Jake and Jenny Newland let Eleanor & Franklin, their potbellied pigs, push open the door to “The Buddy Mutts Café,” where you have to be escorted by a dog or the brothers Jim won’t serve you, so that Jake could have his hands available to use his walker and Jenny would have her mouth available to instruct him in proper technique. The brothers Jim [they are not brothers to each other, but they are both named Jim, and they are brothers to somebody] think that Franklin & Eleanor are a special breed of dog.
“It smells like a stable in here,” sniffed Jenny. “Looks like one, too,” observed Jake.
Indeed it did. There was a miniature pony, and a fainting goat, and two black sheep, and three blind mice, and a fatted calf.
“Oh, excrement,” exclaimed Jenny. “I forgot. On Christmas eve the brothers Jim expand their definition of ‘dog.’ Now we’ll never get Eleanor & Franklin to go home. They’ll get full of eggnog and start to dance with those sheep, and that dumb goat will faint, and…”
“Do you mind? We’re in sort of a hurry,” came a voice from behind them.
“Oh, more excrement,” whispered Jenny as she pushed Jake on in through the door and off to a side table where Randall and Claire Nathan sat, along with Kate Bates and her husband, Ben “Seymour” Bottoms. “It’s those three King brothers from over in Orientar, over in the eastern part of the county, Baltimore and Mel and the one they call ‘Gassy.’”
“That last one should fit in real well here tonight,” said Shirley Knott from the next table, where she sat with Kay Pasa and Ann Hydrous.
“Did you bring them?” yelled Jim when he saw the three King brothers.
“Got ‘em right here,” called Gassy as he held up an Airwick. “Golden slippers,” called Mel. “Persimmon sap,” called Baltimore.
“Good grief,” said Claire. “What are the brothers Jim cooking for supper?”
“Not to worry,” said Kate, who is a sibling to a brother Jim and so has inside knowledge. “They’re door prizes.” “But who would want…” started Claire, but the door banged open and a rather harried looking man broke in.
“Are we too late to get counted?” he shouted.
“Almost,” yelled Jim. “What took you so long?”
“Came here in a Kia. Good grief, it was like riding on a donkey.”
“Counted for what?” asked Randall.
“Tickets for the door prizes,” said Kate. “They divide the room up into states, according to how people look, like ‘the state of disrepair,’ and ‘the state of dishevelment,’ and…”
“We get it, we get it,” grumbled Randall. “They’ll classify you in the ‘state of dismay,’” laughed Claire.
“Each state gets more chances at the door prizes, according to how many people are counted in it,” said Seymour. “It’s kind of like a census.”
Just then a woman appeared behind the man at the door. She was pregnant as a watermelon.
“Holy excrement,” gasped Jenny. “I’ll bet next they’re going to say they’ve got no place so spend the night.”
“And this place is like a stable tonight,” exclaimed Claire.
“And we’ll all get snowed in and have to stay here, and the baby will be born, and they’ll give it all the door prizes the King brothers brought,” said Jake. “I KNOW this story.”
“Get hold of yourselves,” said Randall. “This is Periwinkle County. Nothing is going to happen here.”
And he was right. Nothing happened. At least nothing was heard from Periwinkle County until after the new year had dawned. So if the chronicles of the county were suspended for a week, surely nothing happened… or did it…
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
A Teacher's Influence
Senator Chuck Weedley is back in Periwinkle County from the nation’s capital, having joined forces with those who think it would be disrespectful to merchants.. uh… to Christians, to work during the week before Christmas, or during the week after, or most other times, this being a Christian nation, after all, so for elected officials to work at any time might be disrespectful to Christians.
He held a town meeting at “Eloise’s Crock Pot and Persimmon Pudding Emporium.” Shirley Knott, his fifth-grade teacher was in attendance.
“You still making people sneeze, Weedley?” asked his one-time teacher.
She was referring, of course, to the infamous time Chuck had thrown sneezing powder all through the fifth-grade class as it stood on the risers in the gym, trying to sing “Silent Night” as part of the Christmas concert, but the sneezing made it sound more like “The Anvil Chorus.”
“Ah, folks, my old teacher is here, God bless her. You must never underestimate the influence of a teacher. She once said to me, ‘Chuck, you’re so full of it, you might as well be a politician.’ It was the first time I realized that I was full of charm and ability, and thus she set me onto my destiny.”
“You’d think a teacher would know to be more specific in her language,” grumbled Randall Nathan.
“Some people will always hear what they want to,” replied his wife, Claire, a former teacher herself.
Everyone in the place glared at poor Shirley Knott.
He held a town meeting at “Eloise’s Crock Pot and Persimmon Pudding Emporium.” Shirley Knott, his fifth-grade teacher was in attendance.
“You still making people sneeze, Weedley?” asked his one-time teacher.
She was referring, of course, to the infamous time Chuck had thrown sneezing powder all through the fifth-grade class as it stood on the risers in the gym, trying to sing “Silent Night” as part of the Christmas concert, but the sneezing made it sound more like “The Anvil Chorus.”
“Ah, folks, my old teacher is here, God bless her. You must never underestimate the influence of a teacher. She once said to me, ‘Chuck, you’re so full of it, you might as well be a politician.’ It was the first time I realized that I was full of charm and ability, and thus she set me onto my destiny.”
“You’d think a teacher would know to be more specific in her language,” grumbled Randall Nathan.
“Some people will always hear what they want to,” replied his wife, Claire, a former teacher herself.
Everyone in the place glared at poor Shirley Knott.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Hope for the Hopeless
It’s Holiday Tournament time at Hope’s Promise University, over in Crimson County, 30 miles from Memphjus, the seat of Periwinkle County. They call it the “Hope for the Hopeless” tourney, since HPU brings in men’s and women’s teams from colleges around the country that have no hope of winning anything but a big check for providing practice for “The Fighting Optimists,” which is a temporary name for the HPU teams, because they have not decided what to call them yet since the university changed its name from Cratchit State U, which fielded and floored “The Tiny Tims,” a name which caused all sorts of rude anti-cheers from fans from other schools.
The team everyone is looking forward to seeing is from South Carolina C&S, or the official name of South Carolina Cottonpickin’ and Sharecroppin’, an historically African-American college. It is located in Itty-Bitty, SC. Like HPU, SCCS has changed the name of its sports teams this year, to “The Fighting Slaves.”
It was meant as a protest of South Carolina racist politics and politicians, but it backfired. Sen. Jim DeMented is a big supporter, as is The Society for Preservation of Southern Culture, and The Sons of the Rebel Flag, and the “White Christmas” party. “It’s refreshing to see college students who know their place…. Uh, that is, their place in history,” said Sen. DeMented, who put an earmark onto the funding for “soldiers in Afghanistan” bill that will pay for new black uniforms with “Fighting Slaves” on them, in place of funding for scholarships at SCCS for this year.
It’s going to be a great game when The Fighting Slaves take the floor against The Fighting Abolitionists of John Brown College. The Fighting Abolitionists convinced HPU and all the other teams in the tourney to donate their shares to SCCS to replace the missing scholarship money. But that’s what Christmas tournaments are all about.
The team everyone is looking forward to seeing is from South Carolina C&S, or the official name of South Carolina Cottonpickin’ and Sharecroppin’, an historically African-American college. It is located in Itty-Bitty, SC. Like HPU, SCCS has changed the name of its sports teams this year, to “The Fighting Slaves.”
It was meant as a protest of South Carolina racist politics and politicians, but it backfired. Sen. Jim DeMented is a big supporter, as is The Society for Preservation of Southern Culture, and The Sons of the Rebel Flag, and the “White Christmas” party. “It’s refreshing to see college students who know their place…. Uh, that is, their place in history,” said Sen. DeMented, who put an earmark onto the funding for “soldiers in Afghanistan” bill that will pay for new black uniforms with “Fighting Slaves” on them, in place of funding for scholarships at SCCS for this year.
It’s going to be a great game when The Fighting Slaves take the floor against The Fighting Abolitionists of John Brown College. The Fighting Abolitionists convinced HPU and all the other teams in the tourney to donate their shares to SCCS to replace the missing scholarship money. But that’s what Christmas tournaments are all about.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Everybody Wants a Christmas Miracle
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County: EVERTBODY WANTS A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE
Most people shop for clothes or toys before Christmas. Marcella Corella bought a new car.
She took her father, Jubillo Corella, with her and went to Herschel Feinberg’s “Cars The Way They Ought to Be Emporium.” Herschel has been stockpiling out-of-print cars for years—Studebaker, Packard, Nash, Desoto, Hudson—cars that were built the right way, meaning they were built long ago, since anything manufactured a long time ago, according to old people, which Herschel is, is better than anything manufactured more recently. Reluctantly and sorrowfully, he has now begun to store new Mercurys, Pontiacs, Oldsmobiles, and Plymouths. He has lots of brand new old cars for sale.
Since she was 2 years old, which was 48 years ago, Marcella has wanted a Hudson but felt it was too much car for her, so she settled for Hondas, since they also start with “H,” and with gasoline. Since she hit 50, though, [years, not mph; she hits 50 mph before she’s out of the driveway] she has decided she needs a grown-up car. She really wanted that Hudson, the same type her grandmother used to drive in stock-car races when she was a teen, but her father favored a Plymouth, since Herschel won’t sell you a car unless you can justify your choice historically.
“I know it’s not quite as grown-up,” he said, “but think of the historical implications. Think of Plymouth Rock.”
“Yes,” she countered, “but think of Hudson Bay and the importance of the fur trade.”
Herschel was satisfied with her historical justification and sold her the Hudson, a sparkling green Hornet. What with Herschel calling in all the mechanics to help him decide whether the settling of Plymouth Rock or the Hudson Bay fur trade had been more important to the development of American literature, especially when Yogi “Bear” Ypsilanti, the new Mercury mechanic, stuck the necessity of Desoto’s discoveries into the discussion, since he’s irritated because he always has to argue the issue of the planet Mercury v. the fluid mercury, the transaction took four hours. All this time, Marcella’s mother, Florella, and her friend, Antonina Giuliani, and her other friend, Rudolpho Randino, were waiting anxiously to see what car she came back with, so they would know which Christmas decorations to use, since Christmas decs and car colors need to complement each other, or possibly compliment each other, according to Florella.
Marcella had driven half-way into the garage when her mother waved her down.
“Stop!” she cried. “We have to see this color in sunlight to determine whether it’s really green, if we can honestly call it The Green Hornet, and if we should use the dried or stewed persimmon balls on the tree.”
So Marcella stopped the car where it was and got out to help Florella and Antonina and Rudolpho admire it. Just then Mrs. Ipsophacto from next door came out. She had not seen Marcella for a long time and held out her arms for a hug. Marcella ran to her, forgetting that the garage door opener was in her pocket. As they hugged, the opener got compressed between them, and the big heavy garage door began to come down on Marcella’s brand new old car.
“Stop it!” cried Rudolpho. “Stop the garage door!”
He ran to it and tried to push it back up but it kept descending.
“It doesn’t have one of those automatic stoppers,” screamed Marcella.
“Jump into it and back it out further,” shouted Jubillo, Marcella’s father.
“I can’t,” said Marcella, who is an English teacher. “If it’s distance, the word is ‘farther,’ so it would be wrong to back it out ‘further.’”
“Help Rudolpho push the door up,” yelled Antonina.
“I can’t,” said Mrs. Ipsophacto. “I hate his mother. She once insulted my baked persimmon brie.”
But suddenly the door stopped dead.
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” shouted Florella.
“It’s a sign from God,” said Jubillo. “She prefers Hudsons over Plymouths after all.”
“I don’t think the smashed chipmunk in the track thinks it’s a miracle or a sign from God, either one,” observed Antonina.
[“Christ in Winter,” reflections on faith for people in the winter of their years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
Most people shop for clothes or toys before Christmas. Marcella Corella bought a new car.
She took her father, Jubillo Corella, with her and went to Herschel Feinberg’s “Cars The Way They Ought to Be Emporium.” Herschel has been stockpiling out-of-print cars for years—Studebaker, Packard, Nash, Desoto, Hudson—cars that were built the right way, meaning they were built long ago, since anything manufactured a long time ago, according to old people, which Herschel is, is better than anything manufactured more recently. Reluctantly and sorrowfully, he has now begun to store new Mercurys, Pontiacs, Oldsmobiles, and Plymouths. He has lots of brand new old cars for sale.
Since she was 2 years old, which was 48 years ago, Marcella has wanted a Hudson but felt it was too much car for her, so she settled for Hondas, since they also start with “H,” and with gasoline. Since she hit 50, though, [years, not mph; she hits 50 mph before she’s out of the driveway] she has decided she needs a grown-up car. She really wanted that Hudson, the same type her grandmother used to drive in stock-car races when she was a teen, but her father favored a Plymouth, since Herschel won’t sell you a car unless you can justify your choice historically.
“I know it’s not quite as grown-up,” he said, “but think of the historical implications. Think of Plymouth Rock.”
“Yes,” she countered, “but think of Hudson Bay and the importance of the fur trade.”
Herschel was satisfied with her historical justification and sold her the Hudson, a sparkling green Hornet. What with Herschel calling in all the mechanics to help him decide whether the settling of Plymouth Rock or the Hudson Bay fur trade had been more important to the development of American literature, especially when Yogi “Bear” Ypsilanti, the new Mercury mechanic, stuck the necessity of Desoto’s discoveries into the discussion, since he’s irritated because he always has to argue the issue of the planet Mercury v. the fluid mercury, the transaction took four hours. All this time, Marcella’s mother, Florella, and her friend, Antonina Giuliani, and her other friend, Rudolpho Randino, were waiting anxiously to see what car she came back with, so they would know which Christmas decorations to use, since Christmas decs and car colors need to complement each other, or possibly compliment each other, according to Florella.
Marcella had driven half-way into the garage when her mother waved her down.
“Stop!” she cried. “We have to see this color in sunlight to determine whether it’s really green, if we can honestly call it The Green Hornet, and if we should use the dried or stewed persimmon balls on the tree.”
So Marcella stopped the car where it was and got out to help Florella and Antonina and Rudolpho admire it. Just then Mrs. Ipsophacto from next door came out. She had not seen Marcella for a long time and held out her arms for a hug. Marcella ran to her, forgetting that the garage door opener was in her pocket. As they hugged, the opener got compressed between them, and the big heavy garage door began to come down on Marcella’s brand new old car.
“Stop it!” cried Rudolpho. “Stop the garage door!”
He ran to it and tried to push it back up but it kept descending.
“It doesn’t have one of those automatic stoppers,” screamed Marcella.
“Jump into it and back it out further,” shouted Jubillo, Marcella’s father.
“I can’t,” said Marcella, who is an English teacher. “If it’s distance, the word is ‘farther,’ so it would be wrong to back it out ‘further.’”
“Help Rudolpho push the door up,” yelled Antonina.
“I can’t,” said Mrs. Ipsophacto. “I hate his mother. She once insulted my baked persimmon brie.”
But suddenly the door stopped dead.
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” shouted Florella.
“It’s a sign from God,” said Jubillo. “She prefers Hudsons over Plymouths after all.”
“I don’t think the smashed chipmunk in the track thinks it’s a miracle or a sign from God, either one,” observed Antonina.
[“Christ in Winter,” reflections on faith for people in the winter of their years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Hark, the Harold Angels Sing
Prof. Ben “Seymour” Bottoms has been taking a lot of grief since Monday night’s Christmas concert by the “Hell’s Angles Motorcycle Gang & Geometry Club and Tennis Elbows & Ampersands Combined Male Choir.”
Ben was in charge of printing the programs, since he is the only member of the choir who knows how to use a computer. There was a little misprint in the program. The finale was “Hark, the Harold Angels Sing.”
Of course, all the Hell’s Angles and Tennis Elbows have hooted about it all week. “A college perfessor, and he can’t even spell Herald right.” “We’ll have to be the Harold Angles from now on.” “Hey, my name’s Herschel. How come we don’t sing Hark, the Herschel Angels Sing.” “Well, my name’s Homer, so it ought to be Hark the Homer Angels Sing.” You get the idea.
It’s more complicated than that, though. Ben’s granddaughter, Clara Wembley, is only three, but very advanced. She already reads. She has some trouble spelling, though. She asked Ben how to spell Herald. He had been thinking about his long-lost friend, Harold Storm, who was a tornado chaser but hasn’t been heard from in years. So he told her, H-A-R-O-L-D.
Later, “Hark the Harold angels sing” appeared on the kitchen wall in purple crayon. Ben’s daughter-in-law, who used to be named Elizabeth but changed her name to Lisbeth after reading “The Girl With the Hornet’s Nest Tattoo who Played With Fire,” was threatening severe punishment.
Ben said, “Uh, Lisbeth, that was me, or I, according to how grammatical you be. I was thinking about Harold Storm, you know how I get about him around the holidays, and he used to write his letters to me in purple crayon, so I always carry one with me, and I always write Herald as Harold in his honor, and I forgot where I was…”
It wasn’t much of an excuse, but it got Clara off the hook, and allowed Ben to extract a promise from Clara that she would have nothing to do with men until she is 35. Of course, when he printed the programs for the Christmas concert, knowing Lisbeth would be there…
Ben was in charge of printing the programs, since he is the only member of the choir who knows how to use a computer. There was a little misprint in the program. The finale was “Hark, the Harold Angels Sing.”
Of course, all the Hell’s Angles and Tennis Elbows have hooted about it all week. “A college perfessor, and he can’t even spell Herald right.” “We’ll have to be the Harold Angles from now on.” “Hey, my name’s Herschel. How come we don’t sing Hark, the Herschel Angels Sing.” “Well, my name’s Homer, so it ought to be Hark the Homer Angels Sing.” You get the idea.
It’s more complicated than that, though. Ben’s granddaughter, Clara Wembley, is only three, but very advanced. She already reads. She has some trouble spelling, though. She asked Ben how to spell Herald. He had been thinking about his long-lost friend, Harold Storm, who was a tornado chaser but hasn’t been heard from in years. So he told her, H-A-R-O-L-D.
Later, “Hark the Harold angels sing” appeared on the kitchen wall in purple crayon. Ben’s daughter-in-law, who used to be named Elizabeth but changed her name to Lisbeth after reading “The Girl With the Hornet’s Nest Tattoo who Played With Fire,” was threatening severe punishment.
Ben said, “Uh, Lisbeth, that was me, or I, according to how grammatical you be. I was thinking about Harold Storm, you know how I get about him around the holidays, and he used to write his letters to me in purple crayon, so I always carry one with me, and I always write Herald as Harold in his honor, and I forgot where I was…”
It wasn’t much of an excuse, but it got Clara off the hook, and allowed Ben to extract a promise from Clara that she would have nothing to do with men until she is 35. Of course, when he printed the programs for the Christmas concert, knowing Lisbeth would be there…
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Forgive us for we have Christmased
Clara Wembley has been praying. She knows she needs to. She has committed a sin against Christmas. She knows she was only seeking justice, but she also knows it was a sin.
It was last Christmas eve that Shingles, the dog, stole her blankie, AND GOT AWAY WITH IT, because all the adults were too busy with Christmas bustling and bumbling even to notice, let alone do anything about it. Clara has spent the year trying to get justice. Finally she did.
Randall Nathan borrowed Shingles so he could go to the Buddy Mutts Café, where they won’t let you in unless you have a dog with you. As a payment, he gave Shingles a nice big bone that Claire Nathan had tied a big red Christmas ribbon around.
Shingles now has a collar to keep him from wandering off. The collar requires him to stay behind the invisible electric fence in his own yard. Clara snuck up on him and grabbed his bone and ran over to the neighbor’s yard and left the bone just beyond the electric fence. She built up a little snow fort on the house side of her yard, so that anyone looking out her house’s windows cannot see the bone. Shingles has been racing up and down beside the invisible fence, trying to get at his present, but unable to because of the shock effect.
