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.
   

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.