Howdy family and friends. It's that time again, and I know you all look forward to our annual holiday letter. Who woulda thought that it would be so dern popular! I get all kindsa requests all year long from everone wantin' to make sure I don't forget to write it. We had lotsa good stuff happen this year, and some not so good stuff, like always, so I'll try not to leave out anything.
Everone's always askin' about Gramps, and whether he's been in any more bar fights. He's not a youngster anymore, and we thought his fightin' days were over, but he got into a tussle down to the Elks lodge right after the beginning of the year. Seems the old man don't like bein' called an old man, especially by some young punk who's had a few too many. Gramps ain't as good at throwin' punches as he once was, but can throw one punch as good as he ever did, and that's exactly what he did. Cop didn't slap the cuffs on him, and told the young feller that it ain't smart to go around callin' old men old man. Good thing he didn't run the specs on the old man, cuz Gramps still had a month left of probation from that pistol incident a few years back. If you don't remember that, get out your old copies of the holiday letter. I think twas around 2013 or so.
Grams is still kickin' and I mean that literally. Seems some old bar maid got to givin' Gramps some sort of saucy looks, and even had the nerve to sit on Gramp's knee when Grams was in the john down at the Moose lodge one night. Grams came flyin' when she seen that and yanked that bitch off'n his knee by her dyed blond hair, and took the boots to her. Yep, Grams still wears her old ridin' boots when she goes out dancin' with Gramps. Nobody called the cops that time, but you woulda thought that Grams needed to take the boots to Gramps for lettin' that tramp set on his knee, wouldn't ya. Don't worry, I'm sure Gramps is still payin' for that one.
Cousin Leroy got himself a real good job down at the DQ. He right away got promoted to junior assistant manager, and even got put on a salary! Course, they work him lots of hours, and that smartass brother of his,Elwin, who's good with numbers, had to point out during Thanksgiving dinner that if you add up all the hours he works in a month and figure up his salary, he works for about half of what the minimum wage is. I don't know about that, cuz everone knows I'm better with speelin' and riting and such than I is with numbers. Whut I do know, tho, is that it caused one hell of a ruckus, and Elwin was nursin' a burned neck from that turkey leg that Leroy held to his throat like it was a shiv or sumthing. Grams was screamin' that she'd take the boots to those two if they didn't show some brotherly love. Grams don't put up with fightin' at the table. She's likely to stab you in the back of the hand with a fork if you act up after she's worked so hard in the kitchen, especially if she's been hittin' the sauce. And I don't mean cranberry sauce...wink wink. But Leroy's doin' real good for himself, and even got that old van of his running again. He's savin' money by sleeping on an air mattress in the back of the van behind the bowling alley. He says it's a real good deal cuz they stay open late and let him use the bathroom, and all he has to do to earn his keep is polish the bowling pins now and then.
Elwin, on the other hand, ain't doin' so good. After he found out that his girlfriend was knocked up, he went off the deep end. Quit his job down at the cannery and spends his time layin' around on Gram's couch eatin' chips and smoking the weed. Grams insists that the weed is natural and good for him, and that if he smokes enough of it he'll start feelin' better and get over the fact that the girlfriend is carrying his brother Leroy's baby. Seems that she was down at the bowling alley a few times too many, and Leroy weren't just polishin' pins down there at the Lucky Lanes. Grams is just excited that she's gonna be a Gram again.
Grams reminded me that I should thank everyone for attending the potluck picnic that was held for her daughter's release from prison. The money tree was real helpful to help her bet back on her feet again. LouEllen is dancin' down at the men's club, and got herself a new boyfriend. He works at the club as a bouncer, and he's real protective of LouEllen, and keeps a real good eye on her when she's workin' those lap dances. They make a real cute couple. She's tryin' real hard to control that temper of hers that got her into trouble, and she's only had to be restrained by her bouncer boyfriend a couple times down at the club when some customer got a little too friendly puttin' those dollars into her thong. He says she's gettin' to be gentle as a kitten, and those two years in prison for assault taught her a real good lesson.
Now, as for the hubby and me, we had a pretty good year. Hank says that if the settlement from the lawsuit he filed against the lawnmower manufacturer comes through, I can quit one of my jobs. His fingers is healing real good, it's hard to tell that he's missing the tips of the fingers on his left hand unless you look real close. Our lawyer says that the lawnmower manufacturer was neggligent, and that they should have a warning on the machine that says you can't use the lawn mower to trim hedges. I don't understand much about that lawyer talk, but I hope we get some money out of it, cuz we sure ain't gonna get Hank's fingers back! Hank's been spending his time perfecting his fantasy football standings and taste testing beer. He writes to the beer companies and tells them what he thinks about their products, and sometimes they send him a coupon or two to thank him. I'm glad he has something that keeps him busy while I'm at work. It keeps him so busy, in fact, that he can't seem to find the time to help with the cooking, cleaning or laundry. That man...once he sets his mind to something he gets so involved in it he can't think of anything else. Anyone else remember when he went through that stage where he got so involved in watching poker on ESPN that he got let go from the mill? I've never met a man more dedicated to his hobbys.
