Emil told me to sink the boat. Wasn't going anywhere. Glub, glub, glub.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Note on a Christmas Card
You might already know that our Christmas letter ain't your usual Christmas letter. Mostly that was Lois' idea. Must be close to twenty years since she voiced it. Whenever, her's was a good idea. Tired of the usual informational letter with news of the kids and the passing of close relatives, she figured we should take another tack. Might have something to do with Christmas, might even be remotely newsie, but, above all, it should be entertaining. This year's was pretty marginal.
Oddly enough, with each card and letter we add personal notes. Some are letter-like, some sink well into the weird. And one, to my long time friend, Mike G., always drifts off into the realm of the strange and insulting. Not a problem, he seems to like them all. Claims he's kept each and every one for future reference should I ever be locked up in a looney bin. This year's note was pretty slap-dash but had potential. Unfortunately, I hit a brick wall at the end. I signed the note Uncle Emil. That sure wasn't fair on my part as Emil never started a story he didn't finish. So I figured it best if I turn the tale over to my Uncle. Somehow, someway, he'll plow his way through my mess and make a tale out of it:
Tale Told While Fishing
Till I was inducted in the Army, my Uncle Emil and I snuck off on yearly fishing trips. Sometimes we'd go over the border to Manitoba but more often it was the Quetico-Superior wilderness. It was on one of the Arrowhead country trips that he came up with this tale. As usual, Emil claimed it as gospel truth but like most of his rambles, I had my doubts.
We'd been out on the water for a couple of hours that evening. The fishing had been okay, not great but we'd caught our share of smallies. Since we hadn't intended on crossing the border his pipe didn't come with us. Instead he was rationing out Lucky Strikes at a half pack per day. In all the years and all the tales, Emil never once spun a yarn unless in a boat. Or without some form of smoke accompanying the words of his tale. Picture this: I was paused between casts when my uncle jabbed me between the shoulder blades with his homemade, freshly varnished but beat to hell and gone, ash paddle. Time for me to listen up.
"Markie, me lad, ever tell you about my friend Mike? He's been gone near on five years but the manner in which he passed on to his reward, not that he deserved any, is still spoken of in hushed tones down in Parker's Prairie."
Never one to rush into anything, much less a story he'd been mulling over since we'd glided out from our campsite, Emil pulled his cigarette tin and Zippo. He packed the butt on his lighter, fired up, deeply popped the first drag and dove into his yarn.
"Mike was a man who worked with his hands even though he'd been college educated down at the U. Things work out that way sometimes. Matter of timing. A man finishes school when no one's hiring. He does what he can to make ends meet. Makes a decent living at whatever and never looks back. Except maybe once in a while when he cold cocks his thumb with a milled head framing hammer."
"Anyhow, Mike liked to hunt. 'Specially deer. I suspect, like most deer hunters, he enjoyed his time back at the shack as much as sittin' hours on end in a stand waiting for something to happen. Most years he got his deer. Even gave me a few chops when he and his buddies limited out."
"The year in question was a bitter cold one. Temperatures down near zero at night and not a whole lot warmer during the day. Had to put extra layers down in his nether regions for fear his willie'd freeze and maybe snap off should Mike make a wrong move climbing down out of his stand. He didn't want anything like that to happen to his good buddy. Yeah, Mike and his willie were best friends. Often strolled together hand-in-hand into the sunset."
"Come opener his group of friends would pretty well fill the deer shack. Most returned home on Monday thinkin' they'd had a good time but exactly what that good time consisted of was usually lost in a flood of beer and bumps. Opener morning those who made it to their deer stands usually spent the first few hours sleepin' off the snoot full from Friday night. A herd of twelve point bucks could've paraded by wavin' the American flag and fartin' the Star Spangled Banner, yet been as safe from harm as babes in their mother's arms."
"This particular year his buddy Jim - an easy name for me to remember seein' as how he'd taped his name in foot high block letters to the rear of his camper. You see, Jim had a short memory when it came to recreational habitation but had a pretty good lock on his name - was closing in on his last days in the woods. Gettin' old, nearly blind, couldn't hardly make it up into his stand anymore. Couple of years earlier Mike and his buddies built Jim a staircase to his perch so's he could still enjoy the hunt. Not so smart if you ask me. Wasn't just that Jim couldn't hardly see as it was his itchy trigger finger. A real danger. He'd shoot at most anything that moved. When the wind was up he'd fire off so many rounds at flyin' leaves and waving brush it sounded like pileated woodpecker with an overdose of coffee.