“There are two strange things happening today,” said Kate Bates, Clara’s nana, to her husband, Prof. Ben “Seymour” Bottoms, as they “sat” at the Wembley’s so Clara’s parents could go to her father’s Christmas party at the “Persimmon Pulsations Microbrewery.” “Shingles is running rabid, or at least rapid, in the back yard, and Clara is praying. Do you think they might be related?”
“I’ll see,” said Ben.
He went to Clara’s room door and listened.
“And forgive us our Christmases,” he heard, “as we forgive those who Christmas against us.”
He returned to the kitchen and looked out the window at Shingles.
“I don’t think we want to know,” he said.
[If you would like to receive Periwinkle Chronicles posts by email, I will be glad to send them to you.]
It was last Christmas eve that Shingles, the dog, stole her blankie, AND GOT AWAY WITH IT, because all the adults were too busy with Christmas bustling and bumbling even to notice, let alone do anything about it. Clara has spent the year trying to get justice. Finally she did.
Randall Nathan borrowed Shingles so he could go to the Buddy Mutts Café, where they won’t let you in unless you have a dog with you. As a payment, he gave Shingles a nice big bone that Claire Nathan had tied a big red Christmas ribbon around.
Shingles now has a collar to keep him from wandering off. The collar requires him to stay behind the invisible electric fence in his own yard. Clara snuck up on him and grabbed his bone and ran over to the neighbor’s yard and left the bone just beyond the electric fence. She built up a little snow fort on the house side of her yard, so that anyone looking out her house’s windows cannot see the bone. Shingles has been racing up and down beside the invisible fence, trying to get at his present, but unable to because of the shock effect.
“There are two strange things happening today,” said Kate Bates, Clara’s nana, to her husband, Prof. Ben “Seymour” Bottoms, as they “sat” at the Wembley’s so Clara’s parents could go to her father’s Christmas party at the “Persimmon Pulsations Microbrewery.” “Shingles is running rabid, or at least rapid, in the back yard, and Clara is praying. Do you think they might be related?”
“I’ll see,” said Ben.
He went to Clara’s room door and listened.
“And forgive us our Christmases,” he heard, “as we forgive those who Christmas against us.”
He returned to the kitchen and looked out the window at Shingles.
“I don’t think we want to know,” he said.
[If you would like to receive Periwinkle Chronicles posts by email, I will be glad to send them to you.]
Monday, December 6, 2010
Christmas & Grandmas
Johnny Kendy went over Sunday afternoon to his grandma’s house to help her set up the Christmas village and do the general decorating for the season. It’s something they have done together since he was only two years old. Now he’s almost 12, and he overheard his grandma, Claire Nathan, telling a friend at church that she’s worried he might not want to keep doing that sort of thing now that he’s getting older.
They finally got all the little houses and evergreen trees and dogs and people onto the mantle, and all the burned out bulbs replaced, and all the extension cords run, so they could sit down and relax with some hot chocolate.
“How’s that little girl in your class doing, Johnny, the one whose mother died just after school started? This will probably be a hard Christmas for her.”
“She’s okay, I guess,” said Johnny, but what he thought was, “I sure hope she has a grandma.”
They finally got all the little houses and evergreen trees and dogs and people onto the mantle, and all the burned out bulbs replaced, and all the extension cords run, so they could sit down and relax with some hot chocolate.
“How’s that little girl in your class doing, Johnny, the one whose mother died just after school started? This will probably be a hard Christmas for her.”
“She’s okay, I guess,” said Johnny, but what he thought was, “I sure hope she has a grandma.”
Saturday, December 4, 2010
The Real Stress of Christmas
Katrina Kennicott threw herself onto a stool at the bar at The Whistle & Thistle Biker Bar and Christmas Rehab Center and said, “Pour me a triple,” to Edith.
“No way,” said Edith. “No drinking by mothers during Christmas season.”
“It’s NOT Christmas season,” yelled Emily Easterbrook, Mrs. Edison Easterbrook III, from The Marcus Borg Episcopal Ladies Study Corner. “It’s ADVENT! It’s not Christmas season until Christmas.”
“No drinking by mothers during faux-Christmas season, then,” snorted Edith.
“That’s better,” Emily snorted back.
“But we’re the ones that need booze most,” whined Katrina. “Mothers bear the brunt of faux-Christmas.”
“I know,” said Edith, “the buying, the wrapping, the cooking…”
“No, no, that stuff is okay,” said Katrina. “It’s the interpretive dance that’s the problem.”
“The WHAT?” snorted Edith and Emily, like a synchronized snorting team.
“The interpretive dance. It’s that damned Nutcracker. Mrs. Sheldon has all the kids in the fifth grade in the Nutcracker, and now Jeremy will answer questions only through interpretive dance. I ask what he wants for supper, he dances. I ask what he wants for Christmas, he dances. I ask when he wants to go to his grandma’s to bake cookies, he dances. I ask him what he did at school, he dances. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Might be best not to ask him what he did in the bathroom,” observed Edith.
“No way,” said Edith. “No drinking by mothers during Christmas season.”
“It’s NOT Christmas season,” yelled Emily Easterbrook, Mrs. Edison Easterbrook III, from The Marcus Borg Episcopal Ladies Study Corner. “It’s ADVENT! It’s not Christmas season until Christmas.”
“No drinking by mothers during faux-Christmas season, then,” snorted Edith.
“That’s better,” Emily snorted back.
“But we’re the ones that need booze most,” whined Katrina. “Mothers bear the brunt of faux-Christmas.”
“I know,” said Edith, “the buying, the wrapping, the cooking…”
“No, no, that stuff is okay,” said Katrina. “It’s the interpretive dance that’s the problem.”
“The WHAT?” snorted Edith and Emily, like a synchronized snorting team.
“The interpretive dance. It’s that damned Nutcracker. Mrs. Sheldon has all the kids in the fifth grade in the Nutcracker, and now Jeremy will answer questions only through interpretive dance. I ask what he wants for supper, he dances. I ask what he wants for Christmas, he dances. I ask when he wants to go to his grandma’s to bake cookies, he dances. I ask him what he did at school, he dances. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Might be best not to ask him what he did in the bathroom,” observed Edith.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Xmas Music at The W&T
Edith Whistle has “The Whistle and Thistle Biker Bar and Child Care Center” all decorated for Christmas, or Xmas, as the banner above the bar puts it, which confuses the little children quite a little bit.
They are there because Gayle O’Wally’s garage had a grease fire when their cat, Lucifer, turned over the grill while chasing a chipmunk while Gayle’s husband, Gale, was barbequing “wieners in the snow,” which is also the name of his new country song he is trying to sell to “Gnashville Troubadours,” based in Gnashville, TN, to make some money, since he forgot to renew the insurance on the garage, where Gayle’s child care center, “Pooh & Poo,” was centered. Gayle used to be a waitress at The W&T, so naturally Edith told her she could bring her little charges there until “Wieners in the Snow” sold.
Thursday after school was “Hapless Hour,” “All the Beer, Tea, or Hot Chocolate You Can Pay For.” Edith thought it would be great to have live music for each Thursday Hapless Hour during Advent. Unfortunately, because of a computer “cut and paste” problem, she invited Madame Rousseau and Father Larry for the same date. So Madame Rousseau brought her choir, “The Glee-Full Swedish Automobiles,” from Volvo River High School, and Father Larry brought his youth choir, “Glee for the Masses,” from St. Keisha’s. In addition to the “Pooh & Poo” kids, the Episcopal Ladies were in “The Earl Grey Memorial Corner,” and “The Hell’s Angels Motorcycle Gang & Geometry Club” were figuring out tangents at the pool table. All the groups were glaring at the others in a hapless and not very Christmasy fashion.
Edith thought she could solve the problem by putting on her favorite Christmas album—“Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer and Other Classical Christmas Favorites.” She has it in LP, CD, and cassette tape, so put them all on at the same time. Well, not exactly at the same time. The old hi-fi that plays LPs is situated in the Episcopal Ladies corner, for obvious reasons, and the CD player stands behind the bar, and the cassette player is on a shelf in “Pooh & Poo Corner.” It took her a while to get from one to the other to flip switches. Consequently each version was slightly out of sync with the others. Of course, each group was singing with the music closest to them.
Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms stopped in for Hapless Hour hot chocolate when he returned from the university. When he got home, Kate Bates, his wife, asked him what he had been doing.
“Singing with the Xmas choir from hell,” he said.
They are there because Gayle O’Wally’s garage had a grease fire when their cat, Lucifer, turned over the grill while chasing a chipmunk while Gayle’s husband, Gale, was barbequing “wieners in the snow,” which is also the name of his new country song he is trying to sell to “Gnashville Troubadours,” based in Gnashville, TN, to make some money, since he forgot to renew the insurance on the garage, where Gayle’s child care center, “Pooh & Poo,” was centered. Gayle used to be a waitress at The W&T, so naturally Edith told her she could bring her little charges there until “Wieners in the Snow” sold.
Thursday after school was “Hapless Hour,” “All the Beer, Tea, or Hot Chocolate You Can Pay For.” Edith thought it would be great to have live music for each Thursday Hapless Hour during Advent. Unfortunately, because of a computer “cut and paste” problem, she invited Madame Rousseau and Father Larry for the same date. So Madame Rousseau brought her choir, “The Glee-Full Swedish Automobiles,” from Volvo River High School, and Father Larry brought his youth choir, “Glee for the Masses,” from St. Keisha’s. In addition to the “Pooh & Poo” kids, the Episcopal Ladies were in “The Earl Grey Memorial Corner,” and “The Hell’s Angels Motorcycle Gang & Geometry Club” were figuring out tangents at the pool table. All the groups were glaring at the others in a hapless and not very Christmasy fashion.
Edith thought she could solve the problem by putting on her favorite Christmas album—“Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer and Other Classical Christmas Favorites.” She has it in LP, CD, and cassette tape, so put them all on at the same time. Well, not exactly at the same time. The old hi-fi that plays LPs is situated in the Episcopal Ladies corner, for obvious reasons, and the CD player stands behind the bar, and the cassette player is on a shelf in “Pooh & Poo Corner.” It took her a while to get from one to the other to flip switches. Consequently each version was slightly out of sync with the others. Of course, each group was singing with the music closest to them.
Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms stopped in for Hapless Hour hot chocolate when he returned from the university. When he got home, Kate Bates, his wife, asked him what he had been doing.
“Singing with the Xmas choir from hell,” he said.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Thanksgiving Adventure Continued Again
[Continued from Nov. 30 and Dec. 1…]
Rudolpho and Marlene went back down to Shirley’s below. Rudolpho rolled up a paper towel and set it on fire and stuck it into the oven. Marlene couldn’t stand to watch, so she walked around the apartment, admiring the way Shirley had decorated. The oven finally got lit up and the put the extra pans of food in to do their roasting. Marlene and Rudolpho went back to Maria Betina’s kitchen and continued with the food preparation that would fit into that small room while discussing the merits of Shirley’s decorating.
Four hours and four hundred dollars after they had left, Walt and Maria Betina returned with an un-chastened Wilberforce and the garbage disposal. Maria Betina didn’t have any money, so Walt had to put the vet’s bill on his MasterDad card. Marlene thought it might be good to give Walt a job to keep him from thinking, so she handed him the key to Shirley’s apartment and sent him down to get the pans from her oven. Walt was getting tired of eating, but he liked to eat, so he went. It took two trips. Then Maria Betina looked out the window.
“There goes Shirley,” she said. “I hope she has a good time at her nephew’s.”
“Shirley?” said Marlene. “From down below? But she left a long time ago. She didn’t answer when I knocked so I just went in… and Rudolpho almost burned up her apartment… and Walt just went down there…”
“Oh, my,” said Maria Betina. “Didn’t you know she’s deaf? She can talk on the phone because she has one of those special ones. She was probably in there, in the bathroom or something.”
“Oh, my,” said Marlene. “I feel almost like a criminal. That’s why I rushed in and out and didn’t notice if she was there.”
“For a criminal who rushed in and out, you certainly noticed a lot about how she decorates,” observed Rudolpho.
Then Maria Betina’s Jewish friend, Tiffany McGonigle, showed up with a persimmon pie.
“Is that kosher?” asked Rudolpho.
“Of course,” said Tiffany. “Jewish and Evangelical scholars have declared that the so-called apple in the Garden of Eden was actually a persimmon.”
“What about the other Bible scholars?” asked Walt.
“Oh, no one pays attention to them,” said Tiffany. “They’re fact-based.”
Everyone agreed it was a great meal. Afterward, Walt made four flights up and down to carry to the truck all the things he had carried up a few hours earlier. Plus a little more as it turned out.
“What was that sound?” he asked.
“Oh, my, I think it was just a creak in the truck,” said Marlene.
But a furry head came out of a sack on the other side of Marlene, a furry head with a shaved neck, a furry head that had cost him $400.
“Now Walt, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not safe in that apartment for poor Wilberforce.”
“No,” said Walt, “you really don’t know what I’m thinking…”
[Like “Law & Order,” Periwinkle Chronicles are based on real events.]
Rudolpho and Marlene went back down to Shirley’s below. Rudolpho rolled up a paper towel and set it on fire and stuck it into the oven. Marlene couldn’t stand to watch, so she walked around the apartment, admiring the way Shirley had decorated. The oven finally got lit up and the put the extra pans of food in to do their roasting. Marlene and Rudolpho went back to Maria Betina’s kitchen and continued with the food preparation that would fit into that small room while discussing the merits of Shirley’s decorating.
Four hours and four hundred dollars after they had left, Walt and Maria Betina returned with an un-chastened Wilberforce and the garbage disposal. Maria Betina didn’t have any money, so Walt had to put the vet’s bill on his MasterDad card. Marlene thought it might be good to give Walt a job to keep him from thinking, so she handed him the key to Shirley’s apartment and sent him down to get the pans from her oven. Walt was getting tired of eating, but he liked to eat, so he went. It took two trips. Then Maria Betina looked out the window.
“There goes Shirley,” she said. “I hope she has a good time at her nephew’s.”
“Shirley?” said Marlene. “From down below? But she left a long time ago. She didn’t answer when I knocked so I just went in… and Rudolpho almost burned up her apartment… and Walt just went down there…”
“Oh, my,” said Maria Betina. “Didn’t you know she’s deaf? She can talk on the phone because she has one of those special ones. She was probably in there, in the bathroom or something.”
“Oh, my,” said Marlene. “I feel almost like a criminal. That’s why I rushed in and out and didn’t notice if she was there.”
“For a criminal who rushed in and out, you certainly noticed a lot about how she decorates,” observed Rudolpho.
Then Maria Betina’s Jewish friend, Tiffany McGonigle, showed up with a persimmon pie.
“Is that kosher?” asked Rudolpho.
“Of course,” said Tiffany. “Jewish and Evangelical scholars have declared that the so-called apple in the Garden of Eden was actually a persimmon.”
“What about the other Bible scholars?” asked Walt.
“Oh, no one pays attention to them,” said Tiffany. “They’re fact-based.”
Everyone agreed it was a great meal. Afterward, Walt made four flights up and down to carry to the truck all the things he had carried up a few hours earlier. Plus a little more as it turned out.
“What was that sound?” he asked.
“Oh, my, I think it was just a creak in the truck,” said Marlene.
But a furry head came out of a sack on the other side of Marlene, a furry head with a shaved neck, a furry head that had cost him $400.
“Now Walt, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not safe in that apartment for poor Wilberforce.”
“No,” said Walt, “you really don’t know what I’m thinking…”
[Like “Law & Order,” Periwinkle Chronicles are based on real events.]
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Thanksgiving Adventure Continued
[Continued from Tuesday, Nov. 30…]
Just then the telephone rang. Marlene answered it.
“Maria Betina?”
“No. I’m her mother.”
“Oh, you sound just like her. Well, anyway, this is Shirley, from the apartment down below, 3-A. There’s water leaking into my bedroom from what would be the southwest corner of Maria Betina’s bedroom. Are those cats up to something again?”
“Oh, my, I don’t think so. They’re not even here right now. I doubt if we can get a plumber today. I’ll get her father to take a look at it.”
Just then Walt and Maria Betina showed up, Walt carrying a gunny sack he’d gotten from the truck. It contained three cats that had decided they didn’t like one another very much. Marlene told them about the call from Shirley down below.
“Oh, it’s just those leaky old pipes,” said Maria Betina.
Walt put the sack in a corner of the living room and trudged back down to the truck to get his tools. He trudged back up, pulled the bed away from the wall, found a radiator. It was leaking because a pressure valve was missing. He looked around for it, found it in a back corner of the closet, with several cat toys. It was covered with scratch marks. He put it back in place, tightened it until it whined, pushed the bed back into place, picked up his wrench and went looking for the cats.
That was when Wilberforce, the largest of the three cats, stuck his head into the garbage disposal while trying to retrieve some turkey parts he thought should not be disposed. Rudolpho yelled and tried to pull him out. But he didn’t come. He was stuck. Maria Betina and Marlene tried to get him out while Rudolpho worked around them. They tried everything to get him out—butter, Crisco, canola oil. Nothing worked.
“I need that sink,” said Rudolpho. “We may need to include roast cat on the menu.”
Maria Betina began to cry. Walt eyed Wilberforce’s bottom, eyed the sink, eyed the wrench, shook his head, and took the disposal out of the sink.
While Walt and Maria Betina took Wilberforce, kitchen sink and all, to the emergency veterinarian’s, Marlene helped Rudolpho cook. For a large professional chef and a woman used to having a kitchen to herself, in a room the size of a miniature golf green, they got along amazingly well.
“I was so looking forward to not having to cook this year,” said Marlene, “but here I am, back in the kitchen again.”
“You and me both,” laughed Rudolpho. “But hey, we’ll get to eat better today than anybody! However, we’ll never get to eat if we can’t get more oven space. Take the stuffing and squash to Shirley down under. She said we could use her ovens. She’s going to her nephew’s. Maria Betina has a key for her apartment, hanging there by the door, in case she’s already left.”
Marlene dutifully stacked the necessary pans and shouldered the door closed so the remaining cats couldn’t get out and went to Shirley’s down under. She kicked on the door as a knock since her hands were full. Nobody answered. “She must have gone to her nephew’s already,” Marlene thought. She went into the kitchen and put the pans into the oven and turned it on. Nothing. She looked into the oven. The pilot light was out. The manual lighter was at the back where she couldn’t reach. She went back up and told Rudolpho.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said, grabbing a roll of paper towels and a box of matches.
“Oh, my,” said Marlene. “I hope you don’t burn the place up.”
“Me, too,” said Rudolpho. “But we’ll not know until tomorrow, because we’re past the word count again.”
Just then the telephone rang. Marlene answered it.
“Maria Betina?”
“No. I’m her mother.”
“Oh, you sound just like her. Well, anyway, this is Shirley, from the apartment down below, 3-A. There’s water leaking into my bedroom from what would be the southwest corner of Maria Betina’s bedroom. Are those cats up to something again?”
“Oh, my, I don’t think so. They’re not even here right now. I doubt if we can get a plumber today. I’ll get her father to take a look at it.”
Just then Walt and Maria Betina showed up, Walt carrying a gunny sack he’d gotten from the truck. It contained three cats that had decided they didn’t like one another very much. Marlene told them about the call from Shirley down below.
“Oh, it’s just those leaky old pipes,” said Maria Betina.
Walt put the sack in a corner of the living room and trudged back down to the truck to get his tools. He trudged back up, pulled the bed away from the wall, found a radiator. It was leaking because a pressure valve was missing. He looked around for it, found it in a back corner of the closet, with several cat toys. It was covered with scratch marks. He put it back in place, tightened it until it whined, pushed the bed back into place, picked up his wrench and went looking for the cats.