I took some time off from both jobs last summer, and we took a nice little trip to visit Hank's brother Bob and his wife Gerty in Missouri. It was hotter than the dickens, but we had a good time settin' out on the front porch swattin' flies and talkin bout stuff. Bob is a bit of a braggert. He's a bigwig down at the Ketchup plant, and it was a little boring listening to him talk about condiments all the time, but I enjoyed Gerty's company. She stays at home and takes care of the house and grows flowers. She spends a lot of time on the computer commenting on all kinds of threads, she says. Funny, I did not even know that she liked to sew! She says she's some kind of expert on threads and likes to stir the pot. I guess that means she likes sewing and cooking. Maybe when I can quit one of my jobs I can try that too.
Well, until next year, hope you have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
Love from, Hank, Marietta, Grams, Gramps, and the rest of us.
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
Bowl-A-Rama
Midge glanced at the clock as she slipped into bed next to the snoring Bud. The clock read 2:18 am. Bud's weight shifted away from her slightly as she settled in next to him. She froze, waiting to see if he would awaken, worried that he would observe that her hair was soaking wet from her shower. Her pulse raced a bit, imagining that he would question why she was showering so late at night, wondering if he would catch a lingering scent of Aqua Velva on her damp skin. She forced herself to relax, take a deep breath and lie quietly, replaying the events of the evening over again in her mind. As Bud rolled to his side and quieted his snorning for a moment, she sighed, thinking about all the events that had transpired in the short 10 hours from the phone call.
The phone began ringing that afternoon as Midge was rummaging through the pantry, trying to decide what to fix for dinner. It was Bud's Moose Lodge night, and she was looking forward to getting him fed and out the door to his lodge meeting, and settling herself in front of the Tv to watch American Idol. She picked up the phone absent mindedly while reading over a recipe on a can of mushroom soup, wondering if Bud would complain about tuna casserole. She snapped herself to attention as she heard her friend Linda tell her, "So, you gotta help us out here, Midge!" Midge began to make an excuse but Linda would have none of it. An hour later, Bud was grumbling about having a frozen Healthy Choice meal for dinner as Midge gathered her bowling gear and headed out the door. She stopped to give Bud a peck on the cheek, promising him a nice roast beef dinner for the next evening, which brightened his mood considerably. She reminded him not to wait up, as tonight's league bowling schedule was a double header, leading up to a tournament to be held on the weekend. Midge was the alternate team member for Wanda's Curlery, and was rarely called upon to fill in, but Wanda herself had broken an ankle slipping in water at her own beauty parlor and would be out the rest of the season.
Parking was tight at the Troutvale Lanes. The neon sign appeard to have a short, threatening a headache as she walked beneath it. The flashing letters boasted of Troutvale's "Premiere Bowling Alley." It was the only bowling alley in the small blue collar town of Troutvale, so it wasn't a stretch of the imagination to believe it was the "Premiere" bowling alley. A few team members were gathered inside discussing Wanda's injury and stopped to greet Midge with high fives. Linda thanked her for being willing to come on short notice. She stubbed out her cigarette and popped in a stick of gum, offering Midge a stick. Midge chewed slowly, glancing around to see who all was there. Linda's husband arrived, carrying a long neck bottle for Midge, Linda and himself. Linda said, "Pace yourself tonight Dan, it's gonna be a long one." Dan, never one to let a chance pass to make a dirty joke answered back, "Now baby, you know it's always a long one when I'm around." Dan laughed loudly at his own joke while Linda and Midge rolled their eyes. Midge complained to Linda that she had done her nails that day, wouldn't you just know it, and bowling would simply ruin the cuticle and chip the polish. As Linda admired Midge's handiwork a flash of black and red polyester caught the corner of her eye.
He stood leaning against the row of bowling lockers near the bowling station. His eyes took in all the commotion as teams discussed strategy, polished already gleaming bowling balls and finished lacing up bowling shoes. He was tall and lean. He wore the red and black colors of the Troutvale Bait Shop. She couldn't make out the name stitched in cursive over the pocket on his shirt, but she noticed that his bowling shirt was a custom job. It wasn't the usually blocky, sloppy cut that most bowling shirts sported. This shirt had a western flair to it, cut slim to show off broad shoulders and slim waist, with pearl snaps in place of cheap plastic buttons. He turned to place his bag into a cubby, and she noted that the back of the shirt had a western style yoke stitched in some kind of fancy stitching. The shirt was tucked into black Wranglers. Midge could not help but notice that the Wranglers showed off the rear view quite nicely. Linda jabbed her, saying, "He ain't bad for a red head, is he?" Dan knows him from down at the fertilizer plant. His name's Wayne. Wayne must have felt the stares, as he turned, making eye contact with Midge. He grinned, flashing a silver tooth, and running his hands over his already slicked back red hair. Something about his sideburns, old fashioned as they were made her feel a little swirly in the head. She dropped her gaze and turned to place her bowling ball on the ball return.
