and sold a small business in the post-war years. Emil being Emil did it the right way, sold it to his employees. Made another small pile from the exchange and invested that also. Mostly he and Lena hadn't led flashy lives and made a dollar go a long way. Traveled when they felt like it, never missed a meal or a deal and always had a roof over their heads paid for with cash.
Just before we moved on Pete leaned in the window, looked me in the eye and said, "You're one lucky kid, eh. Emil's a legend here on the border. Kept the wolf away from many a door. When he talks, you listen. Even his crazy is smart." Then we were off.
It was light up time on the road to Winnipeg. Back then I found something mystical in the way cigarette smoke drifted through sunbeams in a moving car. Wavy ghost lines ending in curlicues looked a lot like those infinitely non-repeating computer graphs of chaos I read of in later years. Whatever that means. These days smoking is considered evil and it's no longer proper to see anything good in it. Keep in mind few things are totally evil or totally good.
Odd thing was, Emil wasn't a smoker any more. "I only smoke on my Canada trips. Or if I'm in the boat and the fishing's hot. Other times tobacco kind of rips me up. My habits are something I've learned to live with. Or maybe die by. Must be a hangover from my bootlegging days. Excitement, adventure, coughing. What fun, eh?"
"Where were we Archie, me lad? Ah yes, Rapunzel, stuck up in a tower. The story says that tower was really tall. Pure horse manure. How could it be? Hair grows what? Three or four inches a year. Let's say the tower was twenty feet high. That's to the bottom of the window. Had to be at least that high or Prince Charming could've jumped in. So figure four inches a year, a foot every three, Rapunzel's about fifteen, twenty foot tower and by the time her hair is long enough our little sweetie is gray haired and seventy-five. Any taller and she's a corpse. Do you think Charming's gonna climb that hair? I sure wouldn't."
"So, the way I see it, there's no tower. No witch either. Just a lonely kid looking out her bedroom window when some young guy on a horse comes riding by. And it's no plow horse either. The guy's dressed nice, clothes are clean, colors coordinate in a dashing manner. All in all, neat as a pin. So is the horse. Must have money. Ticket out of the sticks figures Rapunzel."
"So she whistles for the guy to stop. Which he does. It's a nice day. Blue sky, light breezes. It's fall in Northern Europe and the sun hangs low. The way the light sets the young lady's hair to glowing would of made any man pull up and check it out."
"They talk a minute, she invites him up but he better not go through the front door because mama's down there and guards her kid's maidenhood like it's gold. So our Prince Charming simply climbs the downspout."
"Once inside she begins to seduce the guy. Or at least she gives it her batty-eyed best. But our hero isn't having anything to do with her charms. Just begins to stroke that hair. Then he sets to combing it and humming like he's in some kind of trance. He grabs a scissors from Rapunzel's night stand. It's a real butcher of a cutter but the guy gives her a real clean, short hairdo. Kind of a bob. Hip for the times."
"By now Rapunzel's figured out she's got a man who's more into fashion than passion, got other things on his mind besides marriage. But he sure does know his way around hair."
"Long story short, ten years pass and the two of them have a chain of beauty shoppes, with two 'p's and an 'e', throughout the kingdom. Even do the queen's hair and all the ladies of the court. They call their operation Mr. Wonderful's, make a fortune and live happily ever after. Or at least 'til they over extend their operation, have to file bankruptcy and the Black Plague kills them both."
After he's done, another Lucky Strike gets lit and it's quiet in the car. I didn't know if he was serious or not. The way he told the story he could have been giving a lecture in school. Sounded as factual as if he was reading from an encyclopedia. Me, what could I do? I was just a dumb kid so I gave him the look.
Finally Emil says, "Archie me lad, that was supposed to be funny. You could at least try to laugh. Tell you what, next time I'll give you a wink before I get started to let you know a chuckle or even a knowing smile would be appreciated."
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Canada III - The Border
When you're flying along at a mile a minute there's not much to see on the eastern edge of North Dakota, except maybe the eastern edge of Montana should you stand tippy-toed. If a man gets his jollies from a billion acres of wheat and a red roofed barn every ten minutes, then it's as good as a Laurel and Hardy short. However, for me the big deal was coming up ahead at the border. I'd never been to a foreign country before. Or out of the state of Minnesota for that matter. Back in '61 kids my age rarely went farther than they could walk or bike. It was a big deal to get a small cone at a Dairy Queen.
We hit the crossing in the middle of one of Emil's rambles. Believe me I was one scared puppy he wasn't going to interrupt his tale even when we stopped to talk with the border guard. He'd end up in a padded cell and I'd be stowed away in a Canadian orphanage where they'd force me to use vinegar on my french fries. Thankfully he did stop.
A couple of miles south of the border somehow or other Uncle Emil had wandered off into a fairy tale rant. Seemed he wanted to straighten me out about what was real about them and what was pure fantasy. Emil said his takes on those old stories were the God's truth as opposed to the Grimm boys who didn't know shinola. Even spit in his palm and rubbed the gob into my butch haircut to show his sincerity. Boy did he laugh when he did that.
Before I go any farther and you get the wrong idea, I have to let you know even though my uncle was weird, he wasn't that kind of weird, the kind of weird you remember thirty years later then spill your guts out in court. No, Emil just had a strange sense of humor and figured most everyone else would love it when he went off on a tangent. Even better if they just got confused. Nothing seemed to please him as much as telling a joke that only he found funny.
Who knew where his ideas came from? I sure didn't. And the truth was I'd never given much thought to Rapunzel. In fact, as far as fairy tales went I thought it was pretty lame. What a guy saw in a woman with an eighty foot pony tail was beyond me.
Emil started in, "I've got to tell you Archie me lad, the truth behind Rapunzel. You see there's this young woman. I forget exactly what her background was before the story began and I don't much give a rat's patoot considering where it's gonna end up but for sure she was one good looking lady. No doubt about it. And somehow or other she got some witch's goat, could be it was a queen or maybe her high school English teacher and I'm not even sure if there was a goat. Now that's not a smart thing to do 'cause when you kick the broom out from under a witch you're just begging for the oven. So figure this Rapunzel isn't too smart. Maybe it was just that the kid was such a doll and witches don't like pretty unless it's for Sunday brunch."
