Emil's Cabin XXIX - Perch

     Five days 'til the shingles were to arrive.  I figured we'd be sittin' around twiddling our thumbs for half that time.  And was about right when it came to framing and sheathing the rest of the roof.  But we weren't close to shingling time.  Guess I forgot about having to finish putting plywood on the Lookout's wall.  And pulling all the bracing.  And covering the walls with tar paper.  And installing all the windows and doors.
     Since it was a Sunday we took it easy.  By two our work was done.  We'd spent our time trimming the rafters and sawing a bird's mouth in each.  Not sure why a notch in wood is called a bird's mouth.  Doesn't much look like a spread beak at all.  The idea behind one is to have the rafter grab onto the outer wall and keep it from falling down.  Seems that's the idea behind most construction.  Build it up and do what you can to keep it up.  As it was we had all ninety-two rafters ready to go when we stopped for the day.
     "We could do more but I just don't feel like it.  What I feel like is eating some perch for dinner.  Haven't had a one since our first trip to Canada.  So why don't you and I load up the Grumman and head over to a little lake I know is filled with 'em."
     Twenty minutes later we'd loaded both fishing and cooking gear.  Emil threw in a can of Spam and a half dozen eggs just in case.
     "The best part about this lake is the locals don't eat perch.  They'll tell you, 'da only ting dos wormy little pastiches are good for is bait.  And den dere not so good even for dat.'  Good for them.  Just leaves more for you and me.  First time I ate perch I was afraid it'd poison me.  Took a little nip off the end of a filet and worked it around my mouth for a minute to see if my lips'd go numb or my glass eye'd cloud up.  But it tasted good and from what I'd learned over the years, things that taste good are generally safe to eat.  Still didn't keep me from keeping within trottin' distance of a biffey for a few hours."
     We took the back roads.  Seemed like Emil was in a hurry to take it easy and raised a cloud of dust while flying over the sand and gravel that must have looked a thunderhead to the tourists down in Grand Marais.  Along the winding roads near the vegetable lakes we nearly inserted the Nomad into the backside of a moose.  Seemed the roar of Emil's braked tires caught the attention of the moose as it laid a small mountain of brown eggs on the road before galumphing off into the brush.  Almost expected to see a kingfisher come moseying along.
     Emil didn't bat an eye over our near death, "Been meaning to do that for a while.  Not run into a moose mind you, just do a slam-the-brakes-quick-stop to see if the Grumman's tied on securely."  It was.
     Over on my side of the front seat, after I peeled myself down from the dash, I lit up a cigarette figuring tobacco would take years to kill me and my uncle could do it in the blink of an eye.
     The lake we were heading to was a widening of the Brule River.  Wasn't deeper than six feet but never froze out due to the river's current.  A good fishing lake with more than its share of walleyes, pike and panfish.  Also had a reputation with the locals who'd motor down the mile and a quarter of placid stream into the lake whenever the water wasn't too low.  Borealis Lake provided many a meal in the tip of the Arrowhead but not a one included perch.
     "Archie me lad, back in my youth I could feel this day coming, living in the woods and fishing when the notion took me, then lost that vision when I fell in love with Lena.  Seems I gave up a good thing for a better thing.  Once we were married I figured it'd be forever.  Guess the powers that be had other ideas.  Took a long time to get used to Lena being gone.  Hell, still haven't gotten used to it but it's not so bad anymore.  Sometimes I think people are like sandstone.  Not a solid rock, just layers on layers of something you could crumble up in your hands.  It's those layers on top that keep the ones below from falling apart 'til there's so many the whole thing comes tumbling down.  The cabin's just another layer.  And a good one.  It's my 'someday when I grow up' layer.  And doubt I'll ever be done with it.  I'll just keep on adding in one way or another 'til I can't.  Just like I'll never be all grown up.  Do it right and keep growing 'til I die.  Maybe even after that."
     Not sure exactly how but I think my uncle was giving me another angle on my next few years.  The long run angle.  Deal with my problems as they come up and move on.  Hold onto the important things.  Maybe catch some jumbo perch.
     Emil guided us out, "Feels like a swamp doesn't it?  Probably 'cause that's what it is.  All along to our left it's nothing but reeds, brush, more cattails and dozens of little pot holes that'd be prime spawning ground for northerns.  Pike don't like to waste a minute of the year.  Soon's the water thaws in the shallows they set to making babies.  Should times get tough, they eat those same babies.  Can't say that'd be socially acceptable for people but there's an efficiency to a pike I can't help but admire.  If the water in the Brule'd rise a foot or two, the size of Borealis'd more than double.  From the air it probably looks that way even now."
     "Those bright yellow flowers on the right are marsh marigolds.  Doubt they're actually marigolds but they do like to grow in boggy ground.  By this time of the year they should be bloomed out.  Guess that bunch is even slower than me.  All along here is prime moose territory.  They muck their way down to the river to eat roots.  Don't know why, probably 'cause they taste good.  I've seen 'em eat lily pads and the reeds called horse tails.  Maybe we should have a salad with our perch?"
     The Brule was split by an island, then opened to the lake.  A minute later Emil dropped the anchor.  The plan was slip bobbers and a small, orange-headed ball jig tipped with a bit of pork rind.
     "You think we'll find 'em here?"
     "Maybe.  That's the idea anyhow.  There's a campsite half a mile down where we'll have supper.  With luck we'll gather us some perch along the way."
     And we did.  Couple here, couple there.  Some six inch bait robbers, a few close to a foot.  The eaters Emil slipped into a wire mesh basket he'd draped over the side of the canoe.  Have to admit it was a good time.  Even when the action slowed there was always the bobber to watch and work.  Cast it out, let it sit for a few seconds then slowly twitched the rig in.  The idea was to make the jig and pork rind look like alive.  When the bobber'd go down, I'd give it a three count and set the hook.  Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.  Hard to be perfect when you're going by feel alone, trying to see the unseen.  Also hard to not get bit off once in a while in a lake with pike.  We slowly fished our way down the right hand shore 'til we had a half dozen jumbos.
     "We'll call that dinner."
     Supper was perch and Emil's world famous three can special.  Two cans of sliced taters, drained, salted, generously peppered, splashed with a Louisiana hot sauce and fried crisp and a jumbo can of baked beans perking in a twig fire.  The filets were bathed in cracker crumbs and fried every bit as crisp as the taters.
     "Best part is the two mile paddle back where we can burn off some of the bulk we've taken in.  Any excess gas is good.  Let's you know you're alive.  Melodious and malodorous at the same time.  Even our expulsions love puns."  We were back in camp an hour before sunset.  Puttered a few minutes, cleaned up and were soon sound asleep cradled in the northland twilight.
     Monday began our seventh week of construction.  Rafter time.  And a time to see that errors compound errors.  They weren't big and were to be expected.  After all this was hand work.  No matter how exacting we were, our pencil marks weren't always dead on, saw kerfs wandered a tad, and even though they're machine made, lumber dimensions vary.  All those thirty-seconds of an inch added up.  Some canceled each other out, some compounded.
     How many times have I said Emil was a stickler as to detail?  Probably not enough.  He was above in the Lookout with the stack of rafters.  I was below on the ladder.  He'd slide one down, I'd use a precut spacer to put it in place and we'd nail it down.  Three sixteen pennies up and three eight penny toe nails on the bird mouth.  Emil was humming and mumbling in the glory of how well it was going.  Yeah, we were smoking along at the rate of close to twenty an hour.  Yup, he was a happy man 'til we hit the last rafter of the first side.  Before starting my uncle had marked the finish point on the wall sill below which the last plank should hit if all had gone as planned.  But it didn't.  A full three-eighths short.  Oh me, oh my, I thought the old man was gonna cry.
     "You sure?"
     "Yes sir, almost seven-sixteenths short.  'Spose you want to tear the cabin down and start over?"
     "Believe me I'm considering it.  Damnation.  Should it have been a half inch over it'd be another story.  But short?  I'm surprised this whole thing hasn't fallen down by now.  Archie me lad, we'd best keep this to ourselves.  And make it a point to never stand under the front eave.  Oh well, slide 'er to the mark and nail it down."
     It was pretty much the same story when he sighted down the rafters from the end.  Seems he could see a waviness in their lay.  I sure couldn't.  But then I had the handicap of two good eyes.  Remember back in Canada when we were watching the pelicans?  Emil could see the unseeable.  At least that's what he claimed.  Who was I to say he couldn't?
     And so it went throughout the day.  Imperfections here and there.  Not easy on the old guy but he finally accepted his ever so slightly flawed life in construction.  By dinner we had all but two corners framed.
     "For all it's faults she's prettier than pretty.  A man could live a good life in such a building.  Fortunately that man is me."
     By week's end the roof was framed and sheathed.  Over forty sheets of plywood went onto the roof. But that wasn't the challenge.  Over half of them had to be marked and trimmed in one way or another. Doesn't seem so bad in retrospect but the idea sawing a full sheet of plywood lengthwise still makes my eyes feel like they're full of sawdust.  The upside was we were nearly done with our plywood.  Only the lookout's walls were left.
     "Won't be long and we should be able to take the tent down and move inside with the mice."
     Close to day's end on Friday Ted drove in with our shingles.  Seemed like no sooner would Emil's lumber pile go down then it'd rise again.  Emil offered Ted a beer but he took a coke instead,
     "Learned my lesson years ago.  The more I drank to forget, the more I remembered.  Seemed kind of pointless so I went cold turkey.  Boy was that fun.  For the first few years I fell off the wagon a couple of times and got bruised pretty badly each time.  Finally my wife Emily said it was either her or the door.  We're still together."
     It was then Emil broached the idea of a canoe trip sometime in the future,  "You don't have to say yes or no right now unless it's no.  Give it some thought.  Ain't the end of the world either way but it might prove a good time."
     "Tell you what, I won't say no, just maybe."
 