That was when Wilberforce, the largest of the three cats, stuck his head into the garbage disposal while trying to retrieve some turkey parts he thought should not be disposed. Rudolpho yelled and tried to pull him out. But he didn’t come. He was stuck. Maria Betina and Marlene tried to get him out while Rudolpho worked around them. They tried everything to get him out—butter, Crisco, canola oil. Nothing worked.
“I need that sink,” said Rudolpho. “We may need to include roast cat on the menu.”
Maria Betina began to cry. Walt eyed Wilberforce’s bottom, eyed the sink, eyed the wrench, shook his head, and took the disposal out of the sink.
While Walt and Maria Betina took Wilberforce, kitchen sink and all, to the emergency veterinarian’s, Marlene helped Rudolpho cook. For a large professional chef and a woman used to having a kitchen to herself, in a room the size of a miniature golf green, they got along amazingly well.
“I was so looking forward to not having to cook this year,” said Marlene, “but here I am, back in the kitchen again.”
“You and me both,” laughed Rudolpho. “But hey, we’ll get to eat better today than anybody! However, we’ll never get to eat if we can’t get more oven space. Take the stuffing and squash to Shirley down under. She said we could use her ovens. She’s going to her nephew’s. Maria Betina has a key for her apartment, hanging there by the door, in case she’s already left.”
Marlene dutifully stacked the necessary pans and shouldered the door closed so the remaining cats couldn’t get out and went to Shirley’s down under. She kicked on the door as a knock since her hands were full. Nobody answered. “She must have gone to her nephew’s already,” Marlene thought. She went into the kitchen and put the pans into the oven and turned it on. Nothing. She looked into the oven. The pilot light was out. The manual lighter was at the back where she couldn’t reach. She went back up and told Rudolpho.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said, grabbing a roll of paper towels and a box of matches.
“Oh, my,” said Marlene. “I hope you don’t burn the place up.”
“Me, too,” said Rudolpho. “But we’ll not know until tomorrow, because we’re past the word count again.”
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Thanksgiving Apt. Adventure
Walt and Marlene went up to Capitol City for Thanksgiving with their daughter, Maria Betina. It was a different experience. Always before, Maria Betina and her friends would come down to the farm house on Wayout Road, in the Whazup River bottoms, and their son, Homer Walter, would bring his family and come, too, as would several aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews and stray neighbors. But this year Homer Walter and Heloise and their children went for Thanksgiving in Omaha at her mother’s so they could meet her new husband, who is a slogan writer for The Tea Party, and Maria Betina’s friends were on Habitat-building trips to Mississippi, or to Las Vegas on habitat-losing trips, and the other relatives and neighbors had what they thought were better offers. It was a first for Marlene, not cooking the Thanksgiving dinner herself, and it was a first for both Marlene and Walter, because they had never been in an apartment building in a city before, especially not a fourth-floor walkup.
Several years ago, anticipating their “one-story only” age, they built a new ranch with a metal pole building out back, what Walt calls “an upstairs basement,” for all the stuff they would normally keep in a basement. They are not used to stairs, especially narrow enclosed stairwells where the apartment dwellers see if they can outwait the landlord when one of the weak stairwell bulbs burns out.
After they had climbed the four flights of stairs, carrying pumpkin pies, a cranberry salad, a green-bean casserole, and 8 settings of Grandma Gert’s dishes, which are required use at holiday meals, Walt propped the door to Apt. 4-A open while transferring all the food and dishes from the landing to the apartment, and Maria Betina’s three cats—Wilberforce, Disraeli, and Eleanor of Castile—escaped into the stairwell.
While Walt and Maria Betina chased the cats down the stairs, Marlene carried the food into the kitchen. At least she intended to, but she couldn’t, because, as quite a surprise to Marlene, the kitchens in city apartments are approximately one-tenth the size of a farm house kitchen, and this apartment kitchen was filled up with a burly man in a wife-beater undershirt and black jeans, with a tattoo on one bicep that read “Mother” and one on the other that read “Barbra.”
“Oh, my, who are you?” gasped Marlene.
“I’m Rudolpho, Maria Betina’s gay friend. You didn’t think she’d actually cook the meal herself, did you?”
“Oh, my, I guess I hadn’t thought about that. But I have been watching the word count go up, and I know no one reads past 450 words in a blog post, so we’d better continue this conversation tomorrow.”
Several years ago, anticipating their “one-story only” age, they built a new ranch with a metal pole building out back, what Walt calls “an upstairs basement,” for all the stuff they would normally keep in a basement. They are not used to stairs, especially narrow enclosed stairwells where the apartment dwellers see if they can outwait the landlord when one of the weak stairwell bulbs burns out.
After they had climbed the four flights of stairs, carrying pumpkin pies, a cranberry salad, a green-bean casserole, and 8 settings of Grandma Gert’s dishes, which are required use at holiday meals, Walt propped the door to Apt. 4-A open while transferring all the food and dishes from the landing to the apartment, and Maria Betina’s three cats—Wilberforce, Disraeli, and Eleanor of Castile—escaped into the stairwell.
While Walt and Maria Betina chased the cats down the stairs, Marlene carried the food into the kitchen. At least she intended to, but she couldn’t, because, as quite a surprise to Marlene, the kitchens in city apartments are approximately one-tenth the size of a farm house kitchen, and this apartment kitchen was filled up with a burly man in a wife-beater undershirt and black jeans, with a tattoo on one bicep that read “Mother” and one on the other that read “Barbra.”
“Oh, my, who are you?” gasped Marlene.
“I’m Rudolpho, Maria Betina’s gay friend. You didn’t think she’d actually cook the meal herself, did you?”
“Oh, my, I guess I hadn’t thought about that. But I have been watching the word count go up, and I know no one reads past 450 words in a blog post, so we’d better continue this conversation tomorrow.”
Monday, November 29, 2010
Happy Bar Mitzvah, Anthony
“Not again,” sighed Betsy Kendy.
“What’s wrong?” asked her grandmother, Claire Randall.
“Oh, every cake. Every cake. Mom buys the unclaimed specialty cakes at the grocery store, because they’re cheaper, so every cake we eat says ‘Happy Bar Mitzvah, Anthony,’ on it.”
This, of course, gave Claire Randall an idea. Betsy’s birthday party was coming up. Claire went to the Slob-Mart bakery. The woman working there was a typical Slob-Mart employee—stained smock, maybe 30-maybe 50, sad face, dull eyes. Her name tag read “Cristil.”
Claire knew this would be difficult, but she went at it slowly, explaining what she wanted, a cake that said “Happy Bar Mitzvah, Anthony.” She spelled both “bar mitzvah” and “Anthony.”
“That’s interesting,” said the Cristil. “Anthony isn’t a common name for a Jewish boy. Would you like a Star of David on it?”
This was not what Claire expected. “Uh…yes, that would be nice,” she said.
“Also I could do a scroll from the Torah. Or a burning bush. Maybe the Red Sea parting. It’s harder to represent the Kaballah. Or Hasids. Is Anthony Orthodox, Conservative, or Reform?”
“Are you Jewish?” Claire blurted out.
“Oh, no,” said Cristil. “I’m Christian. But our story starts with Abraham, you know, not Jesus. Maybe you’d like something in Hebrew on Anthony’s cake?”
“No,” said Claire, “but I’d like another cake for myself. Can you write ‘Don’t assume anything, Stupid?’ on it?”
“What’s wrong?” asked her grandmother, Claire Randall.
“Oh, every cake. Every cake. Mom buys the unclaimed specialty cakes at the grocery store, because they’re cheaper, so every cake we eat says ‘Happy Bar Mitzvah, Anthony,’ on it.”
This, of course, gave Claire Randall an idea. Betsy’s birthday party was coming up. Claire went to the Slob-Mart bakery. The woman working there was a typical Slob-Mart employee—stained smock, maybe 30-maybe 50, sad face, dull eyes. Her name tag read “Cristil.”
Claire knew this would be difficult, but she went at it slowly, explaining what she wanted, a cake that said “Happy Bar Mitzvah, Anthony.” She spelled both “bar mitzvah” and “Anthony.”
“That’s interesting,” said the Cristil. “Anthony isn’t a common name for a Jewish boy. Would you like a Star of David on it?”
This was not what Claire expected. “Uh…yes, that would be nice,” she said.
“Also I could do a scroll from the Torah. Or a burning bush. Maybe the Red Sea parting. It’s harder to represent the Kaballah. Or Hasids. Is Anthony Orthodox, Conservative, or Reform?”
“Are you Jewish?” Claire blurted out.
“Oh, no,” said Cristil. “I’m Christian. But our story starts with Abraham, you know, not Jesus. Maybe you’d like something in Hebrew on Anthony’s cake?”
“No,” said Claire, “but I’d like another cake for myself. Can you write ‘Don’t assume anything, Stupid?’ on it?”
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Puddings and Trebouchets
Claire and Randall Nathan went to the Cub Scout persimmon pudding auction last night. Each Cub was to create a special persimmon pudding presentation, with no help from anyone else, to be auctioned, the proceeds to go toward Thanksgiving food for those in need.
Randall and Claire and Johnny’s parents both wanted Johnny’s creation, a deep-fried pudding omelette covered in chocolate in the shape of a soccer ball, with a note that it was “trebouchet ready.” Randall was victorious, at $60, which is probably a world record for a piece of persimmon pudding.
Now he has to find a trebouchet before Monday and the Great Pudding Plastering. Until that time, all of Periwinkle County is on Thanksgiving break.
Randall and Claire and Johnny’s parents both wanted Johnny’s creation, a deep-fried pudding omelette covered in chocolate in the shape of a soccer ball, with a note that it was “trebouchet ready.” Randall was victorious, at $60, which is probably a world record for a piece of persimmon pudding.
Now he has to find a trebouchet before Monday and the Great Pudding Plastering. Until that time, all of Periwinkle County is on Thanksgiving break.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Why Manuals are Important
Pastor Patty grabbed Randall and Claire Nathan as they came through the door to church.
“Will you greet, please? It’s still hunting season, and none of our usual greeters are here.”
Randall had just gotten his mouth open to say “If it’s hunting season, and no one is here, why do you need greeters?” but Claire had already said “Of course,” but was kind enough to send him off to the street door, which is hardly ever used, while she took the parking lot door, the entryway for those intrepid enough to brave the ridicule of their fellow citizens for not being out in the woods murdering clueless animals.
Randall trudged off to the door, muttering about how he was going to lose points in the Hermudgeon* of the Year contest for saying “hello” to people.
The usual greeters weren’t the only ones missing. All the choir members were out using $5,000 worth of equipment each to “bag” a deer worth $50, so Norm and Norma Norman and their children, Nora, Nola, Noreen, Noble, and Squeeter, performing as The Norman Pumpernickel Choir, sang the special, “Won’t it Be a Revelation When We All Lose that Gravitation and Go Floating Off to Some Place High or Low.”
Randall was quite surprised when the street doors creaked open and a woman he had never seen before slipped in. He didn’t think she was a Methodist; she was carrying a Bible and a can of beer and wearing a shirt that proclaimed “The Word Suck Sucks.”
And it wasn’t just any can of beer. It was a can of Phartz Brothers Crock Ale, brewed from the persimmon leavings in the bottom of the crock after the brothers have processed the persimmons rejected for normal use into an alternate fuel for the planes for their special express delivery business.
“Is it okay if I bring my beer in?” the woman asked. “My throat gets dry.”
Since Randall is a retired preacher, he is not used to greeting people before the service. He used to stand at the door after the service and mumble “Good listening” or “Good sleeping” to each person after they had mumbled “Good sermon.” He assumed there must be something in the greeters’ manual about how to answer a question about Phartz Brothers Crock Ale, but he didn’t have a manual.
“Sure,” he said. “Bring it in. Can’t worship with a dry throat.”
*Hermudgeon is a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon.
“Will you greet, please? It’s still hunting season, and none of our usual greeters are here.”
Randall had just gotten his mouth open to say “If it’s hunting season, and no one is here, why do you need greeters?” but Claire had already said “Of course,” but was kind enough to send him off to the street door, which is hardly ever used, while she took the parking lot door, the entryway for those intrepid enough to brave the ridicule of their fellow citizens for not being out in the woods murdering clueless animals.
Randall trudged off to the door, muttering about how he was going to lose points in the Hermudgeon* of the Year contest for saying “hello” to people.
The usual greeters weren’t the only ones missing. All the choir members were out using $5,000 worth of equipment each to “bag” a deer worth $50, so Norm and Norma Norman and their children, Nora, Nola, Noreen, Noble, and Squeeter, performing as The Norman Pumpernickel Choir, sang the special, “Won’t it Be a Revelation When We All Lose that Gravitation and Go Floating Off to Some Place High or Low.”
Randall was quite surprised when the street doors creaked open and a woman he had never seen before slipped in. He didn’t think she was a Methodist; she was carrying a Bible and a can of beer and wearing a shirt that proclaimed “The Word Suck Sucks.”
And it wasn’t just any can of beer. It was a can of Phartz Brothers Crock Ale, brewed from the persimmon leavings in the bottom of the crock after the brothers have processed the persimmons rejected for normal use into an alternate fuel for the planes for their special express delivery business.
“Is it okay if I bring my beer in?” the woman asked. “My throat gets dry.”
Since Randall is a retired preacher, he is not used to greeting people before the service. He used to stand at the door after the service and mumble “Good listening” or “Good sleeping” to each person after they had mumbled “Good sermon.” He assumed there must be something in the greeters’ manual about how to answer a question about Phartz Brothers Crock Ale, but he didn’t have a manual.
“Sure,” he said. “Bring it in. Can’t worship with a dry throat.”
*Hermudgeon is a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Hanging of the Greens
Hazel Knotwith was sitting in the non-hearing section, as usual. Wait staff usually ask “Smoking or non-smoking?” but at The Methodist, the ushers ask “Hearing, or non-hearing?” Certain women of a certain age like to sit in the non-hearing section so they can say to one another, “I can’t hear; can you hear?”
At announcements time, Pastor Patty announced the Hanging of the Greens.
“I don’t know the Greens,” said Hazel, in a non-hearing section volume, “but it seems a bit extreme.”
At announcements time, Pastor Patty announced the Hanging of the Greens.
“I don’t know the Greens,” said Hazel, in a non-hearing section volume, “but it seems a bit extreme.”
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Yard Car Heaven
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard),* was surprised when Heaven “Heavy” Hudges walked into the Herbert “Herb” Highslop’s “Haven for Husbands Coffee Shop & Silence Zone.” Randall had gone to school with Heavy back in Arkansas, when he was still called Randey, and hadn’t seen him in 40 years. Heavy was immediately recognizable, though, for obvious reasons. They shook hands, but had to go out onto the sidewalk in front to talk, since Herb’s is a silence zone.
“What are you doing up here, Heavy?” Randall asked.
“I don’t go by Heavy anymore, Randey. It’s to honor my mother. She named me Heaven, so that’s who I am. But to answer your question, I’m here to get away from it.”
“What are you getting away from, Heav…en.”
“The rat race. The constant problem of what to do with all my money. My theme park has been so successful, all day, all night, people streaming in, giving me money. And everybody knows Periwinkle County is the place to come to get away from it, whatever ‘it’ is, so here I am.”
“You have a theme park?”
“Yes. ‘Heaven’s Yard Car Heaven.’ Yard cars are real important in Arkansas, real status symbols. I’ve collected the biggest bunch of yard cars you ever saw. People pay plenty to see them.”
“But I thought you inherited your dad’s junk yard.”
“Yeah, I did. But I changed the sign on it. Now it’s a theme park. Disney wanted to buy me out, but it’s a National Hysteric Site, so I have to stay and run it as a family heritage or the Tea Party gets it.”
* Where Randall comes from, "Retired" is pronounced as "Retard."
“What are you doing up here, Heavy?” Randall asked.
“I don’t go by Heavy anymore, Randey. It’s to honor my mother. She named me Heaven, so that’s who I am. But to answer your question, I’m here to get away from it.”
“What are you getting away from, Heav…en.”
“The rat race. The constant problem of what to do with all my money. My theme park has been so successful, all day, all night, people streaming in, giving me money. And everybody knows Periwinkle County is the place to come to get away from it, whatever ‘it’ is, so here I am.”
“You have a theme park?”
“Yes. ‘Heaven’s Yard Car Heaven.’ Yard cars are real important in Arkansas, real status symbols. I’ve collected the biggest bunch of yard cars you ever saw. People pay plenty to see them.”
“But I thought you inherited your dad’s junk yard.”
“Yeah, I did. But I changed the sign on it. Now it’s a theme park. Disney wanted to buy me out, but it’s a National Hysteric Site, so I have to stay and run it as a family heritage or the Tea Party gets it.”
* Where Randall comes from, "Retired" is pronounced as "Retard."
Friday, November 19, 2010
Birds Being Birds
It wasn’t a good after-school afternoon for Edith Whistle yesterday. As usual, she was doing all the work of running the “Whistle & Thistle Biker Bar & Episcopal Ladies Tea House” all by herself.
Her husband, Bob, who always claims that Edith is the thistle in The Whistle & Thistle, was in the railroad corner, showing a bunch of fifth graders how to make little trees for the railroad layout and treating them to free black cows.
“They ought to be expanding the hobo jungle beside those tracks,” muttered Edith, “because that’s where they’re all going to end up, useless bums.”
She looked over to the Episcopal ladies corner. Mrs. Hobart Hazlewood III was sipping Earl Grey and drilling a couple of freshmen on algebra. With the sense of entitlement Episcopal ladies always seem to have, she was rewarding them for right answers with donuts out of the glass stand which she had taken from the counter beside the cash register. Edith knew that Hannah Hazlewood would forget to pay.
“The rich think people like me ought to support them,” Edith muttered.
“That’s why they’re rich,” a soft voice muttered back at her. “They keep their own money and spend other people’s. That’s what my mother says, along with a lot of other stuff.”
“Oh no,” thought Edith. “Tiffany Lampe is here. She’s such a nice girl, but I know she’s going to…”
“Got any work for me, Mrs. Whistle?”
“…beg for a job again,” Edith finished her thought.
“Tiffany, if I could possibly hire someone, it would be you. But look around you. We’ve got a whole lot of business, but nobody is paying. I can’t afford help. There’s no point of you coming in here and…”
Tiffany began to sniffle.
“I don’t really come to ask for a job, Mrs. Whistle. It’s just an excuse not to go home.”
“Oh, my,” said Edith. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing special. Nothing different. It’s just that Mom never stops talking. She doesn’t yell at me, or like that. She’s proud of my grades and everything. It’s just that she never stops…”
She looked up at Edith, tears beginning to run down her smooth cheeks.
“She’s driving me crazy. What can I do to get her to stop talking all the time, Mrs. Whistle?”
Edith looked at her husband and the laughing little boys. She looked at Hannah Hazlewood smiling as Dusty Rhodes finally understood about “x.”
“Tiffany, you can tell a bird to stop singing, tell it to stop flying. It wouldn’t understand you. But if it did, and you convinced it, talked it into quitting its singing, talked it into stopping that flying, well, it wouldn’t be a bird anymore.”
She handed Tiffany a tissue.
“You’d better start by putting some more donuts in that stand over there, and sweeping up those tree leavings under that railroad table,” said the thistle.
Her husband, Bob, who always claims that Edith is the thistle in The Whistle & Thistle, was in the railroad corner, showing a bunch of fifth graders how to make little trees for the railroad layout and treating them to free black cows.
“They ought to be expanding the hobo jungle beside those tracks,” muttered Edith, “because that’s where they’re all going to end up, useless bums.”
She looked over to the Episcopal ladies corner. Mrs. Hobart Hazlewood III was sipping Earl Grey and drilling a couple of freshmen on algebra. With the sense of entitlement Episcopal ladies always seem to have, she was rewarding them for right answers with donuts out of the glass stand which she had taken from the counter beside the cash register. Edith knew that Hannah Hazlewood would forget to pay.