"Anyhow, the old hag, I figure she was an old hag 'cause it makes the story so much more believable. On the other hand there's some ladies who are knockouts with a touch of the witch about them like that wicked queen in Snow White, the one in the Disney cartoon. Oof dah, that kind of witchy is even scarier than the ones with warts on their noses, scary in the sense like one of those wasps or maybe it's spiders, that kill their suitors after two seconds of heaven and the guy figures it was worth it but you probably don't know exactly what I'm talking about yet. But if it just so happens you do then I figure it's good for you kid. Where was I?"
By that time we were pulling up to the guard shack. Car window rolls down. Emil says "Hi Pete." The man with the badge says, "Hi Emil." And they're off and running about fishing, kids and the merits of decent whiskey.
We hit the crossing in the middle of one of Emil's rambles. Believe me I was one scared puppy he wasn't going to interrupt his tale even when we stopped to talk with the border guard. He'd end up in a padded cell and I'd be stowed away in a Canadian orphanage where they'd force me to use vinegar on my french fries. Thankfully he did stop.
A couple of miles south of the border somehow or other Uncle Emil had wandered off into a fairy tale rant. Seemed he wanted to straighten me out about what was real about them and what was pure fantasy. Emil said his takes on those old stories were the God's truth as opposed to the Grimm boys who didn't know shinola. Even spit in his palm and rubbed the gob into my butch haircut to show his sincerity. Boy did he laugh when he did that.
Before I go any farther and you get the wrong idea, I have to let you know even though my uncle was weird, he wasn't that kind of weird, the kind of weird you remember thirty years later then spill your guts out in court. No, Emil just had a strange sense of humor and figured most everyone else would love it when he went off on a tangent. Even better if they just got confused. Nothing seemed to please him as much as telling a joke that only he found funny.
Who knew where his ideas came from? I sure didn't. And the truth was I'd never given much thought to Rapunzel. In fact, as far as fairy tales went I thought it was pretty lame. What a guy saw in a woman with an eighty foot pony tail was beyond me.
Emil started in, "I've got to tell you Archie me lad, the truth behind Rapunzel. You see there's this young woman. I forget exactly what her background was before the story began and I don't much give a rat's patoot considering where it's gonna end up but for sure she was one good looking lady. No doubt about it. And somehow or other she got some witch's goat, could be it was a queen or maybe her high school English teacher and I'm not even sure if there was a goat. Now that's not a smart thing to do 'cause when you kick the broom out from under a witch you're just begging for the oven. So figure this Rapunzel isn't too smart. Maybe it was just that the kid was such a doll and witches don't like pretty unless it's for Sunday brunch."
"Anyhow, the old hag, I figure she was an old hag 'cause it makes the story so much more believable. On the other hand there's some ladies who are knockouts with a touch of the witch about them like that wicked queen in Snow White, the one in the Disney cartoon. Oof dah, that kind of witchy is even scarier than the ones with warts on their noses, scary in the sense like one of those wasps or maybe it's spiders, that kill their suitors after two seconds of heaven and the guy figures it was worth it but you probably don't know exactly what I'm talking about yet. But if it just so happens you do then I figure it's good for you kid. Where was I?"
By that time we were pulling up to the guard shack. Car window rolls down. Emil says "Hi Pete." The man with the badge says, "Hi Emil." And they're off and running about fishing, kids and the merits of decent whiskey.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Canada II - The Train etc. - continued
For the next ten days my uncle would once in a while pass through long stretches of silence, then break in with an "I've got to tell you Archie me lad...." In case you haven't as yet noticed he almost always called me Archie me lad when something was in the offing. When I heard those words it was time for me to listen up. Something unusual and of no social consequence was coming around the bend. What he had to say wasn't always polished but usually took me by surprise. Until I got used to the surprise part. Then the only thing that would surprise me was something like, " Archie me lad, what do you want for lunch?"
By the way, I can't say as I'm fond of my name. I'm about the only Archie I ever met who's under the age of forty. It's not short for anything. It's just Archie. The story goes my mom wanted to name me Cary after Cary Grant the actor. Wouldn't have been much fun had anyone ever found that out. Believe me, I'm no Cary Grant. Lucky my dad was having nothing to do with any kid of his being named after some flighty Hollywood actor. He was all for naming me Max. Now that would have been one manly name to hang on a kid. Cary, Max, either way I'd have been beaten up a lot. Or learned to be a good fighter. Or run faster. Don't know how my mom learned Cary Grant's real first name was Archibald and that he grew up being called Archie, but she did. And didn't tell my dad how she came up with the new name. And, after a minute of thought, my dad said Archibald was out of the question but Archie was okay.
Don't know if my uncle liked to make up stories or it was just his way of dealing with being ill at ease with people he hadn't spent much time with. Never gave that a thought back in '61 but over the years, as we grew to know each other, his tales became less common. Yeah, he still spun a few but more often than not we shared silence in what he called 'the cathedral of mother nature.' Nearly all our hours together were spent in the woods, on the water or in the car on the way. "Much to be seen or heard out there without us butting in."
But on this first drive up to the northland it was different. The stories came. Could be he feared I'd be bored. That I wouldn't find the same joy he did being away from cement and buildings. Guess it took a while 'til he could relax knowing I was having the time of my life simply being with him in a world he loved.