   

Emil's Cabin XXVIII - More Roof

     The rain grew to a downpour.  No wind just marble sized drops whacking the tent roof, seeking entry.  For an hour it kept raining harder and harder 'til the air would have been solid white had it been daylight.  Fell asleep thinking of what the morning'd bring.  Emil wasn't one to forego work unless he was forced.  My luck the rain would slow to a drizzle and we'd be framing the lower roof in rain gear.  Couldn't for the life of me conceive of anyone being crazy enough to sheathe the upper roof under these conditions.  But with my uncle I wasn't sure.  My ears awoke in the middle of the night and said the rain was over.  Good.
     Morning arrived dressed in deep blue with a tent snapping wind out of the northwest.  Popcorn clouds scudded by on their way to Florida.  Emil figured they'd be over Okeechobee by lunchtime.  Once my body crawled out of the bag it knew immediately a jacket would be in order for breakfast.
     "Kite flying weather for sure.  Archie me lad, this'll prove a fine day to work.  That rain last night told me in no uncertain terms to get this roof on as fast as possible.  Rain makes plywood sad, just tears it apart.  We'll start by sweeping some of the pools off the floor then let the wind finish the drying."
     I grown to love the feeling construction gave me.  Physical, creative and exacting.  That a project might take a long time made it all the better.  There's a feeling of comfort in knowing what the morning will bring.  And since we were jack-of-all-trading it, what the morning brought was a little different each day.  Emil treated me as an equal in his project and the subject of who's boss never came up.  When it came to work we gave it some thought then plowed ahead.  Usually Emil knew a better way to do something but not always.  When a difficulty was in the offing we'd talk it over.  Should I have a better approach, that's what we'd do.
     We'd put our talk under the Sentinels behind us.  Nothing more to say on the subject.  And what was said did me a world of good.  I'd gotten angry and gotten over it.  No reason to be mad at Emil since I was the one who'd screwed up.  My next step was action but I didn't see that happening for a while.  I'd grown comfortable with my guilt.  Knew it'd come back on me in the quiet moments and knew it'd go away after it'd slapped me around for a while.  Guilt's an ugly little beast that likes to be heard.  Kind of an anti-ego problem I suppose.  Me and feeling bad had us a relationship.  Call it a bad marriage.  Still I'd just as soon it wasn't there and there was only one way to do that.  But, like I said, not now.
     Sheathing the lookout roof's last three sides took nearly two days.  It was a bear.  A hip roof called for a lot of sawing.  We'd move a sheet from the floor to the roof, mark it, return to the floor to trim it, haul it back up and nail 'er down.  Up and down, up and down, over and over.  When a side was complete, it was time to move the scaffolding.  Mid-afternoon on Friday we rolled out and tacked down the roofing felt.
     "Doesn't look like I thought it would," Emil commented, "but it does look like it does.  Those things happen.  Guess the picture in my head was too elegant.  Oh well, what can you expect from someone as elegant as I?  When we nail down the shingles, the roof'll be done.  'Done' is good.  If it rains we'll have a dry spot to tuck under.  Tomorrow we'll head to town for laundry and food.  Order the shingles.  We'll be needing them within a week."
     At the mill it came as no surprise to Mr. Berglund that Emil would want cedar shingles.  Could be he'd mentioned them earlier.  Could be he just looked like a cedar kind of guy.  Seeing as how wood shingles were pricey, Roy Berglund had no intention of jumping the gun and being stuck with an order he couldn't move.  Once Emil said cedar, Roy simply asked, "sawn or hand-split, what grade, how much, how long and when?"
      Emil responded, "sawn, B if they look good otherwise As, twenty-two squares, eighteen inch and as soon as you can get 'em.  And Roy, better throw in enough two inch, galvanized siding nails to do the job."
     "Twenty-two squares of cedar's no problem.  Probably have to truck some up from Two Harbors and there's no way I'd do that for a small load without having you pay for gas and wages.  Don't like to do that but money talks.  How does the end of the week sound?"
     Emil wrote a check and we were out the door.  My uncle believed in cash on the barrel, even when the cash was a check and he seemed to have had a lot of it.  Didn't bat an eye at plunking down enough bucks to have bought a decent used car.  For shingles.  Little pieces of wood he happened to think were handsome.  Thousands of shingles we were going to have to nail down, one at a time, on our knees, twenty feet in the air.
     " Just you and me on the roof, for hours and hours, days and days.  Yup, sounds like a good time to me Uncle Emil."
     "Archie me lad, you don't know the half of it.  By the time we're done your knees will hurt and your butt'll hurt worse.  Have to sleep on your back and stand for dinner.  But the roof'll sure look pretty and smell good when we're done."
     Besides food and laundry we picked up a few new books at the library.  Wasn't so much Emil was cheap but said he'd be a fool not to use a resource he was already paying for, "Besides, most of what's on the paperback rack is pure crap.  Words on a page.  Pretty much a waste of ink and trees.  In a library there's a fair amount of decent literature going back all the way to Cervantes.  Hell, they even have the Bible and the Koran."
     "Archie me lad, ever read Huck Finn?  It's not a kid's book as most people think.  Let me grab you a copy.  Would've suggested The Catcher in the Rye but it appears they don't stock it.  Probably the language.  Seems some of the words are a tad too demanding for delicate ears."
     After finishing the laundry and lunch at the Dairy Queen - my choice - we headed back to the woods.  There we began to frame the lower roof.  It'd come to be our work was fun and our fun was work.  It's what we did.  Not quite the same as fishing but close.  The sun burned our necks and arms the same as fishing.  The air smelled the same.  Same sounds filtered through the brush and trees.  Ate and slept outdoors.  No one to answer to but ourselves.  Yeah, we'd grown to love what we were doing.  At the end of each day we'd stop and look at the space that'd not long before been a patch of forest and think to ourselves, "Damnation, look what we've done."  Some evenings it was all we could do to not head back to work but Emil was as much a task master as to rest as he was concerning work.  Evenings were for talk, reading or fishing.
     The rafters were a piece of cake once we got the angles right.  We began by cutting the cripples we'd nail at the base of each stud to support the short rafters.  I marked the two by four stock, Emil sawed off the cripples and I nailed them to the Lookout studs.  We had us a regular two man production line.  Every so often we'd stop and stretch.  Watch the world go by then switch jobs.  By dinner they were up and ready to support the two by six rafters.
     Working above was a pleasure.  It was nice to be on top of things when we were the reason for the thing we stood and knelt upon.  Wasn't like we were in the treetops but the elevation us a feeling of freedom.  Could be the sensation came from not being in touch with the ground.  Definitely added an extra dimension to our world.  On the ground there's no such direction as down.  Your feet are already as down as they can be.  Sounds are similar.  Up top your ears catch tones at an new angle and they don't seem as muffled.  Air even smells better.  Makes a man want to be a bird.