As the evening wore on Midge found herself glancing frequently at Wayne. She tried to control her urge to swing her hips as she moved from place to place. Her bowling suffered from her distraction. Her team tried to be supportive, making excuses for her, mostly about being called in at the last minute. She drank a few more beers than she usually did, feeling a bit tipsy and distracted. She couldn't tell if Wayne was staring at her when she wasn't looking. She only knew that his team was doing well and he seemed to be focused only on bowling. Finally, round one was over and they had a 15 minute break before teams were eliminated and round two began. Midge made a visit to the ladies room, and stopped at the mirror to touch up her makeup and comb her hair. Coming out of the bathroom into the hallway she stumbled a bit at the threshold. She felt a strong grip grab her arm to keep her steady. She looked up into the greenest eyes she had ever seen. Wayne. He grinned and held onto her arm a bit longer than was necessary as she stood staring, slack jawed. When he let go she felt herself blush, and busied herself straightening out her pink bowling shirt. Wayne asked her if she was all right, and she just nodded. He made a point of staring at the pocket where her name should have been embroidered, making it clear that he enjoyed the way she filled out the garishly bright garment. She stuttered a bit as she said, "I don't have a name on my shirt because I'm just a fill in. I'm Midge." He held out his hand for her to shake and told her, "Hi Midge, I'm Wayne." All she could say was, "I know."
Later, she could not remember the walk back to her team, or much about the second round of bowling. A few more beers, a couple of strikes and a spare, some fist bumps from team members, a loud swat on the rump from Dan which earned him a playful smack and scolding from Linda, and it was time to head home. It was just after 11 o'clock when she finished packing her ball and shoes and headed for her car. She was mildly concerned about driving, but figured she would just take it slow. She slipped behind the wheel and turned the key. Click. She tried again. Click, click, click. Nothing. She smacked the steering wheel, cursing Bud for his cheapness and his refusal to buy a new battery, insisting that it would last a little while longer. She started to open the door, hoping to catch a ride home with someone, thinking that Bud would just have to deal with the dead battery the next day. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Wayne approaching, which stopped her in her tracks. "Need a lift, ma'am?" Her mouth went dry. She could only nod.
She slipped into his truck on the passenger side, pressing herself as close to the passenger door as possible. She did not understand why she felt so nervous. Nothing wrong accepting a ride home from a fellow bowler, after all. The truck was a work of art. 1956 Chevy, completely refurbished. Loud. Wayne grabbed gears, working the clutch effortlessly and they flew out of the parking lot. Midge felt a little dizzy. He didn't ask her where she lived. No words were spoken as he headed out of town and pulled off onto a little dirt road overlooking the river. She was taken by surprise when he reached out an arm and pulled her by her belt towards him on the slick leather seat. She felt his lips on her neck and the hard knob of the gearshift pressed against her thigh. The scent of sweat, beer and Aqua Velva was overwhelming to her senses. His hands slipped under her bowling shirt as she ripped open his shirt in one tug on the pearl snaps. She felt herself being pressed backwards onto the seat of the truck. She closed her eyes, swallowed her gum and wondered if she was going to have a rash from the sideburns.
The next day she was a bit hung over, moving slowly through her household chores. Bud got the promised roast beef dinner, after he delivered her car to the house with new battery installed Life assumed the usual routine until the next bowling night. She kissed Bud goodbye and left him with a plate of spaghetti as she headed out. Wished him a good Moose Lodge meeting.
As she sat chatting with Dan and Linda she spotted Wayne out of the corner of her eye. He had his arm around a brunette with her hair piled high in a loose bun on her head. A large woman with visible tattoos on her chest and a bull dog appearance, as if she had no facial expressions available other than a scowl. He did not meet Midge's eye. Midge thought to herself, "Maybe Bud would enjoy a nice roast chicken for dinner tomorrow night." And bowling began.
The phone began ringing that afternoon as Midge was rummaging through the pantry, trying to decide what to fix for dinner. It was Bud's Moose Lodge night, and she was looking forward to getting him fed and out the door to his lodge meeting, and settling herself in front of the Tv to watch American Idol. She picked up the phone absent mindedly while reading over a recipe on a can of mushroom soup, wondering if Bud would complain about tuna casserole. She snapped herself to attention as she heard her friend Linda tell her, "So, you gotta help us out here, Midge!" Midge began to make an excuse but Linda would have none of it. An hour later, Bud was grumbling about having a frozen Healthy Choice meal for dinner as Midge gathered her bowling gear and headed out the door. She stopped to give Bud a peck on the cheek, promising him a nice roast beef dinner for the next evening, which brightened his mood considerably. She reminded him not to wait up, as tonight's league bowling schedule was a double header, leading up to a tournament to be held on the weekend. Midge was the alternate team member for Wanda's Curlery, and was rarely called upon to fill in, but Wanda herself had broken an ankle slipping in water at her own beauty parlor and would be out the rest of the season.
Parking was tight at the Troutvale Lanes. The neon sign appeard to have a short, threatening a headache as she walked beneath it. The flashing letters boasted of Troutvale's "Premiere Bowling Alley." It was the only bowling alley in the small blue collar town of Troutvale, so it wasn't a stretch of the imagination to believe it was the "Premiere" bowling alley. A few team members were gathered inside discussing Wanda's injury and stopped to greet Midge with high fives. Linda thanked her for being willing to come on short notice. She stubbed out her cigarette and popped in a stick of gum, offering Midge a stick. Midge chewed slowly, glancing around to see who all was there. Linda's husband arrived, carrying a long neck bottle for Midge, Linda and himself. Linda said, "Pace yourself tonight Dan, it's gonna be a long one." Dan, never one to let a chance pass to make a dirty joke answered back, "Now baby, you know it's always a long one when I'm around." Dan laughed loudly at his own joke while Linda and Midge rolled their eyes. Midge complained to Linda that she had done her nails that day, wouldn't you just know it, and bowling would simply ruin the cuticle and chip the polish. As Linda admired Midge's handiwork a flash of black and red polyester caught the corner of her eye.