Over the years I gave some thought to Emil's Elvis tale. Had my doubts as to its truth. But Emil swore it was gospel. Could even show you the slight difference in paint color of the rear fender where the Nomad was clipped by Presley's pink Cadillac. But, truth be known, I sure couldn't see the color difference. And even if there had been a repaint, what're the odds Elvis had anything to do with it? At least that's the way I felt until Emil's funeral when I saw the yellowed newspaper clipping. No Emil or Lena in the picture but there, big as day, stood a young Presley in penny loafers and turned up short sleeves alongside a Memphis cop staring at the dented rear fender of a two tone Nomad with Minnesota plates. Coincidence? Who knows? Could be my uncle planted the picture just to blow a little smoke. Truth or not, it put a smile on my face.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Canada I - The Train, the Boat, and Other Things
First of all, nothing bad happened to us. Everything turned out just fine. Even had a good time. At least that's what I told my mom when I got home. Somethings are best kept quiet. On the other hand we sure could have been in a world of hurt. Even dead. And Uncle Emil would have shouldered the blame. No doubt about that. Certainly my Mom would've been perturbed if Emil had brought her boy home in a box. Better if he'd died up north along with his nephew than at the hands of his sister.
Arriving home with nothing more than a few scratches and a half million mosquito bites was due to Emil's savvy. As was his suggestion I remain silent about some of the things that happened. Or where we went. Or what we did. Looking back on it after more than fifty years, I can't say one way or the other whether he was a fool, a wise old man or just lucky. Probably all three but I'd rather remember him as being a man who knew what he was doing and listened to his heart.
Over the years I've grown to be older than the old geezer - Emil was only in his mid-fifties - who took us off the map in northwest Manitoba. That I'm pushing seventy has me wondering about how many years I have left. Won't be long and my life'll soon be forgotten as though it was the figment of someone's imagination. You decide whose imagination that might be. Here my thought train is supposed to chug down the track of 'woe is me I'll never again be the man I once was.' Part and parcel with growing old. Whining is easier than doing. But since this is still a free country I'll travel elsewhere with my words.
The other day while pruning the junipers flanking the front of the house, I drifted off to find myself on a long ago campsite on the shore of an unnamed lake. Not the first time that's happened. I get a whiff of sunlight on evergreen and I'm off to the wilds. Been on many a wilderness site over the years but those first ones with my uncle stand head and shoulders above them all. And I've never found another quite like the next to last we sat upon and fished from in '61. Truth is there's only a few bests in a person's lifetime and I hit one of mine at age fourteen.
Grandchildren, got five of them these days, four boys and a girl. No doubt in a decade or two I'll be nothing more than a wisp of fog to them. Can't say that bothers me a whole lot, that's just the way of life. But now and then they might wish they knew more of their Grandpa Archie. That he was a real person who was once a punk kid caught between childhood and being a man. And happened to have an Uncle Emil. As for Emil, he'll be nothing more than a name of someone they were in some way or other related. To me, their never having known Emil will be the real tragedy. Yeah, he was a character. More importantly, was a man cut of old, handwoven cloth, the kind they don't make anymore.
Yeah, my Uncle Emil. Our trip wouldn't have happened without him and for sure wouldn't have been near as entertaining. Every so often he'd go off on a rant about events he'd just made up and polished a bit before letting me in on the fun. The world was his oyster and he was more than willing to share the pearls. And an occasional unpolished grit of sand. No doubt about it, Emil was my favorite adult.
Put those elements together and it's time to sketch out our trip to the woods before I get any older and can't think straight enough to peck out words on a laptop keyboard. So that's the intention, for better or worse, grammar be damned. If you're looking for literature, seek elsewhere. This isn't but a small adventure in which an ordinary young man and his extraordinary uncle do something normally considered stupid and manage to get away with it. And, should you get the notion, this reads better aloud, maybe to a young man or lady.
Truth Through A Glass Eye
Life was different in 1961. Way different than today. The far edge of civilization was much closer to town and city. Driving to the end of the road wasn't near as much of a trip. The roads heading north weren't paved as far and cars didn't go as fast. Baseball players still wore wool uniforms and no one had yet tuned in, turned on and dropped out. We were still pretty much an innocent society. Hope was in the air. A new, young president and a hot space race. Racial strife, assassinations, drugs and a pointless war were a couple of years away. Unsupervised kids still played outdoors after sundown. A kid like me could climb aboard a train, tell the conductor where he wanted to get off, and it was as good as done. That's how my first fishing trip with my Uncle Emil came to be. My mom said not to worry, everything would be okay on the train ride up to Alexandria.
Then she mumbled something like, "Until Emil picks you up. Turning you loose with that loon is just begging for trouble."
She'd walked me to the bus stop on a Saturday morning, the day after school let out for the summer. The ride downtown was something I was used to. Yup, people took the bus back in those days, even tall, near gawky, bespectacled ones like me. Getting off on Sixth Street, I strolled down the sun warmed, cracked concrete of Hennepin Avenue to the Great Northern Depot on the Mississippi accompanied by a brown paper bag filled with ham and cheese sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, an apple, and four homemade chocolate chip cookies. By homemade I mean my mom made them from scratch with chocolate chips made from real chocolate. Throw in a beat up paperback of "Treasure Island, a couple of Mad magazines, the new one and a jumbo. My comic book days were behind me. Gave the whole stack away a year ago. But Mad was a different animal altogether. Just the right dose of sarcasm and satire to warp a young man's mind. Not all of it was quality humor and sarcasm. No sir, some wasn't even sophisticated enough for a fourteen year old's mind. But most every issue had enough gems to justify the two bits (cheap). As it turned out my adventure with Emil proved a nice balance of Jim, Long John Silver and Alfred E. Newman.
Didn't know what my mom was worried about. I'd never found Uncle Emil all that odd. Well, no odder than any man who'd nearly died twice. Yes, it usually took me a minute to get used to his glass eye but once I did, I never gave it a second thought. 'Til he popped in a new one I'd never seen or expected to ever see. Like the one he greeted me with. I suppose it should have been a clue as to our game when I looked into his eyes, the left one with a blue-green pupil, the right, a northern pike. Turned out he had quite a collection, one for most every occasion. His right could be any color or thing and usually told the tale of what was on his mind.
But he rarely said a word about his choice. And if you didn't bring it up, he'd wouldn't mention the one he'd put in on any particular day. His idea being, "I know why I chose it. See if you can figure it out. If you can't, so much the better." 'Course, me being a kid and all, he went easy on me the first day.