     Our vinegar was up in the evening.  We were done with dinner by six-thirty and had nearly three hours of light left.  Nothing to do about it except hike downstream to see what we would see.  I packed a rod just in case the urge came upon us.
     The Aspen has two separate personalities.  We'd seen enough of it to have an idea but two miles told us more.  There were quarter mile stretches of fast water with their share of plunge pools, riffles and boulder fields.  Once we'd passed onto new water it was the pools that'd hold us for a few casts.  Might have been any number of trout there but the first hookup would usually spook the pool.  Since we weren't there for the fishing anyhow, after one we'd move on.
     On the lazy bends the brook'd slow and the shores bog up.  Emil'd pull out the map and compass, shoot us a course and we'd bushwhack to what looked like good holding water.  Once we'd covered a mile the only paths we found had been made by deer.  The land of innocent fish.  Dumb and unsuspecting.  Seemed their idea of a good time was meeting up with spinning steel and hook.  We'd alternate pools, then move on.
     Finally we came on a pair of beavers doing their best to stave the flow of the stream one branch at a time.  Hard to tell if they were having much luck but didn't seem to be bothered.  Just kept floating new timbers down to where the Aspen narrowed.  We sat and watched for a few minutes in silence 'til Emil couldn't take it anymore,
     "Those beavers'll change the nature of this valley, turn it into a pond.  Probably won't last forever but for a couple of years it'll make for some good fishing.  'Spose you could say the same for the cabin.  That it won't last forever.  But I'll pass on that notion as it's way too simple an analogy.  Scary simple like a romance novel.  Not that I don't care for romance, just not in novel form.  Though some forms of romance are more novel than others."
     "Yeah, things come and go.  The hills surrounding us are many millions of years old.  They're some of the oldest exposed rocks on the planet and even they're well on their way out the door.  Most of the animals and plants that ever existed are long gone.  The dinosaurs?  Phht!  Gone in a relative flash.  But it's the dinosaurs that got me thinking of someone I once saw back in nineteen and sixteen down in the cities."
     "This was back in the days long before the Twins.  Long before Metropolitan Stadium.  Back when the American Association was almost a major league.  Yeah, that year the Minneapolis Millers had a ball club that could've held its own with any of the big leaguers.  It was late september when a couple of my uncles, Edwin and Wilhelm and ten year old me hopped the train down to Nicollet Park to see the final game of the Little World Series between the Millers and the Buffalo Bisons.  Now you won't find any reference to these games anywhere as they weren't official in any way or form but the series did happen.  I know, I was there."
     "Back then the Millers had a manager, went by the name of 'Pongo Joe' Cantillon.  Feisty little bugger who was known to do whatever came to mind with his lineup and didn't much care what anybody or the press thought about it.  On the day in question, that being the deciding ninth game - yeah they played best of nine in those days - Pongo Joe added Casimir Broncewski to the lineup.  Casimir'd come up in the spring as the latest in a long line of phenoms who were to take the baseball world by storm but he turned out to be more or less a cold drizzle with only the occasional bolt of lightning.  According to the Independent most everyone called him Bronto, as in short for brontosaurus.  Like his namesake Casimir was a big boy but that wasn't the reason for the moniker.  Wide spread rumor had it that on off days Broncewski, just like his namesake from another era, could be found down in south Minneapolis wadin' the Minnehaha Creek uprootin' and chowing down on arrowroot."
     "As for power, he had it in spades.  When he'd catch hold of a pitch, which wasn't all that often, fair or foul the pellet would come down on rooftops across Lake Street from the ball park.  And this was in the days of the dead ball when homers weren't all that common.  Problem was Bronto had a problem with a few pitches.  Couldn't hit a curve ball for the life of him.  Change ups baffled him.  But a fast ball?  Yeah, if there was a falling barometer between 29.73 and 29.51 then it was bye-bye baseball.  Five hundred or more feet."
     "Odd thing was Bronto could pummel the heck out of anything illegal.  Grease ball, spitball or snotter, didn't matter.  Pongo said it was due to those pitches not bein' on the level, much the same as Bronto's swing.  'Bout the time the pitch was falling off the table, Bronto's upper-cut swing was roarin' off the deck.  Whammo!  Hello Lake Street."
     "The night before the big game Pongo'd had himself a visitation of sorts.  Whether it was in a dream or some other form of unconsciousness he wouldn't, or couldn't, say.  Didn't matter.  Whatever it was told him that startin' Bronto would be the key to victory and Pongo's ticket to the majors."
     "As it turned out our hero fanned four times that day on thirteen pitches.  Came down to the twelfth inning of a one to one ball game.  The Millers had the bases loaded, two outs and Bronto comin' to bat.  Pongo wasn't having anything to do with what he knew for sure would happen.  Pulled Bruno and grabbed a nun at random from the crowd to pinch hit.  Pongo later said she'd caught his eye on that sunny afternoon as the nun was the only fan in a pool of shadow on that brilliantly sunny day.  And as luck would have it she'd been sitting right next to me.  Never saw anyone finger the beads as fast as that woman.  Like the trooper all nuns are Sister Mary Margaret, that's what the Independent said her name was, took a high, inside, hard one on the bean for the team and the winning run scored.  Crowd went nuts, hoisted the nun's unresponsive body on its shoulders and paraded around the field for half an hour."
     "Years later the Millers tried to get Mary Margaret canonized a saint.  Mother Church said no way as there had to be at least three confirmed miracles in her life.  The Millers rebutted and said for sure there were at least three: 1) Pongo's vision, 2) the shadow sign from above and 3) the fact a hundred mile an hour fastball didn't kill her, only changed her allegiance to the St. Paul Saints across the river.  No comment from Rome.  Didn't matter, to Millers' fans the lady was a saint.  Had a life-sized bronze statue of her erected in front of the main gate.  When Nicollet Park was leveled a decade ago the statute disappeared.  Rumor has it the archbishop of the diocese had snuck it out of town and these days it's stored in the basement of the Vatican.  Whether true or not they ain't sayin'."
     "Bronto slowly sank from sight, back down through the minors.  Last anyone heard of him he was down in South America playin' for the La Paz Tinhorns.  Rock bottom at thirteen thousand feet."
     Through it all I sat there numb.  Pummeled into silence by the hammering of Emil's reminisce.  The beavers below seemed to not care a whit.  Just continued moving limb and patting mud.
 