The solution decided upon was to fill his shell box with empty bullets. 'Course the first year Jim cussed himself up a storm at the shoddy workmanship down to Federal Cartridge. Didn't calm down till he was told the truth. Jim took it like a man and laughed as hard as any of the others. Then, in the middle of the night, went out and slashed everyone's tires. Come morning it turned out that, once again, the joke was on Jim. Seems the combination of poor eyesight and alcohol had done him in. Slashed all four of his own tires and the spare."
"Anyhow, the staircase was to be a surprise for Jim. So he wasn't along when they put it up. Made the treads out of walnut and wrapped it around Jim's big oak just like a spiral. Yeah, she was fancy alright. Put four coats of spar varnish on it till it gleamed like the sun. Hand carved the railings with scenes from deer openers of year's passed. When Jim first saw it he broke down in tears. Said it was like a stairway to heaven."
"A week before the year I'm slowly easing up to, Mike headed to the woods to check things out. Make sure all was as they'd left it. There he found the DNR had bulldozed down Jim's stand and tree. Sad story."
Emil paused and lit up another smoke. He liked to do that in mid-story. My uncle figured it added dramatic effect. Also gave him time to make sure his ducks were in order or if he'd need to add a note or two to make the story turn out right.
"Gettin' Jim up atop his new, slap-dash stand was a challenge easily remedied by block and tackle. Once they hoisted and got him hanging alongside, a whack or two with a twelve-foot, two-by-four swung him into position. And bruised Jim's ribs something awful. As usual Jim said nary a word. Figured, 'hell it's dark out. Hard to see anything. Coulda happened to anybody. And I got all day to sit here with nothing better to do than figure out how I'll square things.' "
"But none of that has anything to do with this remembrance. What happened to Mike was a whole lot weirder and not as easy to believe but it's plumb bob true. More or less."
"Like I said, it was a cold hunt that year. Mike's time in the stand passed slowly and miserably. From one end of the season to the other. Day after day he trudged out to his stand. Climbed and sat. Sunrise to sundown. Top that off with Mike being skunked. Didn't see a buck, doe or even Bambi. Didn't see squat till a minute after sundown on the last day. To one side of the sky the sun had just dropped below the horizon. To the other, a full moon was just peeking through the woods. It was then Mike saw something passing by. Big but wasn't a deer. At first he figured it to be some farmer's overfed, hog of a German shepherd. Then realized he was staring down at a wolf. Never seen one before."
"It didn't take Mike but a moment's thought to realize this was the chance of a lifetime. There's a law in the books says it's illegal to kill a wolf in the state of Minnesota. Same book says it's illegal to shoot a deer out of season, which it now was. Also says it's illegal to shoot a deer after sundown. Mike, in that moment think's to himself, 'if it was a deer I'd sure as hell shoot it. And be breakin' two laws at the same time. But if I shoot the wolf I'll only be breakin' one. So it's almost the right thing to do. And the pelt would look fine on my wall alongside the fourth place spelling bee plaque I stole back in '37.' "
"Let's pause a moment before proceeding. You see, Italian blood flowed through Mike's body. The way I see it, as a people they're fine cooks but a little weak in the logic department. Yeah, they've sure come down a peg or three since the days of Virgil and Marcus Aurelius. Anyhow, Mike squeezed off a round and caught the beast square in the left eye."
"Oh yeah, that shot was right on the money. Ol' Mikey had visions of the pelt hanging there on his wall of fame even before the round exited the wolf's skull. What he didn't see was the unaffected, pissed off wolf down below that had other ideas as to whose backside was now in a ringer. Seems Mike's bullet had done nothing more than draw the attention of the wrong party. Yup, he'd shot himself a werewolf. Didn't think your Uncle Emil knew about those kind of things did you? Unfortunately for Mike, he'd left his silver bullet in the backseat of his car about thirty years earlier. Well, the werewolf drew itself up and with a single bound was upon our hero up in the deer stand. Tore him limb from Sunday. A regular rainbow of blood and screaming."
"This werewolf had its wits about it and dragged Mike's lifeless carcass deep into Isaacson's Bottomless Slough. Feelin' up for a little Italian, he chowed down. Long story short, come morning all that was left of Mike was a kneecap and his Turtle Club card. The card was how the County Sheriff ID'd the remains. His was a simple and very economical funeral. The kneecap was sealed up in a Hills Brothers coffee tin along with a few pounds of bent nails. Then pitched into Horse Lake south of town. A stone was laid near the spot. The inscription reads 'You bet your sweet ass I am.' "
"To this day if you head up near the slough during hunting season and it just happens to be a full moon, you can still hear Mike's ghost wandering the woods and endlessly moaning 'Doesn't anyone in this damned swamp have change for a twenty?' Guess they have vending machines on the other side. As for me, I'd gladly fork over the change just to shut him up as his whining spooks the deer."