You see, my uncle was a man with a twinkle in his eye. Not an easy thing to have since he'd survived an explosion and had a Japanese bullet pass through his shoulder and out his neck during the recapture of the Philippine Islands. Yeah, that gleam was dulled a bit but still sparkling even after his wife, my aunt Lena, passed away the summer before.
Emil wasn't a big man. Half a forehead taller than average, slim but solid as a red oak. Just this side of raw-boned. Long fingered hands that'd seen their share of sunshine, hammers and wind, protruded from his soft green, Pendleton shirt sleeves he was wearing when I stepped off the train. Corded hands that said he could single-handedly bend framing nails should the notion strike him. His good eye was yet lens free and his butch-cut, silvering hair sparsely populated. What remained orbited a circle of scalp to the rear, burnt the color of a well-oiled fielder's mitt. His khaki pants were knife-edge creased and atop the man sat a western style, brown fedora by Stetson. Looked ready to party in the great outdoors wherever that might be.
Back in those days his red and white Chevy Nomad wagon was only a few years from the dealer's lot. Still looked new from bumper to gleaming bumper. But to me a station wagon was a station wagon even if it only had two doors and a handful of chrome strips jazzing up its tailgate.
Emil gave me a firm handshake, grabbed my suitcase and we marched to the car like we were on a mission. One and a half men on the move. Midway he paused, reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a silver dollar. Handed it over with a conspiratorial look and said, "Keep your mouth shut about what we're commencing to do and there's more where that came from." Followed it with a deep throated, sinister laugh. Couldn't help but feeling good being with the man.
Honestly, I had no idea what he was talking about or what his intentions were but what the heck, a buck was a buck. So I figured to keep my mouth shut unless something off the chart happened.
Seeing as how there was only one car in the lot and it was a red and white wagon trailering a red, aluminum boat, I supposed it his. On the boat's side in graceful cursive letters read the words Silent but Deadly. Interesting.
"I'll stow your gear in the back. When we're on the highway I'll give you the lowdown. Long road ahead and plenty of time to talk."
In the back of the wagon lay three huge, leather strapped backpacks, a handful of aluminum rod tubes, and two coolers. Didn't know where we were going but wherever that was, it sure looked like we were ready. Then we were off in a cartoon cloud of nuts, bolts and chicken feathers to God knows where.
Once out of town we passed through rolling farm country. I stared, lost in a fog. The world was out there alright. Clear as a bell. But, c'mon, give me a break, I was fourteen. One of those between years filled with the urgings of manhood and still hanging onto most of my childhood. Farm country was farm country and I was in my own personal land of Nod. Corn, wheat, alfalfa, German barns, Norwegian ones, all were the same to me. I noticed the passing scene but gave it no thought. No meaning out there, just things. Guess the fields needed John Deere's with mounted machine guns, piloted by European mercenaries firing streams of tracers at a cartoon Superduperman soaring above to catch my interest. Or maybe farmer's daughters. Yeah, I was old enough to be aware of young ladies. Not brave enough to speak to one but I knew they were there. That we were on a real adventure hadn't yet sunk in. No palm treed Caribbean islands with buried treasure in sight, only corn sprouting from the bare, tilled earth. Oh well, seemed we were going fishing somewhere and that was pretty neat.
Also, didn't consciously realize it at the time but from the moment he picked me up in Alexandria 'til Emil passed away, he always talked with and treated me like an adult. Of course he never talked like any other adult I'd ever met before or since. Unless you include me in the herd. Been known to have my moments and rants. Blood runs deep, weirdness even deeper.
Emil was excited. Even a punk like me could tell that. Appeared to me adults never got excited so you could tell. But Emil was tingly like an eight year old on Christmas Eve. Made him seem more like a friend than an over-lording adult.
That his radio was welded to WCCO out of Minneapolis was almost secondary. No eight tracks, tapes, CDs or anything but airwaves in those days. Not a real problem though, when he tuned it in I could drift off and tune it out. For those of you who don't know 'CCO it's always been an old fogie's station, never been cutting edge. But they were good on news and followed the Gophers and finally in '61, the Twins and Vikings. Emil didn't have the radio on all the time but when he did… oh well, might as well have all five push buttons set to 830 on the AM dial.
Right off the bat he said, "I figure you'd rather listen to something else, no doubt rock and roll - ever tell you about the time I met Elvis? Nope, don't do rock 'n roll. But it's my radio. Simple as that. Don't worry, we'll be out of 'CCO's range in a couple of hours. Then it's Canadian Polka Party and the farm report forever!" Followed that with a booming guffaw.
"We're off to Canada, you and me. Probably spend the night up in Manitoba somewhere. You may not properly know what a flea bag is or how they say fleabag in French Canadian but by tomorrow morning you may have a general idea. Or maybe we'll sleep right here in the Nomad. That is if you have no objections. The next day on, we're in no radio land. After you hear me sing you'll be prayin' to be back in 'CCO county."
We passed a silent twenty minutes of rolling bare earth, tilled a rainbow of brown tones. All the while Emil'd been doing a lot of finger wiggling on and above the steering wheel. Struck me as kind of odd but not enough to say anything. Finally Emil piped up,
"Archie me lad, seems to me I said something about meeting Elvis. Now don't prejudge me about my feelings towards the man before I finish my story. I wasn't one of those people who thought he was Satan with sideburns. Also wasn't a fan either. When he arrived on the scene Elvis was just somebody you couldn't ignore."
"Believe it was '57 that me and Lena were down in Memphis. Lena's uncle Bobby had passed away from one of those strange southern maladies, forget which one. There are diseases in the dirt and swamps down there that've nothing better to do with their time than wait for a patch of innocent bare skin to come traipsing along. Next thing you know you're being measured for a box. Anyhow, we decided to drive down for the funeral. Kind of make a vacation out of it. Figured Bobby was dead and didn't much care what we did. That and it was a chance for Lena to catch up with family. It'd been one heckuva long winter up in Minnesota and the thought of May in the south was the clincher. The idea of all that good southern cooking might've also had a little to do with it. So we packed up the wagon and headed on down the river."