   
   
   

Emil's Cabin XXVII - The Sentinels

     Could've fished every evening had we the desire.  Sometimes just seeing and hearing the Aspen flow was enough.  A big part of fishing is getting out of the house and being outdoors.  We already had that aplenty.  About the only indoors we'd had for the last month was the tent.  Some nights we just didn't have the energy to do more than read.  More often than not it was pushing eight by the time dinner was done and camp was put in order.  Hard to turn the weight of pages when you've been swinging a hammer for ten hours much less wade and work a rod.
     After the longest days we'd simply sit and talk.  Maybe bring up what was on our minds while we worked.  You'd think we'd have been talked out after a day together but on the job conversation tended toward what we were doing at the moment.  Could be attention to detail is genetic as both Emil and I tried our best to draw every mark dead on, saw each line exactly as marked and drive every nail on the money.  He followed code to the letter with the idea all those exacting measurements and requirements were the result of centuries of thought.  Emil said we were building on the shoulders of those who came before.  It was up to us to show the ancients the respect they deserved.  Also wouldn't hurt if the cabin didn't fall down.
     That evening we took our leisure and last cup of coffee under the Sentinels.  The duff beneath their limbs softened the earth for sitting and their trunks not only provided a place to lean but were also coarse enough so we could scratch our backs like bears.  In short, we found comfort there.
     We sat for a while.  Didn't say a thing.  Just watched the river and listened to bird song, lost in our thoughts.  Emil'd go quiet once in a while but it wasn't his style.  After a few minutes it was time to egg him on,
     "So what's on your mind?"
     "You Archie.  That and your draft situation.  Can't leave it alone.  I get started on it then drift off into my time in the war.  Spent better than two years in the Army and the last twenty reliving it in my thoughts and dreams.  Ask Ted, he'll tell you the same.  Probably shouldn't have gone in.  But I didn't know that 'til after.  War changes a man and rarely for the better.  Changes him deep inside, so deep you don't notice it for a while.  The crap you have to go through isn't something you want to dwell on so you cram it down where it can't get at you and move on to the next hill, then the next beach.  During the day it's not so bad but at night, in your sleep when your guard is down, it all comes back.  It was bad for a few years.  Nightmares about being trapped in the war.  Then trapped in the Army waiting for my discharge that never seemed to come down.  In these last few years, the dreams have grown farther and farther apart.  Haven't had one since we've been up here."
     "Anyhow, all that has me thinking of you.  Odds are pretty good you'll end up in Vietnam in a war that makes no sense I can see.  There's an old saw about not getting involved in a land war in Asia.  It's kind of a joke these days but nowhere near as funny as that domino theory malarky the government is spouting.  Leave 'em alone is what I say.  There's nothing to gain.  But we won't and young men like you'll end up in jungles and rice paddies fighting an army that has home field advantage.  From what I know of you, you'll clear up your mess with the draft and find yourself in a bigger mess.  Such is life.  About the only advice I have is to do what you feel you have to do.  For better or worse.  Amen."
     Sure brightened my day.  And for the moment made school look a lot better.  Didn't need a conscience with an uncle like Emil.  He was becoming as ingrained as a father.  Though I knew he meant well and no doubt was right, I was starting to hope he'd leave my issues with the Army alone.  After all it was my problem not his.
     We sat.  Quiet.  But not in my head.  Three or four voices were going at it in there.  I was mad at Emil for not leaving me alone.  I was mad at myself for putting myself in the spot I was in.  I was mad at the world for giving me the chance to screw up big time.  And all three of them were pointing their collective fingers at me and going, "Nyah-nyah-nya-nyah-nyah."  So I tried to pass the buck,
     "If it was as bad as you say it was how come you and Ted never talk about it when you're together.  Seems to me that's what old guys who were in the war do."
     Emil was quiet for a long time.  Stared off at the stream.  Turned to me, "Archie me lad, Ted knows what it was like and knows I do too.  That's enough.  There's nothing to talk about.  Simple as that.  This is how it goes, I have no interest in talking about being in combat with those who weren't there.  They wouldn't understand.  And there's no need to bring it up with those who were.  As for the old guys who gas about the war and all its glory, most of them piloted desks in Omaha.  Might be wrong about that but I don't think so."
     "That's about all I have to say about that.  'Bout the only thing I know for certain is the sun'll come up tomorrow and there'll be an unfinished roof waitin' on us."
     We went to bed early that evening.  It'd been a cool and threatening since lunch, not unusual in the north country.  Up in the Arrowhead it can frost on the Fourth of July and snow on Labor Day.  Neither for us that night but about the time my toes started to warm in the sleeping bag the first raindrops fell on the tent roof.  Good sleeping weather.  Not so good for building.
   