“The rich think people like me ought to support them,” Edith muttered.
“That’s why they’re rich,” a soft voice muttered back at her. “They keep their own money and spend other people’s. That’s what my mother says, along with a lot of other stuff.”
“Oh no,” thought Edith. “Tiffany Lampe is here. She’s such a nice girl, but I know she’s going to…”
“Got any work for me, Mrs. Whistle?”
“…beg for a job again,” Edith finished her thought.
“Tiffany, if I could possibly hire someone, it would be you. But look around you. We’ve got a whole lot of business, but nobody is paying. I can’t afford help. There’s no point of you coming in here and…”
Tiffany began to sniffle.
“I don’t really come to ask for a job, Mrs. Whistle. It’s just an excuse not to go home.”
“Oh, my,” said Edith. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing special. Nothing different. It’s just that Mom never stops talking. She doesn’t yell at me, or like that. She’s proud of my grades and everything. It’s just that she never stops…”
She looked up at Edith, tears beginning to run down her smooth cheeks.
“She’s driving me crazy. What can I do to get her to stop talking all the time, Mrs. Whistle?”
Edith looked at her husband and the laughing little boys. She looked at Hannah Hazlewood smiling as Dusty Rhodes finally understood about “x.”
“Tiffany, you can tell a bird to stop singing, tell it to stop flying. It wouldn’t understand you. But if it did, and you convinced it, talked it into quitting its singing, talked it into stopping that flying, well, it wouldn’t be a bird anymore.”
She handed Tiffany a tissue.
“You’d better start by putting some more donuts in that stand over there, and sweeping up those tree leavings under that railroad table,” said the thistle.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Dr. Spits, DDS
Betsy and Johnny Kendy were at Randall and Claire Nathan’s house Tuesday night for supper. It was pizza night. It’s pizza night whenever they are there, because they simply love Claire’s homemade pizza.
After supper they watched the “Big 10 Icons” show about Mark Spitz, the great IU and Olympic swimmer.
Randall mentioned that after his swimming career was over, Spitz had gone on to be a dentist, and they thought it was a hilarious to think of a dentist named Dr. Spits. He explained that it was Spitz, which did not deter their hilarity even slightly. “It’s still pronounced spits! Dr. Spits, the dentist!”
Randall was somewhat embarrassed that he never thought of that himself.
After supper they watched the “Big 10 Icons” show about Mark Spitz, the great IU and Olympic swimmer.
Randall mentioned that after his swimming career was over, Spitz had gone on to be a dentist, and they thought it was a hilarious to think of a dentist named Dr. Spits. He explained that it was Spitz, which did not deter their hilarity even slightly. “It’s still pronounced spits! Dr. Spits, the dentist!”
Randall was somewhat embarrassed that he never thought of that himself.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Learning from the Cat
Percival Fauntleroy III, the NFL Hall of Fame receiver, was in town to visit his uncle, Zeke Dombrowski I. It’s not likely there will be any other Zeke Dombrowskis, since Zeke has no children, but he likes putting I after his name.
Since Claire Nathan was his teacher in high school cooking class, and Percival became a chef when his concussing days were over, he and his uncle and Zeke’s bloodhounds, Old Blue I, II, and III, met Claire for lunch at Buddy Mutts Café.
“How did you ever think of that thing you did whenever you scored a touchdown, where you acted like you were trying to kick the ball into the stands but it missed and just rolled around?” Claire asked her former student.
“Well, the first time I did it, I really intended to kick it into the stands, but I just plain missed. I couldn’t admit that, though, so every time after that, I had to do it exactly that way again, so everyone would think it was what I intended.”
“Wow, that was smart,” gushed his Uncle Zeke.
“Not really,” said Percival. “I got the idea from my cat.”
“Thank goodness you didn’t do the same thing the cat does when it wants to make it look like that was what it had in mind all along,” said Claire Nathan.
Since Claire Nathan was his teacher in high school cooking class, and Percival became a chef when his concussing days were over, he and his uncle and Zeke’s bloodhounds, Old Blue I, II, and III, met Claire for lunch at Buddy Mutts Café.
“How did you ever think of that thing you did whenever you scored a touchdown, where you acted like you were trying to kick the ball into the stands but it missed and just rolled around?” Claire asked her former student.
“Well, the first time I did it, I really intended to kick it into the stands, but I just plain missed. I couldn’t admit that, though, so every time after that, I had to do it exactly that way again, so everyone would think it was what I intended.”
“Wow, that was smart,” gushed his Uncle Zeke.
“Not really,” said Percival. “I got the idea from my cat.”
“Thank goodness you didn’t do the same thing the cat does when it wants to make it look like that was what it had in mind all along,” said Claire Nathan.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Erased From the Book
ERASED FROM THE BOOK
Randall Nathan was just ready to cut a piece of chocolate cake out of the middle, of the middle, where it wouldn’t show, to eat at his morning coffee break, since Claire was off getting her hair cut and wouldn’t see his perfidy, having seen Cliff Huxtable do a similar trick, when she surprised him by bursting in the back door.
“Why are you back so early?” he gasped, trying to stuff the middle back into the middle, and hoping he didn’t have chocolate on his breath, since most women have a bloodhound’s ability to sniff out chocolate. She wasn’t paying attention to her nefarious husband, however.
“They erased me,” she moaned. “I am no more.”
“What do you mean?”
“I went for my hair cut at ‘Bounding Mane Beauty Enhancement and Pirate Song Boutique’ and they had erased my name from the appointment book. They gave my appointment to someone else. I no longer exist.”
“You can’t fool me,” said Randall. “This is just a ploy to get me to notice that you got your hair cut. It looks very nice, too.”
That was when another name got erased.
Randall Nathan was just ready to cut a piece of chocolate cake out of the middle, of the middle, where it wouldn’t show, to eat at his morning coffee break, since Claire was off getting her hair cut and wouldn’t see his perfidy, having seen Cliff Huxtable do a similar trick, when she surprised him by bursting in the back door.
“Why are you back so early?” he gasped, trying to stuff the middle back into the middle, and hoping he didn’t have chocolate on his breath, since most women have a bloodhound’s ability to sniff out chocolate. She wasn’t paying attention to her nefarious husband, however.
“They erased me,” she moaned. “I am no more.”
“What do you mean?”
“I went for my hair cut at ‘Bounding Mane Beauty Enhancement and Pirate Song Boutique’ and they had erased my name from the appointment book. They gave my appointment to someone else. I no longer exist.”
“You can’t fool me,” said Randall. “This is just a ploy to get me to notice that you got your hair cut. It looks very nice, too.”
That was when another name got erased.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Message? What Message?
“No, she’s not here. Can I take a message?”
That’s what Randall Nathan said to the lady who called the night before the election. One of them. The only one who asked for Claire by name. He knew it was a political call, they’d been getting them all night, so he wasn’t about to admit that his wife was sitting across the room from him.
“Oh, yes, a message would be nice. Please tell her that the Christopherson and Bankston store in the mall is having a 40% off sale tomorrow only, and she qualifies because she’s been such a good customer in the past. That means our Cecilia’s Mystery dresses will be only $500 and our special pillowcases with the Arvonne design will be only $400 each, and the Martha Puker curtains will be only $600 per panel. Can you remember all that?”
“No problem,” said Randall as he hung up.
“What was that all about?” asked Claire.
“Just another political call,” said her husband.
That’s what Randall Nathan said to the lady who called the night before the election. One of them. The only one who asked for Claire by name. He knew it was a political call, they’d been getting them all night, so he wasn’t about to admit that his wife was sitting across the room from him.
“Oh, yes, a message would be nice. Please tell her that the Christopherson and Bankston store in the mall is having a 40% off sale tomorrow only, and she qualifies because she’s been such a good customer in the past. That means our Cecilia’s Mystery dresses will be only $500 and our special pillowcases with the Arvonne design will be only $400 each, and the Martha Puker curtains will be only $600 per panel. Can you remember all that?”
“No problem,” said Randall as he hung up.
“What was that all about?” asked Claire.
“Just another political call,” said her husband.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Zits & Standard Time
Kate Bates got 95yo Bessie Bandervilt to church on time, even with the return to Standard Time, and Bessie was surprisingly copacetic about it, since she had an extra hour to read the funnies, but it meant Kate had to hear all about the day’s “Zits” strip, including Bessie making all the faces Jeremy and his friend were making for “Make a face like a parent day,” and insisting Kate take her eyes off the road to look at each face, because Bessie thinks she knows how to deal with teenagers, and so has advice for Jeremy’s parents, which she can’t give to them directly, of course, so which she passes on to anyone who is trapped in a car with her, and of course it is only people like Bessie who think they know how to deal with teens, since she never had any.
Claire Nathan, though, knows a disgruntled teen when she sees one, since she not only had some of her own, but also taught high school, after she had been an undercover cop infiltrating teen gangs, which was pretty much the same thing as teaching high school, so she recognized a familiar look of disgruntledness on the face of Ashleey Reenee Eendsleey at church this morning.
“You didn’t tell Ashleey Reenee about falling back to standard time?” did you, she said to Ashleey Reenee’s mother, Ar.
“No,” said Ar, who has always been disgruntled by the shortness of her name, which explains her daughter’s, sort of. “I figured if we let the kids go to bed before we reset the clocks, Saam and I would have that extra hour for ourselves. Otherwise the kids would stay up an extra hour and we’d never get any time to ourselves forever and ever. Amen. Now, though, she’s so mad, and I’ll never hear the end of how I tricked her. She’ll use it as leverage every time she wants something. She already thinks she knows more about raising teenagers than I’ll ever know.”
Kate Bates was passing by on her way to the cry room and overheard.
“Does Ashleey Reenee have her driver’s license yet?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, that’s another point of contention. She’ll do anything to drive, but…”
“No problem” said Kate. “She can use my car to drive Bessie home after church. They should be good for each other.”
Claire Nathan, though, knows a disgruntled teen when she sees one, since she not only had some of her own, but also taught high school, after she had been an undercover cop infiltrating teen gangs, which was pretty much the same thing as teaching high school, so she recognized a familiar look of disgruntledness on the face of Ashleey Reenee Eendsleey at church this morning.
“You didn’t tell Ashleey Reenee about falling back to standard time?” did you, she said to Ashleey Reenee’s mother, Ar.
“No,” said Ar, who has always been disgruntled by the shortness of her name, which explains her daughter’s, sort of. “I figured if we let the kids go to bed before we reset the clocks, Saam and I would have that extra hour for ourselves. Otherwise the kids would stay up an extra hour and we’d never get any time to ourselves forever and ever. Amen. Now, though, she’s so mad, and I’ll never hear the end of how I tricked her. She’ll use it as leverage every time she wants something. She already thinks she knows more about raising teenagers than I’ll ever know.”
Kate Bates was passing by on her way to the cry room and overheard.
“Does Ashleey Reenee have her driver’s license yet?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, that’s another point of contention. She’ll do anything to drive, but…”
“No problem” said Kate. “She can use my car to drive Bessie home after church. They should be good for each other.”
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Get Her to the Church on Time
Pastor Patty punched up Kate Bates.
No, she didn’t hit her. That’s what younger people do with phones, they “punch” the numbers in. Older people still “dial” phones, even if they have “touch tone” phones. That’s how we talk—with a vocabulary that is no longer relevant, but which everybody understands. Even young people know what “cut and paste” means, even though no one literally cuts and pastes anymore, except at craft hour at the “Wise Acres Home for Curmudgeonly Geezers,” overlooking the parking lot of the “Furry Mammal IGA,” where Randolph Mossly, the tight end for the “Scary Animals” football team of the NFL [National Filanderers League], does his community service by teaching old Bret Pevre to send the photographs of his cut and paste activities online.
Anyway, Pastor Patty called Kate on the telephone, to see if she would bring Bessie Bandervilt to church tomorrow morning.
“It’s Marsha’s turn to bring her, but when I reminded her, she suddenly remembered she had to go to Yemen for the day. SOMEBODY has to get her, or we’ll never hear the end of it. But you know what will happen. She’ll forget to set her clock back an hour, and she’ll blame it on… us…and…”
Kate knew that Pastor Patty was about to say “blame it on ME,” because that’s what church members do whenever they make a mistake, blame it on the preacher, but it’s not acceptable for a pastor to think anything is ever about her alone, since she’s supposed to be “enabling” the congregation to be “awesome” Christians, which is enough to make anyone with any sense “puke.”
“Yes, but then I’ll have to sit there for a whole hour while she reads the funnies to me,” Kate moaned. “She always reads the funnies on Sunday morning. The last time it was my turn to bring her, I arrived three minutes early. THREE minutes, mind you. She said I was too early, though, and she hadn’t finished the funnies, so she would read them to me. Since Sunday funnies are in color, she felt she had to explain which color went with each character in each panel. This time I’ll be a whole hour early, and…”
Of course, Kate gave in, as she always does, and agreed to get Bessie tomorrow.
“I think I’ll punch her up first, though,” she muttered.
No, she didn’t hit her. That’s what younger people do with phones, they “punch” the numbers in. Older people still “dial” phones, even if they have “touch tone” phones. That’s how we talk—with a vocabulary that is no longer relevant, but which everybody understands. Even young people know what “cut and paste” means, even though no one literally cuts and pastes anymore, except at craft hour at the “Wise Acres Home for Curmudgeonly Geezers,” overlooking the parking lot of the “Furry Mammal IGA,” where Randolph Mossly, the tight end for the “Scary Animals” football team of the NFL [National Filanderers League], does his community service by teaching old Bret Pevre to send the photographs of his cut and paste activities online.
Anyway, Pastor Patty called Kate on the telephone, to see if she would bring Bessie Bandervilt to church tomorrow morning.
“It’s Marsha’s turn to bring her, but when I reminded her, she suddenly remembered she had to go to Yemen for the day. SOMEBODY has to get her, or we’ll never hear the end of it. But you know what will happen. She’ll forget to set her clock back an hour, and she’ll blame it on… us…and…”
Kate knew that Pastor Patty was about to say “blame it on ME,” because that’s what church members do whenever they make a mistake, blame it on the preacher, but it’s not acceptable for a pastor to think anything is ever about her alone, since she’s supposed to be “enabling” the congregation to be “awesome” Christians, which is enough to make anyone with any sense “puke.”
“Yes, but then I’ll have to sit there for a whole hour while she reads the funnies to me,” Kate moaned. “She always reads the funnies on Sunday morning. The last time it was my turn to bring her, I arrived three minutes early. THREE minutes, mind you. She said I was too early, though, and she hadn’t finished the funnies, so she would read them to me. Since Sunday funnies are in color, she felt she had to explain which color went with each character in each panel. This time I’ll be a whole hour early, and…”
Of course, Kate gave in, as she always does, and agreed to get Bessie tomorrow.
“I think I’ll punch her up first, though,” she muttered.
Friday, November 5, 2010
PearlsB4Dogs
Kate Bates and her husband, Prof. Ben “Seymour” Bottoms were having supper at Buddy Mutts Café, having borrowed Franklin and Eleanor, Jake and Jenny Newland’s potbellied pigs, since the brothers Jim, who own and run Buddy Mutts, will not serve you unless you are accompanied by a dog, and Jake has convinced them that Franklin and Eleanor are a special breed of the Wassafoosie family of canines, when the usually glamorous but now frazzled Danielle Boone came in with four teen-aged girls and a litter of Golden Doodles.
“Can you take these GD dogs back to The Pansy Hill Puppy Farm out on Copperattlemoccasin Road when we’re through eating?” she gasped at Kate, who is known to be a soft touch for any distasteful task that might produce a good story despite its inveiglelies, which is how she became church treasurer.
“I don’t know if I can,” said Kate. “Ben is in mourning because of the death of Sparky Anderson, and I’m afraid to leave him alone. He might try to join the Marines again.”
“If he keeps eating those deep-fried fat fritters he’ll be big enough to qualify as a few good men,” said Bessie Bandervilt from the next table, who is 95 and skinny and not known for social skills. [Bessie, not the table. The table is only 35 and is usually quite polite.] “I’ll take the GD dogs back to Pansy Hill for you. I’ve been meaning to get one for myself. It’ll give me a chance to choose the one that matches my personality. I’ve already picked out a name—Impregnable. But why can’t you take them back yourself?”
“Oh, I promised the girls I’d take them to the concert by that new band they all like so much. I thought it would be over at the university in Hope’s Promise, but it turns out it’s way up in Capitul City. We’re really on short time.”
“I’m surprised, Danielle,” sniffed Bessie. “I’m not sure ‘Pearls Before ‘Dogs” is age-appropriate for you.”
“Good grief, Ms. Bandervilt. YOU know about ‘Pearls Before Dogs?’”
“Of course. The band playing tonight in Capitul City is the enormously famous, at least for the moment, “Pearls B4 Dogs,” from Jackson, TN. It gets its name from its home city, which boasts the National Birddog Museum and the only fresh water pearl nursery in North America. I listen to them on my pPod.”
“Thank you, thank you,” gasped Danielle, pushing the box with the litter of Golden Doodles into Bessie’s arms.
“In a long line of strange places to which you have subjected me, this has to be one of the strangest,” Kate said to Ben.
“Sparky would have known what to do,” he replied.
“Can you take these GD dogs back to The Pansy Hill Puppy Farm out on Copperattlemoccasin Road when we’re through eating?” she gasped at Kate, who is known to be a soft touch for any distasteful task that might produce a good story despite its inveiglelies, which is how she became church treasurer.
“I don’t know if I can,” said Kate. “Ben is in mourning because of the death of Sparky Anderson, and I’m afraid to leave him alone. He might try to join the Marines again.”
“If he keeps eating those deep-fried fat fritters he’ll be big enough to qualify as a few good men,” said Bessie Bandervilt from the next table, who is 95 and skinny and not known for social skills. [Bessie, not the table. The table is only 35 and is usually quite polite.] “I’ll take the GD dogs back to Pansy Hill for you. I’ve been meaning to get one for myself. It’ll give me a chance to choose the one that matches my personality. I’ve already picked out a name—Impregnable. But why can’t you take them back yourself?”
“Oh, I promised the girls I’d take them to the concert by that new band they all like so much. I thought it would be over at the university in Hope’s Promise, but it turns out it’s way up in Capitul City. We’re really on short time.”
“I’m surprised, Danielle,” sniffed Bessie. “I’m not sure ‘Pearls Before ‘Dogs” is age-appropriate for you.”
“Good grief, Ms. Bandervilt. YOU know about ‘Pearls Before Dogs?’”
“Of course. The band playing tonight in Capitul City is the enormously famous, at least for the moment, “Pearls B4 Dogs,” from Jackson, TN. It gets its name from its home city, which boasts the National Birddog Museum and the only fresh water pearl nursery in North America. I listen to them on my pPod.”
“Thank you, thank you,” gasped Danielle, pushing the box with the litter of Golden Doodles into Bessie’s arms.
“In a long line of strange places to which you have subjected me, this has to be one of the strangest,” Kate said to Ben.
“Sparky would have known what to do,” he replied.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
How to Determine Memory Loss
Charlevoix and Rolando Longtude walked into “The Beauty and Booty Hairdressing and Pirate Treasure Boutique” at 10:10.
“You’re 11 minutes late,” sniffed Miles Longway, who makes appointments for one minute before the hour, something he learned in beauty & booty school in Tulsa, because it causes people to be more punctual, and who has a sign above his chair that reads “Stiles With Miles.”
“You know, don’t you,” asked Charlevoix, mostly to get him off the subject of their tardiness, “that a stile refers to a little ladder over a farm fence. It’s a style that refers to a genre of hair or clothing.”
“Of course I know that,” retorted Miles, since it was the first time he had ever heard it. “I use stile instead of style because I work on cows and pigs.”
