I pick up my mail down at the post office in Hovland. Rarely there's anything so I only grab it on my way to and from somewhere else. Wasn't for taxes, car insurance, the monthly electric bill - got power in the fall of '66 - and the occasional letter there'd be no reason for a box. Have to admit I do like it when people write. Learned years ago the best way to get a letter is to write one. Prime the pump.
The first year Archie wrote me every month or so. We did our last trip in the spring of '66 then he was back to the Cities for a summer job. Didn't say much about the U, just that he was still going. After that the letters slowed. Come the winter of '67 they stopped. His mother wrote me he'd bought a car and she also saw him less and less. Guess I'll stop there and let Archie's letter from the fall of '68 fill in the blanks:
Dear Uncle Emil,
It's been a while hasn't it? Guess you can tell from the return address things have changed in my life. Big time. At the moment I'm sitting on my bunk surrounded by the quiet of a sunday morning barracks. It's an easy day. The men in the Smokie Bear hats are sleeping in. Went to Mass the first two weeks in Basic but it was too much like drill. When the priest said we should yell our responses like we were in formation I figured God must be pretty far away or He could hear us just fine. Made me long for the days of digging pier holes. Never figured work would put me closer to God than church. Live and learn.
So that's why I'm sitting here writing. Outside of the fact that I miss you and the good times we had. You probably know exactly what I mean. Quiet is good. Especially when you're going through training and there's a war going on.
I'll cut my story short for now. Bought a car a little over a year ago. Fell in love eight months ago. Dropped out of school, ran out of money and ended up nose to the wall at the wrong end of a dead end road. No way was my life going anywhere. Felt liked been living a lie. Still in love and knew that relationship was going nowhere until I became an honest man and found an honorable direction to my life. Didn't know where to turn till the Draft popped into my head one particularly bad morning. All of a sudden it didn't seem all that big a deal to walk in and tell the truth.
Didn't know who to see or where to start so I headed for a recruiting office. Must have brightened their day seeing as how the two sergeants were sitting around twiddling their thumbs. Could be there's not a whole lot of young men fired up enough about volunteering for an unpopular war to keep things hopping in an enlistment station. Then there was me. Mr. Sunshine. I fired off the whole spiel about not having registered and that I was their man should they want me. Turned out there was nothing they could do. Said I needed to go find my local Draft Board and deal with them first. Lucky for me they knew just where it was or I'd have no doubt chickened out if I'd had to find it on my own.
I found the old guys upstairs above a Merwin drugstore in a strip mall. Been by the door many times over the years but never consciously saw the name. Yeah, they were old guys. Probably left over WWI vets or maybe a bunch of old farts who had nothing better to do with their time. Looked like I should dust them off before I began.
Started out by saying I wanted to volunteer for the Draft. Let them know my intentions were good. Maybe cut down on the chewing out I was going to get. When I followed up with my real problem, outside of being stupid enough to volunteer for the Draft, they took it well. Couple of "tut-tuts " and "tsk-tsks" and they were done. Signed me up on the spot and told me my greetings from the President would arrive in the mail shortly.
Six weeks later I headed to the Federal Building downtown to be inspected, inducted and shipped off to Fort Campbell. I was sure one unhappy soul. A couple of days later during processing a man with two bars on his shoulder (four if you count both sides) suggested I learn Vietnamese to aid me in my tour of Southeast Asia. Also suggested I might consider signing up for a third year. Said that way I'd spend my time in supply instead of inside a body bag. Probably a good deal but couldn't see any possible glory in handing out underwear.
On the upside, haircuts here are cheap (and thorough) but we have to get one each week. The clothes are free and we get all the guidance a man could want. I've come to fear having someone jump on my Johnson even though I don't know what my Johnson is. I'd ask but figure they'd show me by jumping dead on or maybe in it. Other bad places to have someone jump are on your dick or in your shit. Leads me to think the Johnson lies elsewhere. Don't know if the food is good or bad but my stomach fears there won't be enough.
So here I sit. Can't say I'm happy but can say I created my own problem and am now paying the price. Oh well, guess there's always a price to pay no matter what you do. Maybe it'll turn out for the best.
Archie
P.S. What you said a couple of years ago, about me and the Draft, was pretty much on the money. Got any wisdom for a fool who's on the short track to Vietnam?