Emil's Cabin XXVI - Raisin' the Roof

     Decking the Lookout was a breeze so long as we paid heed to the eight feet between us and the floor below.  And the hole we'd framed in the floor for the stairs that'd eventually rise.  I was struck by the notion that eight feet down is much farther than eight feet up.  Once again it was work in its purest form moving material upstairs without stairs.  I'd lift and push from below, Emil'd pull from above.  A three quarter inch sheet of plywood doesn't look heavy 'til you grab and move one.  All finger work.  Hard enough but the walls were worse.
     A twelve by sixteen floor's not a lot of space to stack materials, tools and sawhorses much less build stud walls.  We did our assembly below.  When finished we stood and leaned the beasts against the rafters, ascended the ladder and hoisted away, one at a time.  There's a reason they call it grunt work.
     Emil had us frame out rough openings for six double mullion and two triple mullion casement windows in the fifty-six feet of Lookout walls, more window than wall.  Guess he didn't want to miss anything bigger than a pine squirrel fart while surveying his kingdom.  I could see him now, peering down the double barrels of tripod mounted battleship binoculars, scoping the brook for rising trout, "Archie me lad, there's one just below the second set of riffles feeding on mayflies."  Then sliding down the brass fireman's pole directly into his waiting knee boots.  Less than a minute from sighting to hookup to chuckling release.
     Can't say I was dumbfounded but it did catch my notice how much a hundred-fifty pounds of nail and stud wall would bend when we drew it aloft.  Oddly enough they didn't seem worse for wear.  By mid-afternoon we had six, eight foot sections and two, four footers stacked above and ready to nail down.
     "The easy part's nearly done.  Once we get these walls up and braced we'll start in on the roof trusses.  Building them's not the challenge.  Getting them up here and nailing them down's when the fun starts.  Challenge and fun, can't think of a better combination.  Well, given a minute I might come up with a few dozen other things to top them but for the moment they'll have to do."
     "Archie me lad, we'll have do the next couple of steps by the seat of our pants.  Haven't fully thought them through.  Back when I was drawing the plans I knew we'd have to get creative when the upper roof went on.  Probably have to build some kind of scaffolding before we set to sheathing.  Had we prehensile tails we'd be fine but our ancestors forgot to bring them along when they climbed out of the trees."
     By supper the walls were up.  A trip to the cooler told us we were nearly out of food.  Emil scrounged up his ace in the hole meal, sausage and noodles.  Doesn't sound like much but when you're as hungry as we were it's pure ambrosia (one of these days I'm gonna have to find out what that is.  Sounds good but might turn out to be some kind of entrails stewed with beets.  We weren't too particular as to what we ate but might've drawn the line at that combination).
     His recipe was simple, simmer and brown some sausage, doesn't matter what kind so long as it hasn't started to ripen.  Boil and drain a pound of egg noodles.  Draining required care and spread legs since we lacked a colander.  Mix the two together while splashing in some kind of pepper sauce, Emil was partial to Tabasco.  Also work in a fair amount of black pepper and top it off with a blizzard of parmesan cheese.  The hot sauce was there to remind us to chew, otherwise we'd shoveled it in like there was no tomorrow.  Our first couple of bites would go down that way anyhow.  However, once the fire was kindled below we knew enough to slow down, smell the roses, and douse the flames before we burned to ash.  Good stuff.
     Headed to town on Wednesday morning with empty coolers and three laundry bags of ripe filth we called clothing.  Before returning we stopped at the mill where Emil picked up a couple of dozen studs and some planking.
     "I hadn't figured on needing this much lumber.  On the other hand I've never built a cabin before.  Live and learn.  And spend.  Should have done a better job at foreseeing the unforeseen.  Oh well, we'll have that much more lumber when it comes to building the outhouse.  Should have enough to construct the Tajma-crapper.  Might even be able to turn a few greenbacks with tourist trade.  People'll come from all over the midwest just to see what we've created.  On second thought I don't know if I can handle a dome.  And definitely need a better name.  Might have to try something along the line of the Prairie School.  Give it a Wright touch.  Maybe throw in some cantilevered decking and call it Falling Water West, the House Built on Word Play.  Yeah, I could hang my hat on that one."
     While at the mill we ran into Ted.  He and Emil got talking about how much fun they'd had on the Brule.  "By the way Emil, your windows are in.  Should you want I'll throw in the lumber you've ordered and bring the whole shebang along first thing in the morning.  Some of those casements are a bear to lift.  Throw in a cup of coffee and a slab of your cinnamon bannock and I'll help you load them into the cabin.  Sound good to you?"
     "Ted, I'd be more than grateful.  I figured me and Archie could handle it but it'd be touch and go at best.  By the way, we need to stack them on the second floor.  That okay with you?"
     "Don't see a problem with that.  Just make sure you're up and moving by eight-thirty.  I know how it is, old men and children need their sleep."
     By the time Ted drove in we'd already made breakfast, pulled all the braces we dared, baked a bannock, moved plywood into position and discussed the pros and cons of Walt Disney having drawn all his characters with only four fingers per hand.  Emil was of the opinion Mickey Mouse was given an extra toe on each foot as compensation but since the rodent never went barefoot there was no way to know.  He added that Disney's redistribution of digits was no doubt was a Commie plot to subvert the minds of American youth and should have been investigated during the McCarthy hearings.
     "Something like that could could've inhibited the ability of an entire generation to toe the line, lend a hand, shoulder a load, put their best foot forward and, most of all, be unable to insert their thumb in a pie and pull out a plum."
     'Bout time I joined the parade, "The way I see it Uncle Emil, it all goes back to the Garden of Eden. Seems God made Adam and Eve with only four fingers per hand.  Guess the Deity didn't like odd numbers.  In the early years after those apple eaters were kicked out of paradise there was a lack of choice when choosing mates.  Next thing you know there's a fifth finger popping up here and there.  Simple case of inbreeding.  The extra finger made them better hunters, farmers and soon the less productive quad-fingered ones started to disappear.  Walt Disney simply used a little logic and drew Mickey, Minney, Mortie, Ferdie, in fact every one of his cartoon characters, just as the All-Knowing originally intended."
     That set Emil back for a moment.  Finally gave me a stare, "Good Lord, what have I wrought?  Archie me lad, the world's in serious trouble."
      The rumble of the diesel greeted us five minutes before we saw it.  For a change Ted backed up the driveway and pulled to a stop alongside the cabin.  With a, "first we offload, then we eat" from Ted, we set to work.  Stacked the downstairs windows in a corner and tarped them over.  The upstairs load took a while.  Off the truck, onto the deck, lifted onto the platform then pressed above where Emil waited.  By nine-thirty we were sitting down.
     "Those windows'll be in the way when you go to framing the roof but I 'spose you know that Emil."
     "Yah, I've given it some thought.  Also given some thought to Archie being eighteen, limber and fearless.  There'll come times when when he'll be the skyhook I've always dreamed of.  No, we''ll just take 'er as she comes.  Build scaffolding and move it as necessary.  Once the roof's up and shingled it's clear sailing."
     "What I like best Emil is using Archie as a skyhook.  One ankle hooked in a forked branch.  Yeah, I know what you mean.  Done a few things that bordered on stupid myself.  Moving trusses while sitting on a wall frame, one leg wrapped around a stud, twenty feet off the ground and hanging into space.  I can do it Archie, so can you.  Just don't do anything really stupid.  Gravity can be a danger when it comes to construction.  Listen to your uncle.  Looks like he's swung his share of hammers and still has all five of his fingers." Ted paused, "Well, I'm off.  There's another load waiting on me down to the mill."
     Emil topped off Ted's thermos and he was gone.  Once the truck passed from earshot the silence of our clearing was intense.  "When Ted mentioned your fingers Uncle Emil, it was almost like he'd heard what we'd been talking about before he drove in."
     "Probably just a coincidence Archie.  But who knows?  The idea of him knowing's a lot more fun to think about.  Let's get to work."
     We began by building the four roof trusses of two by six lumber.  Used scraps of plywood as gussets.  The lookout was to have a hip roof sloping in all four directions with three foot eaves.  The main floor's roof would mirror the lookout's pitch giving the cabin the look of a two story pagoda.  Both sets of wide sweeping eaves would bring a hint of the prairie to the northwoods.
     "What can I say?  The roof's lack of pitch'll do it in eventually.  But you know, I don't care.  Growing old will do me in too.  Such is life and that includes death.  In the meantime I'll live in a cabin that makes me happy."  Once the trusses were finished we moved on to the scaffolding.
     There are times in life when you do what's necessary but it doesn't seem to move things forward.  Scaffolding's one of them.  Put it up, use it for a few hours, tear it down and assemble it in a new location.  Repeat the process 'til the job's done then store the lumber under the cabin.  By the second move we were getting good at it but each move took close to two hours.
     Emil's scaffolding was a jury rigged affair.  We gave it a few shakes before leaning a ladder on it.  Seemed solid.  Once aboard we tippy-toed for the first minute for fear of collapse.  Turned out the six foot wide decking was stable as bedrock.  Can't say I've ever been afraid of heights yet it took a while aloft to feel comfortable.  We finished the morning by hauling the first truss above and hanging it upside-down, crosswise, from the Lookout walls.
     Two hours into the afternoon the trusses were in place and braced.  "Now comes the fun part, Archie.  Always seems like there's a fun part coming along doesn't it?  Never made a hip roof before.  Looks simple enough when you've seen one framed correctly.  Not so simple when you take a close look at the compound cuts necessary to make one work.  Two angles to each cut.  Spoke with a carpenter back in Parkers about it.  He said to start with an extra long  corner piece of lumber and be ready to screw up 'til you get it right.  Once we get the angles figured out she'll go slick as snail snot."
     Don't know how or why but it turned out I had the touch.  Emil scratched his head for a moment then bowed to youth.  He penciled out the angles, I did the sawing.  Wasn't a job you could horse your way through but instead, required constant checking of the lines and saw kerf.  By the time of a late dinner we were nearly framed.  It was a day of careful concentration in which time passed unnoticed.
     Around four-thirty I heard a yell followed by a whirring sound and a splash.  Seemed to be coming from the other side of the roof.  When I peeked around the corner there stood Emil with his thumb in his mouth.  When I asked him if he was okay Emil simply said, "Archie me lad, would you lend a wounded old man a hand and help him find his hammer?  Could be it's in the stream.  Didn't think I had  that kind of distance left in my arm.  With a little luck we may be having stunned trout for dinner."
     "So what happened?"
     "Call it a coincidence in time and space involving flesh and steel in motion.  Hurts like hell."
   
