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| Carl c. 1945 |
My uncle Carl was the first chemically-dependent person that I ever knew. He was a happy drunk. I never knew there was such a thing as a mean drunk until I was almost grown. Carl lived in a small house with no plumbing about a half mile from us. One luxury he did have was electricity so he could watch ball games on TV.
On Saturdays when my dad, my siblings and I drove to Carl's place to visit him, we never knew if Carl would be drunk or sober. My brother, sister and I always tagged along, because it was always a good time at Carl's. One time we used up all his ketchup and white bread making ketchup sandwiches.
If Carl was sober, my dad and Carl would have a conversation. If Carl was drunk, anything could happen. To be sure, he'd make his dogs, Babian and Laddy, shake hands with us, not once but many, many times. "Gud dag, Babian!" was the command. ("Gud dag" is a typical Norwegian greeting, "good day".) Babian would obediently shake. Again and again and again. We could almost see Babian roll his eyes and think "Oh, god, not again...." as he was commanded over and over, "Gud dag, Babian!" And my dad would just laugh it off.
But with my mom it was a different story. One hot summer afternoon my mom, siblings and I drove to Carl's house after Carl had spent the better part of the day at the saloon in Dennison. He'd bought a quart of ice cream for his two dogs on the way home from the saloon but was too drunk to cut it in half for the dogs. He wondered if my mom to do it. She cut the melting ice cream carton in half, but she was really pissed. Another time when my mom and I showed up at Carl's place, he and his friend Barlow were so drunk they couldn't stand up. My mom just closed Carl's front door, and we went home. In spite of the summer heat, it was a chilly drive home.
My all-time favorite story about Carl happened one August when I was about eight years old. A usual Saturday, my dad and I drove down to Carl's for our weekly Saturday visit. When we got there Carl was very upset. A pocket gopher was destroying his potato patch, chewing up all his potatoes. Completely distraught, Carl took us out to the potato patch to show us his wilted potato plants. My dad was sympathetic until suddenly one of the untouched potato plants started shaking from underground. By now Carl was in tears. "Goddammit, there he is right now!" screamed Carl. I'd never seen my dad laugh so hard.
Carl was probably the luckiest person I've ever met. He got drafted in WWII, four days before the end of the war. So he got a pension for being in the service for a few days during the war. He never worked a steady job, he'd hire out as a farm hand, fish, hunt, trap gophers for the 25 cent bounty paid by the township. He never had the money to buy a house. But he did inherit one. He had a lady friend, Helen, with whom he lived. I barely remember Helen, she died when I was quite young. But when she died, she willed Carl her house. A few years after Helen died, I asked my mom, "Was Helen Carl's girlfriend, or what was the deal with them?" My mom mumbled something, all I caught was the phrase "living in sin". I didn't know what that meant, but it didn't sound very good so I didn't ask any more questions.
Carl taught me how to trap gophers: Look for a fresh mound. Find the small mound in the big mound to determine which direction the tunnel is running. Find the Y in the tunnel, this is where to lay the opened trap. Don't get your fingers caught in the trap, dammit! Lay a piece of board over the hole that completely covers it. Gently cover the board with dirt. Don't let dirt down the hole or you'll spring the trap, dammit! The next day check your trap. Pull the gopher out by the chain on the trap. Knock him in the head. Gotdammit! No! You can't drown him, you'll rust the trap! Cut off his front feet and take them to the township board, 25 cents a pair.
One rare summer afternoon, my mom was in need of a baby sitter. In spite of Carl's love for alcohol, he could, for the most part, be responsible when it was called for, and he did have a good heart. Carl was asked to babysit me and my brother and sister. As a treat, my mom had bought a coconut for us to open and eat during the afternoon. Carl got the coconut cracked open with a hammer, and out of his pocket he pulled his jack knife, the only jack knife he owned, to cut the coconut up for us. "Yuck!" I cried. "That's the same knife you use to cut off the gopher feet!"
"No, it's not the same knife!" growled Carl.
I knew it was the same knife.
I didn't eat any of the coconut.
