SHORT STORIES by Our Own
An American Rally
"Parade of American Classics"
        
By Richard C. Burriesci

Calling all cars; Calling all cars from the early and mid 20th Century! Whether they be they a Buick, Cadillac, Checker, Chevrolet, Chrysler or Cord. Whether they be a Desoto, Dodge, Edsel, Ford, Henry J, Hudson or Imperial. Whether they be a Kaiser, Lincoln, Mercury or Nash; or an Oldsmobile, Packard, Plymouth, Pontiac or Rambler and of course, Studebaker and Tucker, too! Let them be big or small, with fins or fastbacks, convertibles and sedans. Gather ye on the highway from Detroit where they were born to our nation’s capital. The trucks and buses should join in as long as these millions of vehicles are all American with toil and talent. Drive these cars of yesteryear down old Route 66, one behind the other stretching an unbroken chain of two-tone metal machines that America fell in love with in a time when the United States was a beacon to the world. Let each of these American classics roll down narrow roads, turnpikes and eight-lane highways, with each having an American flag waving from the tips of their radio antennae. Hoards of cheering crowds from every race and field of endeavor demonstrate our diversity united in pride and honor of being an American citizen. Hopefully, an impressionable percentage of 300 million people that stretch from the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans will be represented. From the borders of Canada and Mexico, also, in Hawaii and Alaska let church bells ring and car horns blare to herald that Americans can and will come together; whether they be waning World War II veterans, senior citizens or our nation’s youth! In spite of this economic crisis and nasty war, we witnessed this same experience numerous times before and always shone our brilliant gold. This is the classic gold within us! We Americans living in the 21st Century should all join in the parade of American classics because God tells us that this is not limited to our incredible inventions; –  it lies in the pit of our passions, to be the Phoenix rising from our ashes and rediscover ourselves. 
THESE CARS ARE POSTED IN THE ORDER WHICH THEY ARE MENTIONED ALPHABETICALLY IN THE ABOVE ARTICLE: 1958 Buick, 1955 Cadillac, 1959 Checker, 1957 Chevrolet, 1934 Chrysler 1953 Cord, 1956 DeSoto, 1956 Dodge, 1958 Edsel, 1967 Ford Mustang, 1952 Henry J, 1953 Hudson, 1959 Imperial, 1955 Kaiser, 1960 Lincoln, 1955 Mercury, 1950 Nash, 1959 Oldsmobile, 1952 Packard, 1948 Plymouth, 1957 Pontiac, 1960 - 1962 Rambler, 1952 Studebaker, 1948 Tucker
IT WAS WORTH THE VISIT JUST TO SEE THIS 1934 CHRYSLER AIRFLOW
When I was eight, my favorite battlefield was in the backyard near a tall elm which was planted the same year our house was built. Although it offered a generous amount of shade during the hot summer months, its roots made it difficult to construct a proper theater of warfare. For this reason I was compelled to move off to the side near the high hedge that served as a shield from our neighbor's yelping rottweiler. Using a teaspoon I carved furrows into the hard-packed dirt. I lined my miniature trenches with small flat pebbles, staggering the joints the way they did with sand bags in the movies. I carefully molded the rolling hillsides and sloping valleys with the dirt I had dug and placed broken branches and larger rocks between the opposing forces. My men were green - good or bad, it didn't matter, they were all green. When not engaged in warfare they existed peacefully together in the cellophane bag that they had arrived in, locking arms, legs - even weapons. Embracing like brothers, which I was convinced they were. But when equally divided into opposing forces and laid out on the battleground, they became bitter enemies. Some knelt, rifle to cheek, elbow twisted outward. Others sat defiantly, legs crossed, rifles raised, gun stock to helmet. There were some who could only stand at attention, their rifles welded to their sides or over their shoulders. A few were too ill to fight, deformed at the factory - a withered arm or leg, a defective base. These I gathered up and tossed back into the bag. This was not a parade, this was combat. My favorite were the prone riflemen. These were compact soldiers that needed no base to support them. They could be placed almost anywhere. They never retreated, they never surrendered. Made for the trenches, they were true warriors. They often died first, sometimes in wholesale numbers as hand grenades and mortar fire tore apart their lines. I often flipped them over, one by one, as phantom bullets tore through their ranks or sent them flying through the air as imaginary bombs fell all around them.. The carnage was massive. The destruction devastating. All died heroes. It was glorious! Over time my network of trenches and craters began to expand. New battles required new battleground. I was running out of room. I tried to fill in some of the deeper holes and even scattered some grass seed left over from last year's attempt to cultivate some sort of lawn. But it was useless. Nothing ever grew. Soon even the small tufts of crabgrass and weeds that spotted our narrow slice of land like bread mold, disappeared too.
 
One day in early summer, after a long and brutal battle, I sat on our front stoop admiring the lawn across the street. Mr. Casey had done an exceptional job that year. His grass was deep green and perfectly cut like the tight nap of an expensive rug. The edges were neatly trimmed and straight. I looked back at my own yard, at the ashen landscape where I fought all my wars and built my many battlefields. Not even a dandelion grew. I went to the basement and found an old garden rake, crusted with cement. I gave it a whack against the oak tree and scales of hardened mortar dropped to the ground. Beginning at the south corner of our backyard I began to rake the dirt as best I could until it took on a freshly tilled texture. I filled in every hole and every crease in the earth. I patted down the dirt and raked again. When this was done I moved on, working in small square girds. Every so often I'd have to stop to move a bicycle or a garden hose, or beat down a stubborn crown of dirt. Sometimes my rake would catch on a root and I'd yank hard until it snapped free. My t-shirt was soon soaked with sweat and caked with dirt. I kept raking. Gradually I made my way to the front of the yard. The sun was now very low and that mysterious nocturnal string-section of crickets and katydids was just tuning up. When I reached the farthest front corner of the yard I had a small pile of rocks, bark, broken toys, marbles, Popsicle sticks, cigarette buds, broken glass and a wooden yo-yo which I tucked into my pocket. I shoveled the rest up and dumped it in the trash. I leaned on the rake and surveyed the job. The ground looked like one broad swatch of gray-black corduroy. I put the tools away and sat down on the front stoop.
 