   
   
   

Emil's Cabin XXV - Wandering the Woods

     I'd spent a lot of time by myself when growing up.  My brother and sister were born early in my parent's wedded years.  I was a surprise who came poking along near the end of my Dad's life.  The better part of a generation separated me from Kate and Will.  By the time I was school age my brother was in the Army and my sister was on her own.  Left me as pretty much an only child in a household where my Mom was off working to pay the bills.  Can't say I minded.  Can't say I had much direction in my life either.  The hours after school and the days of summer vacation were pretty much mine to do as I pleased.  Had a few chores but even more free time.  Never was lonely.  Had my friends, books to read, ball to play.  But most of all I enjoyed my time alone.
     Up in the Arrowhead it was just me and Emil.  And that was fine.  Sometimes we'd talk.  Sometimes we wouldn't.  But regardless, we were never alone.  And I missed my lone time.  Once in a while in the evening I'd simply say, "Uncle Emil, I'm going to wander around for a few minutes."  Emil'd look up from his book or pause between casts and say something like, "Write if you find work," or simply, "See you later," and I'd be off for twenty minutes, maybe more.  I suspected he also enjoyed his quiet time.
     Early on I'd learned most of the wildlife of the northwoods found me long before I found them.  By July the black flies had gone wherever it is they go when you don't see them anymore.  The skeeters came and went with the weather.  A week or so after a good rain they were back.  By mid-July I was probably supplying blood for the grandchildren of the bloodsuckers that'd worried me and Emil as we were clearing the driveway.  Best part was losing the wood ticks.  They were still around but few and far between.  On the upside I still had a pair of small, itchy swellings beneath the band of my tightie-whities to remind of failed body searches.
     What I was hoping to spy was along the line of a fox or deer.  Did my best to quiet my footsteps but for all the good it did I may as well have been beating a bass drum.  Turned out there was little to be concerned of unless I spooked a grouse and nearly soiled my drawers when it exploded from beneath my feet.
     Once away from Aspen Brook the going slowed.  Had to continually duck under or spread the brush and fallen branches.  I knew where I was heading.  More or less.  Farther uphill beyond the Sentinels stood a cluster of red pines that'd made their own clearing by shedding decades of needles.  Never gave it much thought back then but came to learn over the years that alder and hazel brush have no love for big pines.  As pines shed the needles that become duff, brush creeps away in horror.  One result was the bare ground beneath the old growth forests made it easier for logging teams to come denude them.  As Emil would say, there's a lesson in there somewhere.  Maybe, success breeds failure.  Even under the best of conditions forests come and go, then come again.  We're just another monkey wrench thrown in the process.
     The Sentinels I'd already passed were not a matched pair.  One stood tall and arrow straight.  Nary a branch in the lower thirty feet and not a one above was thicker than a lumberjack's thigh.  The other pine was an uneven trident.  The first branch, which would have been reachable with an extension ladder, gracefully curved out then shot up like a second trunk.  And was huge, maybe two feet in diameter.  The second, eight feet higher, was slightly smaller and rose at about ninety degrees from its big sister.  Whenever I looked up I imagined a treehouse spanning the three.  Then imagined the work involved.  Then moved on.
     There's a misconception about the northwoods being a thicket of majestic pines.  Maybe that's true in places I haven't been but up on Emil's land the pines were outnumbered by cedar, aspen, birch and maple.  Could be the reason Emil was so skitterish when it came to felling more than a dozen mature pines for framing lumber.  Those his buddy Greg had chosen were usually from clusters.  They'd thinned out the biggest of three or four with the idea the remaining trees would benefit from the extra sunlight.  In the Arrowhead country sunshine isn't an everyday thing like it is in the deserts of the southwest.  Up here every ray is important.
     Slowly rising inland I'd pass through a two acre stand of wrist-thick rustling aspen before reaching the base of the ridge.  As ridges go it's nothing special.  Maybe climbs a little over a hundred feet from its scree pile base.  The thought crossed my mind there's a car-sized agate somewhere in the jumble. Should there be - I sure didn't find it - and you have the notion, feel free to come give a look.  The ridge lies north of Emil's property line, mine these days, so you won't be trespassing.  Or pull up the driveway with the bribe of a homemade apple pie and I'll walk you there myself.
     Once on the scree I'd pause to rest, conform my backside to a jagged slab of mossed stone.  I knew to the foot where the cabin sat down below but couldn't as yet see it.  Wouldn't be long and the roof'd rise into view.  Emil chose his land well.  The view across the jade leafed valley was just this side of spectacular.  Like the small trout in the stream, the valley wasn't overwhelming but had a personal feel to it.  Now as the sun lowered and the shadows stretched, the green canopy below added a black tinge of shadow.  A good spot to sit and recall parts of my brief history.
     Won't bore you with the details.  Simply put, my life to that point had struck a balance.  Had my triumphs and had just as many failures.  But it was the squandered chances that weighed on me.  Was asked out of class near the end of eighth grade in a parochial school to speak with a man I didn't know.  We were joined by the school principle.  The man spoke of the advantages of going to a prestigious Catholic high school.  Attending St. Thomas had never entered my head.  Also, that he might be recruiting me 'cause I was the best baseball pitcher in the city league and had been a good student to boot also never entered my head.  Guess I couldn't fill in the blanks.  Simply told the man I had other plans, which I hadn't.
     Year and a half later, the last time I wore a baseball uniform.  The head scout for the Minnesota Twins was standing behind me as I fired fastball after fastball in the bullpen of Metropolitan Stadium.  At fifteen I was too young to be there but Mr. Guiliani hadn't been told my age.  All he knew was one of his birddog scouts had seen me strike out twelve in the four innings I'd pitched in relief one evening.
     It was a tryout camp for the Twins.  I was three or more years younger than the bearded men who'd preceded me on the pair of pitching mounds.  The man who was catching took one look at my baby face and picked up a fielder's mitt instead of a catcher's glove.  A half dozen pitches later one of my pitches tore the webbing out of his mitt.  Yup, I had a lively fastball.  And was the only pitcher invited back for a second look.  Like I said, that was the last time I was in a baseball uniform.  My arm could have taken me to a prestigious high school, maybe even a free ride to college.  But I simply walked away for no apparent reason.  Just did it.  Like water under the bridge, I figured there'd be more coming along sooner or later.
     That slab of stone was a good place to sit and have a smoke.  Above, back a few yards from the ridge, a truck passed on the McFarland Road.  Irksome intrusion of my meditation.  Reminded me I wasn't alone in the world and it was time to wander back.  Stubbed the smoke out, field stripped it and put the butt in my pocket.  A clean camp was a happy camp and I'd come to appreciate not stepping on discarded nails.  Also saw no good reason for crapping up the woods beyond the clearing.
     About the only thing that'd changed back in camp was the fresh pot of coffee.  I was greeted by a "How's tricks?  Did you see the bear?"  I hadn't.  "Well, never mind then."  Didn't know if he was pulling my leg but did know any further questioning would get me nowhere.
     "By the by Archie, I've been giving some thought to your situation.  What keeps coming to mind may or may not make much sense but in an odd way, it seems to fit.  As I see it, there's all kinds of strengths in life.  When you work with someone for a while, like we've done, their particular strengths stand out.  You seem to have at least two.  When faced with a problem you most always figure out a solution.  You're no blazing ball of fire in that department but more often than not it's one of those third choice kind of things.  When it comes to choosing between A and B, once in a while you come up with a C most people wouldn't see.  That's good.  But like I said, it takes you a while.  That's where your real strength shows up, endurance.  You never seem to tire.  Not that you're a bull-headed, hammer your way though, kind of guy.  Just that you'll keep the door open 'til something comes rambling along.  So that's where I figure you stand with the draft.  Over time, an answer will find you.  And you'll recognize it for the truth it is.  As for me, I'm gonna brush my teeth and get a good night's sleep so I have the energy to work you like a dog in the morning."
   