He stood leaning against the row of bowling lockers near the bowling station. His eyes took in all the commotion as teams discussed strategy, polished already gleaming bowling balls and finished lacing up bowling shoes. He was tall and lean. He wore the red and black colors of the Troutvale Bait Shop. She couldn't make out the name stitched in cursive over the pocket on his shirt, but she noticed that his bowling shirt was a custom job. It wasn't the usually blocky, sloppy cut that most bowling shirts sported. This shirt had a western flair to it, cut slim to show off broad shoulders and slim waist, with pearl snaps in place of cheap plastic buttons. He turned to place his bag into a cubby, and she noted that the back of the shirt had a western style yoke stitched in some kind of fancy stitching. The shirt was tucked into black Wranglers. Midge could not help but notice that the Wranglers showed off the rear view quite nicely. Linda jabbed her, saying, "He ain't bad for a red head, is he?" Dan knows him from down at the fertilizer plant. His name's Wayne. Wayne must have felt the stares, as he turned, making eye contact with Midge. He grinned, flashing a silver tooth, and running his hands over his already slicked back red hair. Something about his sideburns, old fashioned as they were made her feel a little swirly in the head. She dropped her gaze and turned to place her bowling ball on the ball return.
As the evening wore on Midge found herself glancing frequently at Wayne. She tried to control her urge to swing her hips as she moved from place to place. Her bowling suffered from her distraction. Her team tried to be supportive, making excuses for her, mostly about being called in at the last minute. She drank a few more beers than she usually did, feeling a bit tipsy and distracted. She couldn't tell if Wayne was staring at her when she wasn't looking. She only knew that his team was doing well and he seemed to be focused only on bowling. Finally, round one was over and they had a 15 minute break before teams were eliminated and round two began. Midge made a visit to the ladies room, and stopped at the mirror to touch up her makeup and comb her hair. Coming out of the bathroom into the hallway she stumbled a bit at the threshold. She felt a strong grip grab her arm to keep her steady. She looked up into the greenest eyes she had ever seen. Wayne. He grinned and held onto her arm a bit longer than was necessary as she stood staring, slack jawed. When he let go she felt herself blush, and busied herself straightening out her pink bowling shirt. Wayne asked her if she was all right, and she just nodded. He made a point of staring at the pocket where her name should have been embroidered, making it clear that he enjoyed the way she filled out the garishly bright garment. She stuttered a bit as she said, "I don't have a name on my shirt because I'm just a fill in. I'm Midge." He held out his hand for her to shake and told her, "Hi Midge, I'm Wayne." All she could say was, "I know."
Later, she could not remember the walk back to her team, or much about the second round of bowling. A few more beers, a couple of strikes and a spare, some fist bumps from team members, a loud swat on the rump from Dan which earned him a playful smack and scolding from Linda, and it was time to head home. It was just after 11 o'clock when she finished packing her ball and shoes and headed for her car. She was mildly concerned about driving, but figured she would just take it slow. She slipped behind the wheel and turned the key. Click. She tried again. Click, click, click. Nothing. She smacked the steering wheel, cursing Bud for his cheapness and his refusal to buy a new battery, insisting that it would last a little while longer. She started to open the door, hoping to catch a ride home with someone, thinking that Bud would just have to deal with the dead battery the next day. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Wayne approaching, which stopped her in her tracks. "Need a lift, ma'am?" Her mouth went dry. She could only nod.
She slipped into his truck on the passenger side, pressing herself as close to the passenger door as possible. She did not understand why she felt so nervous. Nothing wrong accepting a ride home from a fellow bowler, after all. The truck was a work of art. 1956 Chevy, completely refurbished. Loud. Wayne grabbed gears, working the clutch effortlessly and they flew out of the parking lot. Midge felt a little dizzy. He didn't ask her where she lived. No words were spoken as he headed out of town and pulled off onto a little dirt road overlooking the river. She was taken by surprise when he reached out an arm and pulled her by her belt towards him on the slick leather seat. She felt his lips on her neck and the hard knob of the gearshift pressed against her thigh. The scent of sweat, beer and Aqua Velva was overwhelming to her senses. His hands slipped under her bowling shirt as she ripped open his shirt in one tug on the pearl snaps. She felt herself being pressed backwards onto the seat of the truck. She closed her eyes, swallowed her gum and wondered if she was going to have a rash from the sideburns.
The next day she was a bit hung over, moving slowly through her household chores. Bud got the promised roast beef dinner, after he delivered her car to the house with new battery installed Life assumed the usual routine until the next bowling night. She kissed Bud goodbye and left him with a plate of spaghetti as she headed out. Wished him a good Moose Lodge meeting.