Emil paused, thumbed in the dashboard cigarette lighter, drew a Lucky Strike from his shirt pocket and fired up,
"I don't want to jump ahead of myself but before I forget; you probably never saw the picture of Elvis standing in front of his '55 pink Cadillac. Him mugging for the camera while one of Memphis' finest was writing him a ticket. Most people assume Elvis was being cited for speeding. Well, he wasn't. And that's not the only photo of the scene. But it's the only one with just Elvis and the cop."
"So at the funeral lunch I got to talking with a couple of local boys, Bobby's buddies, who it turned out were hot into bass fishing. They gave me a bunch of grief about the bite-sized bass we had up here in Minnesota. Not to be outdone I assured them that it was true our largemouth 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 wore down we worked our way around to the subject of southern cooking. And in Memphis that meant ribs with a side of 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 name of The Peabody. 'Y'all know. The one with the ducks on parade.' Whatever the heck that meant. Bunch of goobers."
"So me and Lena hopped in the Nomad the next day and headed downtown 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 kind of like the oven baked ribs with sauerkraut down at Chick's in Melrose a whole lot more. Service wasn't all that hot either. And Grain Belt Premium? 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 or on the planet for that matter. 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 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 heck 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 potatoes city."
"Then it all turned around. Elvis invited us out to his new house just south of town. Nice spread. Lena and I ended up in the kitchen with Elvis' mom Gladys and his dad Vernon. Salt of the earth people with no pretensions. While we gabbed Elvis wandered off saying he's got a phone call to make. By now it's late afternoon and Gladys asks 'Y'all hungry?' So Lena says, 'If it's 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 comin' from a died in the wool, as you may well know, Coke man."
"Elvis joined us for the sandwiches. Turned out he'd called the body shop that'd 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. Next morning after the Nomad was delivered, Elvis said we could come back anytime. He's a little odd in some ways but underneath all that Brylcreem, turned out he was a good kid."
Then it was quiet in the car. Nothing but the whine of tread on pavement as we rolled down onto the near endless flats of the Red River Valley.
Arriving home with nothing more than a few scratches and a half million mosquito bites was due to Emil's savvy. As was his suggestion I remain silent about some of the things that happened. Or where we went. Or what we did. Looking back on it after more than fifty years, I can't say one way or the other whether he was a fool, a wise old man or just lucky. Probably all three but I'd rather remember him as being a man who knew what he was doing and listened to his heart.
Over the years I've grown to be older than the old geezer - Emil was only in his mid-fifties - who took us off the map in northwest Manitoba. That I'm pushing seventy has me wondering about how many years I have left. Won't be long and my life'll soon be forgotten as though it was the figment of someone's imagination. You decide whose imagination that might be. Here my thought train is supposed to chug down the track of 'woe is me I'll never again be the man I once was.' Part and parcel with growing old. Whining is easier than doing. But since this is still a free country I'll travel elsewhere with my words.
The other day while pruning the junipers flanking the front of the house, I drifted off to find myself on a long ago campsite on the shore of an unnamed lake. Not the first time that's happened. I get a whiff of sunlight on evergreen and I'm off to the wilds. Been on many a wilderness site over the years but those first ones with my uncle stand head and shoulders above them all. And I've never found another quite like the next to last we sat upon and fished from in '61. Truth is there's only a few bests in a person's lifetime and I hit one of mine at age fourteen.
Grandchildren, got five of them these days, four boys and a girl. No doubt in a decade or two I'll be nothing more than a wisp of fog to them. Can't say that bothers me a whole lot, that's just the way of life. But now and then they might wish they knew more of their Grandpa Archie. That he was a real person who was once a punk kid caught between childhood and being a man. And happened to have an Uncle Emil. As for Emil, he'll be nothing more than a name of someone they were in some way or other related. To me, their never having known Emil will be the real tragedy. Yeah, he was a character. More importantly, was a man cut of old, handwoven cloth, the kind they don't make anymore.
Yeah, my Uncle Emil. Our trip wouldn't have happened without him and for sure wouldn't have been near as entertaining. Every so often he'd go off on a rant about events he'd just made up and polished a bit before letting me in on the fun. The world was his oyster and he was more than willing to share the pearls. And an occasional unpolished grit of sand. No doubt about it, Emil was my favorite adult.
Put those elements together and it's time to sketch out our trip to the woods before I get any older and can't think straight enough to peck out words on a laptop keyboard. So that's the intention, for better or worse, grammar be damned. If you're looking for literature, seek elsewhere. This isn't but a small adventure in which an ordinary young man and his extraordinary uncle do something normally considered stupid and manage to get away with it. And, should you get the notion, this reads better aloud, maybe to a young man or lady.
Truth Through A Glass Eye
Life was different in 1961. Way different than today. The far edge of civilization was much closer to town and city. Driving to the end of the road wasn't near as much of a trip. The roads heading north weren't paved as far and cars didn't go as fast. Baseball players still wore wool uniforms and no one had yet tuned in, turned on and dropped out. We were still pretty much an innocent society. Hope was in the air. A new, young president and a hot space race. Racial strife, assassinations, drugs and a pointless war were a couple of years away. Unsupervised kids still played outdoors after sundown. A kid like me could climb aboard a train, tell the conductor where he wanted to get off, and it was as good as done. That's how my first fishing trip with my Uncle Emil came to be. My mom said not to worry, everything would be okay on the train ride up to Alexandria.
Then she mumbled something like, "Until Emil picks you up. Turning you loose with that loon is just begging for trouble."
