Deer Departed: The Hilarious Tale of Riverbank Cleanup with Uncle Paul

When I lived in “the ‘burg”, up until the mid 80’s (having been born there in 1963, which would seem like the time of the original colonies by today’s teens), I had many memorable experiences - some of which I wish I could relive, and others I wished I’d never lived. Such is life, and into every life you occasionally get a face of snow from a passing plow.

The family used to have a camp up on the river, across from Mater Dei college, behind what was the “Fell Farm”. My grandparents, Ed and Helen Morley, build a camp right on the river once the railroad cleared out of there, and three of their five kids bought the properties behind them, installing mobile homes with some adding a permanent addition. This would be Theresa and Carl Hess. Edward “Chick” Morley and wife Vaughn and Marilyn and Bob Beebie. My dad opted out thinking too much of a good thing - relatives - might turn into a bad thing.

I spent many a hot day “up’ta camp” as we used to say. Many times, we’d put the picnic tables together end to end in one long line, passing around food from family to family, a virtual Thanksgiving dinner in July. Flys also enjoyed this north country bacchanalia, and we spent probably ten percent of the caloric intake from the meal swatting them away, everyone swinging their hands above their food in what might appear to the casual observer to be pseudo-religious ritual. Soda, hot dogs, potato salad and barbecue chicken were in abundance, and the standard admonition to all children not to swim for at least a half hour after eating was leveled, lest you get cramps and drown.

Then there was the gravel road we had to cross to go from one camp to another, a deadly traverse if ever there was one. Spiritual Holy Men in India had hot coals to walk on; we had this gravel road. It was so bad a podiatrist had posted a small advertisement nearby.

The seaweed in the river that was a bane to the casual swimmer was still in full bloom back then - slimy, slithery green stuff that would make an eel feel cuddly. Much of it would end up on shore, and later my uncle, Paul Morley, would burn it. Later on, the mixed blessing of the invasive zebra mussels would feast on the seaweed, wiping it out like I would a bag of Doritos, returning the St Lawerence to relatively clear waters.

Then there was one infamous spring when I got a call from uncle Paul - he needed help cleaning up the shore. No, not of seaweed, but of a dead deer. Apparently the poor thing had drowned, perhaps in a desperate attempt to jump in front of a passing laker ship, breaking from the time honored tradition of his fellow deer in attempting to jump in the back seat of moving cars. So what do you do with a dead deer on your shore?

His plan involved me, a boat, himself, and what I thought for a moment was taking the deer water skiing, as he had a rope. The boat, however, was just a small row boat, so I’d either have to paddle as desperately as a man trying to get out the house when his wife says “we need to talk”… or something else was going on.

So it turns out I wouldn’t be doing any Olympic style rowing that day…but I would be rowing. My uncle, who was so masterful at fixing things, he could probably resuscitate a mummy, had a plan. Take the deer out, far off shore, tie a cinder block around it, and sink it. So we did; I was rowing, two grown men and a large dead deer dragging behind the boat. It was like rowing through mud; I was sweating worse than a man who’s wife was looking though his cell phone. Finally we got out deep enough, by my uncle’s estimation, that we could let it sink to the bottom. It was probably only 100 feet off shore, but to me, it seemed like we would have to be calling into Canadian customs at any moment.

I watched  as he tied the cement block to the deer’s head, and threw it overboard, the deer being dragged down to the depths, much like Jack was in the movie Titanic; my uncle and I being like Rose on the floating door.

And with that, another great Ogdensburg memory was made.