Still have the letter and all the rest he sent. I wasn't thrilled he ended up in the Army. Vietnam's a war of stupidity. Not one a sane man would want to take part in. As to Archie's problem with the Draft Board, I was only guessing. Saying words that came out of nowhere. Probably the same place ideas come from. Out there, or in there somewhere on the other side of the invisible wall. You know, like the one you cross when you fall asleep. Guess I'll leave it there for now.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Walnut Apocalypse
Tales like this pop up outta nowhere. Probably would have been a good idea if it'd stayed in hiding but my grandson Jakob was nearby. Being nine years old he's about the right age and mindset for this style of story so I laid it on him. Yeah, he did me proud by laughing. Probably had the same image in his head. 'Course it wasn't exactly like what follows but the gist was there. Anyhow, it goes like this:
Once in a while Emil'd catch me off guard. Say something so far out in left field I figured he must have slipped through a hole in time to a world most of us have no clue is there. Yeah, there's other people in the world who do the same thing. Could be you know a few. Odds are you weren't in the same canoe or alone in the boonies with the crazy man like I was.
We were up on the border lakes, believe it was Watap and were sittin' around camp on a late and cloudy afternoon. Watap's a long, skinny lake, not much more than river-wide, with some serious, south shore cliffs touring above piles of rubble that made a campsite near impossible. Instead, we were illegally lounging on the Canadian side gettin' up the energy to start dinner. The plan was eggs and sausages along with a bannock. Nothing fancy but when you're outdoors and hungry, most anything goes down well. First things first, we started with the bread. Emil began by pounding up a ball of dough, worked in a generous dollop of a cinnamon-sugar mixture and raisins, spread it inch thick in the larded pan, browned the bottom of the loaf, then tipped 'er face to the fire we'd built and burnt to coals. While the bread baked I grabbed my rod and wandered down to the water. Not so much with the idea I'd catch anything but heck, we were on the Canadian border. Yeah, I had my hopes.
Those hopes were for smallmouth bass. Back then I had a thing for smallies. Still do. Not sure if it's their red eyes or never-ending fight. Turned out it didn't matter since I didn't hook a one. But I wasn't skunked. No sir, my slip-bobbered jig and pork rind turned up a half dozen walleyes, kept half. In twenty minutes our menu changed. Fresh food trumped store-bought and three fifteen inchers would go down fine with the eggs and bread.
But that's not what this memory's about. I recall it being between walleye's two and three that Emil wandered down from the fire ring. Couple of minutes earlier I'd heard him chuckling to himself. Not a good sign. Emil's solitary chuckle most always meant he was working up something to share. Since mine was the only set of ears within ten miles that meant me. For a moment I considered grabbing the Grumman and paddling to mid-lake 'til he calmed down. Instead I stood my ground, continued to fish and took my medicine like the man I hoped to become.
He didn't jump right in. Waded in like the water was cold. Seemed Emil was never in a hurry when he was bustin' a gut to let something out. Watched me fling a few casts. Even let me hook up and land a walleye before he started,
"Last August I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Been havin' a nightmare. Don't know how or why, dreams make me figure that out on my own, but the two of us were arm wrestling in Furlong's House of Ill Brew down in Parkers. Me and a dinosaur that is. Big fella. One of them tyrannosaurus rex's with the little arms. No more than forty inch biceps. Long story short, I beat it (not sure if it was a boy or girl. Didn't figure it was my place or anywhere near wise to peek down there.). Actually tore its arm off. Chartreuse blood shootin' out everywhere. Talk about pissed. Last thing I recall was the big, yellow teeth just before they woulda snapped my head off."
"Woke up in the morning thinkin' there was a message in that dream. Maybe something to do with beer, bars, arms or extinction. Figured the latter more likely and trotted off to the cities 'cause of their big libraries. Did some research on why and how the dinosaurs disappeared. Checked both the science and science fiction sections. Even checked the Children's Room and read a few stories about a monkey who kept getting in trouble. Found nothing more than wild guesses and conjecture. Turned out it was up to me to solve the mystery."