She'd walked me to the bus stop on a Saturday morning, the day after school let out for the summer. The ride downtown was something I was used to. Yup, people took the bus back in those days, even tall, near gawky, bespectacled ones like me. Getting off on Sixth Street, I strolled down the sun warmed, cracked concrete of Hennepin Avenue to the Great Northern Depot on the Mississippi accompanied by a brown paper bag filled with ham and cheese sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, an apple, and four homemade chocolate chip cookies. By homemade I mean my mom made them from scratch with chocolate chips made from real chocolate. Throw in a beat up paperback of "Treasure Island, a couple of Mad magazines, the new one and a jumbo. My comic book days were behind me. Gave the whole stack away a year ago. But Mad was a different animal altogether. Just the right dose of sarcasm and satire to warp a young man's mind. Not all of it was quality humor and sarcasm. No sir, some wasn't even sophisticated enough for a fourteen year old's mind. But most every issue had enough gems to justify the two bits (cheap). As it turned out my adventure with Emil proved a nice balance of Jim, Long John Silver and Alfred E. Newman.
Didn't know what my mom was worried about. I'd never found Uncle Emil all that odd. Well, no odder than any man who'd nearly died twice. Yes, it usually took me a minute to get used to his glass eye but once I did, I never gave it a second thought. 'Til he popped in a new one I'd never seen or expected to ever see. Like the one he greeted me with. I suppose it should have been a clue as to our game when I looked into his eyes, the left one with a blue-green pupil, the right, a northern pike. Turned out he had quite a collection, one for most every occasion. His right could be any color or thing and usually told the tale of what was on his mind.
But he rarely said a word about his choice. And if you didn't bring it up, he'd wouldn't mention the one he'd put in on any particular day. His idea being, "I know why I chose it. See if you can figure it out. If you can't, so much the better." 'Course, me being a kid and all, he went easy on me the first day.
You see, my uncle was a man with a twinkle in his eye. Not an easy thing to have since he'd survived an explosion and had a Japanese bullet pass through his shoulder and out his neck during the recapture of the Philippine Islands. Yeah, that gleam was dulled a bit but still sparkling even after his wife, my aunt Lena, passed away the summer before.
Emil wasn't a big man. Half a forehead taller than average, slim but solid as a red oak. Just this side of raw-boned. Long fingered hands that'd seen their share of sunshine, hammers and wind, protruded from his soft green, Pendleton shirt sleeves he was wearing when I stepped off the train. Corded hands that said he could single-handedly bend framing nails should the notion strike him. His good eye was yet lens free and his butch-cut, silvering hair sparsely populated. What remained orbited a circle of scalp to the rear, burnt the color of a well-oiled fielder's mitt. His khaki pants were knife-edge creased and atop the man sat a western style, brown fedora by Stetson. Looked ready to party in the great outdoors wherever that might be.
Back in those days his red and white Chevy Nomad wagon was only a few years from the dealer's lot. Still looked new from bumper to gleaming bumper. But to me a station wagon was a station wagon even if it only had two doors and a handful of chrome strips jazzing up its tailgate.
Emil gave me a firm handshake, grabbed my suitcase and we marched to the car like we were on a mission. One and a half men on the move. Midway he paused, reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a silver dollar. Handed it over with a conspiratorial look and said, "Keep your mouth shut about what we're commencing to do and there's more where that came from." Followed it with a deep throated, sinister laugh. Couldn't help but feeling good being with the man.
Honestly, I had no idea what he was talking about or what his intentions were but what the heck, a buck was a buck. So I figured to keep my mouth shut unless something off the chart happened.
Seeing as how there was only one car in the lot and it was a red and white wagon trailering a red, aluminum boat, I supposed it his. On the boat's side in graceful cursive letters read the words Silent but Deadly. Interesting.
"I'll stow your gear in the back. When we're on the highway I'll give you the lowdown. Long road ahead and plenty of time to talk."
In the back of the wagon lay three huge, leather strapped backpacks, a handful of aluminum rod tubes, and two coolers. Didn't know where we were going but wherever that was, it sure looked like we were ready. Then we were off in a cartoon cloud of nuts, bolts and chicken feathers to God knows where.
Once out of town we passed through rolling farm country. I stared, lost in a fog. The world was out there alright. Clear as a bell. But, c'mon, give me a break, I was fourteen. One of those between years filled with the urgings of manhood and still hanging onto most of my childhood. Farm country was farm country and I was in my own personal land of Nod. Corn, wheat, alfalfa, German barns, Norwegian ones, all were the same to me. I noticed the passing scene but gave it no thought. No meaning out there, just things. Guess the fields needed John Deere's with mounted machine guns, piloted by European mercenaries firing streams of tracers at a cartoon Superduperman soaring above to catch my interest. Or maybe farmer's daughters. Yeah, I was old enough to be aware of young ladies. Not brave enough to speak to one but I knew they were there. That we were on a real adventure hadn't yet sunk in. No palm treed Caribbean islands with buried treasure in sight, only corn sprouting from the bare, tilled earth. Oh well, seemed we were going fishing somewhere and that was pretty neat.
Also, didn't consciously realize it at the time but from the moment he picked me up in Alexandria 'til Emil passed away, he always talked with and treated me like an adult. Of course he never talked like any other adult I'd ever met before or since. Unless you include me in the herd. Been known to have my moments and rants. Blood runs deep, weirdness even deeper.
Emil was excited. Even a punk like me could tell that. Appeared to me adults never got excited so you could tell. But Emil was tingly like an eight year old on Christmas Eve. Made him seem more like a friend than an over-lording adult.
That his radio was welded to WCCO out of Minneapolis was almost secondary. No eight tracks, tapes, CDs or anything but airwaves in those days. Not a real problem though, when he tuned it in I could drift off and tune it out. For those of you who don't know 'CCO it's always been an old fogie's station, never been cutting edge. But they were good on news and followed the Gophers and finally in '61, the Twins and Vikings. Emil didn't have the radio on all the time but when he did… oh well, might as well have all five push buttons set to 830 on the AM dial.
Right off the bat he said, "I figure you'd rather listen to something else, no doubt rock and roll - ever tell you about the time I met Elvis? Nope, don't do rock 'n roll. But it's my radio. Simple as that. Don't worry, we'll be out of 'CCO's range in a couple of hours. Then it's Canadian Polka Party and the farm report forever!" Followed that with a booming guffaw.