“Quick recovery,” muttered Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms, [who goes to TBABHAPTB to study mores, which does not rhyme with s’mores, which he studies with the church youth group, although s’mores, in their own way, are a form of mores, especially if you pronounce mores to rhyme with the eel instead of a greater quantity, or like Morray Pi, who comes from an infinite line of men named Ray, so while studying mores, Seymour Bottoms also gets a pedicure, so he won’t seem strange], as he made a notation on the back of his hand.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Professor Bottoms,” Charlevoix whispered to him. “We’re late because Rolando got lost. How can you get lost in Periwinkle County? Can you observe him to see if he’s losing his memory?”
“No problem,” said Seymour. “I can determine that with one question.”
“Rolando, how’s the state of your soul?”
“I have a clear conscience and my heart is pure,” replied Rolando.
“Yep, he’s losing his memory,” said Seymour.
“You’re 11 minutes late,” sniffed Miles Longway, who makes appointments for one minute before the hour, something he learned in beauty & booty school in Tulsa, because it causes people to be more punctual, and who has a sign above his chair that reads “Stiles With Miles.”
“You know, don’t you,” asked Charlevoix, mostly to get him off the subject of their tardiness, “that a stile refers to a little ladder over a farm fence. It’s a style that refers to a genre of hair or clothing.”
“Of course I know that,” retorted Miles, since it was the first time he had ever heard it. “I use stile instead of style because I work on cows and pigs.”
“Quick recovery,” muttered Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms, [who goes to TBABHAPTB to study mores, which does not rhyme with s’mores, which he studies with the church youth group, although s’mores, in their own way, are a form of mores, especially if you pronounce mores to rhyme with the eel instead of a greater quantity, or like Morray Pi, who comes from an infinite line of men named Ray, so while studying mores, Seymour Bottoms also gets a pedicure, so he won’t seem strange], as he made a notation on the back of his hand.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Professor Bottoms,” Charlevoix whispered to him. “We’re late because Rolando got lost. How can you get lost in Periwinkle County? Can you observe him to see if he’s losing his memory?”
“No problem,” said Seymour. “I can determine that with one question.”
“Rolando, how’s the state of your soul?”
“I have a clear conscience and my heart is pure,” replied Rolando.
“Yep, he’s losing his memory,” said Seymour.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Jesus & the AHOY Contest
Randall Nathan gave rides to people yesterday so they could vote. He didn’t want to, but in a moment of weakness earlier in the week, when Angela Messenger had called and asked him to, he said he would, so he did.
It’s a continuing problem. Or maybe it’s a problem only if you see it that way. Maybe it’s only an “issue” instead of a problem. But he sees it as a problem.
He knows he should never agree to do anything, because when it comes time to do something he has agreed to do, he doesn’t want to do it. He almost always enjoys it and is glad afterward that he did it, but at the time he doesn’t want to do it.
Part of the problem is that it costs him points in the Awesome Hermudgeon* of the Year [AHOY] competition. Any contact with a real person costs points. He’s one of the few people who likes robotic political telephone calls, because you get AHOY points for hanging up on telephone calls, and he can hang up on those with a clear conscience. And ENJOYING contacts with people costs mega points. He figures if he never agrees to do anything, then he can’t enjoy anything, and he’ll get more points, and… well, it’s a never-ending struggle.
It was like that yesterday.
One of his riders was Mathtilde Gailey, 98 years old and on a walker, who told him, “It just comes on you so quick, old age. Be yourself while you’ve still got the chance.” He thought about that all day.
Another was William Pomeroy, who insisted on meeting Randall “at the DoubleCola sign on the highway, ‘cause you’ll get stuck if you come down my driveway.” At the polling place, he gave his address as “the 1964 Volvo under the Persimmon Valley Bridge.”
Another was Lucille Sigmoiden, on two canes, and he had to drag her in and out of his 1956 Ford pickup, but it turned out she had been on the same PBS* program at Hope’s Promise University that he had been on, although in different years. It brought back memories of eating with his friends at the Horatio Alger Dining Hall and Pig Worming Center.
Then there was Leeroy Johnson, who proclaimed himself as “the only white Leeroy you’ll ever meet,” and told how he was trying to figure out what beauty really is, since he had lain a rice paddy in Vietnam at night with death all around but thought that the colors of the tracers in the night sky had a beauty beyond anything he ever saw before or since. It was all in his memory, for Leeroy is blind.
Then Randall realized he was giving rides to the poor and the lame and the blind and the oppressed, the very ones Jesus said he had come for, and he was glad, as usual, that he did what he had answered the call to do, even though he didn’t want to.
“I’ll bet Jesus never won the AHOY contest, though,” he muttrerd.
*Hermudgeon is a combination of hermit and curmudgeon.
*PBS=Poor But Smart
It’s a continuing problem. Or maybe it’s a problem only if you see it that way. Maybe it’s only an “issue” instead of a problem. But he sees it as a problem.
He knows he should never agree to do anything, because when it comes time to do something he has agreed to do, he doesn’t want to do it. He almost always enjoys it and is glad afterward that he did it, but at the time he doesn’t want to do it.
Part of the problem is that it costs him points in the Awesome Hermudgeon* of the Year [AHOY] competition. Any contact with a real person costs points. He’s one of the few people who likes robotic political telephone calls, because you get AHOY points for hanging up on telephone calls, and he can hang up on those with a clear conscience. And ENJOYING contacts with people costs mega points. He figures if he never agrees to do anything, then he can’t enjoy anything, and he’ll get more points, and… well, it’s a never-ending struggle.
It was like that yesterday.
One of his riders was Mathtilde Gailey, 98 years old and on a walker, who told him, “It just comes on you so quick, old age. Be yourself while you’ve still got the chance.” He thought about that all day.
Another was William Pomeroy, who insisted on meeting Randall “at the DoubleCola sign on the highway, ‘cause you’ll get stuck if you come down my driveway.” At the polling place, he gave his address as “the 1964 Volvo under the Persimmon Valley Bridge.”
Another was Lucille Sigmoiden, on two canes, and he had to drag her in and out of his 1956 Ford pickup, but it turned out she had been on the same PBS* program at Hope’s Promise University that he had been on, although in different years. It brought back memories of eating with his friends at the Horatio Alger Dining Hall and Pig Worming Center.
Then there was Leeroy Johnson, who proclaimed himself as “the only white Leeroy you’ll ever meet,” and told how he was trying to figure out what beauty really is, since he had lain a rice paddy in Vietnam at night with death all around but thought that the colors of the tracers in the night sky had a beauty beyond anything he ever saw before or since. It was all in his memory, for Leeroy is blind.
Then Randall realized he was giving rides to the poor and the lame and the blind and the oppressed, the very ones Jesus said he had come for, and he was glad, as usual, that he did what he had answered the call to do, even though he didn’t want to.
“I’ll bet Jesus never won the AHOY contest, though,” he muttrerd.
*Hermudgeon is a combination of hermit and curmudgeon.
*PBS=Poor But Smart
Monday, November 1, 2010
Biker Betty
Halloween brings out… well, what is it about being in costume that brings out a person in a person that other persons never knew existed? That’s the question everyone at the community Halloween Parade, Festival, Extravaganza and Smashing Pumpkins concert was asking last night.
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), had appeared early, in his usual “hobo in top hat” costume, which requires only the addition of his crushed velvet purple Willy Wonka/Mad Hatter topper, which he also wears when he preaches during one of the purple seasons at church, to help sort the paraders into judging categories, which, since the election is Tuesday, he did by political affiliation, which is easy enough to do when you see someone in costume.
So when Biker Betty showed up, in black eyeshade and lipstick, tattoos on her arms and cigarettes in the rolled-up sleeve of black Sturgis t-shirt and chains around her neck, nobody even came closer to guessing that it was Claire Randall, retired teacher and grandmother supreme and gracious hostess to the world. Until…
…Buster Poseyville, the leader of The Hells Angles Motorcycle Gang and Geometry Club, sauntered up to her and suggested that they “start to boldly lay down rubber,” to which Biker Betty took exception, and excoriated him for splitting an infinitive.
Randall Nathan had been ready to award the purple ribbon for “Best Costume Ever” to three-year-old Clara Wembley, a member of The Lemonade Party, since she told him he could not go to heaven unless he did so, but everyone else at the extravaganza rose up with one voice and declared that there should be two purple ribbons, since they did not want actually to test Clara’s predestinarian powers, either, one to Clara and another to Claire.
You can see all this online, since Claire does not know how to work UTube, and Clara does.
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), had appeared early, in his usual “hobo in top hat” costume, which requires only the addition of his crushed velvet purple Willy Wonka/Mad Hatter topper, which he also wears when he preaches during one of the purple seasons at church, to help sort the paraders into judging categories, which, since the election is Tuesday, he did by political affiliation, which is easy enough to do when you see someone in costume.
So when Biker Betty showed up, in black eyeshade and lipstick, tattoos on her arms and cigarettes in the rolled-up sleeve of black Sturgis t-shirt and chains around her neck, nobody even came closer to guessing that it was Claire Randall, retired teacher and grandmother supreme and gracious hostess to the world. Until…
…Buster Poseyville, the leader of The Hells Angles Motorcycle Gang and Geometry Club, sauntered up to her and suggested that they “start to boldly lay down rubber,” to which Biker Betty took exception, and excoriated him for splitting an infinitive.
Randall Nathan had been ready to award the purple ribbon for “Best Costume Ever” to three-year-old Clara Wembley, a member of The Lemonade Party, since she told him he could not go to heaven unless he did so, but everyone else at the extravaganza rose up with one voice and declared that there should be two purple ribbons, since they did not want actually to test Clara’s predestinarian powers, either, one to Clara and another to Claire.
You can see all this online, since Claire does not know how to work UTube, and Clara does.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Whale Watching in AZ
Randall Nathan talked with his high school friend, Paul Dickson. They are old and old-fashioned, so they use old technology, the telephone.
“Twyla and I go whale watching three days a week,” Paul told Randall.
“Whale watching? But you live in Arizona.”
“It’s at the Y,” said Paul. “They call it water aerobics.”
“Twyla and I go whale watching three days a week,” Paul told Randall.
“Whale watching? But you live in Arizona.”
“It’s at the Y,” said Paul. “They call it water aerobics.”
Friday, October 29, 2010
Halloween & The Collective Unconscious
“Wasn’t that a great Halloween Parade at the school today?” Edith Whistle asked Romeo Kostrastophe as she refilled his cup of ‘Moose Drool Special Blend’ at the counter at “The Whistle and Thistle Bar and Koan Self-Store.”
“What school?” asked Mr. Kostrastophe.
“Why, the Magnet School,” said Edith.
“Magnet” is short for “The Lucious Altphart Magnet School,” named for the famous chicken farmer, who was renowned as a “chick magnet” for all the little hatchlings who followed him wherever he went.
“They didn’t tell me anything about it,” said Romeo Kostrastophe, “and my grandson goes there. I would have liked to see him in his ‘Revenge of the Moose’ costume. There wasn’t any announcement in the paper or the radio or the web, either. WTH?”
“Here we operate on the basis of Jungian psychology,” observed Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms from two stools away.
“WTH?” said Romeo and Edith together.
“The collective unconscious,” said Prof. Bottoms. “There are some things you just have to be born knowing.
“What school?” asked Mr. Kostrastophe.
“Why, the Magnet School,” said Edith.
“Magnet” is short for “The Lucious Altphart Magnet School,” named for the famous chicken farmer, who was renowned as a “chick magnet” for all the little hatchlings who followed him wherever he went.
“They didn’t tell me anything about it,” said Romeo Kostrastophe, “and my grandson goes there. I would have liked to see him in his ‘Revenge of the Moose’ costume. There wasn’t any announcement in the paper or the radio or the web, either. WTH?”
“Here we operate on the basis of Jungian psychology,” observed Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms from two stools away.
“WTH?” said Romeo and Edith together.
“The collective unconscious,” said Prof. Bottoms. “There are some things you just have to be born knowing.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The White Castle House Church
Having seen a piece on NBC news about house churches, as though it’s a new thing, even though that’s the way the church started, and house churches have been around consistently for over 2000 years, Derrick Crane, the manager imported from Los Angeles to direct the new White Castle in Memphjus, the seat of Periwinkle County, out on the bypass, decided to start a house church at WC, since a castle is simply a house. He’s using the slogan, “Every Man’s Home is His [White] Castle.”
This touched off a demonstration of POW, Periwinkle Organization of Women, on the theory that men rarely help out around the castle, so it should be “Every Woman’s Home is Her [White] Castle,” but Derrick placated them with White Castle scented candles, which have a particularly disabling effect on those who sniff them.
Claire Nathan says that their church motto should be “But ye are… a peculiar people…” [I Peter 2:9, KJV]
This touched off a demonstration of POW, Periwinkle Organization of Women, on the theory that men rarely help out around the castle, so it should be “Every Woman’s Home is Her [White] Castle,” but Derrick placated them with White Castle scented candles, which have a particularly disabling effect on those who sniff them.
Claire Nathan says that their church motto should be “But ye are… a peculiar people…” [I Peter 2:9, KJV]
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Whither Goest Thou?
Bronc “Three Finger” Ryder, the famous Cowboy Poet, and the Poet Lariat of Periwinkle County, was performing last night at the “Cues & Clues Pool Hall and Detective Agency” saloon. Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms played backup kazoo for Bronc’s distinctive styling on the “kitty litter guitar,” the smaller version of the “dog house bass.” After everyone had gotten settled so that saloon-keeper Lefty Muldoom, who was a lion tamer in Lost Wages, NV before retiring to East Overshoe, in the western sunflower and persimmon country of Periwinkle County, could turn off the smoothie machine, Bronc didn’t worry about tuning or key, he just started singing.
First he did “Black, black is the color of my love’s true hair,” not exactly the way John Jacob Niles sang it, then “Which side are you on,” about a drunk cowboy who is trying to find the stirrup so he can get on his horse, then “Goodnight, Ilean,” about a one-legged cowgirl. Then he arrived at his “piece de resistance,” about a piece of pie that kept sliding off the plate, followed by his most famous hit, “You Wiped a Booger on the White Sleeve of My Heart”:
You wiped a booger on the white sleeve of my heart
You stuck a wrench in my transmission which subsequently came apart
You fed me lots of broccoli that made me want to…
start… singing one for the money, two for the show
Three to get ready and four to go…
To Walmart… let’s go to Walmart…
He was going to lurch into the second verse, but Lucinda Metzenboggle rose up, like a warm breeze on a hot night, from a table in the dark corner below the “Griesedieck Brothers Beer” sign. She walked forward, cradling her pink ukulele like a babe in swaddling clothes, and took up the tune…
You wiped a booger on the bare arm of my soul
You promised me a stallion but I only got a foal
You said we’d climb a mountain but we fell into a…
hole, singing one for the money, two for the show
Three to get ready and four to go…
To Walmart… let’s go to Walmart…
Ben “Seymour” Bottoms saw a stare go between the eyes of Bronc and Lucinda, like a laser beam so strong you could walk on it. Bronc stuck his guitar out and let it go. Seymour grabbed it just before it fell to earth. Lucinda did the same with her pink ukulele, which Claire Nathan grabbed, even though it clashed with her orange and black Halloween sweater, featuring representations of a Delaware senatorial candidate. Lucinda Metzenboggle turned on the heel of her pink rhinestone cowgirl boot and marched to the swinging doors like a honkey tonk goddess. Bronc Ryder followed her like a man who walks the line.
“I wonder where they’re going” mused the Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard).
First he did “Black, black is the color of my love’s true hair,” not exactly the way John Jacob Niles sang it, then “Which side are you on,” about a drunk cowboy who is trying to find the stirrup so he can get on his horse, then “Goodnight, Ilean,” about a one-legged cowgirl. Then he arrived at his “piece de resistance,” about a piece of pie that kept sliding off the plate, followed by his most famous hit, “You Wiped a Booger on the White Sleeve of My Heart”:
You wiped a booger on the white sleeve of my heart
You stuck a wrench in my transmission which subsequently came apart
You fed me lots of broccoli that made me want to…
start… singing one for the money, two for the show
Three to get ready and four to go…
To Walmart… let’s go to Walmart…
He was going to lurch into the second verse, but Lucinda Metzenboggle rose up, like a warm breeze on a hot night, from a table in the dark corner below the “Griesedieck Brothers Beer” sign. She walked forward, cradling her pink ukulele like a babe in swaddling clothes, and took up the tune…
You wiped a booger on the bare arm of my soul
You promised me a stallion but I only got a foal
You said we’d climb a mountain but we fell into a…
hole, singing one for the money, two for the show
Three to get ready and four to go…
To Walmart… let’s go to Walmart…
Ben “Seymour” Bottoms saw a stare go between the eyes of Bronc and Lucinda, like a laser beam so strong you could walk on it. Bronc stuck his guitar out and let it go. Seymour grabbed it just before it fell to earth. Lucinda did the same with her pink ukulele, which Claire Nathan grabbed, even though it clashed with her orange and black Halloween sweater, featuring representations of a Delaware senatorial candidate. Lucinda Metzenboggle turned on the heel of her pink rhinestone cowgirl boot and marched to the swinging doors like a honkey tonk goddess. Bronc Ryder followed her like a man who walks the line.
“I wonder where they’re going” mused the Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard).
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
The Return
The many fans of Periwinkle Chronicles who have been silently clamoring for a return to the tales of the denizens of the county some readers refer to as Persimmon County, will be delighted when they turn out the lights, and also when they learn that said denizens have returned from their unanticipated sojourn in Somalia, referred to by three-year-old Clara Wembley as “Sowhatsittoya,” having been hijacked by Somalia pirates while cruising the beautiful blue Danube while on their way to Madagascar, called “Maggie’s Gas Car” by Clara, it being Clara’s idea in the first place to take the Danube shortcut to go see the penguins of Maggie’s Gas Car, she having announced during the Joys & Concerns at Sunday worship on The Ms Hotdam that anyone who said “No” to her one more time would not be able to go to heaven, and everyone waited for Pastor Patty to meet this theological challenge, but Pastor Patty has a three-year-old herself, so she was not about to say “No” to Clara, especially since Clara was wearing a hat festooned with old tea bags that she had picked up out of her yard after a particular parade had passed by, the parade being especially loud for such a small group of paraders, even though the local Faux News Channel claimed there had been over 310 million people in the parade, which is more than the entire population of Periwinkle County, but Faux News has been known to count illegal aliens from the planet Factless, and so Clara’s nana, Kate Bates, had gone inside to escape the noise from the vuvuzelas of the soccer moms in the parade, both of them, so she did not know that Clara had not only picked up the hat but had packed it for the cruise on Ms Hotdam, so they were on their way to Maggie’s Gas Car, the capital of which, according to Clara, is Maggie’s Dish Towel, although that’s actually in Sowhatsittoya, and to secure their release had to work out an exchange with the pirates, who had become addicted to Claire Nathan’s persimmon pudding while holding the Periwinklians hostage. And so it goes…
Sunday, October 24, 2010
How Preachers Get Retired
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), was sitting with Claire at the “Good To the Last Slop Coffee House and Former Pig Barn” when four sixtyish ladies in blue jeans and white running jeans and gray ponytails and orange tee-shirts proclaiming “Persimmon Fest 2010” came bustling in.
“I’ll bet you can’t tell what we’re here for,” the one with the little foofie that looked like a broomstick on her ponytail yelled.
“The hookers’ convention?” Randall asked.
“I’ll bet you’re a preacher,” the woman retorted, arms akimbo.
“Not since he started making comments like that,” observed Claire.
“I’ll bet you can’t tell what we’re here for,” the one with the little foofie that looked like a broomstick on her ponytail yelled.
“The hookers’ convention?” Randall asked.
“I’ll bet you’re a preacher,” the woman retorted, arms akimbo.