'Put on my thinking cap - mine says 'Olberding's Equipment and Burial Service' on the front - and headed outdoors to walk my way to a solution. Learned year's ago I figured things out best when afoot. Wasn't more than a couple of blocks when the idea hit me. Squirrels. Down on Hennepin Avenue I came on the biggest squirrel I'd ever seen, staring down from a sign atop the entrance of a strip joint by the name of 'The Copper Squirrel.' You don't believe me, have a look for yourself. Struck me the combination of big squirrel on the outside and naked truth inside was just too much of a coincidence to ignore. Figured it the voice of God. And kinda like Jesus hanging out with the lower classes. Christ were to come back you wouldn't find him sailing on Lake Minnetonka. No sir, he'd be down here with the hooligans and hookers. And just maybe a sod buster from up in Parkers Prairie seeking an answer of great historic import."
"Gave it a few turns around the block and came up with an answer. All the books said not everything died when the dinosaurs took a hike. Nope, it seems the scroungers did just fine. Small rodents and whatnot. Got me wondering why. Then I recalled a picture of some fossils from about the same time, near a hundred million years ago. Wasn't much more than some softball-sized, oval-shaped tracks in the rock. The scientists gave those tracks some convoluted latin names that made no sense to me. What did make sense was their size, shape and that they were mixed in with some bone prints."
"Puttin' two and two together, a little interpretation, and a dash of interpolation I figured those ovals to be nuts. Most likely acorns and walnuts. Could be those dinosaurs were allergic to nuts. That took care of the herbivores but what about the carnivores? Aha! They were eatin' the small mammals. 'Course we wouldn't have seen them as bein' small. Figure them as dog-sized squirrels."
"All well and good but my idea still seemed too complex to be right. After all, the simplest solution is usually the right one. Gave some thought to modern day squirrels, mice and chipmunks. Also to Disney cartoons. Also to the trees drawn in the books at the library. Saw the big picture and the solution was obvious."
"Back when the dinosaurs disappeared there were palm trees that grew giant acorns and walnuts. Near the size of coconuts. Now palm trees don't have branches. No place for a rodent to store nuts. So they used the only cavities of size they could find and stuffed their stash up the backsides of the dinosaurs. 'Course that plugged the beasts up something awful. Fatally even. Over a few decades they all died off. The more the big guys ate, the quicker they died. The quicker they died, the more rodents that survived to stuff nuts up the backsides of dinosaurs and so on. Makes sense to me. Could even be that's where our saying 'cram it with walnuts' comes from."
'Bout then I had my third keeper. Time for dinner. "You know Uncle Emil, I kind of have to agree with you. As to your solution of the extinction mystery, there's no doubt in my mind that it's nuts."
Once in a while Emil'd catch me off guard. Say something so far out in left field I figured he must have slipped through a hole in time to a world most of us have no clue is there. Yeah, there's other people in the world who do the same thing. Could be you know a few. Odds are you weren't in the same canoe or alone in the boonies with the crazy man like I was.
We were up on the border lakes, believe it was Watap and were sittin' around camp on a late and cloudy afternoon. Watap's a long, skinny lake, not much more than river-wide, with some serious, south shore cliffs touring above piles of rubble that made a campsite near impossible. Instead, we were illegally lounging on the Canadian side gettin' up the energy to start dinner. The plan was eggs and sausages along with a bannock. Nothing fancy but when you're outdoors and hungry, most anything goes down well. First things first, we started with the bread. Emil began by pounding up a ball of dough, worked in a generous dollop of a cinnamon-sugar mixture and raisins, spread it inch thick in the larded pan, browned the bottom of the loaf, then tipped 'er face to the fire we'd built and burnt to coals. While the bread baked I grabbed my rod and wandered down to the water. Not so much with the idea I'd catch anything but heck, we were on the Canadian border. Yeah, I had my hopes.
Those hopes were for smallmouth bass. Back then I had a thing for smallies. Still do. Not sure if it's their red eyes or never-ending fight. Turned out it didn't matter since I didn't hook a one. But I wasn't skunked. No sir, my slip-bobbered jig and pork rind turned up a half dozen walleyes, kept half. In twenty minutes our menu changed. Fresh food trumped store-bought and three fifteen inchers would go down fine with the eggs and bread.
