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[at-l] Maine Yarnin' 4/26

Maine Yarnin': Sunday with My Aunt and Uncle

My Daddy had a tradition every Sunday.  If someone wasn't visiting with us,
he'd make sure we'd show up on someone else's doorstep.  It could be Uncle
Everett, Uncle Buck, or my Aunt Ethel, sometimes two of them in the same
day.  My Aunt Ethel lived the furthest away from our place.  She was two
counties over from us.

Daddy rarely ever made the expense of a telephone call to tell anyone we
were coming.  It wasn't rare either that we would show up to an empty
house.  If that happened, we just became "Sunday drivers", and he would
slowpoke all the way home, frustrating every "would be" passing motorist. 
He knew just when to speed up so they couldn't pass.  If someone was behind
him he'd say "Look at that nut, tailgating me."  If they got a chance to
pass him he'd yell out the window at them "Jerk!  You in a hurry?"

I remember one time we were in the middle of Portland down by Monument
Square.  Dad didn't hear too well, you know.  We were moving kind of slow
in traffic that afternoon.  I'm getting off the subject a little, but this
will let you know what we're dealing with here.  We're all piled in the
back seat, Dougie and me.  Up behind us came a big red flashing fire truck!
 It was right on our rear bumper, sounding it's siren, and blaring it's
emergency horn.  Daddy just kept right on driving as if nothing else was
happening.  He changed the radio station as I recall.  

"Daddy, Daddy!" we shrieked.  "Shut up, can't you keep quiet?"  Well, that
fire truck driver was persistent, I can tell you that.  He sounded the
siren again and then blared the horn.  

"Daddy, Daddy!" we shouted again.  Daddy turned around, and he would have
smacked us, but his arms were too short.  "If you two don't pipe down, I'm
gonna give you a spanking!"  Just then, he saw that fire truck out the rear
window.  He snapped around and moved the car out of the way.  

Parked on the side of the street, he went critical and roared "Why didn't
you tell me there was a fire truck behind us?"  No disrespect intended, but
my Daddy was usually in his own little world when he was at the steering
wheel.  Things really got wild when he would try to talk while he was
driving.  You could see him going down the road talking with someone in the
car, waving his arms with various gestures.  Daddy believed in eye contact,
you know, and that made being a passenger wish he had a paid up life
insurance policy.  He got his driving license when Montgomery Ward first
opened their store in Portsmouth, you know.

Okay, we found ourselves on our way to visit with my Aunt Ethel.  She had
the scratchiest and shrillest voice of any woman I ever heard.  She would
see us driving up the driveway, all surprised. When I was too little to
know the difference, she would grab me with those big arms of hers. 
Snuggling my head between her two big, well, you know what I mean, she
would squeeze me and start laughing.  My brother Dougie was older, smarter,
and faster.  He would be already running down in the woods behind the
house.  She didn't laugh ordinary-like, she would suck air back in those
big lungs of hers, and she would snort at the same time.  It was almost
piggyish.  It was so embarrassing!  

My Aunt Ethel also had the wettest mouth of anybody I ever knew.  Then she
would tighten her grip on me and put a big wet kiss, right on my lips. 
Yuk!  A kiss was bad enough, but her kisses were really juicy. I was glad
for long sleeved shirts.  I can still smell her "two hours after" tea
breath!  She'd let me go just as fast as she had snatched me, and I would
run in the woods after my brother. 

Uncle Eddie was a kindly man.  I always remember him sitting in his rocking
chair taking all the conversation in.  He rarely spoke except when asked a
question.  Being a boxer in his youth, he fought many rounds in the
Lightweight Class.  The state championship would have been his, except he
was just too kind hearted to his opponents.  He appeared to be rather
dim-witted, but then he'd been hit in the side of the head too many times. 
People used to poke fun at him, but I always liked him a lot.  He always
talked about his days at the paper mill, the only job he had ever had.  I
can't say a mean thing about him.

My Daddy loved to play horseshoes, and that day he proceeded to teach my
Uncle Eddie how to throw a ringer.  Daddy measured off the back yard and
drove a couple pieces of rusty water pipe into the ground with a hammer. 
Uncle Eddie stood there admiring his dexterity, his hand touching against
his cheek.  My Daddy got a set of horseshoes from the trunk of the car and
strutted back to one of the pipes.  Holding up the shoe in his hand, he
showed Uncle Eddie the proper technique of holding the horseshoe.  Then he
took a pitch, and the horseshoe spun through the air.  Daddy had a way of
throwing the shoe so it would spin a little in midair.  He was also good at
throwing the bull, too.

Well, he missed the pipe by a few inches, but then, it was only a warm up
throw anyway.  He threw another, and it hit the pipe.  The horseshoe
bounces around, and it started doing cartwheels around the lawn.  It didn't
look like a very good throw.

Daddy stood back while Uncle Eddie took his turn.  Never missing a note in
his perpetual humming, he raised his arm, took a swing, and the horseshoe
sailed through the air.  Clang, swoosh!  It was a ringer.  My Daddy wasn't
upset, just bewildered.  He threw the second shoe as easily as the first,
and it landed right on top of the first horseshoe.  Uncle Eddie smiled a
little and continued humming.  

Awestruck, Daddy was speechless for the first time that day.  He scratched
his head and walked over to the other end to look at the two ringers that
Uncle Eddie had thrown.  He turned to my Uncle Eddie, who by now had
meandered over to see his accomplishment and asked, "Where did you ever
learn to throw a shoe like that?"

"Aw, that must be beginner's luck."  Uncle Eddie replied.  "It's been years
since I've thrown a shoe, Casey.  I think the last time I ever played was
with my friend Ralph Beale.  He made state champion that year, as I
recall."

It was a quiet drive home that day.

Ern Grover © 4/26/1998

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