“Not since he started making comments like that,” observed Claire.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Exchange
[Continuing the posts of 9-3, 9-30, 10-1, 10-2, and 10-3, with apologies for being so erratic in posting…]
“I have to write a song about it,” intoned Joe, in the key of A.
He started to play air guitar on the binoculars of the little old lady with the blue hair.
“Oh, I need persimmons to make plentiful pudding to pacify the pirates into placidity,” he lowly lilted.
“Kay Pasa, Uncle Joe,” said Clara.
“Is Kay on the ship, too?”
“Yes, and you’d better get going, because I think she’s getting tired of waiting for this to pasa.”
Just then, as happens so conveniently in stories, Chad and Mike came strolling along. Joe explained the disappearance of the whole of Periwinkle County.
“If it’s Claire Nathan in trouble, we have no choice,” said Mike. “Randall… well, who cares? But if it’s Claire, we’ve got to do a benefit concert to raise money for persimmon ransom.”
“You have to do it in Maggie Dishtowel’s place,” said Clara.
“You mean Mogadishu?” asked Mike.
“Whatever,” said Clara. “The place where the pirates live. But there are no persimmons there.”
“We’ll just have to work out an exchange,” said Joe.
So Chad and Joe and Mike and Paul and Bob and Ron went to Mogadishu and gave a benefit concert for the pirated Periwinklians. The pirates all agreed that it was great and that they would abide by the exchange.
Some were happy to give up the piratical life for persimmons, but others insisted on a different sort of exchange.
That is why there is now an agricultural mission of Periwinklians in Somalia teaching former pirates how to grow persimmons, and why there is a shipload of Somali pirates plying the Blue Bottom River in Periwinkle County.
“I have to write a song about it,” intoned Joe, in the key of A.
He started to play air guitar on the binoculars of the little old lady with the blue hair.
“Oh, I need persimmons to make plentiful pudding to pacify the pirates into placidity,” he lowly lilted.
“Kay Pasa, Uncle Joe,” said Clara.
“Is Kay on the ship, too?”
“Yes, and you’d better get going, because I think she’s getting tired of waiting for this to pasa.”
Just then, as happens so conveniently in stories, Chad and Mike came strolling along. Joe explained the disappearance of the whole of Periwinkle County.
“If it’s Claire Nathan in trouble, we have no choice,” said Mike. “Randall… well, who cares? But if it’s Claire, we’ve got to do a benefit concert to raise money for persimmon ransom.”
“You have to do it in Maggie Dishtowel’s place,” said Clara.
“You mean Mogadishu?” asked Mike.
“Whatever,” said Clara. “The place where the pirates live. But there are no persimmons there.”
“We’ll just have to work out an exchange,” said Joe.
So Chad and Joe and Mike and Paul and Bob and Ron went to Mogadishu and gave a benefit concert for the pirated Periwinklians. The pirates all agreed that it was great and that they would abide by the exchange.
Some were happy to give up the piratical life for persimmons, but others insisted on a different sort of exchange.
That is why there is now an agricultural mission of Periwinklians in Somalia teaching former pirates how to grow persimmons, and why there is a shipload of Somali pirates plying the Blue Bottom River in Periwinkle County.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
The Bird's Tale
[Continuing from 9-30 through 10-2]
“Persimmon on its breath,” mused Joe Frazier. [“Folkin’ Joe,” the baritone, not “Smokin’ Joe,” the boxer] “That bird could come from only one place. PC, and I don’t mean Politically Correct. Except that now all of Periwinkle County went cruising, and that note from the bottle says they were boarded by Somali pirates and taken into Mogadishu and unloaded onto…”
He scanned the horizon once again. Yes, a second ship with black sails, this one with a skull and crossbones flag.
Suddenly a very large bird behind loomed in front of him. “WTBB!” he exclaimed.
The little brown everyday bird had turned around and was sticking its tail in front of the binoculars. At first Joe thought it must have come from the ship with the black tea party sails and was just mooning him on general principles, but then he saw the post-it note.
He remembered the second thing Molly Ivins had impressed upon her fellow baritones at his commencement from Baritone School [BS]: “Never read a message that comes from a bird’s behind. Only basses do that.”
He looked around for Mike. No bass in sight.
“I’m going to have to lower my voice and my standards and read that thing myself,” he intoned.
Carefully he unrolled it. He recognized the handwriting.
“Running dangerously low on persimmon pudding,” it read. “It’s the only thing that is keeping us alive. The pirates love it, but once it’s gone, we have no hope. Need persimmons to live…”
“So,” murmured Joe, “Claire Nathan is on that pirate ship with the black sails, and she needs persimmons to make more pudding to pacify the pirates into placidity. It’s clear what I must do…”
“Persimmon on its breath,” mused Joe Frazier. [“Folkin’ Joe,” the baritone, not “Smokin’ Joe,” the boxer] “That bird could come from only one place. PC, and I don’t mean Politically Correct. Except that now all of Periwinkle County went cruising, and that note from the bottle says they were boarded by Somali pirates and taken into Mogadishu and unloaded onto…”
He scanned the horizon once again. Yes, a second ship with black sails, this one with a skull and crossbones flag.
Suddenly a very large bird behind loomed in front of him. “WTBB!” he exclaimed.
The little brown everyday bird had turned around and was sticking its tail in front of the binoculars. At first Joe thought it must have come from the ship with the black tea party sails and was just mooning him on general principles, but then he saw the post-it note.
He remembered the second thing Molly Ivins had impressed upon her fellow baritones at his commencement from Baritone School [BS]: “Never read a message that comes from a bird’s behind. Only basses do that.”
He looked around for Mike. No bass in sight.
“I’m going to have to lower my voice and my standards and read that thing myself,” he intoned.
Carefully he unrolled it. He recognized the handwriting.
“Running dangerously low on persimmon pudding,” it read. “It’s the only thing that is keeping us alive. The pirates love it, but once it’s gone, we have no hope. Need persimmons to live…”
“So,” murmured Joe, “Claire Nathan is on that pirate ship with the black sails, and she needs persimmons to make more pudding to pacify the pirates into placidity. It’s clear what I must do…”
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Persimmon Breath
[Continued from 9-30-10 and 10-1-10, just like Thackeray doing “Vanity Fair.”]
When he saw the ship with the black sails, Joe Frazier [“Singin’ Joe,” not “Smokin’ Joe] quickly grabbed the binoculars out of the hands of a lady with blue hair.
“Hey,” she yelled, “give those back. I just figured out where the poop deck is.”
“NSA,” said Joe.
“No strings attached? Why did you say that?” asked the old lady.
“Because your binocs don’t have a strap,” Joe answered. “Also because I’m cool and can talk txt.”
“I still don’t see what that has to do with the poop deck,” groused the old lady.
Joe ignored her and scanned the waters, turned the dials on the binocs, found the ship with the black sails. There was a strange but familiar flag. It featured a picture of a tea bag, and the words, in “Intolerant” font, “We are the only true patriots.”
“Not Somalis,” the Joe muttered. “A different breed of pirates.”
He felt a slight weight on the binoculars. He pulled them back from his eyes. There sat a little brown everyday bird.
“Let me smell your breath,” Joe said to the bird.
The bird didn’t budge. Joe patted his pockets, hoping to find the raisin bread he had pocketed that morning in the Lido Restaurant on Deck 9. As he did so, a crumb of leftover Eucharist wafer popped off his lapel. The bird snatched it deftly out of the air.
“Well, I guess you’re an Episcopalian now,” said Joe.
The bird promptly puked on the toe of his priest shoe. But not before he had smelled its breath.
“Just as I thought,” mused the priest. “Persimmon on its breath. That can mean only one thing…”
When he saw the ship with the black sails, Joe Frazier [“Singin’ Joe,” not “Smokin’ Joe] quickly grabbed the binoculars out of the hands of a lady with blue hair.
“Hey,” she yelled, “give those back. I just figured out where the poop deck is.”
“NSA,” said Joe.
“No strings attached? Why did you say that?” asked the old lady.
“Because your binocs don’t have a strap,” Joe answered. “Also because I’m cool and can talk txt.”
“I still don’t see what that has to do with the poop deck,” groused the old lady.
Joe ignored her and scanned the waters, turned the dials on the binocs, found the ship with the black sails. There was a strange but familiar flag. It featured a picture of a tea bag, and the words, in “Intolerant” font, “We are the only true patriots.”
“Not Somalis,” the Joe muttered. “A different breed of pirates.”
He felt a slight weight on the binoculars. He pulled them back from his eyes. There sat a little brown everyday bird.
“Let me smell your breath,” Joe said to the bird.
The bird didn’t budge. Joe patted his pockets, hoping to find the raisin bread he had pocketed that morning in the Lido Restaurant on Deck 9. As he did so, a crumb of leftover Eucharist wafer popped off his lapel. The bird snatched it deftly out of the air.
“Well, I guess you’re an Episcopalian now,” said Joe.
The bird promptly puked on the toe of his priest shoe. But not before he had smelled its breath.
“Just as I thought,” mused the priest. “Persimmon on its breath. That can mean only one thing…”
Friday, October 1, 2010
The Ship With the Black Sails
Joe Frazier stared at the message in the bottle. And the inward battle began, just as it had ever since he had received his BS [Barely Stable] degree at BS [Baritone School]. At his graduation, the commencement speaker, the late lamented Molly Ivins, herself a baritone, had impressed one thing upon them: “As a baritone, you must never respond to messages in bottles. That is for tenors.”
He looked around for Chad. No tenor in sight. He knew he should just walk away, but… he was also a radical priest now, vicar in an Episcopal mission, not just a baritone in a trio. Radical priests never walk away from any message that calls for help, even if it is in a bottle.
And this was definitely a cry for help. After he had figured out all the “idk” and “wtf” and “lol” and “crs” references, it was clear that the Ms Hotdam, the ship of The Ancient Mariner Cruise Lines, on which the Periwinklians had been taking their joint vacation, had been hijacked by Somali pirates. Apparently Ms Hotdam was towed into Mogadishu and the Periwinklians were offloaded onto a pirate sailing ship.
“They should have read Coleridge before getting on a ship of The Ancient Mariner Lines,” Joe muttered. “The ancient mariner didn’t fare very well.”
The problem was that no one in The State Dept, nor in Periwinkle County’s home state of CO [not Colorado, with which it is often confused, because of the similar postal CO, but the state of COnfusion] was willing to ransom them. He knew if he could wait it out long enough, the pirates would be willing to pay to get rid of them, but in the meantime, all sorts of awful things could happen. Somali pirates were known to humiliate dogs, by dressing them up in funny costumes. Joe could not think of a worse fate for a dog, and he knew what his dog-daughter, [you may insert the joke about the dyslexic agnostic here], Clara Wembley, would do with Shingles once she leaned that tidbit of information.
Then he saw the ship with the black sails…
He looked around for Chad. No tenor in sight. He knew he should just walk away, but… he was also a radical priest now, vicar in an Episcopal mission, not just a baritone in a trio. Radical priests never walk away from any message that calls for help, even if it is in a bottle.
And this was definitely a cry for help. After he had figured out all the “idk” and “wtf” and “lol” and “crs” references, it was clear that the Ms Hotdam, the ship of The Ancient Mariner Cruise Lines, on which the Periwinklians had been taking their joint vacation, had been hijacked by Somali pirates. Apparently Ms Hotdam was towed into Mogadishu and the Periwinklians were offloaded onto a pirate sailing ship.
“They should have read Coleridge before getting on a ship of The Ancient Mariner Lines,” Joe muttered. “The ancient mariner didn’t fare very well.”
The problem was that no one in The State Dept, nor in Periwinkle County’s home state of CO [not Colorado, with which it is often confused, because of the similar postal CO, but the state of COnfusion] was willing to ransom them. He knew if he could wait it out long enough, the pirates would be willing to pay to get rid of them, but in the meantime, all sorts of awful things could happen. Somali pirates were known to humiliate dogs, by dressing them up in funny costumes. Joe could not think of a worse fate for a dog, and he knew what his dog-daughter, [you may insert the joke about the dyslexic agnostic here], Clara Wembley, would do with Shingles once she leaned that tidbit of information.
Then he saw the ship with the black sails…
Thursday, September 30, 2010
The Note in the Bottle
Joe Frazier, the baritone of The Chad Mitchell Trio, was ambling along humming “Queen Eleanor’s Confession” when he fell into the Atlantic Ocean. Well, it wasn’t exactly the ocean. He fell off the boardwalk in Halifax, into the water beside one of those dam ships, Ms Eurodam, and that harbor is sort of part of the ocean.
He was there because The CMT was cruising, along with their fans, from NYC to Quebec City, sitting around singing together each night after supper. It had been a good concert the night before, and now Episcopal priest Joe had ridden the funicular up into the city to visit the cathedral, and now he was feeling pretty good but a little tired, and he saw the bottle, bobbing in the water. It looked like it had a note inside.
Trying to reach the bottle, he fell into the drink. “The Ballad of the Greenland Whalers” came to mind as he grabbed the bottle and paddled his way back to shore. An old lady from the ship reached her walker out to him to pull him in.
He sat on the boardwalk, drying off in the sun, uncorked the bottle, and pulled out the note. It was written on stationery from the Ms Hotdam, a ship of The Ancient Mariner Cruise Line. The ink was runny, but he managed to work it out.
“So that’s why we haven’t heard from anyone from Periwinkle County in so long…” he muttered.
He was there because The CMT was cruising, along with their fans, from NYC to Quebec City, sitting around singing together each night after supper. It had been a good concert the night before, and now Episcopal priest Joe had ridden the funicular up into the city to visit the cathedral, and now he was feeling pretty good but a little tired, and he saw the bottle, bobbing in the water. It looked like it had a note inside.
Trying to reach the bottle, he fell into the drink. “The Ballad of the Greenland Whalers” came to mind as he grabbed the bottle and paddled his way back to shore. An old lady from the ship reached her walker out to him to pull him in.
He sat on the boardwalk, drying off in the sun, uncorked the bottle, and pulled out the note. It was written on stationery from the Ms Hotdam, a ship of The Ancient Mariner Cruise Line. The ink was runny, but he managed to work it out.
“So that’s why we haven’t heard from anyone from Periwinkle County in so long…” he muttered.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Cruisin'
“We’re going on a cruise!” Claire Nathan exulted to Randall.
Everyone in Periwinkle County takes a vacation together each September. It’s not really a vacation. They go some place to work in the vineyards of the Lord.
In past years they have gone to Saskatchewan to help with the persimmon harvest, or to Florence to restore old paintings with persimmon oil, or to Provence to help with the persimmon stomping.
“How’s going on a cruise going to qualify as working in the vineyards of the Lord?” asked Claire’s husband, The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard).
“We’re going to take persimmon pudding to Mali, so they can have a balanced diet.”
“Hmm… I used to date a girl named Mali,” said Randall.
Their grandchildren, Betsy and Johnny, rolled their eyes. They’ve heard of their grandpa’s old girlfriends before.
“The town council has rented the whole Ms. Hotdam cruise ship from Ancient Mariner Cruise Lines,” said Claire. “The Persimmon Boys are going along to provide music on the cruise. One of them is a preacher now, you know. They call him Pastor Persimmon. Because of Hurricane Hannah off the east coast, they’re going to come right up the Mississippi and pick us up at our landing.”
And it happened. Everyone in Periwinkle County got on Ms. Hotdam.
Ancient Mariner Cruise Lines has no ship to shore communication possibilities, other than messenger albatrosses, so we shall hear no more of the Periwinklians until they return from… oh, wait a minute… that’s not Mali on the destination line… it’s Somalia….
Everyone in Periwinkle County takes a vacation together each September. It’s not really a vacation. They go some place to work in the vineyards of the Lord.
In past years they have gone to Saskatchewan to help with the persimmon harvest, or to Florence to restore old paintings with persimmon oil, or to Provence to help with the persimmon stomping.
“How’s going on a cruise going to qualify as working in the vineyards of the Lord?” asked Claire’s husband, The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard).
“We’re going to take persimmon pudding to Mali, so they can have a balanced diet.”
“Hmm… I used to date a girl named Mali,” said Randall.
Their grandchildren, Betsy and Johnny, rolled their eyes. They’ve heard of their grandpa’s old girlfriends before.
“The town council has rented the whole Ms. Hotdam cruise ship from Ancient Mariner Cruise Lines,” said Claire. “The Persimmon Boys are going along to provide music on the cruise. One of them is a preacher now, you know. They call him Pastor Persimmon. Because of Hurricane Hannah off the east coast, they’re going to come right up the Mississippi and pick us up at our landing.”
And it happened. Everyone in Periwinkle County got on Ms. Hotdam.
Ancient Mariner Cruise Lines has no ship to shore communication possibilities, other than messenger albatrosses, so we shall hear no more of the Periwinklians until they return from… oh, wait a minute… that’s not Mali on the destination line… it’s Somalia….
Thursday, September 2, 2010
A Bad Combination for a Funeral
Ulysses “Dutch” Germany died this week. They held his funeral yesterday afternoon at Waterloo Cemetery. Dutch was a WWII vet, so the VFW was there to give him a rifle salute sendoff.
That is not automatic these days. It was rumored that Dutch had voted for Obama, so there were VFW members who voted against military honors at his funeral. It was Randall Nathan who counted the votes, though, and he claimed the majority was for rifles for Dutch, and no one wanted to argue with a preacher, even a retired one, for fear of being mentioned in a sermon.
All the undertakers had left the county for a conference at Kill Devil Hills, which accorded with their usual good timing according to Jenny Newland, so Jake Newland, retired undertaker, was pressed into service.
Dutch’s wife, Dutchie, wanted a dove release at the end of the service. Jake threw them into the air just as the VFW color guard came out of the beer tent and fired the somewhat raggedy rifle salute.
“Taps” was even more mournful than usual.
That is not automatic these days. It was rumored that Dutch had voted for Obama, so there were VFW members who voted against military honors at his funeral. It was Randall Nathan who counted the votes, though, and he claimed the majority was for rifles for Dutch, and no one wanted to argue with a preacher, even a retired one, for fear of being mentioned in a sermon.
All the undertakers had left the county for a conference at Kill Devil Hills, which accorded with their usual good timing according to Jenny Newland, so Jake Newland, retired undertaker, was pressed into service.
Dutch’s wife, Dutchie, wanted a dove release at the end of the service. Jake threw them into the air just as the VFW color guard came out of the beer tent and fired the somewhat raggedy rifle salute.
“Taps” was even more mournful than usual.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Shingles Applies for a Job
“Clara, back on August 24, you said that Shingles wouldn’t get a job even though there were plenty of jobs available for dogs. But I haven’t seen him around for a while. Did he get a job?”
Jake Newland was sitting on his front porch, splitting a Dreamsicle with three-year-old Clara Wembley, who still has not forgiven Shingles the Dog for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve.
“No, he didn’t get a job. You haven’t seen him because he’s in rehab at the Michelle Bachman Clinic. Cycle problems.”
“Did he have a bicycle accident?”
“No. You know, cycle, like cyclelogical. He flunked the cyclelogical test when he applied for a job at BP.”
“He applied for a job at BP?”
“You need to get your hearing aid batteries replaced, Mr. Jake. Yes. My older brother, Marp, can write, so he wrote a letter to BP and signed Shingles’ name, but I told him what to write. Said Shingles was an oil hound and could clean up oil.”
“That’s not exactly true, Clara.”
“Hey, we’re talking about BP here. Worked great at first. BP did a lot of TV advertising about how they’ve got this new method for cleaning up oil so they don’t have to pay penalties now. Didn’t you see all this on TV?”
“Well, Jennie doesn’t let me watch TV since I sent Glen Beck a gift certificate for a burial plot,” said Jake, the retired undertaker.