But that's not what this memory's about. I recall it being between walleye's two and three that Emil wandered down from the fire ring. Couple of minutes earlier I'd heard him chuckling to himself. Not a good sign. Emil's solitary chuckle most always meant he was working up something to share. Since mine was the only set of ears within ten miles that meant me. For a moment I considered grabbing the Grumman and paddling to mid-lake 'til he calmed down. Instead I stood my ground, continued to fish and took my medicine like the man I hoped to become.
He didn't jump right in. Waded in like the water was cold. Seemed Emil was never in a hurry when he was bustin' a gut to let something out. Watched me fling a few casts. Even let me hook up and land a walleye before he started,
"Last August I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Been havin' a nightmare. Don't know how or why, dreams make me figure that out on my own, but the two of us were arm wrestling in Furlong's House of Ill Brew down in Parkers. Me and a dinosaur that is. Big fella. One of them tyrannosaurus rex's with the little arms. No more than forty inch biceps. Long story short, I beat it (not sure if it was a boy or girl. Didn't figure it was my place or anywhere near wise to peek down there.). Actually tore its arm off. Chartreuse blood shootin' out everywhere. Talk about pissed. Last thing I recall was the big, yellow teeth just before they woulda snapped my head off."
"Woke up in the morning thinkin' there was a message in that dream. Maybe something to do with beer, bars, arms or extinction. Figured the latter more likely and trotted off to the cities 'cause of their big libraries. Did some research on why and how the dinosaurs disappeared. Checked both the science and science fiction sections. Even checked the Children's Room and read a few stories about a monkey who kept getting in trouble. Found nothing more than wild guesses and conjecture. Turned out it was up to me to solve the mystery."
'Put on my thinking cap - mine says 'Olberding's Equipment and Burial Service' on the front - and headed outdoors to walk my way to a solution. Learned year's ago I figured things out best when afoot. Wasn't more than a couple of blocks when the idea hit me. Squirrels. Down on Hennepin Avenue I came on the biggest squirrel I'd ever seen, staring down from a sign atop the entrance of a strip joint by the name of 'The Copper Squirrel.' You don't believe me, have a look for yourself. Struck me the combination of big squirrel on the outside and naked truth inside was just too much of a coincidence to ignore. Figured it the voice of God. And kinda like Jesus hanging out with the lower classes. Christ were to come back you wouldn't find him sailing on Lake Minnetonka. No sir, he'd be down here with the hooligans and hookers. And just maybe a sod buster from up in Parkers Prairie seeking an answer of great historic import."
"Gave it a few turns around the block and came up with an answer. All the books said not everything died when the dinosaurs took a hike. Nope, it seems the scroungers did just fine. Small rodents and whatnot. Got me wondering why. Then I recalled a picture of some fossils from about the same time, near a hundred million years ago. Wasn't much more than some softball-sized, oval-shaped tracks in the rock. The scientists gave those tracks some convoluted latin names that made no sense to me. What did make sense was their size, shape and that they were mixed in with some bone prints."
"Puttin' two and two together, a little interpretation, and a dash of interpolation I figured those ovals to be nuts. Most likely acorns and walnuts. Could be those dinosaurs were allergic to nuts. That took care of the herbivores but what about the carnivores? Aha! They were eatin' the small mammals. 'Course we wouldn't have seen them as bein' small. Figure them as dog-sized squirrels."
"All well and good but my idea still seemed too complex to be right. After all, the simplest solution is usually the right one. Gave some thought to modern day squirrels, mice and chipmunks. Also to Disney cartoons. Also to the trees drawn in the books at the library. Saw the big picture and the solution was obvious."
"Back when the dinosaurs disappeared there were palm trees that grew giant acorns and walnuts. Near the size of coconuts. Now palm trees don't have branches. No place for a rodent to store nuts. So they used the only cavities of size they could find and stuffed their stash up the backsides of the dinosaurs. 'Course that plugged the beasts up something awful. Fatally even. Over a few decades they all died off. The more the big guys ate, the quicker they died. The quicker they died, the more rodents that survived to stuff nuts up the backsides of dinosaurs and so on. Makes sense to me. Could even be that's where our saying 'cram it with walnuts' comes from."
'Bout then I had my third keeper. Time for dinner. "You know Uncle Emil, I kind of have to agree with you. As to your solution of the extinction mystery, there's no doubt in my mind that it's nuts."