Oddly enough, with each card and letter we add personal notes. Some are letter-like, some sink well into the weird. And one, to my long time friend, Mike G., always drifts off into the realm of the strange and insulting. Not a problem, he seems to like them all. Claims he's kept each and every one for future reference should I ever be locked up in a looney bin. This year's note was pretty slap-dash but had potential. Unfortunately, I hit a brick wall at the end. I signed the note Uncle Emil. That sure wasn't fair on my part as Emil never started a story he didn't finish. So I figured it best if I turn the tale over to my Uncle. Somehow, someway, he'll plow his way through my mess and make a tale out of it:
Tale Told While Fishing
Till I was inducted in the Army, my Uncle Emil and I snuck off on yearly fishing trips. Sometimes we'd go over the border to Manitoba but more often it was the Quetico-Superior wilderness. It was on one of the Arrowhead country trips that he came up with this tale. As usual, Emil claimed it as gospel truth but like most of his rambles, I had my doubts.
We'd been out on the water for a couple of hours that evening. The fishing had been okay, not great but we'd caught our share of smallies. Since we hadn't intended on crossing the border his pipe didn't come with us. Instead he was rationing out Lucky Strikes at a half pack per day. In all the years and all the tales, Emil never once spun a yarn unless in a boat. Or without some form of smoke accompanying the words of his tale. Picture this: I was paused between casts when my uncle jabbed me between the shoulder blades with his homemade, freshly varnished but beat to hell and gone, ash paddle. Time for me to listen up.
"Markie, me lad, ever tell you about my friend Mike? He's been gone near on five years but the manner in which he passed on to his reward, not that he deserved any, is still spoken of in hushed tones down in Parker's Prairie."
Never one to rush into anything, much less a story he'd been mulling over since we'd glided out from our campsite, Emil pulled his cigarette tin and Zippo. He packed the butt on his lighter, fired up, deeply popped the first drag and dove into his yarn.
"Mike was a man who worked with his hands even though he'd been college educated down at the U. Things work out that way sometimes. Matter of timing. A man finishes school when no one's hiring. He does what he can to make ends meet. Makes a decent living at whatever and never looks back. Except maybe once in a while when he cold cocks his thumb with a milled head framing hammer."
"Anyhow, Mike liked to hunt. 'Specially deer. I suspect, like most deer hunters, he enjoyed his time back at the shack as much as sittin' hours on end in a stand waiting for something to happen. Most years he got his deer. Even gave me a few chops when he and his buddies limited out."
"The year in question was a bitter cold one. Temperatures down near zero at night and not a whole lot warmer during the day. Had to put extra layers down in his nether regions for fear his willie'd freeze and maybe snap off should Mike make a wrong move climbing down out of his stand. He didn't want anything like that to happen to his good buddy. Yeah, Mike and his willie were best friends. Often strolled together hand-in-hand into the sunset."
"Come opener his group of friends would pretty well fill the deer shack. Most returned home on Monday thinkin' they'd had a good time but exactly what that good time consisted of was usually lost in a flood of beer and bumps. Opener morning those who made it to their deer stands usually spent the first few hours sleepin' off the snoot full from Friday night. A herd of twelve point bucks could've paraded by wavin' the American flag and fartin' the Star Spangled Banner, yet been as safe from harm as babes in their mother's arms."
"This particular year his buddy Jim - an easy name for me to remember seein' as how he'd taped his name in foot high block letters to the rear of his camper. You see, Jim had a short memory when it came to recreational habitation but had a pretty good lock on his name - was closing in on his last days in the woods. Gettin' old, nearly blind, couldn't hardly make it up into his stand anymore. Couple of years earlier Mike and his buddies built Jim a staircase to his perch so's he could still enjoy the hunt. Not so smart if you ask me. Wasn't just that Jim couldn't hardly see as it was his itchy trigger finger. A real danger. He'd shoot at most anything that moved. When the wind was up he'd fire off so many rounds at flyin' leaves and waving brush it sounded like pileated woodpecker with an overdose of coffee.
The solution decided upon was to fill his shell box with empty bullets. 'Course the first year Jim cussed himself up a storm at the shoddy workmanship down to Federal Cartridge. Didn't calm down till he was told the truth. Jim took it like a man and laughed as hard as any of the others. Then, in the middle of the night, went out and slashed everyone's tires. Come morning it turned out that, once again, the joke was on Jim. Seems the combination of poor eyesight and alcohol had done him in. Slashed all four of his own tires and the spare."
