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.”
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