Friday, August 21, 2015
Life at the Cabin - Emil's Epilogue III
One thing's for sure, life in this world has grown louder with the passing years. Worst was during the war. Odd thing was, once we'd landed ashore, quiet could be even worse. Nothin' like the dead silence of being set up in the black of a tropical night to give a man the heebie-jeebies. Death'd come creeping on cat's paws. Sometimes just the slightest noise and the night would light up. Turn into a wall of explosion. Out there in the Pacific quiet would often mean death and noise usually meant it was too late.
Anyhow, all those explosions made me a little deaf. Not all the way deaf but should there be background noise, I lose words. Not so up at the cabin off the McFarland Road. Here, words don't get lost in the jumble 'cause there is no jumble. Most of the time there aren't a lot of words either. That's fine. What I feel like saying, I write down. Not sure why but I do.
Mostly I work. You see, I've got a house to finish. The intention's to get it done, down to the last stick of furniture before I call it complete. Varnishing the floor turned out to be a good reason to go camping. First I figured to pitch the tent in the yard. Instead, I headed all the way over to Esther Lake about four miles away. The DNR'd started stocking Esther with trout back in the '50s so old boogers like me could catch a few and still think they had it. Not near as much fun as bushwhackin' through a half mile of brush to chuckle over a handful of little brookies but the campsite let me fish in the morning, head back to the cabin and varnish my way through the midday hours. Then, head back to Esther for the evening hatch.
Also afforded a chance for intelligent conversation. Well, conversation anyway. Can't say most of it was worth remembering but it did make me thankful for living on my own. Maybe I shouldn't be critical. Could be one of the good old boys was brain damaged from all the bug juice he slathered on his head. 'Bout every half hour or so he'd pull his ball cap and foam a thick line of spray along his hat crease. Hard not to stare when the juice started seeping toward his eyes. Scary and fascinating at the same time. Made me want to grab a rag to stop the flow before he was blinded. But each time the stuff reached his eyebrows, he'd reach up with both hands and work the repellant in like he was washing his head and hair. Got so I'd hang around before turning in to see if he glowed in the dark.
Four coats plus two days to let the smell go down. Varnish is powerful stuff. Could be that's why it lasts as long as it does. Also smelled a lot like a heavy dose of bug juice. That's why I stayed away the two extra days.
Spend a lot of time in the Lookout. Sleep there, read, write, think about the world but mostly do a lot of looking. Never get tired of the view. Once in a while I get lost in thoughts of Lena. Not like I conjure her up. More like she comes riding in when the light is just so. Or on a smell when I'd be cooking dinner. Usually onions frying in butter. Yeah, when we were together that's how meals would start. Guess our love was grounded on onions and butter.
And I missed Archie. Didn't see him much over the next couple of years. Then nothing. Didn't know where 'til the first letter arrived from Fort Campbell, Kentucky.
Anyhow, all those explosions made me a little deaf. Not all the way deaf but should there be background noise, I lose words. Not so up at the cabin off the McFarland Road. Here, words don't get lost in the jumble 'cause there is no jumble. Most of the time there aren't a lot of words either. That's fine. What I feel like saying, I write down. Not sure why but I do.
Mostly I work. You see, I've got a house to finish. The intention's to get it done, down to the last stick of furniture before I call it complete. Varnishing the floor turned out to be a good reason to go camping. First I figured to pitch the tent in the yard. Instead, I headed all the way over to Esther Lake about four miles away. The DNR'd started stocking Esther with trout back in the '50s so old boogers like me could catch a few and still think they had it. Not near as much fun as bushwhackin' through a half mile of brush to chuckle over a handful of little brookies but the campsite let me fish in the morning, head back to the cabin and varnish my way through the midday hours. Then, head back to Esther for the evening hatch.
Also afforded a chance for intelligent conversation. Well, conversation anyway. Can't say most of it was worth remembering but it did make me thankful for living on my own. Maybe I shouldn't be critical. Could be one of the good old boys was brain damaged from all the bug juice he slathered on his head. 'Bout every half hour or so he'd pull his ball cap and foam a thick line of spray along his hat crease. Hard not to stare when the juice started seeping toward his eyes. Scary and fascinating at the same time. Made me want to grab a rag to stop the flow before he was blinded. But each time the stuff reached his eyebrows, he'd reach up with both hands and work the repellant in like he was washing his head and hair. Got so I'd hang around before turning in to see if he glowed in the dark.
