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.
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