"Anyhow, the staircase was to be a surprise for Jim. So he wasn't along when they put it up. Made the treads out of walnut and wrapped it around Jim's big oak just like a spiral. Yeah, she was fancy alright. Put four coats of spar varnish on it till it gleamed like the sun. Hand carved the railings with scenes from deer openers of year's passed. When Jim first saw it he broke down in tears. Said it was like a stairway to heaven."
"A week before the year I'm slowly easing up to, Mike headed to the woods to check things out. Make sure all was as they'd left it. There he found the DNR had bulldozed down Jim's stand and tree. Sad story."
Emil paused and lit up another smoke. He liked to do that in mid-story. My uncle figured it added dramatic effect. Also gave him time to make sure his ducks were in order or if he'd need to add a note or two to make the story turn out right.
"Gettin' Jim up atop his new, slap-dash stand was a challenge easily remedied by block and tackle. Once they hoisted and got him hanging alongside, a whack or two with a twelve-foot, two-by-four swung him into position. And bruised Jim's ribs something awful. As usual Jim said nary a word. Figured, 'hell it's dark out. Hard to see anything. Coulda happened to anybody. And I got all day to sit here with nothing better to do than figure out how I'll square things.' "
"But none of that has anything to do with this remembrance. What happened to Mike was a whole lot weirder and not as easy to believe but it's plumb bob true. More or less."
"Like I said, it was a cold hunt that year. Mike's time in the stand passed slowly and miserably. From one end of the season to the other. Day after day he trudged out to his stand. Climbed and sat. Sunrise to sundown. Top that off with Mike being skunked. Didn't see a buck, doe or even Bambi. Didn't see squat till a minute after sundown on the last day. To one side of the sky the sun had just dropped below the horizon. To the other, a full moon was just peeking through the woods. It was then Mike saw something passing by. Big but wasn't a deer. At first he figured it to be some farmer's overfed, hog of a German shepherd. Then realized he was staring down at a wolf. Never seen one before."
"It didn't take Mike but a moment's thought to realize this was the chance of a lifetime. There's a law in the books says it's illegal to kill a wolf in the state of Minnesota. Same book says it's illegal to shoot a deer out of season, which it now was. Also says it's illegal to shoot a deer after sundown. Mike, in that moment think's to himself, 'if it was a deer I'd sure as hell shoot it. And be breakin' two laws at the same time. But if I shoot the wolf I'll only be breakin' one. So it's almost the right thing to do. And the pelt would look fine on my wall alongside the fourth place spelling bee plaque I stole back in '37.' "
"Let's pause a moment before proceeding. You see, Italian blood flowed through Mike's body. The way I see it, as a people they're fine cooks but a little weak in the logic department. Yeah, they've sure come down a peg or three since the days of Virgil and Marcus Aurelius. Anyhow, Mike squeezed off a round and caught the beast square in the left eye."
"Oh yeah, that shot was right on the money. Ol' Mikey had visions of the pelt hanging there on his wall of fame even before the round exited the wolf's skull. What he didn't see was the unaffected, pissed off wolf down below that had other ideas as to whose backside was now in a ringer. Seems Mike's bullet had done nothing more than draw the attention of the wrong party. Yup, he'd shot himself a werewolf. Didn't think your Uncle Emil knew about those kind of things did you? Unfortunately for Mike, he'd left his silver bullet in the backseat of his car about thirty years earlier. Well, the werewolf drew itself up and with a single bound was upon our hero up in the deer stand. Tore him limb from Sunday. A regular rainbow of blood and screaming."
"This werewolf had its wits about it and dragged Mike's lifeless carcass deep into Isaacson's Bottomless Slough. Feelin' up for a little Italian, he chowed down. Long story short, come morning all that was left of Mike was a kneecap and his Turtle Club card. The card was how the County Sheriff ID'd the remains. His was a simple and very economical funeral. The kneecap was sealed up in a Hills Brothers coffee tin along with a few pounds of bent nails. Then pitched into Horse Lake south of town. A stone was laid near the spot. The inscription reads 'You bet your sweet ass I am.' "
"To this day if you head up near the slough during hunting season and it just happens to be a full moon, you can still hear Mike's ghost wandering the woods and endlessly moaning 'Doesn't anyone in this damned swamp have change for a twenty?' Guess they have vending machines on the other side. As for me, I'd gladly fork over the change just to shut him up as his whining spooks the deer."
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