Four coats plus two days to let the smell go down. Varnish is powerful stuff. Could be that's why it lasts as long as it does. Also smelled a lot like a heavy dose of bug juice. That's why I stayed away the two extra days.
Spend a lot of time in the Lookout. Sleep there, read, write, think about the world but mostly do a lot of looking. Never get tired of the view. Once in a while I get lost in thoughts of Lena. Not like I conjure her up. More like she comes riding in when the light is just so. Or on a smell when I'd be cooking dinner. Usually onions frying in butter. Yeah, when we were together that's how meals would start. Guess our love was grounded on onions and butter.
And I missed Archie. Didn't see him much over the next couple of years. Then nothing. Didn't know where 'til the first letter arrived from Fort Campbell, Kentucky.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Untitled
Don't know what to call this entry. It'd be easier if it was about or by Emil but it's not. At the same time it is. Probably mentioned it earlier that me and Emil are the same person. And at the same time we're not. The way I see it, from the moment I was born a part of me, that being Emil, was already at the other end of my life making sure I ended up where I was supposed to end up. Just like the cabin, the blueprint of my life was in Emil's mind, up there in the treetops, down to the last stud and nail, before the first shovelful was scraped out of the first pier.
Can't say that was on my mind when Lois and I wandered the streets of Pequot Lakes around the turn of the century. Don't recall what came first, the story or the name. Not that it matters. But I do believe Emil was there long before he introduced himself at the liar's contest on that Fourth of July. Wrote it many times that my life is filled with irony. Figure that as Emil's idea of a good joke. His idea of guidance was to send me off in the opposite direction of where he wanted me to end up. 'Course I may have lent a hand now and then.
My Uncle says there's more than one way to get from A to Z. Also knows if I had my choice I'd shoot arrow straight through my three score and ten. Or find myself dead-ended around J. Even worse, somewhere south of Q. His idea is to go through life as a wave. Sometimes above the line, sometimes below. Only matters that I'm on the line at the important points. And that's what he was driving at about me and the Draft. Or me and smoking.
Doubt I've mentioned this but the stories 'Canada' and 'Emil's Cabin' are being written for my grandchildren with the idea they come to know my life, even the warts. Nothing in these stories actually happened. And yet, nothing was made up. I'm not that clever. Been wilderness canoeing in northwest Manitoba a number of times, built a cabin from the piers up, didn't register for the Draft when I turned eighteen and did tear out a glove webbing in the bullpen at old Metropolitan Stadium. The story that comes next'll follow the same blueprint. It's already up there in the treetops. All I have to do is listen to my Uncle Emil and peck it out.
Can't say that was on my mind when Lois and I wandered the streets of Pequot Lakes around the turn of the century. Don't recall what came first, the story or the name. Not that it matters. But I do believe Emil was there long before he introduced himself at the liar's contest on that Fourth of July. Wrote it many times that my life is filled with irony. Figure that as Emil's idea of a good joke. His idea of guidance was to send me off in the opposite direction of where he wanted me to end up. 'Course I may have lent a hand now and then.
My Uncle says there's more than one way to get from A to Z. Also knows if I had my choice I'd shoot arrow straight through my three score and ten. Or find myself dead-ended around J. Even worse, somewhere south of Q. His idea is to go through life as a wave. Sometimes above the line, sometimes below. Only matters that I'm on the line at the important points. And that's what he was driving at about me and the Draft. Or me and smoking.
Doubt I've mentioned this but the stories 'Canada' and 'Emil's Cabin' are being written for my grandchildren with the idea they come to know my life, even the warts. Nothing in these stories actually happened. And yet, nothing was made up. I'm not that clever. Been wilderness canoeing in northwest Manitoba a number of times, built a cabin from the piers up, didn't register for the Draft when I turned eighteen and did tear out a glove webbing in the bullpen at old Metropolitan Stadium. The story that comes next'll follow the same blueprint. It's already up there in the treetops. All I have to do is listen to my Uncle Emil and peck it out.
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