Twenty minutes later I saw the bus stop at the corner. My father stepped off with two other riders. He lit a cigarette and stared after the bus as it continued its route. He sighed and let a funnel of smoke stream from his nose. He straightened his cap then reached for his nightstick which hung from his wrist on a rawhide cord and gave it a flip. It spun like a pinwheel and slapped his palm. He started down the street, stepping to the cadence of his twirling stick, his polished badge flashing prisms of color like a tiny mirror - the slow, steady pace of an weary beat cop. When he came to our house he stopped at the gate and picked up the paper. He scanned the headlines, refolded the paper and looked down at me.
 
"Where's your mother and sisters?"I shrugged. "I dunno.""What'd you do today. Did you play?"
"Yeah.""What'd you play?""Stuff, but nobody was home, I had to play by myself."
He tucked the paper under his arm. "It's a hot one, today," he said wiping dots of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. "I guess summer is here to stay."
"Mom says we can go to the beach tomorrow if it don't rain," I offered.
He looked over at the yard, then peeked around the corner of the house. "We'll see," he said. He didn't seem surprised at the expanse of freshly turned soil; at least he didn't say anything. "We'll see," he said again, his voice a half octave higher.I tugged at his leg. "Dad?""Ummhum"
"Can we plant some grass sometime? Everyone else has a nice yard except us."
He pinched the cigarette and flipped it across the yard. It landed with a puff of red ash.
"I don't have time right now son. We tried it last summer, remember. Nothing wants to grow here. Sometimes there's just not much you can do. Ya know?""Yeah, I know Dad. I thought we could have a yard, too."
"We have a yard - .'"I mean a nice one. One you can play in, do things."
He climbed the stoop and tapped the newspaper on my head. "Where'd you say your mother was?"
"In the kitchen I guess.""You coming in for supper?""In a little while."
He tucked the paper under his arm."Dad, ya' see what I did - ."
 
He let the storm door slam behind him. I sat and watched a few cars go by and threw some rocks at the fire hydrant near the street. When I couldn't see where the rocks hit anymore, I went into the house. My father was already settled into the chair next to the TV. His gun belt and cap hung from the hall closet door. My mother was in front of the stove mashing a pot full of potatoes while my little sister played near her feet. She called to me: "wash your hands before dinner, young man, you've been playing in the dirt all day."I went to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and waited for the water to warm up. I stuck my hands under the tepid stream but immediately yanked them back. I examined the broken blisters on my palms and on the inside of one thumb. I waited for the needles of pain to subside then picked up the soap and lathered up. That done I turned the hot water up as far as it would go and shoving my hands under, accepted the sting I knew would come - a real trooper.
 
A week later while I was seated on our overturned milk box tightening the chain on my bike, a long flatbed truck trailering a rusted forklift pulled up in front of our house. Short, dark men, flashing sinister looking machetes and speaking in a language I did not understand, hopped from the truck and swarmed among the pallets of sod which were deposited around the house like stacks of poker chips. The men worked quickly, flipping the mats of grass, kicking them into place, trimming around trees and bushes and along the walkway. My father stood near the front stoop and smoked. When the job was completed he went into the kitchen and returned with cold cans of beer which the men drank in hurried gulps. From where I sat I could see their adam's apples slide up and down their leathery throats like they were swallowing a pouch of marbles. They wiped the foam from their upper lips with the backs of their hands and bowed with gratitude as they placed the empty cans neatly on the walkway. I took my bag of soldiers and went to the back yard where I always played. I sat down near the elm. I dumped the bag onto the grass and began arranging my men. But something was wrong. My battlefield had been buried beneath the sod. Not an inch of ground was left exposed. There was no way my soldiers could stand among the tangled blades of grass. Even my favorite riflemen would not lay flat. I tried jabbing them into the spongy mat of grass but it was useless. As I sat trying to devise an alternated plan a shadow fell across my indolent army. My father crouched down and squeezed my ankle and gave my leg a playful shake.
"How do you like our new lawn, pal?""Good," I said.
"You're going to have to help me take care of it you know.""Yeah, I know dad."
"Wha'cha doing here?""Just playing."
He picked up one of the soldiers and turned it in his hand. "Can I play with you?"
I pitched the soldier I had been holding against the base of the elm.
"They won't stand like before - it’s this stupid grass." "Here -" 
He knelt, and folded back a piece of sod like he was opening the cover of a book, revealing a crust of hard dirt.  "This will be yours, okay? This patch right here. We'll leave it just like this - and we won't tell anyone. Only you and me will know about it.""And we won't tell no one?""No one," he said, his hand on my head, his fingers making tiny circles on my scalp. Then he stood up and snapped a small branch from the tree and sat down next to me. I could smell the beer on his breath mixed with the smoke of countless cigarettes. He began scratching an S-shaped trench in the dirt. "This is what you do," he said, widening the sides with the tip of the stick, scooping out the dirt with the tips of his fingers.
"You need to build your trenches first - see?"I nodded.  He selected three or four of the men lying in the grass and sorted them in his palm. "Then you take your men. You see how they're made? They go on the line, like this ...." I nodded again. "You want these guys in trenches like this - okay? You see the way they hold their rifles? You want the barrels just over the edge ... like this ....""Unhuh."
"Then you take the others, over here ... the ones sitting down ... you watching son?" "Yeah, Dad."
"Once you've got them set ... you want to keep them spread out, you know, to protect your flank. See how I'm doing it?"He was kneeling, sitting on his heels and dropping soldiers in the shallow trenches. He continued with his instructions, pulling more men from the bag. " … Got to protect your high ground. That way the enemy - these men over here - they can't attack you without exposing ...."
 