As she sat chatting with Dan and Linda she spotted Wayne out of the corner of her eye. He had his arm around a brunette with her hair piled high in a loose bun on her head. A large woman with visible tattoos on her chest and a bull dog appearance, as if she had no facial expressions available other than a scowl. He did not meet Midge's eye. Midge thought to herself, "Maybe Bud would enjoy a nice roast chicken for dinner tomorrow night." And bowling began.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Rum Laced Fruitcake
Fruitcake is usually a holiday joke about doorstops or regifting the same cake for years to poor unsuspecting, and obviously not very popular, family members. My dad happens to be someone who really enjoys a good fruitcake. He asked me to bake one for him as his Christmas present. This was in the mid '90's, when my children were small and I worked full time in the Nutrition Services department of a small hospital. I was trying to juggle my work, taking care of the family and creating wonderful Christmas memories for the children. I agreed to take on the fruitcake task but wondered when I would find the time to do it.
Dad had thoughtfully provided money to buy all of the expensive fruits, nuts and real butter that the cake would require, and had stopped at the liquor store for the Captain Morgan's Rum that he wanted to be used for the fruitcake. I decided to just plunge into the cake one evening after picking up the children from daycare. I settled the children in at home with a snack and Christmas movie and went to work in the kitchen.
After gathering all of the ingredients I began chopping the nuts by hand. Brazil nuts, Hazelnuts, Almonds and Pecans. I was feeling a little pressure by then, and I still had all of the fruits to chop. My eye landed on the innocent bottle of rum just standing there, unopened. I thought for a moment, then went ahead and got out a small glass. I chuckled when I noticed the glass in my hand was a Happy Meal souvenir, part of the Thumbelina collection. I poured a small amount of run in the glass and tossed it back. I felt the warmth immediately and poured just a touch more rum into the glass. I let this slide down my throat, with a small pleasurable shudder. The fruitcake recipe looked a little less intimidating already. I began chopping the dried fruit, apricots, dates, and halved the large amount of colorful red and green cherries. The children's movie was finished and they began to whine about being bored. Going to play outside was out of the question as it was a typical rainy Oregon day, so I told them they could go see if any of their friends wanted to come play. I was in a very generous mood, and my daughter asked me why my cheeks were red. I told her it was from being in the warm kitchen and shooed her out to door to fetch a friend for her and her brother to play with. I raised the Thumbelina glass to my lips and went back to work.
I stood back and surveyed the fruits and nuts of my labor, all lined up in neatly measured bowls. Good work. I toasted my good work with a little rum. I decided that fruitcake baking would be part of my new annual holiday tradition. It was time to begin mixing. The kids were having a great time playing with friends, and I decided not to worry about them dragging all of their toys out at one time. I set to work measuring the sugar, spilling just a little, but decided I could clean it up later when I cleaned the whole kitchen. I measured out the rum that was needed for the cake and noted that the bottle must not have had as much in it as advertised. I had enough to stir into the batter but not enough left to soak the cake in. I would have to make a trip to the liquor store while the cake was in the oven. There was a few ounces left in the bottle, however, and I went ahead and polished them off. The Thumbelina glass was nowhere in sight so I just tipped up the bottle. Now for the flour. Flour tends to be messy as you measure it, but I didn't even blink at the cup or two that landed on the floor instead of the measuring cup.
One by one the dry ingredients were sifted into my huge mixing bowl. Then came the molasses and rum, and finally the carefully chopped fruits and nuts. I began to break a sweat as I mixed, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed four children sliding through the kitchen behind me in their stocking feet. "What fun!" I thought. It made me a little dizzy to watch them so I concentrated on the batter. I began to sweat profusely. Finally, the batter was ready. I turned to retrieve my carefully greased and parchment lined pans. A small child wizzed by me, nearly upending me. I had to grab onto the counter to keep from falling, as the flour spilled on the floor, combined with the dizziness from the hard mixing work made me a little unsteady on my feet. I noticed my daughter quietly dumping a bit more flour onto the floor to make it slicker and thought, "What fun!" I told her to go ahead and empty the bag because I was done with it. It reminded me of a story about my uncle buttering the kitchen floor as a child so he could slide farther, so I measured out a few dollops of butter for the kids to slide on. I do remember her eyes getting huge with disbelief, although some of the other details remain a bit fuzzy.
I measured the batter carefully and placed the cakes into the oven. The digital controls on the oven seemed a bit blurry so I double and triple checked them to make sure they were correct. I made a mental note to call an appliance repairman if I needed to. I set the timer and wobbled over to the table to sit and rest before cleanup. My head began to ache just a little, I'm sure it was from the noisy children practicing Ice Capades on the flour covered kitchen floor. I told the visiting children that it was time to go home, knowing I would be getting a phone call about them being covered in flour and having buttered socks. I phoned in a pizza order for dinner and fetched the broom and dustpan. My head was throbbing and the smell of the baking fruitcake was a bit nauseating. I told myself it was stress. Holiday stress.
By the time my husband arrived home the flour was swept up, floor mopped with very hot water, and barely slick, bowls and counter tops were washed, children were bathed, in clean pajamas and pizza was ready for pick up. I dispatched him for the pizza, and to the liquor store for more rum. He was a bit puzzled about the rum part, because he had thought my dad was going to supply it. "He forgot," I told him as I pushed him out the door. The fruitcakes were just coming out of the oven when he returned again, just in time to brush the warm cakes with a nice glaze of rum. I discarded the remaining rum down the drain, while talking on the phone to the neighbor, explaining how the kids had gotten into my baking ingredients without permission and made a mess.
Dad loved the fruitcakes and to this day I can't replicate the exact recipe, due to modifications that I had made along the way. My sister received a small fruitcake that year in her package of mailed goodies. She called me and asked, "Fruitcake? Is this a joke?" I said, "You have NO idea."