"We're off to Canada, you and me. Probably spend the night up in Manitoba somewhere. You may not properly know what a flea bag is or how they say fleabag in French Canadian but by tomorrow morning you may have a general idea. Or maybe we'll sleep right here in the Nomad. That is if you have no objections. The next day on, we're in no radio land. After you hear me sing you'll be prayin' to be back in 'CCO county."
We passed a silent twenty minutes of rolling bare earth, tilled a rainbow of brown tones. All the while Emil'd been doing a lot of finger wiggling on and above the steering wheel. Struck me as kind of odd but not enough to say anything. Finally Emil piped up,
"Archie me lad, seems to me I said something about meeting Elvis. Now don't prejudge me about my feelings towards the man before I finish my story. I wasn't one of those people who thought he was Satan with sideburns. Also wasn't a fan either. When he arrived on the scene Elvis was just somebody you couldn't ignore."
"Believe it was '57 that me and Lena were down in Memphis. Lena's uncle Bobby had passed away from one of those strange southern maladies, forget which one. There are diseases in the dirt and swamps down there that've nothing better to do with their time than wait for a patch of innocent bare skin to come traipsing along. Next thing you know you're being measured for a box. Anyhow, we decided to drive down for the funeral. Kind of make a vacation out of it. Figured Bobby was dead and didn't much care what we did. That and it was a chance for Lena to catch up with family. It'd been one heckuva long winter up in Minnesota and the thought of May in the south was the clincher. The idea of all that good southern cooking might've also had a little to do with it. So we packed up the wagon and headed on down the river."
Emil paused, thumbed in the dashboard cigarette lighter, drew a Lucky Strike from his shirt pocket and fired up,
"I don't want to jump ahead of myself but before I forget; you probably never saw the picture of Elvis standing in front of his '55 pink Cadillac. Him mugging for the camera while one of Memphis' finest was writing him a ticket. Most people assume Elvis was being cited for speeding. Well, he wasn't. And that's not the only photo of the scene. But it's the only one with just Elvis and the cop."
"So at the funeral lunch I got to talking with a couple of local boys, Bobby's buddies, who it turned out were hot into bass fishing. They gave me a bunch of grief about the bite-sized bass we had up here in Minnesota. Not to be outdone I assured them that it was true our largemouth 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 wore down we worked our way around to the subject of southern cooking. And in Memphis that meant ribs with a side of 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 name of The Peabody. 'Y'all know. The one with the ducks on parade.' Whatever the heck that meant. Bunch of goobers."
"So me and Lena hopped in the Nomad the next day and headed downtown 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 kind of like the oven baked ribs with sauerkraut down at Chick's in Melrose a whole lot more. Service wasn't all that hot either. And Grain Belt Premium? 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 or on the planet for that matter. 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 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 heck 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 potatoes city."
"Then it all turned around. Elvis invited us out to his new house just south of town. Nice spread. Lena and I ended up in the kitchen with Elvis' mom Gladys and his dad Vernon. Salt of the earth people with no pretensions. While we gabbed Elvis wandered off saying he's got a phone call to make. By now it's late afternoon and Gladys asks 'Y'all hungry?' So Lena says, 'If it's 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 comin' from a died in the wool, as you may well know, Coke man."
"Elvis joined us for the sandwiches. Turned out he'd called the body shop that'd 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. Next morning after the Nomad was delivered, Elvis said we could come back anytime. He's a little odd in some ways but underneath all that Brylcreem, turned out he was a good kid."
Then it was quiet in the car. Nothing but the whine of tread on pavement as we rolled down onto the near endless flats of the Red River Valley.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Givin' It a Go, Eh?
I've been thinking of layin' a trap for the old coot. Gather up his gear, put it in my jon boat and haul it down to one of my favorite lakes. Maybe make a day of it. Hit a couple of lakes and grab a lunch somewhere in-between. Best come up with a bar and grill that makes burgers just crying to be washed down with a couple of schooners of cold beer. Emil's never had a problem with a toot on at lunch when he ain't doing the drivin'.
There's a couple of problems with my plan. He'll put up an old man fuss over not fishin' out of his ancient Lund. But he'll get over that. And he won't like not bein' able to fire up a smoke with his first beer. Nature of the beast these days so he'll just have to suck it up and move on. Out on the water he'll be able to smoke Luckies to his failing heart's content. That's why I've got a pack in each shirt pocket and his old Zippo filled to the gills. Threw in a couple of books of matches just in case the flint goes kaput.
Now all I've got to do is drive up from the cities to his house in Parkers Prairie, honk twice and hope he comes out. If he's in the mood, we've got us a story, or two.
There's a couple of problems with my plan. He'll put up an old man fuss over not fishin' out of his ancient Lund. But he'll get over that. And he won't like not bein' able to fire up a smoke with his first beer. Nature of the beast these days so he'll just have to suck it up and move on. Out on the water he'll be able to smoke Luckies to his failing heart's content. That's why I've got a pack in each shirt pocket and his old Zippo filled to the gills. Threw in a couple of books of matches just in case the flint goes kaput.
Now all I've got to do is drive up from the cities to his house in Parkers Prairie, honk twice and hope he comes out. If he's in the mood, we've got us a story, or two.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Whence Uncle Emil?
He used to come visit most every day. But that was a long time ago. Emil liked me more when I was a young man. Now it seems I've grown to be too much of an old fart and have a brain to match for his tastes.
Over the years he travelled with me under a number of names. Wore a lot of different hats. Had what used to be called a wicked sense of humor. And usually came to visit when I was alone. Gotta admit I miss him. He made me laugh a lot, usually silently, and occasionally passed on ideas other people didn't find funny. Nothing escaped his observations. And they were only observations, nothing more.
Oddly, he might occasionally blither on about situations where I worked. Do so in a joking kind of way. Get me to write down what he'd said, then get me to read his humor aloud at a work group meeting. Normal, salt of the earth people, would find his references no more than something to laugh about. Once in a while an astute manager would see through the joking to find several good ideas hidden inside.