And on he went. But I wasn't listening anymore. I was on my back, stretched out on a blanket of new grass with my hands locked behind my head and the sweet breath of summer on my neck. Smiling up at the crimson blush of the mild June evening, at the gently nodding treetops and at the low spark of the evening's first fireflies; feeling like I was being held in a wide cozy palm and drawn in tight to a cool, moist breast - the world's own heartbeat steady and gentle across my back. And it wasn't warmth exactly or even love for the man kneeling over me that I felt stirring deep inside my anxious soul, it was something more ... like ... like peace.

In the years to come I would cut the lawn many times. I would spread fertilizer in the spring and pull weeds in the summer. I would set out sprinklers when the days were dry and I would rake leaves in autumn. I would do all these things for all the years I lived at home. And our yard would always be green and well kept.  Yet when I think on it now, I cannot for the life of me recall doing any of these chores,  though I know I did. There's even a home movie where I can be seen dragging our old push-mower from the garage and charging into the tall grass, the handle bouncing just below my chin. But I do not remember it. I only remember that one afternoon in the early summer, earnestly raking our measured plot of earth and waiting for my father to return home from battlefields I could not yet imagine - but are forever reveled by fathers everywhere, one small patch at a time .
"GREEN"
by WES PRUSSING
This is a true story Wes wrote as a tribute to his father Wesley Edward Prussing (1926 - 1981) who died at age 55 just a few years after retiring to South Florida from the New York City Police Force. He built a home for his son Wes and his new daughter-in-law, Lorraine. The senior Prussing died of a heart attack before becoming a grandfather.
CLICK THE MUSTANG TO WATCH VIDEO
CLICK STUDEBAKER AND SCROLL DOWN TO SEE THE WORLD OF STUDEBAKER ON THE INTERMISSION PAGE

DUNKIN DONUTS DINER

THE STUDIO CAFE

HOME OF THE SCREENWRITER SANDWICH

AND FADE IN FRIES AND SLUG LINE SLAW 

TRY OUR FAMOUS COLUMBO CHILI

WE SERVE THE BEST NEW YORK STYLE FRANKFURTERS BOILED IN BEER ONLY $1.50 EACH

Many times my mother and I ate here when I was a boy. She told me her father, Nicolo Rinaldo, would stop and park his Model T Ford at this very diner in the 1930's with my mother Sylvia and her sister on their way to their summer home in Syosset, Long Island

Rich Burriesci's maternal grandfather, Nick Rinaldo, owned and drove only one car in his entire life. It was a 1916 Tin Lizzie Ford Model T such as this one above. He drove daily  to Belmont Racetrack and Syosset.

FOR THE LADIES ... 1956 Ford Crown Victoria

COURT SQUARE DINER IN LONG ISLAND CITY

on the way into Woodside, L.I., N.Y.

This diner was a watering hole for Rich Burriesci and his friends (scrambled eggs and home fries)

when he lived in Stewart Manor 1965-1974. It was more of a dining car in those years unlike this.

PERLY'S DELI RESTAURANT at 111 E. Grace
Street in Richmond, Virginia is the"unofficial"
headquarters of The Lincoln Studio
RICH BURRIESCI AND VICTORIA DILLARD EAT HERE AT UNION STATION WHENEVER HE RIDES TO D.C. BY AMTRAK TRAIN
1964 CHRYSLER TURBINE introduced at the 1964 New York World's Fair

1964 CHRYSLER TURBINE (rear view)

The 1955 LINCOLN FUTURA became the inspiration for the Batmobile (TV series)

1953 CHEVROLET Good Humor Ice Cream Truck 

A HAUNTING PHOTOGRAPH OF THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE IN 1954
NYC 34TH STREET IN 1954
 

"winter dreams from the sub tropics"

by wes prussing

 
 
 
 

Listen: the soft cadence of muffled footsteps when the snow is new and fine and as soft and feathery as goose down. Late at night a north wind washes over all the land, roaring over everyone and everything like the hysterical rushing of icy waters in some mysterious glacial stream. The sky is swept with vibrant stars. Vast and billowing nebulae rain down silver spears that blink silently and relentlessly in the motionless air. From far out at the galaxy’s edge a delirium of comets, suns and pulsating stars shower even more humming, crackling and hissing lights; painting a single new gray dawn among the millions of heaven’s galleries. Ice is everywhere. It grips the land and chokes the waters; it hangs from bent boughs and twisted branches, and along the lonely gables and eves of  frost-crusted clapboard homes. White erases all color and all texture. Everything is satin-smooth in a slick, elliptical mass of silver-blue.