   
   
 

Emil's Cabin XXIV - Grunt Work

     Had our coffee beneath the Sentinels again.  One more time and we'd have ourselves the beginning of a ritual.  Soughing of the breeze in the needles above for rhythm.  Bird song and stream riffle for melody.  A pair of kingfishers smoked by like a couple of fighter jets off to save America from the red peril.  I figured they were looking for food.  Maybe snatching rising bugs out of the air or diving in the Aspen after minnows.  Emil didn't think so, "As far as I know the kingfisher is partial to moose eggs and cherries jubilee.  Seems the bird and the moose have one of those relationships, symbiotic or something, where one helps the other.  Mooses have a sweet tooth for underwater roots as does the kingfisher.  However, there's no way a little bird can uproot a large plant.  So they get the leftovers a moose passes along free of charge.  And the cherries jubilee sets off the pungent eggs just right."  I figured Emil's observations were the price I had to pay for getting paid.  The work itself was fun, in a miserable kind of way.
     Our task for the day was simple enough had it been done on the floor.  Oddly enough what we were assembling above our heads was a floor.  When we hopped aboard the deck all our material was in place jumping up and down in anticipation.  First off we turned the three saw horses into a platform by joining them atop with two by eights.  We assembled the platform along the west wall and leaned one end of the long beam atop.  Once aboard we hoisted it well onto the wall's sill.  Made sure we had a solid half foot of overhang.  Easier said than done.  Moving to the east wall we repeated the process, being careful to not overcook pulling the beam onto the sill for fear of dropping the far end.  Wouldn't have been the end of the world but in no way did we want to lift that bugger any more times than necessary.  Easy does it was said more than once.
     Here's where I'm supposed to write everything went perfect.  Not a hitch in the process.  But it turned out the center post was a hair short,  "Archie me lad, that is no problem.  We'll just cut us a shim out of scrap plywood.  The hard part will fall on your shoulders.  Being the overlord of this project I've chosen you as my beam jack."
     While Emil stood on the stepladder I shouldered the beam at the wall and tippy-toed it up a couple of inches.  Had to be careful to not let the beam flop sideways.  We had it on edge just like we wanted.  A flop to the side would put undo pressure on the nails and possibly loosen what we'd spent hours pounding tight.
     Getting it on the walls and tree didn't take long, maybe fifteen minutes.  Getting the beam dead center and square with the side walls was the challenge.  Like Emil said, I was the beam jack.   Lift and move, lift and move.  First one side then the other.  Emil provided the eyeballing.  Five moves of the platform and we were dead on Emil's marks, ready for the bracing.  L-shaped, pre-drilled angle iron did the job nicely.  Tied the beam and brackets together with heavy duty screws.
     "We're done with the beam for the moment.  Eventually the wall brackets will come off.  We'll tie the beam to the rafters when the roof is framed and trim the ends flush with the roof decking."  Emil paused, looked skyward, "The roof will have to go on eventually.  No doubt about it.  Don't think that beam'll shed enough water.  Let's see if we can get some of the joists up by lunch."
     I hauled twelve foot, two by eights while Emil marked off the hangers.  Grunt work was fine with me.  Hard to screw up.  This cabin was my uncle's baby and his worry.  All I was doing was making the delivery go smoother.  When we began back in June I figured my uncle knew what he was doing.  Better than a month had passed and he'd done nothing to shed that notion.  Yup, he had 'er figured out alright, down to the eighth inch.  Could have danced three elephants on the floor.  No doubt in my mind the building would outlive him.  Probably me also.
     Hanging the double two by eight beams that'd carry the lookout joists was another putz job calling for step ladder, platform and careful measurement.  We spent more time moving and inching stuff around than we did nailing.  At least the hangers on the main beam couldn't move once they were secured.  Out on the sill the smaller beams were once again held in place by angle irons.  'Course they'd also have to be removed when the roof was framed.  Two steps forward, one back.
     By afternoon's end we were putting decking onto the lookout joists.  And the view from above was worth the price of admission.  Could have seen all the way to Lake Superior had there not been hills and trees in the way.  Emil would have to settle for a partly obstructed view of the brook which was exactly what he'd wanted all along.  Lucky man.
     "Archie me lad, another fine day's work.  Watching this building grow out of the earth has been a pleasure.  Being the cause of growth, even better.  The summer's not yet half over and we're most of the way through the framing.  The thought crosses my mind now and then how much faster it'd go were I twenty year's younger.  Then I remember I'd be doing this alone.  Would've definitely needed the sky hook.  Maybe two.  Guess it's better to have waited."
     We sat on the one sheet of plywood we'd nailed down and watched the world go by.  This was one of those moments when I could feel the planet beneath me spinning along through space.  Not as fast as a tilt-a-whirl or we'd have been thrown off our perch.  For the moment all was right with the world.  Such moments don't last long.  'Specially when you've got a nosy uncle like mine.
     "Don't suppose you've killed or raped anyone.  Archie me lad, you also don't appear to be an arsonist.  At least I hope you're not.  Haven't said anything to lead me to believe you're a pacifist so whatever the issue you have with goin' in the Army can't be all that important to anyone but you."
     "Yup, that about covers it."
     "As for me, all's right with the world.  I'm sitting on the best trout stream in the state.  At least for me it is.  The brookies aren't fussy, not all that big and probably not of much interest to the outside world.  When the cabin's done I'll be able to crank open the casement windows I've got on order and sleep to the sound of water on its way to the Pigeon River.  It gives me great comfort to know my spit could eventually find its way to the Atlantic Ocean.  Might even be evaporated into rain and someday fall on my head as I'm flipping flies.  Yes sir, there's nothing quite like being able to spit on yourself through the efforts of time and Mother Nature.  No doubt about it I'm one happy man."
     "Uncle Emil, I haven't registered for the draft."  No forethought, it just came out.
     "The hell you say.  Is that what's bothering you?  I figured it was more on the level of having written letters to the Kremlin concerning all those nuclear secrets they teach you in schools these days."  Emil paused a moment in thought,  "As I see it you don't have much of a problem at all.  One of these days you'll wake up, find the need and go talk to the Draft Board.  Simple enough.  When you do, be humble and ready to volunteer for the draft.  Won't be easy but like I said, one day you'll find the need, might even find you and it'll be simple."
     "I suppose you're right. But I sure don't see how it'll ever be simple."
     "It'll seem simple once you've done it.  Archie, you take yourself too seriously.  Probably think you're God's gift to the world.  If so then let me have the honor of telling you, you're not.  Problem is you're eighteen years old.  Haven't been anywhere or done anything of consequence.  Haven't had to figure your way out of a big mistake.  Gettin' square with the Draft may very well be your first.  In a sense, you're fortunate to have done something that dumb."
     With that we went quiet.  Listened to the whirr of the dragonflies.  One landed on my shoulder and remained 'til we rose, descended the ladder and started dinner.
   