Yeah, he came calling a lot before I retired. And got my ass in a sling with more mangers than I've got fingers and toes. Caused our CEO to say he'd never again visit a station in the Twin Cities. Or so I heard later. But that was my fault, not Emil's.
Where is he now? Beats me. Maybe he's a Peter Pan kinda thing. Only visits the young of heart. I've considered re-reading old blog entries with the hopes he'll return to make fun of me. But that's asking a lot from an old man.
Over the years he travelled with me under a number of names. Wore a lot of different hats. Had what used to be called a wicked sense of humor. And usually came to visit when I was alone. Gotta admit I miss him. He made me laugh a lot, usually silently, and occasionally passed on ideas other people didn't find funny. Nothing escaped his observations. And they were only observations, nothing more.
Oddly, he might occasionally blither on about situations where I worked. Do so in a joking kind of way. Get me to write down what he'd said, then get me to read his humor aloud at a work group meeting. Normal, salt of the earth people, would find his references no more than something to laugh about. Once in a while an astute manager would see through the joking to find several good ideas hidden inside.
Yeah, he came calling a lot before I retired. And got my ass in a sling with more mangers than I've got fingers and toes. Caused our CEO to say he'd never again visit a station in the Twin Cities. Or so I heard later. But that was my fault, not Emil's.
Where is he now? Beats me. Maybe he's a Peter Pan kinda thing. Only visits the young of heart. I've considered re-reading old blog entries with the hopes he'll return to make fun of me. But that's asking a lot from an old man.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
What the Frack is Going On?
Me and Markie got to talkin' the other day and he tells me there's this big stink going on in Minnesota about something called fracking. Like I knew what that was. So he clues me in about it being a new way to get oil out of the ground using sand. Seems most of the wells we'd dug in the past had been missing the boat and most of the oil. This new sand blasting method can go down, then to the side, and then to the side of the side. Old wells can become new again. We can get blood from the turnip. Suck it all up.
The downside, yup everything has its downside, comes on two or more levels. In Minnesota and Wisconsin we've got a whole lot of sand. And the frackers want all of it they can lay their hands on. That's good for the sand owners. Unless it means a whole lot of hill removal or open pit mines. That's not good. And there seems to be an issue concerning destruction of aquifers where the new drilling is done. In a drying up world, screwin' up clean water is the last thing we want do.
The oil dudes say there's no problem whatsoever. Environmentalists say it's one more nail in the coffin. Markie leans toward it being destructive and having a new source of oil simply fuels an already deteriorating climate problem.
Me, I got to mulling it over and came up with this : Oil barons like money so they're not gonna back off 'cause some tree huggers say fracking is dangerous. The bleeding liberal courts back the huggers and put a stop to any sand mining. Not thwarted the barons throw a tanker full of cash at the problem and some pissant chemist in Malaysia comes up with an abrasive plastic in micro-pellet form that costs a buck a ton to make and works even better than sand.
So here's the scoop, by 2021 fifty percent of all oil is used to make plastic pellets that are pumped into the ground to get more oil so as to make more pellets. Profits are booming. By 2030 most cars are running off of hydrogen fuel cells and a full ninety percent of all oil goes into pellets. Kind of a Ponzi Scheme but so long as the oil keeps flowing, so does the money as one side of the corporation sells to the other and moves the freight with its own trucks and tankers charging exorbitant rates all the way.
Parallel to this is the rise of full automation of the drilling and pellet making process. No humans are needed. Anyhow, by 2063 the planet has more or less fried from global warming and only a handful of people are left down in Antarctica farming okra. But the oil mining and pellet manufacturing robots are still hard at it 'til they've churned every acre of dry ground into a level plain.
Here's where I run into a brick wall. I was gonna have the robots turn the whole planet inside out and maybe make Earth into a robot that falls in love with Venus. Then, in an effort to get to know her better, miscalculates the necessary trajectory and falls into the sun crying, "Oh, the lack of humanity!" but that seemed a little weird, even to me.
The downside, yup everything has its downside, comes on two or more levels. In Minnesota and Wisconsin we've got a whole lot of sand. And the frackers want all of it they can lay their hands on. That's good for the sand owners. Unless it means a whole lot of hill removal or open pit mines. That's not good. And there seems to be an issue concerning destruction of aquifers where the new drilling is done. In a drying up world, screwin' up clean water is the last thing we want do.
The oil dudes say there's no problem whatsoever. Environmentalists say it's one more nail in the coffin. Markie leans toward it being destructive and having a new source of oil simply fuels an already deteriorating climate problem.
Me, I got to mulling it over and came up with this : Oil barons like money so they're not gonna back off 'cause some tree huggers say fracking is dangerous. The bleeding liberal courts back the huggers and put a stop to any sand mining. Not thwarted the barons throw a tanker full of cash at the problem and some pissant chemist in Malaysia comes up with an abrasive plastic in micro-pellet form that costs a buck a ton to make and works even better than sand.
So here's the scoop, by 2021 fifty percent of all oil is used to make plastic pellets that are pumped into the ground to get more oil so as to make more pellets. Profits are booming. By 2030 most cars are running off of hydrogen fuel cells and a full ninety percent of all oil goes into pellets. Kind of a Ponzi Scheme but so long as the oil keeps flowing, so does the money as one side of the corporation sells to the other and moves the freight with its own trucks and tankers charging exorbitant rates all the way.
Parallel to this is the rise of full automation of the drilling and pellet making process. No humans are needed. Anyhow, by 2063 the planet has more or less fried from global warming and only a handful of people are left down in Antarctica farming okra. But the oil mining and pellet manufacturing robots are still hard at it 'til they've churned every acre of dry ground into a level plain.
Here's where I run into a brick wall. I was gonna have the robots turn the whole planet inside out and maybe make Earth into a robot that falls in love with Venus. Then, in an effort to get to know her better, miscalculates the necessary trajectory and falls into the sun crying, "Oh, the lack of humanity!" but that seemed a little weird, even to me.
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