Then slowly in the east, dawn arrives with a flood of new light. Soon the sun’s pale gold mixes with the earth’s agitated and ascending waves of heat and refraction, wrapping the misty valleys in ribbons of soft pinks, yellows and teal-greens. From north to south a polar rainbow arches high over the mountain peaks.


Winter arrives: virginal, cold, pure and obdurate. Portending not sleep, darkness nor decay… but birth.

CONEY ISLAND IN BROOKLYN circa 1930
A PICKLE FOR A NICKLE 

LUNDY'S OF SHEEPSHEAD BAY

HOME OF THE BROOKLYN DODGERS

COMING TO AMERICA

LIFE ON THE STOOPS

CLICK THE ARCHES FOR AN INTERESTING TRAIN RIDE ACROSS THIS BRIDGE IN 1899

youtube courtesy
of Keith Van Allen
CLICK THIS PHOTO TO ENJOY CONEY ISLAND OF THE FORTIES
CLICK PICTURE TO GO FOR A RIDE
ON THE CONEY ISLAND CYCLONE
CLICK THE TURBINE CAR TO ENJOY THE CONCEPT CARS OF THE PAST VIDEO

CLICK CAR FOR TUCKER CLOSEUP

CLICK CADDY TO VIEW THIS CAR AT GRACELAND

WE SERVE CRABS ...
WE SERVE EVERYBODY!
COFFEE IS $1.65 AND REFILLS ARE FREE!
I TELL THE WAITRESS TO FORGET THE COFFEE AND GIVE ME A REFILL!
THE SIGN SAYS:  WE SERVE BREAKFAST ANYTIME!
I SAY: GIVE ME FRENCH TOAST IN THE RENAISSANCE
ENJOY OUR DINER HUMOR
DIXIE DINER IN PETERSBURG, VA 11/22/2009
LAUGHTER IS THE BEST MEDICIINE BUT OUR CHICKEN SOUP IS BETTER!

Customer: Give me a hot dog.
Waiter: With pleasure.
Customer: No, with mustard.

Two attorneys went into a diner and ordered two drinks. Then they produced sandwiches from their briefcases and started to eat. The waiter became quite concerned and marched over and told them, "You can't eat your own sandwiches in here!" The attorneys looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and then exchanged sandwiches.

Two men were in a restaurant and ordered fish. The waiter brought a dish with two fish, one larger than the other. One of the men said to the other, "Please help yourself." The other one said "Okay", and helped himself to the larger fish. After a tense silence, the first one said, "really, now, if you had offered me the first choice, I would have taken the smaller fish!" The other one replied, "What are you complaining for; you have it, don't you?"

This guy goes into a restaurant for a Christmas breakfast while in his hometown for the holidays. After looking over the menu he says, "I'll just have the Eggs Benedict."

His order comes a while later and it's served on a huge fancy chrome plate. He asks the waiter, "What's with the fancy plate?"

The waiter replies, "There's no plate like chrome for the hollandaise!"

 

"ME, MYSELF AND I"(A poem by Richard Christopher Burriesci circa 1990)

 

I'm just an ordinary fellow, a plain and simple guy.
The three best friends I have are me, myself and I.
This may sound egotistical but this is always true ... that the one person who will never leave your side is certainly always you!
So you better get to find yourself and like what you see, and then, only then can you truly be happy.

CLICK A SMILEY TO VIEW OUR FILM PRODUCTION ON YouTube WHEN YOU'RE SMILING! TO GIVE YOU A FIVE MINUTE CHEER UP

"Uncle Lunker"

