Better Throw That One Back

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Years ago, when your mom and Aunt Bee were a little younger than you are now, we joined great granddaddy Schaefer and Mamaw Mary at Emerald Isle in North Carolina for a week of vacation.  The house accommodated all of my family including Brother Bryant and his wife, Doris, and their daughters Erika, Amanda and Melissa, and your great uncle Gene. 

Your great, great aunt Katherine and Uncle Bob Poerschke rented the house next door.  Their daughters Kathy and Betsy brought their families – four children in each.  The objective was a first-cousin reunion, a time when all could be together to form the generational bonds so historically significant to our family tree.

At the time, Gene was working for a railroad line.  I don’t remember which one nor do I know what he did, but a few days before we were to convene at the beach, he suffered severe burns on his body from containers of acid spilling out from one of the boxcars.  The accident caused much consternation, as you can imagine, not only for Gene’s health but also for the havoc it would wreak on the reunion. 

To our relief, the doctor determined Gene’s injuries to be less severe than originally thought.  He advised that Gene could make the trip to North Carolina, but should delay it in order to rest.  Mamaw Mary insisted that the rest of us continue with our original plans.  She would stay behind in Greenville and come with Gene later in the week.

By today’s Google Map, Greenville and Emerald Isle are 380 miles and over six hours apart.  That’s taking into consideration the Interstate system of highways we enjoy.  Back then, the trek took every ounce of daylight, especially when you consider that most every car had at least one baby in it.  The remoteness of Emerald Isle also created a real dilemma for Gene and Mamaw.

The doctor restricted Gene from driving a car and Mamaw Mary determined that she shouldn’t attempt it either.  Trains and planes didn’t even sniff the Isle as they clicked along or flew over.   They decided to take a Greyhound bus to Jacksonville, NC, about 30 miles away. Grandaddy Schaefer could come pick them up from there.  The tickets were cheap, some compensation for….oh, let me see….three layovers and almost 36 hours on the bus.  They wouldn’t get there until mid-week, but a little vacation was better than none at all, I guess.

The last layover on the trek was Wilmington. As they sat in the station, Gene decided to bide the time by unpacking his rod and reel to ready them for some surf-fishing.  He sat at one end of a bench, deftly transferring 25-pound test line from a spool to a reel, making sure there were no snags to impede a smooth cast.  At the other end of the bench, a somewhat disheveled and totally grungy man sat curled up in a ball, his head flung back, mouth agape as he loudly snored in an effort to sleep off the drunken stupor that the smell around him broadcast.

Gene finished loading the reel and pinched a small weight at the end of the line.  He gently flicked the rod sideways and some of the line dispensed to the floor in front of him.  He reeled back in and repeated the test.

This motion woke the drunk.  His yellowed, watery eyes stared intently as Gene practiced the casting.  After a minute or so, he shuffled upright.

“Hey, buddy,” he burped, “You aint’ gonna’ ketch nothin’ in here.” 

Gene laughed and said, “Yeah, man, I know.”

The drunk slunk back down and closed his eyes again, seemingly returning to sleep, as if he had expended every ounce of energy he owned making the comment.  From this comatose position, he offered one last piece of advice. 

“If’n you do, I sho’ wouldn’t eat it.”