Uncle George ((a short sketch, 1987)(a Minnesota story))

(Winter of 1987) I thought we were headed toward the River Road, along the Mississippi, in St. Paul, Minnesota, I, my mother, Aunt Anne, Uncle George was heading to the airport (a tired old man now, about five foot eight inches tall, one hundred and fifty pounds, at one time a lively sort of person, a talkative kind of fellow (a little quiet now), a sporty man and hard working, kind of played the big shot, but it was an act more than reality), and it was winter of 1987.
They picked us up at my mother’s apartment, on Woodbridge Street, George smoking a thin cigar as usual, waiting in his car for Anne and us to come down the two flights of stairs, and get into his 1987 Mercury, he liked Mercury’s, made by Ford, bought one every three years, so he boasted and so he did, matter of fact, it was a highlight in his life to do so, and let us all in the family know. He’d even made sure the car was out of the garage all shined up, on holidays when we went there to visit them, have lunch, several families in his backyard eating, or in his basement or in his living room.
Anne got in the front seat with her husband, me and my mother in the back seat. He looked a bit rigid in holding that steering wheel, holding it tight, as if it was a jet plane. He was 77-years old at the time, he liked his drinking, and his Lion’s Club, perhaps had a few drinks this evening I felt, it was 6:00 PM, and in Minnesota, at 6:00 PM, in winter it gets dark. And so he started driving us to the airport, we were going to Vegas, Los Vegas.
“I’m going to take a short cut,” announced George to all of us.
“We usually would just take, highway 35, along the River Road, and it connects to another highway and it goes right into the airport, fifteen minutes, that’s all it takes, this side of the road will take a while longer,” I suggested.
My mother said, “We got the time,” and Anne remarked, “George nowadays don’t like driving on the Highways.”
So I left well enough alone, looked at my watch, our flight was for 8:00 PM.

We were now driving over the upper part of the city (St. Paul, per se, is in a gully sort of, more likened to a hole), the north side of the highway, being above that hole, and now we were going through a lot of neighborhoods, and moved quite slowly, especially with the slush and mud on the streets seemed to splash all about, and the roads hand their share of holes in them to insure we did not go fast.
“Oh,” I said, “I think we are going too far north now, I mean, we are way off, this road doesn’t connect in anyway to the last section of the highway,” which we’d have to go on prior to entering the airport.
George thought about that, stopped the car.
“Want me to drive?” I asked.
“No, no, I know where I’M going, I just got mixed up again,” and so said George, and I went back to my being quiet, looking at my watch. And now George was driving again.
“What time is it?” asked my mother.
“Seven o’clock,” I answered.
“We got time yet,” she said, and started to talk to Anne, her sister again. As George lit up another small cigar, now I could smell a little booze on him, not thick, but a light scent, with the cigar scent mixed.
Everything was wet and slushy outside the car; you could hear it hit the side of the car, and the windows, and George had to turn on the wipers, as we moved along these side streets. We then came around a bend, dogs ran across the street barking, other headlights were coming toward us, George slowed the car down, not that it was going fast in the first place, but I think he got scared, too much light, it blinded him, it was likened to a lamp on top of his nose.
“I guess I’m lost,” said George, “I used to know this road, been a while since I been out to the airport, they must have changed it.”
“What times it going on?” asked my mother.
“Its twenty-minutes past seven,” I commented.
“I know,” said Anne, “it’s getting late, if you don’t know the way George, let someone who does drive before they miss their plane!” Said Anne.
“I see,” said George, “but I think I got it now.”
So he said and wiped his brow, with a handkerchief, he was sweating,
“It’s got to be up there,” meaning up someplace in front of us.
“Oh this getting old is for the birds,” commented George, yet he would now satisfy anyone by allowing someone else to drive.
Anne said next,
“Alright, I see a sign, go to the left, onto the last part of that highway, 35, before we have them miss the plane, do you see it, the sign?” she asked.
“All right, all right,” he said, “I see it!”
He was looking right at it, turned and went onto the highway finally,
“Now are you happy?” he said to his wife, Anne.
We pulled up to the Departure Area, Terminal, it was 7:40 PM, and we had twenty minutes to get through customs, and so forth.
Uncle George looked at me, slightly, the old man smiled, he had made it, and he leaned back in his big four door Mercury,
“Have a safe trip,” said Anne, George nodded his head, as if to imply the same.

I said my thank you (s), and knew there was no need to say anything else; I kind of knew he was terrible sorry for taking us on this wild goose chase, through the back allies of the city, to get us to the airport. I guess he proved his point, he wasn’t helpless. And my mother and I walked into the airport terminals, I did take a last look behind me, they were seated as before, I just wondered how long it would take them to find their way back home. George died two and a half years after that, in 1990, never did get a new last car.


Written 7-28-2008