Clara said: “That Congress guy from Texas, Joe Barton, said that dog owners should apologize to BP for not sending their dogs earlier. He said dog owners are selfish and spoiled and just want their dogs for themselves when they could be giving them to BP to they could get bigger profits because then there could be enough bonuses to hire more illegal aliens as house slaves and stimulate the economy. But then it all went south when Shingles flunked the cyclelogical exam. He wasn’t conservative enough.”
“The psychological exam for dogs shows if they are conservative or liberal?”
“Well, it surprised me, too. But conservative dogs are exempt from having to get jobs because they are trained to stay home and bark and drown out the president when he’s on TV.”
“When will Shingles be back?” asked Jake.
“I suspect never. Michelle Bachman came to visit and he bit her. Then he bit three nurses.”
“Why would he bite three nurses?”
“Just had to get the taste out of his mouth, I guess.”
Jake Newland was sitting on his front porch, splitting a Dreamsicle with three-year-old Clara Wembley, who still has not forgiven Shingles the Dog for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve.
“No, he didn’t get a job. You haven’t seen him because he’s in rehab at the Michelle Bachman Clinic. Cycle problems.”
“Did he have a bicycle accident?”
“No. You know, cycle, like cyclelogical. He flunked the cyclelogical test when he applied for a job at BP.”
“He applied for a job at BP?”
“You need to get your hearing aid batteries replaced, Mr. Jake. Yes. My older brother, Marp, can write, so he wrote a letter to BP and signed Shingles’ name, but I told him what to write. Said Shingles was an oil hound and could clean up oil.”
“That’s not exactly true, Clara.”
“Hey, we’re talking about BP here. Worked great at first. BP did a lot of TV advertising about how they’ve got this new method for cleaning up oil so they don’t have to pay penalties now. Didn’t you see all this on TV?”
“Well, Jennie doesn’t let me watch TV since I sent Glen Beck a gift certificate for a burial plot,” said Jake, the retired undertaker.
Clara said: “That Congress guy from Texas, Joe Barton, said that dog owners should apologize to BP for not sending their dogs earlier. He said dog owners are selfish and spoiled and just want their dogs for themselves when they could be giving them to BP to they could get bigger profits because then there could be enough bonuses to hire more illegal aliens as house slaves and stimulate the economy. But then it all went south when Shingles flunked the cyclelogical exam. He wasn’t conservative enough.”
“The psychological exam for dogs shows if they are conservative or liberal?”
“Well, it surprised me, too. But conservative dogs are exempt from having to get jobs because they are trained to stay home and bark and drown out the president when he’s on TV.”
“When will Shingles be back?” asked Jake.
“I suspect never. Michelle Bachman came to visit and he bit her. Then he bit three nurses.”
“Why would he bite three nurses?”
“Just had to get the taste out of his mouth, I guess.”
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Perwinkle's Got Talent
Randall and Claire Nathan took their grandchildren, Johnny and Betsy, to their music lessons this week. Betsy is a pianist of note, several of them, in fact, and Johnny is known to everyone at “The Bill and Ludwig Monroe Studios” as “The Mando Commando.” Billy Ray Morris, Johnny’s mandolin teacher, came out to the waiting room, where students and parents gather before and after lessons, to tell Randall and Claire that they would skip the lesson on Rosh Hashanah, since he used to play with “The Texas Jewboys” band and still celebrates with them.
At the mention of Rosh Hashanah, naturally Randall and Claire got up and started dancing the Hava Nagila, right there in front of everybody. Billy Ray grabbed his guitar and accompanied them.
“Hey, you’re good,” he said. “You should enter the Periwinkle’s Got Talent show.”
“No way,” said Betsy. “I’m not as embarrassed by them as I was when I was little, because I’m getting used to it, but no way I’m going to let them be on national TV.”
So the show went on without her dancing grandparents, but it was a good show anyway.
Franklin and Eleanor, Jake and Jenny Newland’s potbellied pigs, did their particular rendition of “This little piggy went to market.”
Three-year-old Clara Wembley made Shingles the Dog, whom she still has not forgiven for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve, howl “The Hallelujah Chorus” by pulling on different ears, tail, etc to create different notes.
Ben “Seymour” Bottoms played “Pomp and Circumstance” on the ukulele.
Edith Whistle and “The Elvisettes” tap danced to “Pachelbel’s Canon,” having mistaken it for “Polly Belle’s Cannon.”
The winner, however, who will advance to Fargo for the finals, was a baby billed as Lady GooGoo. Even Simon voted for her, saying that her lyrics were not only more understandable than Lady GaGa’s, but that they made more sense.
At the mention of Rosh Hashanah, naturally Randall and Claire got up and started dancing the Hava Nagila, right there in front of everybody. Billy Ray grabbed his guitar and accompanied them.
“Hey, you’re good,” he said. “You should enter the Periwinkle’s Got Talent show.”
“No way,” said Betsy. “I’m not as embarrassed by them as I was when I was little, because I’m getting used to it, but no way I’m going to let them be on national TV.”
So the show went on without her dancing grandparents, but it was a good show anyway.
Franklin and Eleanor, Jake and Jenny Newland’s potbellied pigs, did their particular rendition of “This little piggy went to market.”
Three-year-old Clara Wembley made Shingles the Dog, whom she still has not forgiven for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve, howl “The Hallelujah Chorus” by pulling on different ears, tail, etc to create different notes.
Ben “Seymour” Bottoms played “Pomp and Circumstance” on the ukulele.
Edith Whistle and “The Elvisettes” tap danced to “Pachelbel’s Canon,” having mistaken it for “Polly Belle’s Cannon.”
The winner, however, who will advance to Fargo for the finals, was a baby billed as Lady GooGoo. Even Simon voted for her, saying that her lyrics were not only more understandable than Lady GaGa’s, but that they made more sense.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Word & Words
Betsy Kendy, Claire and Randall Nathan’s granddaughter, is the Freshman Class member of the student council at The P. Michael Dickey High School in Winfast, in the “boot” corner of Periwinkle County.
The council has only one member from the frosh class, two sophomores, three juniors, and seven seniors, guaranteeing that the seniors can always win any vote.
The council had its first meeting to prepare for the coming year. School is not in session yet, and her parents were working, so Randall took her to the school and picked her up after the meeting in his un-restored 1947 Studebaker pickup truck.
“Good grief,” said Betsy, as she reached through the open window to grab the pliers that operate the door handle on her side of the truck. “What a bunch of trivia. All they wanted to talk about was what the cafeteria should have for lunch on Gary Bass Day. I said, ‘Duh. Fish, of course.’ They acted like they didn’t hear me, but then later they decided on fish.”
“Well, it sounds like you were successful, even if you didn’t get the credit,” Randall said.
“LOL! I should be so successful. They paid no attention to anything I suggested—a dance marathon to raise money for cancer kids, getting more electives and special lectures, educating voters on school funding. Nothing but which color to wear on William Luther White Day. Well, white, duh. We’re supposed to be training to be the leaders of tomorrow, and all we do is trivia.”
“That sounds about right, Betsy. All the leaders of today do is trivial, so you’re right on track.”
“Well, couldn’t you make the student council at least think about more important stuff?”
“Why me?” asked Randall.
“Well, you write this stuff, duh. You can put anything you want into it. Isn’t that the point of writing fiction, to make it come out the way you want?”
Betsy has been ahead of her classmates for a long time, and that’s not always a comfortable place to be. Randall recalled when she was a student at “Perry the Imp Pre-School ,” motto: “Every man his own plan. Every day a new way.” One day she said, “There’s this boy who rides his trike around and calls it a bike. I explained to him that ‘tri’ means three and ‘bi’ means two, so it had to be a tricycle, not a bicycle, but he kept calling it a bike, anyway.” She was three years old. Her mother said, “Well, honey, I guess your Latin is just better than his.”
“Fiction is no good, Betsy, if it’s not also true, if people can’t see their own stories in the story you’re telling. Even science fiction works only if it’s true, when people on Mars or in space have the same problems as people on earth.”
“Well, in a place like Periwinkle County, you should be able to make things come out the right way,” Betsy groused.
“Even the Bible doesn’t do that,” said Randall. “The Bible is meaningful to us because it’s true fiction. All of our stories are in there, not just the ones that come out right, but the heartbreaks and sorrows and trivia, too. That’s why the books of the Bible are the words of God. They are not “The Word of God,” even though we often say that.”
“What do you mean?
“Christ is The Word of God, not the Bible. It’s curious, why people mistake the Bible for Christ. ‘Christ’ means God’s word, God’s way of communicating to us. After all, Jesus doesn’t say that the Bible is the Word of God, but the Bible DOES say that Christ is the Word of God.”
“Are you just making this up?”
“Some people would think so. They get ‘true’ confused with ‘factual.’ But the Bible words, all of them, joy words and sorrow words both, are the words of our lives, so God speaks to us through them.”
“Well, couldn’t you at least get people to work on the important problems, instead of just blaming somebody else for them?”
“Betsy, there are some things even a fiction writer can’t do.”
The council has only one member from the frosh class, two sophomores, three juniors, and seven seniors, guaranteeing that the seniors can always win any vote.
The council had its first meeting to prepare for the coming year. School is not in session yet, and her parents were working, so Randall took her to the school and picked her up after the meeting in his un-restored 1947 Studebaker pickup truck.
“Good grief,” said Betsy, as she reached through the open window to grab the pliers that operate the door handle on her side of the truck. “What a bunch of trivia. All they wanted to talk about was what the cafeteria should have for lunch on Gary Bass Day. I said, ‘Duh. Fish, of course.’ They acted like they didn’t hear me, but then later they decided on fish.”
“Well, it sounds like you were successful, even if you didn’t get the credit,” Randall said.
“LOL! I should be so successful. They paid no attention to anything I suggested—a dance marathon to raise money for cancer kids, getting more electives and special lectures, educating voters on school funding. Nothing but which color to wear on William Luther White Day. Well, white, duh. We’re supposed to be training to be the leaders of tomorrow, and all we do is trivia.”
“That sounds about right, Betsy. All the leaders of today do is trivial, so you’re right on track.”
“Well, couldn’t you make the student council at least think about more important stuff?”
“Why me?” asked Randall.
“Well, you write this stuff, duh. You can put anything you want into it. Isn’t that the point of writing fiction, to make it come out the way you want?”
Betsy has been ahead of her classmates for a long time, and that’s not always a comfortable place to be. Randall recalled when she was a student at “Perry the Imp Pre-School ,” motto: “Every man his own plan. Every day a new way.” One day she said, “There’s this boy who rides his trike around and calls it a bike. I explained to him that ‘tri’ means three and ‘bi’ means two, so it had to be a tricycle, not a bicycle, but he kept calling it a bike, anyway.” She was three years old. Her mother said, “Well, honey, I guess your Latin is just better than his.”
“Fiction is no good, Betsy, if it’s not also true, if people can’t see their own stories in the story you’re telling. Even science fiction works only if it’s true, when people on Mars or in space have the same problems as people on earth.”
“Well, in a place like Periwinkle County, you should be able to make things come out the right way,” Betsy groused.
“Even the Bible doesn’t do that,” said Randall. “The Bible is meaningful to us because it’s true fiction. All of our stories are in there, not just the ones that come out right, but the heartbreaks and sorrows and trivia, too. That’s why the books of the Bible are the words of God. They are not “The Word of God,” even though we often say that.”
“What do you mean?
“Christ is The Word of God, not the Bible. It’s curious, why people mistake the Bible for Christ. ‘Christ’ means God’s word, God’s way of communicating to us. After all, Jesus doesn’t say that the Bible is the Word of God, but the Bible DOES say that Christ is the Word of God.”
“Are you just making this up?”
“Some people would think so. They get ‘true’ confused with ‘factual.’ But the Bible words, all of them, joy words and sorrow words both, are the words of our lives, so God speaks to us through them.”
“Well, couldn’t you at least get people to work on the important problems, instead of just blaming somebody else for them?”
“Betsy, there are some things even a fiction writer can’t do.”
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Apocalypse Delayed 'til Next Year
Brother Bo Dacious, the “Apostle” at the “End Times and Gold Investment Church,” preached this morning on why the apocalypse has been delayed. He took his text from II Revelations, the source of most theology these days.
“We shall know the time of the coming of our Lord only by watching the standings of the Central Division of The National League,” he proclaimed, “for the Lord told the Cubs, ‘Don’t do anything until I get back.’ If they ever do anything, we’ll know the end is near.”
“We shall know the time of the coming of our Lord only by watching the standings of the Central Division of The National League,” he proclaimed, “for the Lord told the Cubs, ‘Don’t do anything until I get back.’ If they ever do anything, we’ll know the end is near.”
Saturday, August 28, 2010
That's So Sad
Claire Nathan used to teach high school students to teach little children. So when three-year-old Clara Wembley and her older brother, Marp, came down the street, accompanying Eleanor and Franklin, Jake and Jenny Newland’s pot-bellied pigs, on a trip to the “Slop’s On Us” Café and Worming Center,” she thought of a little rhyme she used to teach the children.
So when Clara and Marp and Franklin and Eleanor stopped to say “Hello,” she recited it to them.
I had a little pig
I fed him in a trough
He ate so much that his tail popped off
So I got me a hammer and I got me a nail
And I made that pig a wooden tail.
Marp teared up and said, “That’s so sad.”
Claire was quite embarrassed. “Oh, I never thought of it like that before,” she said.
“If you never talked to people, you wouldn’t have these problems,” said her husband, Randall, the well-known hermudgeon [hermit + curmudgeon].
Clara is not quite as tender-hearted as Marp, however. Later that afternoon, Claire saw Clara chasing Shingles the Dog, whom she still has not forgiven for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve, while brandishing a hammer, a nail, and a piece of wood.
So when Clara and Marp and Franklin and Eleanor stopped to say “Hello,” she recited it to them.
I had a little pig
I fed him in a trough
He ate so much that his tail popped off
So I got me a hammer and I got me a nail
And I made that pig a wooden tail.
Marp teared up and said, “That’s so sad.”
Claire was quite embarrassed. “Oh, I never thought of it like that before,” she said.
“If you never talked to people, you wouldn’t have these problems,” said her husband, Randall, the well-known hermudgeon [hermit + curmudgeon].
Clara is not quite as tender-hearted as Marp, however. Later that afternoon, Claire saw Clara chasing Shingles the Dog, whom she still has not forgiven for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve, while brandishing a hammer, a nail, and a piece of wood.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Foosball Problems
The summer can get long and boring when there’s no school and camp is over and you’re too young for a job, so Randall Nathan has been taking his grandson, Johnny, to McWinkle’s each afternoon for chocolate frappe’s and foosball, since the McWinkle chain, owned and operated by Perry McWinkle, is the only place in Periwinkle County where there are foosball tables. It’s not much of a chain, one restaurant located at each end of Persimmon St, but “any foosball table in a storm,” as the old saying goes.
Randall claims he lets Johnny win, since it’s the only excuse he can muster up for his total failure. He has not won even one game all summer, but neither Johnny nor the denizens of McWinkle’s, who gather around in the afternoons to watch them play, believe it. It’s a hard experience for a man who played professional foosball.
Randall claims it’s the caffeine in the frappe’s that give Johnny that extra boost.
Last night Randall and Claire took Johnny and Betsy to Shanghiatus, the restaurant, for supper, since their parents were at a meeting. When fortune cookie time came, they took turns reading their fortunes. Randall’s said, “You must face your problem and find a solution.”
Johnny immediately said, “Your problem is that you can’t win at foosball.”
Randall is looking for a solution. He’s signed up for a course this fall in the E. Paul Unger Foosball Department at Hope’s Promise U. In the meantime, he’s paying Lucinda, in the kitchen at McWinkle’s, to replace the caffeine in Johnny’s frappe’ with chamomile tea.
Randall claims he lets Johnny win, since it’s the only excuse he can muster up for his total failure. He has not won even one game all summer, but neither Johnny nor the denizens of McWinkle’s, who gather around in the afternoons to watch them play, believe it. It’s a hard experience for a man who played professional foosball.
Randall claims it’s the caffeine in the frappe’s that give Johnny that extra boost.
Last night Randall and Claire took Johnny and Betsy to Shanghiatus, the restaurant, for supper, since their parents were at a meeting. When fortune cookie time came, they took turns reading their fortunes. Randall’s said, “You must face your problem and find a solution.”
Johnny immediately said, “Your problem is that you can’t win at foosball.”
Randall is looking for a solution. He’s signed up for a course this fall in the E. Paul Unger Foosball Department at Hope’s Promise U. In the meantime, he’s paying Lucinda, in the kitchen at McWinkle’s, to replace the caffeine in Johnny’s frappe’ with chamomile tea.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Wife Talk
Kate Bates is having one of her famous candle-light after-dark parties. Kate likes to cook more than she likes to clean, so candle light after dark works both for elegance and blindness.
Julie Wagler, Claire Nathan, and Jenny Newland are helping her get ready.
“Why don’t you get Seymour to clean?” asked Julie, “not that I think there’s anything wrong with dust bunnies.”
Ben “Seymour” Bottoms is the Neal Fisher Distinguished Professor of Social Networking at Hope’s Promise Univ. as well as Kate’s husband.
“Do you really think he would SEE anything to clean if I put a dust-mop into his hands?” asked Kate. “He can see every connection between every social group, but he can’t see an alligator in the corner of the living room.
“Right. Husbands! The bats of human society, except without the hearing and echo location,” said Jenny Newland. “Remember when I had the surprise party for Jake’s 50th birthday. I had the punch bowl out on the dining room table and food for fifty on the counters in the kitchen and he was still surprised. I could have an affair with Zeke Domkowski in the front bedroom and he wouldn’t notice.”
“Well, he might notice Zeke’s pickup was there,” said Kate in defense of Jake.
“Wally can watch three ball games at the same time,” said Julie, “but he wouldn’t notice if I walked through the living room naked.”
“Betsy and Johnny once asked Randall if he could tell the police what I was wearing that day, in case I got abducted in the parking lot of the Marmoset IGA, and the best he could come up with was ‘clothes and shoes,’ and he wasn’t even positive about the shoes,” said Claire.
“I voted against marriage for gays,” said Julie.
“But Julie,” said Claire, “you can’t take rights away from people by majority vote. What if the majority voted that Baptists couldn’t get married?”
“Well, that would be wrong, but it might be a good job to pass a law that they can’t procreate,” said Kate.
“Well, I’m not against gay marriage,” said Julie,” but it used to be, when gays had to hide it, you could get one of them to marry you so people would think they were straight. When you wanted sex you could have an affair, but in the meantime you had a husband at home who would cook and clean and notice what you were wearing.”
“Yeah, now we’re stuck with husbands who are good for nothing except sex,” said Jenny.
Then they all stood silent for a long time, looking out windows, as though they were trying to remember something.
Julie Wagler, Claire Nathan, and Jenny Newland are helping her get ready.
“Why don’t you get Seymour to clean?” asked Julie, “not that I think there’s anything wrong with dust bunnies.”
Ben “Seymour” Bottoms is the Neal Fisher Distinguished Professor of Social Networking at Hope’s Promise Univ. as well as Kate’s husband.
“Do you really think he would SEE anything to clean if I put a dust-mop into his hands?” asked Kate. “He can see every connection between every social group, but he can’t see an alligator in the corner of the living room.
“Right. Husbands! The bats of human society, except without the hearing and echo location,” said Jenny Newland. “Remember when I had the surprise party for Jake’s 50th birthday. I had the punch bowl out on the dining room table and food for fifty on the counters in the kitchen and he was still surprised. I could have an affair with Zeke Domkowski in the front bedroom and he wouldn’t notice.”
“Well, he might notice Zeke’s pickup was there,” said Kate in defense of Jake.
“Wally can watch three ball games at the same time,” said Julie, “but he wouldn’t notice if I walked through the living room naked.”