BY KEITH VAN ALLEN

  "Yaah, that was Ol' Lunker," said Uncle Harold in his long gravely drawl, sitting in a comfy booth at Sam's Diner,"the biggest Sheepshead Catfish in Lake Champlain..tried to catch him for 20 years..."   "Why is 'Lunker' such a popular name for a fish?" I asked while ordering a late brunch of baked chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy with fresh green beans, Sam's specialty.   "Well, it just was...that was his name, still is..known far an' wide all over upstate N'Yeurk.." The shining railroad-car-like diner was a place you just wanted to be and stay for a while, whether you ate or just had coffee. I almost hated myself for the question I asked him at the end of this down-home-cookin' meal for which he kindly picked up the tab.  " So did you ever catch Ol' Lunker?"  " Well yaahh..ya wanna see where it happened?"  " Well, I..well sure.."  " Then let's go!" I barely had a chance to tell him this wasn't a good time for me. My Uncle talked in such a drawn out sleepy ramble, that it made you think he never wanted to move. But then he'd surprise you and take off. Outside was his big wide and blue 60’s Oldsmobile. His gravely commentary continued as I, his nephew up from Virginia on business and staying at his house, protested in stumbling ineffectual fashion while he, feeling (rather too easily I felt),a strong obligation to act as tour guide for the town of Plumpton N.Y., urged me onward to the Olds. "Yaah, there's the Old North Church...just like Paul Revere except differ'nt..an' the ol' post office since 1735..."   "I'd love to Uncle Harold, but I've got that business over in Peasleeville, so I'll just go get my car OK? The house is only a few blocks..."   "Aw naw..get in,that's on my way..I'll drive ya over an' we'll be back in time fer supper.." This was going to take forever.I could just see George Munce waiting for me at the courthouse to research that land deal we'd been working on.   "Uh gee, thanks Uncle Harold, sounds great but my meeting's at one and I really have to get going." I could also see me wandering through the county with my uncle changing the subject every second, (as well as our direction),reciting his latest poem or stopping at fruit stands to pick out a green watermelon. He was known far and wide for his ability to pick out a green water melon,(even if most of them were ripe).His laid back folksy way of operating would have us in Peasleeville by five at least,but by now the old cotton shirt with the wide red comfortable plaid,straight out of a kodachrome slide was itself now sliding nicely behind the steering wheel with Harold in it, as easy as a Lazy Boy recliner.   "Yaah, we'll make Peasleeville in no time, and still have time for fishin..maybe catch Ol’ Lunker,the biggest Sheepshead Catfish in Lake Cham-"
  “Ya know Uncle Harold, I’ve heard you tell that story before, an’ I looked it up. The Sheepshead is really a Drum, not a Catfish..”
  “Oh really? That’s wonderful...”
Harold covered any hurt feelings at being corrected under his continuous genial personality. I felt mortified and couldn't hurt his feelings again.   "All we have ta do is pick up some blood worms.." he rambled. As I got in I could only pray that I could stir up his energy enough to make my meeting with Munce. This land deal was very important and the mall and condos we would build would make a lot of money--and help the community of course.   "We might pick up a watermelon on the road.." he said as my eyes rolled out the window. I'd have to really focus to keep him focused I thought, and was about to jump out the car when he touched the key and the Olds 88 roared into 8 cylinder life. An oft repeated phrase of my Dad's suddenly came to mind. "Harold's got a heavy foot".     He leaned out as I watched him give a signal along the endless dashboard. VOOOOM! We were off down the narrow winding two laned mountain road. I shot him a set of bulging wide eyes as I slumped down, holding on like in a cheap state fair roller coaster , the blue tuck and roll upholstery sliding out from under me.
  “Here's the famous Ol' Stone House from 1658,"YEEEOOWM-SCREECH,"An, that there's the ol' Grange where they shot a movie with Dustin Hoffman er somebody..." I just could'nt believe how somebody could drive like Richard Petty while delivering such a dry monologue. BEEEYOWWMMM,EEEeeerrrch! We must've taken that turn on two wheels but with the super-glide suspension it was hard to tell. YEEOWM YEOWM, other smaller and newer cars with higher centers of gravity whizzed by while the Olds hugged and snaked the shoulders like a well oiled juggernaut, but Harold unfazed, continued. "How'd ja like ta hear a pome? Just wrote it yesti'day.." He stuck his head out the window looking backward. I kept silent with road-glued eyes.    "Here comes a truck.." I murmured, my face frozen as his head finally came back in, BEEEYOOOOWWOOooooooommmm.   "Just up that hill is the ol' Indian burial ground.." (And I was praying not to end up there prematurely).I also tried hard to enjoy the scenery which was in truth utterly beautiful, a swerving sun dappled sufi dance of hills, rock and yellow lined road ribbon so hypnotic it was almost soothing me, except for the fact that Harold began singing-
          "My WIIILD IIIIRISH ROSE!
           That GROWS and GROWS and GROWS...",
the combination of sensations almost jumped me out the window. Thing is that he sang it so that all the musical dynamics seemed to match the curves in the road, sort of like a wave form pattern. The immortal words of Yosemite Sam murmured in my brain, "whoa stomach, don't turn over now.."    When this classic Detroit made tilt-a-whirl finally stopped, I found my head spinning, but my body amazingly placed in front of the Peasleeville courthouse right on time,as I saw by the old clock tower. I staggered into the lobby while Harold went into the bait shop across the street. I couldn't believe it, Munce was late! He had said one o'clock sharp! I thought of how I'd scrambled so much to get here for this great opportunity, big wall street trader that he was, and him with his constant cutting remarks about my punctuality, his aggressive no-holds-barred business philosophy, "staying on  top of one's game" as well as his constant condescending remarks about "podunk, slow moving Virginia". I waited a full half hour, before Uncle Harold enticed me to try the egg salad sandwiches they had for sale at the bait shop, over by the bloodworms , which made them taste funny somehow.                                       
