Warning! Warning! Warning! Warning!
The following stories are for the most part true although there may be an occasional embellishment along the way sprinkled in to spice up the stew and get your nose running. Some - make that all - of these tales will dance along the edge what is considered appropriate for polite society. However, I offer no more apology than Uncle Emil was Uncle Emil, love him or leave him and that he and I share blood.
I was a late comer to my family. A surprise so to speak. My dad was in his mid-40s when my slightly younger mom came home one early summer day with a "Guess what honey?" That's why I didn't get to know my Uncle Emil until his hair was a butch cut silver with a small jet black streak slightly south of dead center. But get to know him I did. We hit it off from the get go. Emil had no sons of his own and as I got older he turned to me when needing a young, enthusiastic accomplice on the lesser of his adventures. Heck, a kid couldn't help but fall in love with his deep throated, raucous laugh and the twinkle in his eye. Most of all I couldn't resist his oddly uplifting, gallows humor and the many stories he told of growing up in Minnesota during the days of 'a road to every lake' on and in which you'd "damn well get stuck most every time." I can't help but chuckle when remembering how he always magically pulled a quarter out from behind my right ear whenever he stopped by. And how he laughed while simultaneously jamming a dime deep in my left ear, always making sure to have FDR facing outward because he was a "snoopy old, left wing cuss who didn't want to miss a thing." Then he'd set me on his knee and reminisce about his days in the Royal Swedish Navy and how he proudly got the 'drippy dick' on five continents while sailing 'six of the seven seas.'
Yeah, Uncle Emil was a yarn spinnin', huntin' and fishin' fool. And some of his diseased blood was passed on to me. Thanks a lot Uncle Emil.