“Betsy and Johnny once asked Randall if he could tell the police what I was wearing that day, in case I got abducted in the parking lot of the Marmoset IGA, and the best he could come up with was ‘clothes and shoes,’ and he wasn’t even positive about the shoes,” said Claire.
“I voted against marriage for gays,” said Julie.
“But Julie,” said Claire, “you can’t take rights away from people by majority vote. What if the majority voted that Baptists couldn’t get married?”
“Well, that would be wrong, but it might be a good job to pass a law that they can’t procreate,” said Kate.
“Well, I’m not against gay marriage,” said Julie,” but it used to be, when gays had to hide it, you could get one of them to marry you so people would think they were straight. When you wanted sex you could have an affair, but in the meantime you had a husband at home who would cook and clean and notice what you were wearing.”
“Yeah, now we’re stuck with husbands who are good for nothing except sex,” said Jenny.
Then they all stood silent for a long time, looking out windows, as though they were trying to remember something.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Clara Stalks the Future
Three-year-old Clara Wembley, who still has not forgiven Shingles the Dog for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve, went to story hour at the Ann White Children’s Library. She overheard some older kids talking about THE CELERY STALKS AT MIDNIGHT, featuring Bunnicula, the vampire bunny.
Now she has given up on weapons to wreak her revenge on Shingles and is concentrating on psychological warfare, using a Bunnicula doll and a Furby that occasionally snarls, “Clara will get you.”
No one else in the whole of Periwinkle County can understand why Shingles refuses to go home whenever he gets out of the house.
Clara went down the street to chat with Jake Newland as he sat on his front porch.
“What’s new, Clara?” asked Jake.
“Shingles wasn’t born here, you know,” said Clara. “He was born in a foreign country and he’s secretly a cat, a socialist cat that thinks the Friskies should be shared, and he’ so lazy he won’t get a job, even though there’s lots of jobs for dogs.”
“Clara, I know you’re little,” said Jake, “but you need to start thinking a little straighter. This sort of talk is not going to serve you very well when you’re older.”
“Oh, yes it will,” said Clara. “I’ve decided what I’ll do when I grow up. I’m going to go to vet school and be a talk radio show host and explain to people how to control their animals. They’ll call me Dr. Clara.”
“Well, that sounds alright,” said Jake.
Clara just laughed her evil laugh.
Now she has given up on weapons to wreak her revenge on Shingles and is concentrating on psychological warfare, using a Bunnicula doll and a Furby that occasionally snarls, “Clara will get you.”
No one else in the whole of Periwinkle County can understand why Shingles refuses to go home whenever he gets out of the house.
Clara went down the street to chat with Jake Newland as he sat on his front porch.
“What’s new, Clara?” asked Jake.
“Shingles wasn’t born here, you know,” said Clara. “He was born in a foreign country and he’s secretly a cat, a socialist cat that thinks the Friskies should be shared, and he’ so lazy he won’t get a job, even though there’s lots of jobs for dogs.”
“Clara, I know you’re little,” said Jake, “but you need to start thinking a little straighter. This sort of talk is not going to serve you very well when you’re older.”
“Oh, yes it will,” said Clara. “I’ve decided what I’ll do when I grow up. I’m going to go to vet school and be a talk radio show host and explain to people how to control their animals. They’ll call me Dr. Clara.”
“Well, that sounds alright,” said Jake.
Clara just laughed her evil laugh.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Preaching During the Sermon
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), had to go to church this morning because old friends, Ron and Carolyn Kaltenborn, had come to visit from up north in South County.
Afterwards, they went to Sue Zuki's Sushi & Violin Parlor for lunch.
"Wow, that Pastor Patty," said Ron. "She preached during the sermon."
"Isn't that when a preacher is supposed to preach?" asked Claire Nathan.
"Yes," said Carolyn, "but our pastor preaches during the announcements, and when he introduces the hymns, and during the prayer. But when it comes sermon time, he can't preach."
Afterwards, they went to Sue Zuki's Sushi & Violin Parlor for lunch.
"Wow, that Pastor Patty," said Ron. "She preached during the sermon."
"Isn't that when a preacher is supposed to preach?" asked Claire Nathan.
"Yes," said Carolyn, "but our pastor preaches during the announcements, and when he introduces the hymns, and during the prayer. But when it comes sermon time, he can't preach."
Saturday, August 21, 2010
The New Web Cam
Randall Nathan has a new computer. He left it on while he went across the hall to shower.
When he returned to his room, it was running through all its new programs, showing off. Then it got to…
“Good grief,” said Randall. “I didn’t know this thing came equipped for porn. They’re showing pictures of a naked old man. Who would want to see something so disgusting…”
Just then the phone rang. It was Betsy, Randall’s 14 yo granddaughter.
“How do you like your new computer, Grandpa? I set it up so your web cam would come on when you leave it for a while.”
“Web cam? I have a web cam? It doesn’t have a feed to YouTube, does it?”
When he returned to his room, it was running through all its new programs, showing off. Then it got to…
“Good grief,” said Randall. “I didn’t know this thing came equipped for porn. They’re showing pictures of a naked old man. Who would want to see something so disgusting…”
Just then the phone rang. It was Betsy, Randall’s 14 yo granddaughter.
“How do you like your new computer, Grandpa? I set it up so your web cam would come on when you leave it for a while.”
“Web cam? I have a web cam? It doesn’t have a feed to YouTube, does it?”
Friday, August 20, 2010
Baseball & Broken Hearts
John Jumper is the baseball writer for The Old Weird-Herald newspaper. His daughter, Junie B, ran into the kitchen, crying.
“Daddy broke my heart,” she wept at her mother. “He has always said there was nothing I could do to cause him to stop loving me, but now he says he can’t forgive me.”
Justa Jumper stalked into the remote-control room, where her husband was staring into space.
“What do you mean, telling your daughter you can’t forgive her? What did you do to break your daughter’s heart?” she demanded. “You should know the agony of heartbreak. The Cubs break your heart every day, twice if there’s a double-header. She’s a wonderful girl. She doesn’t do sexting. She doesn’t do drugs or booze. She gets good grades.”
“You say those things like they are equal to being a Yankees fan,” sniffed John Jumper.
“What?”
She turned toward the kitchen, fists dug into her waist.
“Young lady, you get in here right now and apologize to your father,” she shouted.
“Daddy broke my heart,” she wept at her mother. “He has always said there was nothing I could do to cause him to stop loving me, but now he says he can’t forgive me.”
Justa Jumper stalked into the remote-control room, where her husband was staring into space.
“What do you mean, telling your daughter you can’t forgive her? What did you do to break your daughter’s heart?” she demanded. “You should know the agony of heartbreak. The Cubs break your heart every day, twice if there’s a double-header. She’s a wonderful girl. She doesn’t do sexting. She doesn’t do drugs or booze. She gets good grades.”
“You say those things like they are equal to being a Yankees fan,” sniffed John Jumper.
“What?”
She turned toward the kitchen, fists dug into her waist.
“Young lady, you get in here right now and apologize to your father,” she shouted.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Haircuts
Johnny Kendy's parents were out of town at conferences, and his older sister, Betsy, was at persimmon camp, so Claire Nathan had him all to herself.
"Today," she said brightly, "you're going to get your hair cut."
"Well, THAT's annoying," said Johnny.
But Grandmas have a special power, so his hair came off.
Randall Nathan hated it. He knew on whom she would turn her shear power next.
"Today it's your turn," she told him this morning. "You can't go out in public to see the senator looking like that."
"I've gone out in public like this before," said Randall.
"I know," she said. "I'm getting letters."
"Today," she said brightly, "you're going to get your hair cut."
"Well, THAT's annoying," said Johnny.
But Grandmas have a special power, so his hair came off.
Randall Nathan hated it. He knew on whom she would turn her shear power next.
"Today it's your turn," she told him this morning. "You can't go out in public to see the senator looking like that."
"I've gone out in public like this before," said Randall.
"I know," she said. "I'm getting letters."
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Remembering that Special Shot
Being an hermudgeon [hermit/curmudgeon], Randall Nathan doesn’t like to be seen in public, unless coffee or baseball are involved. When they are both involved, he is willing even to be seen with Franklin and Eleanor, Jake and Jenny Newland’s pot-bellied pigs, because The Brothers Jim, who run The Buddy Mutts Café, where you cannot enter unless you have a dog with you, think that F&E are a special breed of strange canine, especially since they can do card tricks. If they beat the brother Jim who is the sculptor at a trick, he has to change the TV to “Animal Planet.” They always win. They’re not really all that smart, but they use a marked deck.
Anyway, Randall and Jake took Franklin and Eleanor and went to Buddy Mutts for OTB, which is not off track betting, even though it’s usually off the track. It’s Old Time Baseball.
They drank a special coffee brew this morning, prepared by the other brother Jim, the one who has installed a compost toilet at Buddy Mutts, in memory of Bobby Thomson. The coffee is called “The Accidental Hero,” the way Thomson referred to himself. It’s a dark roast called Miracle Brew, with a shot of espresso called “The Shot Heard ‘Round the World.”
Anyway, Randall and Jake took Franklin and Eleanor and went to Buddy Mutts for OTB, which is not off track betting, even though it’s usually off the track. It’s Old Time Baseball.
They drank a special coffee brew this morning, prepared by the other brother Jim, the one who has installed a compost toilet at Buddy Mutts, in memory of Bobby Thomson. The coffee is called “The Accidental Hero,” the way Thomson referred to himself. It’s a dark roast called Miracle Brew, with a shot of espresso called “The Shot Heard ‘Round the World.”
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
The Persimmon-Eating Contest
One of the events in the Prodigious Persimmon Festival last weekend was the competitive eating contest. There was a slight problem, though. No one entered.
It reminded Randall Nathan of the old question: What if they gave a war and nobody came?
Some events are best left un-entered.
It reminded Randall Nathan of the old question: What if they gave a war and nobody came?
Some events are best left un-entered.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Eating & Underwear
Like many old people, Claire and Randall Nathan like to eat their meals sitting in their recliners and watching TV, so they won’t have to acknowledge that they have nothing to talk about. They spread hand towels over themselves as they eat, since recliner eating is not exactly neat.
“Good grief,” said Claire to Randall. “How long have you been using that towel? It looks like it has the debris of a thousand meals on it.”
“It’s just getting broken in good,” he said. “I can use it for a long time yet.”
[Randall is in charge of washing towels and dishes and so prefers to use the same ones as long as possible.]
“No, you’re going to get a new, clean one,” said Claire. “What if somebody came in? Having a clean eating towel in case somebody comes by is like wearing clean underwear in case you’re in a car accident.”
“If I’m in a car wreck, my underwear won’t be clean anymore, anyway,” replied Randall, but he levered himself out of his recliner and got a clean towel.
“Good grief,” said Claire to Randall. “How long have you been using that towel? It looks like it has the debris of a thousand meals on it.”
“It’s just getting broken in good,” he said. “I can use it for a long time yet.”
[Randall is in charge of washing towels and dishes and so prefers to use the same ones as long as possible.]
“No, you’re going to get a new, clean one,” said Claire. “What if somebody came in? Having a clean eating towel in case somebody comes by is like wearing clean underwear in case you’re in a car accident.”
“If I’m in a car wreck, my underwear won’t be clean anymore, anyway,” replied Randall, but he levered himself out of his recliner and got a clean towel.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
The Prodigious Persimmon Festival
This is the weekend of “The Prodigious Persimmon Festival” in Periwinkle County.
The center-piece of the festival is the “Paramount Persimmon” contest, with persimmon miners and explorers and scientists all vying to dig or find or create the largest persimmon of the year.
Pastor Patty’s sermon for today was “Cleaving the Persimmon of Purity,” based on the Lectionary reading that claims Jesus did not come to earth to bring peace, but a sword. She also quoted Ezekiel 18:2, “The fathers have eaten sour persimmons, and the teeth of the children have been set on edge.”
“That’s why people around here are so sour of spirit and divisive—sour persimmons of the past,” she said. “Instead of a ‘biggest persimmon’ contest, always trying to out-do one another about whose is the biggest, we should have a contest for the one that tastes the sweetest, the persimmon of peace.”
The problem was that all the people who needed to hear it were at the “Paramount Persimmon” contest.
She had to admit, however, that when Wong Wey, the chef at the “Wok Around the Clock 24-hour restaurant and iPod Downloading Station,” took his “William Tell” brand persimmon cleaver and chopped up all those phenomenal persimmons and made them into a prodigious persimmon pudding, it made for mighty good eating.
The center-piece of the festival is the “Paramount Persimmon” contest, with persimmon miners and explorers and scientists all vying to dig or find or create the largest persimmon of the year.
Pastor Patty’s sermon for today was “Cleaving the Persimmon of Purity,” based on the Lectionary reading that claims Jesus did not come to earth to bring peace, but a sword. She also quoted Ezekiel 18:2, “The fathers have eaten sour persimmons, and the teeth of the children have been set on edge.”
“That’s why people around here are so sour of spirit and divisive—sour persimmons of the past,” she said. “Instead of a ‘biggest persimmon’ contest, always trying to out-do one another about whose is the biggest, we should have a contest for the one that tastes the sweetest, the persimmon of peace.”
The problem was that all the people who needed to hear it were at the “Paramount Persimmon” contest.
She had to admit, however, that when Wong Wey, the chef at the “Wok Around the Clock 24-hour restaurant and iPod Downloading Station,” took his “William Tell” brand persimmon cleaver and chopped up all those phenomenal persimmons and made them into a prodigious persimmon pudding, it made for mighty good eating.
Friday, August 13, 2010
The Museum of Broken Things
The “Friday the 13th Club” met this morning at the “Hard Luck is Better Than No Luck at All Diner,” on 13th St. The club meets only on Friday the 13ths, to let the members tell about all the bad luck they’ve had since their last meeting.
Josefina Krautberg, “The German Firecracker,” known primarily for her rendition of “La Weinerrocha” at “Periwinkle’s Got Talent” shows, went first. She is the curator of “The Museum of Broken Things.” It features broken toasters, broken bikes, broken hearts, broken vows, broken promises, broken spines [mostly books], and all other things known for their brokenness. The museum is situated upstairs over the firehouse that was built in 1910.
“You know Maurice Greeley, the museum attendant?” she asked.
“That young nerd guy?” said Kate Bates.
“Yes. I know some people feel we don’t need an attendant, but I can’t always be on the museum floor when people come in, what with my broken leg. But the economy improved so much because of the tax cuts for millionaires that we were able to hire Maurice.”
“Wait a minute,” said Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms. “The economic improvement was because of tax cuts for millionaires? Now because they have so much more money from the tax cuts they are able to contribute to the museum so you can hire staff?”
“Oh, no. They invest their tax cut money in China. Millionaires break things a lot, but they don’t like to be reminded of it afterwards, so they don’t contribute to the museum. Our income is still the same, what we get from donations and selling knickknacks we get from the Chinese factories the millionaires invest in, but Mayor Reckonwith said the economy is better because of the tax cuts, and politicians think if they say something, that makes it true, so we were able to hire an attendant, specifically Maurice Greeley, her nephew.”
“Sounds necrophilic, or neopolitan, or narcissistic,” said Edith Whistle, on break from cooking at The Whistle and Thistle Biker Bar and Sushi Restaurant.
“I think you’re talking about nepotism,” said Pastor Patty.
“Whatever floats your boat,” said Edith.
“Anyway,” said Josefina, not especially happy about being interrupted, but assuming it was just more bad luck that Edith was there, “we had TWO patrons come in yesterday.”
“Wow,” said Paige Turner, the owner of “If You’re Reading It You’re Buying It Books Store and Counseling Clinic,” who was there to complain about Amazon’s announcement that it was now selling more ebooks than real books. “That’s a lot of people at one time.”
“Oh, it wasn’t at one time,” said Josefina. “One was in the morning and one was in the afternoon. But two in one day was more than Maurice Greeley could take. You know that window on the west side of the building?”
“The one above Pocket Park,” asked Pastor Patty, “the one named for Polly Pocket?”
“That’s the one,” said Josefina. “We keep an iced-tea Snapple out on the counter to revive anyone who is overcome with nostalgia or grief as they look at the broken things. When that second person came in, Maurice was overcome with too much social contact. He just grabbed the Snapple and hit the chute.”
“He what?” asked Charley Bob Diamond, the college sophomore who hasn’t returned to college yet, much to the dismay of everyone in town.
“That window has a chute attached to it,” said Josefina. “It was a broken invention. This was back in the days that people eloped a lot. Mycroft Golden thought it would be easier for girls to get out of second story windows if they didn’t have to climb down ladders, so he developed the second-story chute. When fathers found out about it, though, the chute hit the fan. I think the one on our window is the original and only chute that Mycroft made, out of special-strength Saran Wrap. Maurice Greeley just opened the window and the chute deployed and that young man went west.”
Josefina Krautberg, “The German Firecracker,” known primarily for her rendition of “La Weinerrocha” at “Periwinkle’s Got Talent” shows, went first. She is the curator of “The Museum of Broken Things.” It features broken toasters, broken bikes, broken hearts, broken vows, broken promises, broken spines [mostly books], and all other things known for their brokenness. The museum is situated upstairs over the firehouse that was built in 1910.
“You know Maurice Greeley, the museum attendant?” she asked.
“That young nerd guy?” said Kate Bates.
“Yes. I know some people feel we don’t need an attendant, but I can’t always be on the museum floor when people come in, what with my broken leg. But the economy improved so much because of the tax cuts for millionaires that we were able to hire Maurice.”
“Wait a minute,” said Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms. “The economic improvement was because of tax cuts for millionaires? Now because they have so much more money from the tax cuts they are able to contribute to the museum so you can hire staff?”
“Oh, no. They invest their tax cut money in China. Millionaires break things a lot, but they don’t like to be reminded of it afterwards, so they don’t contribute to the museum. Our income is still the same, what we get from donations and selling knickknacks we get from the Chinese factories the millionaires invest in, but Mayor Reckonwith said the economy is better because of the tax cuts, and politicians think if they say something, that makes it true, so we were able to hire an attendant, specifically Maurice Greeley, her nephew.”
“Sounds necrophilic, or neopolitan, or narcissistic,” said Edith Whistle, on break from cooking at The Whistle and Thistle Biker Bar and Sushi Restaurant.
“I think you’re talking about nepotism,” said Pastor Patty.
“Whatever floats your boat,” said Edith.
“Anyway,” said Josefina, not especially happy about being interrupted, but assuming it was just more bad luck that Edith was there, “we had TWO patrons come in yesterday.”
“Wow,” said Paige Turner, the owner of “If You’re Reading It You’re Buying It Books Store and Counseling Clinic,” who was there to complain about Amazon’s announcement that it was now selling more ebooks than real books. “That’s a lot of people at one time.”
“Oh, it wasn’t at one time,” said Josefina. “One was in the morning and one was in the afternoon. But two in one day was more than Maurice Greeley could take. You know that window on the west side of the building?”
“The one above Pocket Park,” asked Pastor Patty, “the one named for Polly Pocket?”
“That’s the one,” said Josefina. “We keep an iced-tea Snapple out on the counter to revive anyone who is overcome with nostalgia or grief as they look at the broken things. When that second person came in, Maurice was overcome with too much social contact. He just grabbed the Snapple and hit the chute.”
“He what?” asked Charley Bob Diamond, the college sophomore who hasn’t returned to college yet, much to the dismay of everyone in town.
“That window has a chute attached to it,” said Josefina. “It was a broken invention. This was back in the days that people eloped a lot. Mycroft Golden thought it would be easier for girls to get out of second story windows if they didn’t have to climb down ladders, so he developed the second-story chute. When fathers found out about it, though, the chute hit the fan. I think the one on our window is the original and only chute that Mycroft made, out of special-strength Saran Wrap. Maurice Greeley just opened the window and the chute deployed and that young man went west.”
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