  “Well,it looks like he's a no show, how 'bout gittin' in some fishin'?" I reluctantly agreed, somehow thankful and relieved, but not knowing why. "Well it's prob'ly fer th' best.."said Harold,"that mall would be pretty ugly,just mess up the place.."   "What are you talking about? That's a multi-million dollar deal! I could use the commission thank you! Besides..it would be great for the community! Housing starts are the leading indicators of a growth economy!"
  “What d’ya mean? The more land you destroy the better things are? There’s not but so much of it ta begin with..now you’re not makin’ sense boy..” WOOSH WOOSHH..more near misses and fast taken curves as we retraced our route and rode on in silence. The afternoon sun flashed and strobed through the trees and on to my retina.   "Yaah...the Indians worshiped these hills as sacred,"Harold piped suddenly,"the Adirondacks are extremely old..it's all Canadian Shield, pure granite,whatever..the Hudson's really a fiord they say.." The yellow line on blacktop, the vibrant foliage and blue sky wizzing past again had it's effect, and then suddenly more singing. It jolted me up and I swear should've shattered the windshield.
          "ROLL O-ON SILVERY MO-OOON,
           While the NIGHTINGGAAALE"S
           IN TU-UUUUNE...
           Nevermore from my lo-ove
           Will I STRAAAAY...."
My uncle was now actually yodeling, and not that bad really,(that is if you like yodeling). I'm not sure why nobody ever tried to curb him of this habit of bursting into archaic love songs. The most his wife Katherine ever said was a mild, "Now Harold.."    A sign swiped by,"Port Kent 8 miles"."Yaah, Lake Champlain was sacred too, very special lake...really good fish'n..." Again I woke out of a daze.   "So what about Ol' Lunker?"    "Oh well, I hooked 'im right down here...yaah,that big eye came starin' up at me..that big flappin' belly..pretty near dropped my line.." The flashing, the undulating,the droning gravelly drawl,I had trouble staying with him. Then The great blue lake came into view. Of A sudden I started awake, totally fresh.   “Damn that George Munce! He messed up the whole deal! We probably missed our chance on that land!"  " Oh?" said Harold,laconically taking a hair pin turn with a 50 foot drop.   "Yes, he was supposed to be at the courthouse at one!"   "Well, we left there at about twelve forty-five.."   "Are you sure??"   "Yaah, I remember I checked my watch with the ol' clock tower.."   "But we got there at ONE O'CLOCK!"   "Oh no, that was about five after twelve.."   "WHAT!? NO, it was one!   "Oh yaah, well,you must'a mistook the hour hand for the minute hand an' vice-a-versa..I've done that...those ol' Victorian clocks can be hard ta read..that's why I double check..one time I was com'n back from Rochester an'.."   "We gotta go back!"   "Go back?" For the first time Uncle Harold seemed actually  surprised. "But we'll miss Ol' Lunker..."   "Damn Ol' Lunker! We gotta catch George!"   "Damn Ol' Lunker?" Harold looked genuinely hurt and taken aback.                                   "Oh, he'll be gone by now, it's almost 2 o'clock.."   "Yeah but we might catch 'im!"   "But you said he had ta get back to th' city. He'd need to make time back ta Manhattan..beat the rush hour.."   "Ohhhh, I guess" I sunk in my seat with hand over face.   "Yaah, well, the bes' thing ta do is-"   "Hey, you gotta cel phone?"   "Cel phone? No, I like ta escape human contact sometime.."   "I forgot to charge mine- DAMN!"   "Bes' thing now is ta go fish'n.." VOOOOM, we slid like a blue snakey roller coaster down the landscape to the shining shores of Lake Champlain.     Pulling into Port Kent you notice a plethora of bait and tackle shops. "Yaah, Ol' Lunker an' I go way back. They say he's 6 feet long and can take your boat down with'im.." Uncle Harold was now in his true element. "Might pick up some new sinkers.." he muttered as we navigated the ram shackle roadside hoopla of advertising and T-shirts. I noticed here and there some crude cartoon images of dragons in water. "Go Monsters" read a sign, supporting a local football team,and I had a surreal surprise rounding a corner, being faced with a giant inflated sea serpent on the lawn of the community center.   "Doesn't the lake supposed to have a sea monster?" I asked.   "Yaah, they call'm 'Champ'...but now yer delvin' into fantasy..we're here fer serious fishin'.." After acquiring the necessary rods and tackle, which were miraculously pre-loaded in the trunk of the Oldsmobile, we rented a boat and puttered into the sun washed lake. The wind was up, so white caps were everywhere,and the little row boat with a clamped on Evinrude smacked up and down- BAM bam,BASH bam BASH..b-BAM,as we plowed out to Harold's favorite spot, but while in route he took opportunity to continue his song.               " As I stray'd from my cot
               At the close of the day,               'Mid the ravishing
               Beauties of June,               'Neath a jas-sa-mine shade
               I espied a fair maid                As she plaintively sighed
               To the moon...  Here he cocked his head, trying to remember more words, but failing that, he just made up his own.               " Ro-oll o-on Silvery MO-OOON,                I'll MARRY YOU in Ju-UUUNE                He said to the Lady of the Lake.."     Again I was forgetting my business entanglements and stress of competition, under yet another beauty induced trance-dance with the deep blue of water and sky, dark green hills rising like the humps of “Nessy” on the horizon, and white cloud cumulus puffs reflected by the ever moving white caps ,forming and falling ,rising dispersing , from nowhere to somewhere.   “Yaah...it looks like a good day for Ol' Lunker...maybe Champ too..." Harold smiled, almost winking, as we settled into our accustomed routine from visits long before. His ever placid countenance and patient pleasantness bespoke of a natural fisherman of eons past. Those 44 years at IBM were just a sideline, fishing was Harold's true vocation, that and just generally being a friend to man. "Wanna hear a new pome I wrote  about the kids?" His true ambition was his self-described title of "Poet Laureate of Plumpton Heights", which he made a reality with endless self published pamphlets on an old mimeograph machine in his basement, that is, until he got a Xerox. I guess my expression wasn't very enthusiastic, because he quickly went back to yodeling, although softly, on  account of the fish. "Yodel A dee Adee Ohh da Ladyy OOOoooo..."     