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Hank and Robert Strike Gold
This story takes place a few years, quite a few pounds and lots of gray hairs ago, around the time I was 36, and newly divorced. My best friend Liz and I decided to go check out the famed Karaoke night at Rocky's one chilly fall Saturday. As we pushed open the door into the haze of smoke we heard a woman dramatically flatten a note of "Crazy" by Patsy Cline. We grimaced as we made our way through the tables, noticing that the crowd that evening was a bit on the elderly side except for the 20-something group of guys watching college football on the corner TV. There were a few couples around our age; husbands sitting with wives who tightened their grips on their man's arms as we passed by on our way to an empty booth. Liz took off her jacket and leaned across the table to whisper to me, while glancing around quickly, that there appeared to be no single men near our age in the building that evening. We shrugged, discussed what we would order to drink, and I wondered how much I would have to drink to get up the courage to sing Karaoke. There was one bartender on duty that night, and he was also the table hopper. He stopped by our table after delivering a round of beer bottles to the table behind us and asked what we would like. We both ordered bottled beer and he headed to the bar to fetch them. As he placed them on the table he waved away our money, telling us that a couple of "gents" at the bar had paid for our beer. We both glanced over to the bar, then looked at each other with horror and I whispered between clenched teeth, "Don't make eye contact!"
Too late. One of the "gents" pushed off from the bar and made his way over. He looked to be in his mid fifties, tall and slender except for the prominent belly all but hiding his silver belt buckle. Despite the black cowboy hat on his head, the belt buckle wasn't won at any rodeo, instead it sported the logo Winston. Winston, as in, get this buckle free with the purchase of X cartons of Winston cigarettes. As he approached, Liz and I slid to the very edge of our seats, preventing anyone from sliding in next to us without invitation. This didn't appear to phase our suitor one little bit. He doffed his hat, exposing a sweaty few strands of gray hair combed sideways to camouflage a bald head. He introduced himself as Hank. He pointed to the bar and said, "That there's Robert. Robert bet me a twenty that I wouldn't have the guts to come over here and talk to you. I paid for them beers with my winnings." He grinned broadly, quickly clapped his mouth shut to adjust the poorly fitting dentures he sported, then grinned again. He scooted a little closer to Liz, and it was clear that she was his intended target. I glanced at her to guage how she wanted to handle the rejection of Hank but was shocked to see that she was smiling at Hank with her head tipped just a bit sideways. I knew what was happening and was helpless to stop it. Liz was unable to stop herself from flirting. She's the most accomplished flirt I know, and sometimes she's powerless to turn it off. Hank looked like a man who'd just won the lottery. He gestured to Robert to come over, as he slid in next to Liz. He had to push her a little, because I could see it was dawning on her how our evening was going to go from then on. Hank turned to check on Robert's arrival and gestured again more emphatically this time, as Robert just stood there at the bar, slack jawed.
I listened as an older gentleman rendered a very rich version of "Behind Closed Doors" at the Karoake mike. As I turned to watch the gentleman sing my view was blocked by a blue and black striped shirt with pearl buttons, still stiff from the hanger at the western wear section of Walmart. Robert. He stood, still slack jawed, staring at me from the end of the table. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and he grinned. Obviously, dental care was not a priority in Robert's life, as his grin looked a bit like a Jack-O-Lantern, with all the missing teeth. I looked away, and Robert returned to his steady slack jawed stare. Liz and Hank took a turn on the dance floor, leaving me and Robert alone at the table. I refused to slide over, and not one word was said. He stood there with his beer bottle in hand, staring. I studied the label of my beer bottle as if my life depended on it. Hank and Liz returned, Karoake book in hand. It seems that a duet was planned, something from Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn, Or Dottie West and Kenny Rogers. While Liz pored over the titles Hank filled me in on Robert's tale of marital woe and how this evening was planned to "cheer the poor guy up." Robert was separated from his wife, had been kicked out of the trailer, and served with child support papers. Robert had four kids under the age of five to support, work at the mill was slow, and his truck needed a transmission. I was waiting to hear about the hound dog dying, but Hank droned on instead about Robert's no good cheatin' fat slob of a wife. Robert nodded now and then, but said nothing. He kept his gaze fixed on me, unblinking. I still refused to slide over, but it didn't appear to bother any of the other three. As Hank spoke it became clear that his deodorant, if there had been any, had given up the battle. I gave Liz a little kick under the table to get her attention and our glances met. Hank excused himself to go visit the "Little Cowboy's Room," and as soon as he disappeared through the door we sprang into action. I glanced at my watch, exclaimed loudly, "Look at the time, my babysitter will be frantic!" Grabbing my coat I pushed past the stunned Robert and caught up with Liz who was already nearly out the door. As we pulled out of the parking lot we laughed and decided it would be a long while before we returned to Rocky's for Karaoke Night. We decided to call it quits for the evening, and I drove her home. It was around 10 pm, after all! Before I went to bed that night I checked my email. There was an email from Liz with the title in big bold type: HANK AND ROBERT STRIKE GOLD. It gave me the inspiration for this little tale.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Just sittin' on the porch.