Emil's Cabin XXIII - Evening on the Aspen

     Down on the Aspen Emil had a grumble going, "There's more to Ted's method than meets the eye.  I'm working it just like he showed me but the trout seem to be giving the fly the stink eye.  Treat it like it's poison.  Could be I'm doing something wrong.  Could also be the reason hangs above, pierced in a branch about fifteen feet up in that popple.  Oh well, that was the last of Ted's flies and it was beat up pretty bad.  Guess it's back to cast and shoot."
     The sun was balanced on the treetops, taking its time to topple over the horizon.  One of those evenings when life slows to a crawl.  Fine with me.  I was in no hurry and could slow down with the best of 'em.  Didn't figure I was missing anything down in the cities.  The Fourth of July had come and gone.  Didn't need us at all.  What they were celebrating with parades and fireworks was pretty much what we were doing along the Aspen.  Freedom and the right to bare arms in the warm air.
     I always had a good time watching Emil work the stream.  Nothing fancy.  Waded in his old Keds, trouser legs rolled to his knees.  Carried a few flies and a length of leader in an old red and white Altoids tin stuffed in a shirt pocket.  Fifty years later he'd have been called a minimalist.  Guess he knew what he needed and saw no reason to pack more.
     "Nothing but a buggy-whipper when I'm out on the lakes.  Doesn't seem to matter as much to bass or bluegills.  But here on the Aspen it's another story.  Delicate.  And doesn't require as much line.  Ted was right about that.  Noodling and flipping.  Get the fly to land on the water like it's alive.  Lay it out, let it drop.  Then keep up the ruse.  Sometimes that's nothing more than having it drift along like there's no line attached.  That doesn't work I try pissing 'em off.  Skate the bug and confuse the trout.  'Specially brookies.  They're curious little guys always ready to come check out what just dropped in.  More like bass that way.
     Emil paused a moment, slowly lowered his rod tip then missed the hook set, "Damnation.  Oh well, such are the mysterious ways of Aspen Brook.  Should a real fly fisherman see me work a stream it wouldn't take but two seconds to figure me a faker.  Heck, so would my fifteen buck white plastic rod for that matter.  But I fool a few fish now and then.  And sure have a good time whether I do or not."
     Yeah, it was worth ten minutes sitting stream side listening to Emil.  Wasn't that I didn't enjoy worrying the trout myself but our stream fishing was a procession of leap frogging.  When we'd pass we'd chat.  Or sometimes I'd simply stop and enjoy the view.  Wasn't enough water in any one pool to share.  Also, wasn't enough trout to fish any pool for more than a dozen casts.  The trout always let us know when it was time to move on.  Seeing as how they bored easily, we worked our way down stream at a good clip.  Two hours on the water might find us a half mile from where we started.  Though we were rarely shoulder to shoulder, we were always within earshot.  Emil had a habit of chuckling and talking soothingly to a hooked fish that told me how he was doing.  Most often than not he was doing just fine.  His current grumble amounted to no more than he'd passed fifteen minutes without a hookup.
     Over the summer we saw, fished and fell in love with close to two miles of stream, learning as we waded.  One of Emil's overworked saws had to do with trout being educators.  Told us what they wanted.  It was up to us to pay attention.  Try something and see their reaction.  The smart ones were hip to our game from the get-go.  We figured those fish couldn't be caught.  At least by the likes of us.
     A few minutes after the grumble Emil gave up the ghost, came and sat with me on the shore.  There's moments in life that carry more meaning than others.  This was one of them.  We didn't say much but our words bore a lot of weight.
     "So, Archie me lad, how's your love life?"  That's a cliche of the first order.  Just words to start a conversation.  Not much for me to say.  Oh, I loved alright but my love hadn't as yet found life.  So I simply cocked my head and gave him a stare.
     "Wouldn't worry.  Wasn't much of a Casanova myself."  Emil returned my look, one eyebrow raised, "and there's nothing wrong with dying a virgin.  Can't say I'd recommend it.  Though I once talked with a sheepherder out in Wyoming who said he was happy, almost euphoric, being alone, just him and the sheep.  He figured a man could never be lonely surrounded by a few thousand sheep.  Nah, I wouldn't worry about it.  Your time will come and you'll know it when it does."
     "Any new thoughts on school?"
     Stared down at my dirty, once white canvas, slip on tennis shoes, Dutch printed on the toe of one, Elm on the other.  Had to think about the question for a minute.  Still wasn't excited about attending the U.  Might even have gone into the Army had I the choice.  But there was a hitch.  A big hitch.  Back when my time came to register for the draft I'd put it off 'til tomorrow.  Then another tomorrow.  Well, those tomorrows just kept piling up and now four months of them had stacked high, wide and deep.  I felt terrible anytime it came to mind.  Not having registered was illegal and in my mind, immoral.  Men in my family did their duty and served in the military, simple as that.  I knew I'd have to step up someday and clear myself with the Draft Board.  When the thought of my lack of action arose I sweat bullets about the consequences, then crammed it right back down.  That's what loomed behind my choice of going to school.  Damned if you do, damned if you don't and it was me doing the damning.
     "Nah.  Still not thrilled but I'll go."
     "Seems to me getting the Army out of the way would be the thing to do.  Gonna have to sometime."
     "Yeah, I suppose.  But me and the Army have issues.  Don't know of a better way to describe it and don't really want to talk about it right now."
     Guess I wasn't ready to make the leap.  If I couldn't with Emil how would I be able to face a board of complete strangers?  For lack of a better phrase let's just say I wasn't man enough.  Not easy being a hypocrite, no sir, not at all.
     Emil didn't have much to say after that.  But it seemed to me he knew.  And knew any words he might say would be a waste of time.  If anything, whatever he'd say would only make things worse.
     "Fine by me.  No doubt you know what's best.  At least a part of you does.  Sometimes it's necessary to do something wrong for things to turn out right.  This could very well be one of those things.  One way or the other, you've been a good worker Archie.  And a good companion on all our doings over the years.  Couldn't have done a one without you.  And for that I'm grateful."
     With that Emil returned to the brook.  All the while he'd been eyeing a chunky brook trout slurping down bugs on the far bank.  Before wading he'd tied on a colorful, black and orange, tiny blob of fuzz he called a Royal Wulff.  Awful small wolf if you'd asked me.  While humming 'Goodnight Irene' he did a couple of false casts to work out his line then laid the fly a few yards upstream from the trout.  For the next few seconds the blob drifted like a leaf, sweet as could be.  When she hit, the brookie made a sucking sound like the last slurp of a milk shake.
     A couple of foot high jumps and she rocketed down stream with my uncle in hot pursuit.  Rod high and his black, Keds high tops gallumping along, his one good eye on the fish.  Nearly went down once but did not lose the trout.  Finally, thirty yards around the bend Emil skated it to his feet.  Could have been seventeen inches, maybe more.  He waited for me so I could enjoy his prize.
     "Doubt we'll see another this large.  Best part's she's barely hooked.  Easy release.  Would have been a shame to kill something that'd lasted a half dozen Arrowhead winters."  A twist of the hook and the trout was gone.