Placid he was,but he suddenly jumped into a quick form of minute heroics , as he pulled in a nice string of lake trout and even a pike.I didn't catch much,a few perch, but this ancient aquatic harvest ritual ,the flashing sun on scales, his bright red shirt and tackle box soothed me. I looked up from my rod and saw him sitting by an old woody station wagon on a folding camp stool, with a stove and pitched pup tent nearby,all in a crisp flaming sunset, but all of them somehow floating in the water. Harold smiled gently as the sun flashed rhythmically around his silhouetted  head, then I shook myself and all was back to normal. However, I cherished the vision as a special little gift, holding it gently in my mind.   "Yaaaah...Ol’....Nanabozho...." said Harold, suddenly musing.   "Nana Bozo? What's that, a clown's grandma?"   "No, Na-na-boz-HO! The legend of the old Indian that fought the Great Serpent in these waters..which caused the great flood, same as Noah... "   "I thought you didn't believe in it."   "Sea Serpents are one thing, Indian legends are another...were'nt you in th' cub scouts?"  " No I missed that."  " More's th' pity.."  " What?"  " I said it's really pretty...today.." Then it was spontaneous poem time.                  " By the shining big sea water,               Stood the warrior Nanabozho               Searching o'er the big sea water               Searching Tatoskok,
              The great serpent..."  To which I added-              " Stood the Henry
              With his Wadsworth,               Searching for
              His great Longfellow..."    "Huh! Huh! Huh!" Hey, I got Harold laughing! The fresh breeze was waking my awareness to all that was around me. How silly and broody I had been. This was in truth a vacationer's  paradise I thought. Not only that but with homes and lake front property, what a killing to be had!   "Damn that clock! I gotta catch up with George Munce! Let's go back ashore, I could use a phone and call him and explain, then we could set up another meeting.."   "Naah..believe me,you don't want ta do that..." Harold leveled his eyes at me, strangely I thought,for him.   "How do you know what I want Uncl'Harol'!?",I burst out in thwarted dealer's frustration." This is my business I'm talkin' here!" Uncle Harold just busied himself with his rod and reel.  "And what's all this damn recreation and fishin' ..an' an'..Why did'nt you tell me about that clock? Huh?!! I, I appreciate you're hospitality an' all, but I came to make a deal damn it, and you messed me up!" Harold seemed not to notice but casted his line with a decisive intent.    WhizzzzzzzzzPLUNK! went the sinker in whitecap waves that went Ka-pash Ka-pash under our prow. Sunshine-Reflections- Ka-pash Ka-pash, I was losing it again in the utter sensuality,the repetitive, monotonous, godly beauty of this great northern lake..but I shook it off.   "Com'on Harold, crank up the motor, I've really gotta make that call!"    "Just a minute.." graveled my uncle. I felt relieved, at last some action. SNAG! GAGENG! GICK-GICK-WHHIIIIIRRRRRRR, Harold's pole jerked into life. "It's Ol' Lunker!!" shouted Harold, which really wasn't a shout but a mildly effusive expulsion of something deep within. But if his New England reticence precluded extreme verbal expression, it didn't stop his body, Harold sprang into action. WHIIR WHIR, Raachet rachet chet ChetGECK GECK GiiiiiGGGWhirrr went his reel.   “Give'im plenty a' play!" I shouted, totally into the age old drama of man versus fish. Harold braced his feet against his tackle box which was wedged against a seat, and off flew Ol' Lunker and the boat with him. The shiney, pinkish silver shape undulated just beneath the surface with a ferocious force, breaking out here and there with white caps of his own. My consciousness was so  totally engaged that seconds felt as minutes, the cool bracing air in my face, the excitement, "This is life! "I yelled ," this is living!"   " Yaah, com'on boy! Com'on boy!" said Harold to the fish, now half standing in the boat, which had me worried-GEK GEK Whirrrrr.We were basically water skiing in curley-que zig zag patterns all over that section of lake. Lunker was not only powerful but smart. Over near a small island was a ragged out cropping of rock, pure Canadian shield thumbing itself at the sky. Lunker pulled us past it but at just the right instant turned sharp, then sharp again, then back out to deep water. There was no way to avoid being pulled onto rock. Then Harold in his rustic wisdom did the only wise thing, he pulled out his hunting knife and cut  the line, with just a few feet to spare. Ka-KLANG! We hit as the wash carried us forward. Harold, with his superb-at-all-times balance was fine, but I, with all the centrifugal force I could muster went SPLASH into the water, as the boat careened sideways overtop me just as I bobbed up BANG! against the aluminum bottom. Scrambling, ice cold and holding what bubbling breath I could, I made my way across the ribbed grey metal through amber green soup.    On surfacing I searched for a reference point besides blue on blue, and seeing a big hulk of grey, instinctively paddled over and grabbed on. The rock was very slippery but would have to do until I could connect with the boat. But was it rock? It seemed to move and roll beneath my touch, it--was alive!! Rising above me was a mountain of grey flesh,and beyond and above that a tremendous neck and head with staring black eyes and 4 inch teeth glinting in the afternoon sun. With stunned non-thinking I stared into the face of Champ himself! It sort of hovered a moment, with what appeared to be an enormous smile. Crocodiles do that,"What was God thinking when he made them?" I thought oddly enough in a moment of split second infinity. Then it lunged down at me. I flailed and scrambled but couldn't get traction, fool that I was, still trying to hold on to the monster as if it were rock. Fortunately I was just out of reach of the great Plesiosaur's mouth, it could only nip it's own flank. "Heck, my dog can reach better than that", I wondered for some damn reason in the most adrenalin charged moment of my life.(Believe it or not I also made a mental note to ask about this at the Smithsonian on my way home).    