Sittin' on the porch brings to mind a summer's evening and lemonade, a cool breeze and the smell of freshly cut grass. For most people. For myself, it brings back the memory of stinging buns. My second experience of the stinging bun sort, brought on by porch sitting was when I was around six years old. It was a nice hot summer day, we lived on a beautiful lake surrounded by mountains, and the summer people (as my parents called them, because we lived there all year round) were vacationing in the neighboring lake houses. I had made friends with a couple girls my own age who's parents owned a cabin just a couple houses away. They had the best dock to swim from and a nice sandy swimming area. Not like the muck and sea-weedy area right off of our dock. We were getting ready to go to town. The big town of Libby, eighteen miles away. It meant that shopping and maybe dinner at one of the two cafe's in town was in store for us, and it was a big deal. I was all cleaned up and told to sit on the porch and wait, and stay clean, while my parents got ready. I could see the neighbor girls floating on inner tubes, splashing and having a great time. They called me over. I shook my head. They insisted so I thought, "what's the harm?" As I stood on the dock feeling jealous my friend Penny, also six, said that if I was really careful I could slide onto her innertube without getting wet, and have a little fun. I did have fun, although the part about staying clean and dry didn't quite work out. The stinging buns comes from the application of a wooden spoon applied to a soaking wet bottom.
You'd think I would have learned this lesson at age five, before we moved to the lake. My aunt was visiting from Oregon and had sewn me a beautiful white lacy dress. She was left in charge of me while my mom went grocery shopping, and wanted to dress me up as a surprise while she was gone. She put me into the itchy lacy dress, new white ruffled socks, black Mary Jane shoes, and a red ribbon in my hair. She told me to sit on the front step and wait for my mom. There was no lake at that apartment complex, but there was a really huge dirt pile from some construction. Kids were climbing up and sliding down. What could be the harm of a few turns sliding down the hill? You've got it, stinging buns, but not from sliding down the dirt hill.
I had learned my lesson. If I was told to sit on the porch and wait I would not move. No way. Not when mom had sewn matching outfits for me and my two year old sister. I was eight, and I knew better than to move off of that porch. Not even to fetch my sister from the newly oiled and gravelled road. Not even to prevent her from sitting in the middle of the tar and gravel while she made a tar and gravel castle. Not even when she rubbed tar into her hair and all over her new outfit.
I still think it's unfair that I was the one that had stingin' buns after that one!
You'd think I would have learned this lesson at age five, before we moved to the lake. My aunt was visiting from Oregon and had sewn me a beautiful white lacy dress. She was left in charge of me while my mom went grocery shopping, and wanted to dress me up as a surprise while she was gone. She put me into the itchy lacy dress, new white ruffled socks, black Mary Jane shoes, and a red ribbon in my hair. She told me to sit on the front step and wait for my mom. There was no lake at that apartment complex, but there was a really huge dirt pile from some construction. Kids were climbing up and sliding down. What could be the harm of a few turns sliding down the hill? You've got it, stinging buns, but not from sliding down the dirt hill.
I had learned my lesson. If I was told to sit on the porch and wait I would not move. No way. Not when mom had sewn matching outfits for me and my two year old sister. I was eight, and I knew better than to move off of that porch. Not even to fetch my sister from the newly oiled and gravelled road. Not even to prevent her from sitting in the middle of the tar and gravel while she made a tar and gravel castle. Not even when she rubbed tar into her hair and all over her new outfit.
I still think it's unfair that I was the one that had stingin' buns after that one!
Opp, Alabama
Mike was passed by a semi today from Opp, Alabama, while we were on the phone together. He wondered out loud whether this was the name of a town or if part of the paint had rubbed off from the town's name....So I googled it. It's the real name of a town. I wonder if the town founders were unable to spell Opportunity, or if it stands for something. Old Pea Pickers? I'll have to research more.
Grave Robbers
I had the great fortune to live right on a lake near a small town in Northwest Montana called Troy, from the time I was around four years old, until I was around eight years old. When I was eight we moved to a big city eighteen miles away that actually had a stoplight but that's a whole different adventure to write about. My parents purchased a home that was actually a summer home, on a small lake tucked into the mountains named Savage Lake. We had the open floor plan before it was cool. Actually, the home was just one very large room, there were no bedrooms. We had an actual plumbed bathroom, but you had to step outside the door into the carport to access it, as it had been attached after the original cabin had been built. It was a cold few steps to the bathroom during the middle of winter, that's for sure. Eventually my parents enclosed the covered porch near the front of the cabin, overlooking the lake, which created a master bedroom for them. Their contractor of choice was a boozy neighbor named Elmer, who had quite an interesting family that should be the subject of another post.
As you can imagine, living on a lake was a terrific place to grow up. We had swimming and boating in the summer, ice skating, ice fishing and snow mobiling on the frozen lake in the winter. My mom spent many an hour shoveling snow on the lake to create a place for me to skate. I have many memories of summer BBQ's, and get togethers. I remember the little known betting sport of turtle racing, wherein hapless turtles were snatched from their logs, had numbers painted on their shells, and were placed fifty yards or so from the water while tipsy adults placed bets on which turtle would reach the water first. Not exactly a high speed event, you could use the bathroom and fetch a snack while your turtle was racing, and not miss much of the action.
