​The Day I Met Cousin Ernest

It was just Granny and me. We were heading down the road in between Wewahitchka and Port St. Joe, Florida somewhere in between the Gulf of Mexico and Eufaula, Alabama, when Granny’s old car decided to overheat a bit.

You see that was back in the 1960’s when cars had minds of their own, and uppity ones at that. Back then if your car took a mind to, she would get in a huff and start shootin’ steam out from under her hood and making all sorts of ungodly noises just to get your attention. If the mood hit her just right, she would up and take a siesta right then and there whether you liked it or not.  

Well, it would appear that the summer sun had gotten the best of Granny’s old rattletrap, and Granny’s objections aside, the old car pulled herself to the side of the road and gave up the ghost; but she did so only after leaving some miscellaneous parts of herself lying in the road and scattered across a nearby hay-field. She had outdone herself this time. She had blown a head gasket and, from what we saw, a whole host of other gaskets. In other words, she was dead as a door-nail.

Now I was somewhere around eleven years of age and was just beginning to understand a few things about life, and, to be honest, I was beside myself with concern for our well-being. We were in between nothing and nowhere, with no provisions, not even a glass of water. It was midday July and hotter than Satan’s sweat; but  in counterpoint to my uneasy frame of mind, Granny was cool and calm and appeared to be more aggravated than disturbed.

You see, as it turns out, my Granny had relatives scattered throughout the Florida Panhandle just like Easter eggs. If she needed one, she could always find one even if she didn’t want to. In this case one of the, 'she didn’t want to’s,' lived about ten or so miles back toward Wewa. He, and his live-in, as Granny put it, lived down an old dead end dirt road that would give the most stalwart among us pause. Between the yawning ruts below and the creepy Spanish moss hanging from the live oaks above, it looked for all the world like a nightmarish version of Lewis Carol’s rabbit hole; but I am getting ahead of myself.

As Granny and I stood next to one another pondering what was left of her car, the sound of a vehicle approaching caught our ears. With a squint you could see that way down the road toward Port St. Joe awash in heaving heat waves, the welcome sight of an old pickup truck was coming into focus. That was back before we all became so flighty and fearful of one another, so with a gentle wave Granny drew that truck to a halt. The old fella inside said he was heading that direction anyway, so why not. He invited Granny to sit up front with him, while I crawled in the back and settled in amongst an odd collection of rusty farm implements and old beer cans.    

It would appear that our savior was enjoying the company. Granny could be delightful when necessity demanded. So in an effort to prolong his enjoyment the old man put that old beat up truck in mosey, and we headed back toward Wewa at a snail’s pace.

When we finally made it to the aforementioned road, our savior’s commitment to the cause began to waver a little. He glanced down that wicked looking drive and then back at Granny who was now donning her most coquettish grin.  Well, being long in the tooth and well acquainted with the ways of women and transmissions, he realized that he wasn’t going to advance very far in either direction. So he politely kicked us to the curb, and we hoofed it the rest of the way.

As it turns out Granny had a cousin, fourth or fifth I think. I’ll say fifth. I want as much separation as possible. Well, he lived down at the far end of this road, if you could call it that, with a middle aged Seminole woman, a few old dogs, some feral cats and the greatest collection of blow flies I think I have ever seen.

His name was Ernest. Honestly I have to say that I have done my best to disremember that name over the years, but Earnest is one of those names that sticks to the gray cells, so I couldn’t shake it.

Well the road stretched out about a mile or a mile and a half from where we had been so unceremoniously deposited and in the summer heat neither Granny nor I were inclined to be in any hurry. So we put our feet in mosey and slowly worked our way down the road to the house of Ernest.   

The atmosphere was ‘close’ as the old folks say. It had to be near to a hundred, and under that canopy of live oaks the humidity was well matured. When we started out, the cicadas above were in good voice as they shamelessly sang their rasping love song, but as we continued toward our destination they began to fade out and become silent. After them the katydids, crickets and other insects grew hushed; but the ears did not go wanting, for a faint hum that grew more intense the further we traveled had been underneath the fray, supporting the melody all the time.   

As the insect’s song wafted pianissimo on the breeze, the breeze took on a startling bouquet. The fragrance was strangely familiar, but the intensity I had never experienced. My mind flashed back to the slathering maw of a boat landing hog with a mouth full of rotten garfish. Yep that was it. Once you’ve smelled it, you don’t forget it.

 As Granny and I approached our destination, the origin of both the hum and the stench were revealed.

As it turns out, Cousin Ernest, he preferred Ernest over Ernie, eked out a living running trot lines across the Chipola River in search of Blue, Channel, White and Flathead catfish. He would take whatever the river offered, but those were his preference. Whatever Cousin Ernest was, fastidious he was not. To dress the cats, he would nail them to a tree for skinning and filleting, but it appears that the effort of removing those catfish carcasses taxed his strength to such an extent that he just couldn’t make himself do it.  

If there was one, there were a hundred catfish nailed up on each and every tree that was unfortunate enough to have grown near his place, and while old Ernest was probably not particularly popular amongst his neighbors, to the blow fly population he was king.

I will have to leave his uniquely neat and attractive wife, his well-behaved dogs and his well-fed cats for another day. I’ve talked too long as it is.

For now, just know that while Cousin Ernest may not have been at the top of the familial heap,  he wasn’t at the bottom either. I’ll let your imagination run with that.

He was family though, and family is family; so as Granny climbed up in the cab of his old dilapidated pickup, I thanked God for the fresh air out back as Ernest drove us the hour or so back to Panama City and home.   

No great lesson today, just what I hope was a bit of an escape from a world gone mad.

Love,
Pastor Tony.
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 

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