I knew however , my safety was short lived. The creature now began rolling and rocking to shake me loose. It's great rear flipper partially lifting me out of the water and dropping me back, but I knew my happy zone and was determined to keep it, although I was getting weak. Now the beast was twisting it's entire length to great churning effect , while lunging it's head nearer and nearer. All the time, I was aware of a determined, cool stance taken by Harold as he stood in his violently rocking dingy. As the thing reared up for yet another lunge, my own dear uncle with hunting knife in teeth, leaped mightily, grabbing onto the great Jurassic neck, and began stabbing a couple of feet below the head,while giving a great Indian war whoop he must've learned from a John Wayne movie. The dragon's head flailed and flailed with lolling tongue, frustrated by it's new and determined assailant, then started swinging it's neck around in long sweeping arcs. To my utter amazement Uncle Harold just hung on, his feet flying in air,as he sang as loud as he could,
          "MY WIIIILD IIIIRISH ROSE!!!,
           THAT GROWS AND GROWS AND GROWS.."
   I didn't know whether to laugh, cry or freeze,and probably did all three simultaneously, but now the serpent appeared  to be attempting a complete turn over. The flippers made mighty slaps and the water pulled downward just like beside a sinking ship, as I treaded water upward toward the boat,which was now coming my way, down into the sudden whirlpool.As I glanced up I saw the great arched neck was flinging down toward me along with Harold in all his off-key glory-"My WIIILDIIIIRRRISH"-SPLEELUMP-FOOOSHshhhhhhhh...and all was black.    Next thing I knew were slow swirling bits of shiny metalic light, the clinking of utensils and  a delicious aroma."Yaah, that was Ol' Lunker, the biggest sheepshead catfish in Lake Champlain..." I blinked around at the booth in Sam's Diner. Across from me drinking coffee was Uncle Harold.   "Wait a minute, this is where I came in!"   "Hmm?" quizzed Harold, awakened from his rambling reverie."You mean the front door? It's over there.."   "But...hey, didn't we just go fishin??"   "Well yaah..but that was yesterday don't cha remember?   "Yesterday??"   "Yaah..after you missed your meetin',don't 'cha remember?"   "Oh,yeah..."I rubbed my face.   "Here, have some coffee, better wake up son.."   "Huh? Oh yeah.."   "We'll get a jump on today and do some real fishin'.."   "What!!??"   "You'll feel better when you get some brekfas'...sorry you were seasick yesterday..."   "Seasick?"
  "Don't cha'member? Had ta bring ya back in, just when I was catch'n a big one too...must'a been them waves..had ta put cha on the couch. Kath was mighty worried about ya.."   "Oh?.."   "But I don't think ya had a good brekfas' that day, what with all yer wheelin' an' dealin'.."   "Uh, would you excuse me, I gotta go to the bathroom."   "Sure.." I staggered round Sam's counter to the gents. At the end of it,I was struck by an odd water color cartoon by some local artist, framed on the wall by the cash register. It looked for all the world like Bozo the Clown dressed up in a granny costume.   "What's that Sam?" I asked.   "Oh that? That's Nanny Bozo! Brings me good luck, been there ever since I opened up.." I shook my head and went to the can, through a musically squeaking door with a wood stained jig-saw cut out of a dutch boy in wooden shoes blowing a kiss to his female counterpart on the opposite door. On the way back it was coming back to me.   "Sam, isn't Nanny Bozo whatever an old Indian legend?"   "Yeah, some sort of ol' medicine man used to live in these parts."   "But is'nt that cartoon sort of uh...politically incorrect?"   "Oh maybe, I dunno, it's just fun.Guy that drew it was part Ind-uh, Native American himself..said this way at least people will keep his name alive. People don't realize it but them Indians, Nativ-uh..they got a good sense a' humour..their stories are pretty wild, kinda like Looney Tunes ya know?"   “Nanny Bozo..." I repeated, staring oddly at the picture.   "Na-na-boz HO!" piped Harold from the other end of the counter.   “OK Harold," said Sam, giving him a backwards nod, "some of the local folklore experts take this stuff seriously. Your uncle's one of 'em. All I know is I've had a good life here,I make enough to live on, not much but enough, been able to do what I like, cook good food, plenty of friends-and the scenery! Jeese.." Sam cleaned his counter as I stared again at the weird clown image, and it staring at me.   "But that legend.." I said.   "Oh yeah, the spirit of that ol' medicine man, shaman whatever, is supposed to return every so often..ta sorta protect this place..the lake an' everything.."   "Huh," I mused suddenly staring at my uncle at the far end window booth, drinking coffee, framed with the hills and a bit of the lake in the distance.   "All I know is I've been happy ever since I came here ,and I'm very thankful.." continued Sam. "I sure hope they don't build all them malls and condos they've been talkin' about, ay Harol'?"   "Yaah!"   “Yeah, people don't have ta live here to come and enjoy it..do that an' you ruin it. You don't have ta own everthin'-just enjoy it,love it and move on,leavin' a few of us to take care of it what knows how...just like the Indians!"   "I nodded and went down to the booth, but could'nt help thinking Sam had something there.   "Yaah!" graveled Harold,"Sam's got a good brekfas' com'in--he cooked up that big fish I caught while you were gettin' sick yesti'day.."
I sat and stared at my uncle in a whole new and somewhat strange light. "Here it comes now!" Sam brought two steaming delicious portions of a really huge fish.I stared aghast.   "Ol', Ol' Lunker??"
  "Naah, he got away..would'nt have kept 'im even if he had'nt. This here's just his li'l nephew--Dig In!" That meal has since stayed in my memory as a true taste-tempting sensation of happiness. As we pulled away later in that big boat of an Oldsmobile, his singing somehow took on a quality that lodged in my heart.

            "Ro-oll o-on Silvery Mo-OOOON,               While the nighting--gale's
             In tu-UUUunne            
             And the great Silvery Light
             Rolls on it's waaaay.               Yodel a-DEE a-Deeoooh,              Yodel a-DEEE a-DEE Ooooh,              Yodel ADEEE de Oooo,               Yodel LADYY aDEE OOooooooooooooo."  

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