For my sixth birthday I received the gift that I wanted the most. A bike. Not just any bike, mind you. It was a purple banana seat bike with a basket. Not just a basic utilitarian metal basket, either. This basket was white wicker, with colorful painted flowers on it. I was in heaven. Unfortunately, however, the only level place to ride my bike was out on the highway. Our property sloped down steeply from the highway, straight down to the lake. Being the early 70's, though, out to the highway I went, and of course bike helemts were unheard of at that time, and nobody worried about child abductions, so I was turned loose. Other than some vague warnings about wandering into the woods where there may be a "hermit," I was pretty much free to roam, although I worried alot about hermits and wondered if I would recognize one if I saw one.
Directly across the highway from our house was another small lake named Milner Lake. On one side of the lake there was a beautiful little cemetary nestled into the trees. I liked to ride my bike to the cemetary and read the headstones, and wonder about the lives of the folks buried there. Even at six years old I was truly saddened at the couple of baby graves that were tucked amongst the others.
One day I noticed a pile of dead flowers and assorted vases that was placed off to the side of the graveyard. There had been a cemetary clean-up day and these were the discards that were waiting to be disposed of. I picked out a pretty glass vase, popped it into my white wicker basket with colorful flowers painted on it, and pedalled home. Mom was thrilled with the vase. This was the start of my brief career as a grave robber.
A few days later we were visited by my grandma and my uncle, who is two years older that me. He brought his bike so we could ride on the highway together. Grandma had admired my mom's new vase, and asked if there were any more like it on the discard pile at the cemetary. Off we pedalled. We discovered that the discard pile had been removed and were afraid to go home empty handed. We scratched our heads a little, wondering what to do, when my uncle pointed out that there were many new vases and fresh flowers on the graves. Yep. Yes, we did. Mom and Grandma were thrilled with our haul. Not just one vase, but several were tucked into our bike baskets, complete with nice fresh fake flowers.
At the time, I felt most guilty about telling the fib about these lovely items being on the discard pile, the concept of disrespecting the dead and the families of the dead didn't enter my six year old mind at the time. Years later, of course, I had to wonder about Mom and Grandma. Did they really think that all those fresh fake flowers and lovely new vases had been tossed out? Interestingly enough, my uncle and I still remember this, Grandma has passed on and my mom remembers NOTHING. Hmmm.
When I update my resume these days, I prefer not to disclose my brief career as a grave robber.
As you can imagine, living on a lake was a terrific place to grow up. We had swimming and boating in the summer, ice skating, ice fishing and snow mobiling on the frozen lake in the winter. My mom spent many an hour shoveling snow on the lake to create a place for me to skate. I have many memories of summer BBQ's, and get togethers. I remember the little known betting sport of turtle racing, wherein hapless turtles were snatched from their logs, had numbers painted on their shells, and were placed fifty yards or so from the water while tipsy adults placed bets on which turtle would reach the water first. Not exactly a high speed event, you could use the bathroom and fetch a snack while your turtle was racing, and not miss much of the action.
For my sixth birthday I received the gift that I wanted the most. A bike. Not just any bike, mind you. It was a purple banana seat bike with a basket. Not just a basic utilitarian metal basket, either. This basket was white wicker, with colorful painted flowers on it. I was in heaven. Unfortunately, however, the only level place to ride my bike was out on the highway. Our property sloped down steeply from the highway, straight down to the lake. Being the early 70's, though, out to the highway I went, and of course bike helemts were unheard of at that time, and nobody worried about child abductions, so I was turned loose. Other than some vague warnings about wandering into the woods where there may be a "hermit," I was pretty much free to roam, although I worried alot about hermits and wondered if I would recognize one if I saw one.
Directly across the highway from our house was another small lake named Milner Lake. On one side of the lake there was a beautiful little cemetary nestled into the trees. I liked to ride my bike to the cemetary and read the headstones, and wonder about the lives of the folks buried there. Even at six years old I was truly saddened at the couple of baby graves that were tucked amongst the others.
One day I noticed a pile of dead flowers and assorted vases that was placed off to the side of the graveyard. There had been a cemetary clean-up day and these were the discards that were waiting to be disposed of. I picked out a pretty glass vase, popped it into my white wicker basket with colorful flowers painted on it, and pedalled home. Mom was thrilled with the vase. This was the start of my brief career as a grave robber.
A few days later we were visited by my grandma and my uncle, who is two years older that me. He brought his bike so we could ride on the highway together. Grandma had admired my mom's new vase, and asked if there were any more like it on the discard pile at the cemetary. Off we pedalled. We discovered that the discard pile had been removed and were afraid to go home empty handed. We scratched our heads a little, wondering what to do, when my uncle pointed out that there were many new vases and fresh flowers on the graves. Yep. Yes, we did. Mom and Grandma were thrilled with our haul. Not just one vase, but several were tucked into our bike baskets, complete with nice fresh fake flowers.
At the time, I felt most guilty about telling the fib about these lovely items being on the discard pile, the concept of disrespecting the dead and the families of the dead didn't enter my six year old mind at the time. Years later, of course, I had to wonder about Mom and Grandma. Did they really think that all those fresh fake flowers and lovely new vases had been tossed out? Interestingly enough, my uncle and I still remember this, Grandma has passed on and my mom remembers NOTHING. Hmmm.
When I update my resume these days, I prefer not to disclose my brief career as a grave robber.
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