Punishment
“She took a hammer and smashed my game. Hard, all to bits. It was a punishment.” He sat in the backseat, strapped in, his face to the window. Then his eyes met mine through the rearview mirror. He saw something, a flinch, a startle, maybe. “I deserved it,” he said. “Really I did.”
Another day, they were laughing. They could have been brothers, the two cutups. We drove past a stand of trees and then it was quiet in the car. “Have you been to that graveyard?” Asking me, this time. I had no idea a cemetery was in that neighorhood, hidden somewhere amid well-tended yards and fine, old houses.
“There’s a little boy’s grave. I go when I’m riding my bike. He died a long time ago, but somebody leaves teddy bears. And cookies and things. On the boy’s birthday? There are always cookies. I don’t touch them.” I asked why he went there. “I like to,” he said. “And it just makes me really sad.” I held my eyes steady, steely straight ahead. I kept clearing my throat. Finally I said all I could say, “It makes me sad too. It’s nice of you to think about him. You know, you are such a good kid.”
We haven’t laid eyes on him in years. But I still can see him, sitting at the grave of a long gone boy. The living keeping company with the dead.
from the comments
Miss Nell would start her cooking shows with, “Now as everyone knows I hate to cook so let’s get started and get out of this kitchen.”
from the comments
When I was a little kid and we lived in South Haven, Michigan for a while, the house my family rented had one of those old electric ranges with the built-in deep fat fryer. Please remember this was back before unhealthy fried food was invented.
My mom would buy pre-made doughnut dough, the kind in a tube (like biscuits or crescent rolls). She’d pop ‘em open and separate the flat die-cut doughnut parts and fry them. The doughnut holes, fresh out and almost too hot to eat, were golden heaven. We’d sprinkle powdered sugar on them sometimes. Is there anything better than fresh, homemade doughnuts? No.
I don’t remember what we did with the doughnut parts outside the cut circles. Maybe we cooked and ate those too, never speaking about it or looking at each other.
from the comments
I thought this was really sad at first, but in thinking it through, it also makes sense. In a country that no longer makes things, I suppose one of our last commodities that can be bought and sold is our attention.
from the comments
All our accents derive from Britain.
Repost of a Post Past
Going down the rabbit-hole of Cece’s post. Great rememberies here, following “flockers.”
Please Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood
Related to stuff we’re talking about.
from the comments
My brother was four years older but still I fought with him, physically, like an idiot. I took quite a bit of punishment before I learned to fight dirty and run, climb a tree where he couldn’t follow, barricade myself somewhere. Sometimes I had to wait for a while but I didn’t care. He knew I would die of thirst, starve to death, if I had to. So he would give up and go away.
from the moderated comment spam
I came across my grandfather perusing your blog site instead of taking out the waste
wait for it
from the comments
A ground crewman who worked on my father’s WWII plane told me their B-26 Marauder was known as the “whore of the skies.” I feel like I can’t say the rest of his quote on this family wire. It crashed a lot. So use your imagination. This was about 15 years ago, during a ceremony for a large marker with the names of the men associated with Flak Bait when it was displayed at Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum. This old fella said this to me right in front of Miss Nell, who smiled politely and said, “Okay, well now…” and took my arm and hustled ME off.
Daddy’s Plane
My daddy went to work at the aircraft firm of Chance Vought in 1935, I think, when he was nineteen or so. Jobs were hard to come by, but he was smart and mechanically inclined and he had a high school degree.
When the US entered WWII, my daddy was exempted from the draft on account of his working in a ‘critical industry’. Vought’s biggest customer was the US Navy.
After the war, Vought’s military contracts must have dwindled. Or maybe moving operations inland seemed like a good idea. Anyway, the company transferred 1300 key personnel from Connecticut to the right-to-work state of Texas. It was the biggest-ever US corporate move at that time. A Hollywood film inspired by the move even went into pre-production, and Spencer Tracy was said to have been cast. I imagine my mother in a Katharine Hepburn role.
The F4U Corsair (1940-1952) was Vought’s triumph.
The Japanese are said to have called the plane Whistling Death.
Harry Potter and the New Year at Hand
Just finished the marathon, a little while ago. Potter was Becky’s call, her birthday is the 31st. Doing such over New Year’s eve/day has been a tradition for four or five years. Potter won. In case you wonder. Ho-hum.
We said good-bye to our guests and watched an episode of The Riches. Only 20 episodes to watch, but it is delicious.
I don’t know what to expect of 2012, but I hope to lift my ass off the couch and start moving around tomorrow.
Sign of the Times
I just got chided by my 91-year-old mother for not being on Facebook more often.
The Cake That Makes Our Family
Read between the lines of an old family recipe and you’re liable to read the story of the family itself. The scrawled marginalia and cooking stains, the collective memory of shared feasts—they might as well be alleles in the genome. Maybe it’s the chicken soup your aunt makes by the gallon during flu season, or the roast your mother overcooks every Easter. Maybe, if you’re lucky, your dad has taught you the secret to a perfect Old Fashioned, which he learned from his uncle, who learned it from his bookie. For my family, the recipe that defines us as a tribe, and whose origins best reflect our idiosyncrasies, is my grandfather’s babka.
from the comments
My Aunt Audrey was a telephone operator in the sticks of Tennessee. We would visit relatives and I would get on the phone to act out, forgetting about Aunt Audrey or just being defiant. Until I heard a distinctive voice that I was sure was her say, “No playing on the telephone, Miss.”
Mr. C. said that even earlier, all calls had to go through the operator. So if you were trying to reach them, the operator might say things like, “You won’t be able to talk to them until Tuesday. They’ve gone to the river to see Nam Becky,” or some such.
I still am convinced telephone operators know everything.
X-mas Eve Par-tay
I’m relaxed. I honestly am. I bought a set of Horrified B-Movie Victims for the X-tended family X-mas gift X-change. The Gift Grab amongst cousins and their partners et al.
As for my near and dear, this year I’m empty-handed. And I’m cool with saying, “Hey, when I see something I know you’ll love, it’s yours.” And I imagine my near and dear will be cool with that.
What I am not doing is scouring the Tri-State Region over the next three hours for timely gifts for my near and dear. Not for the sake of saving face in Chicago tomorrow night. Screw it. My near and dear know I love them, I hope, and I hope they love me.
“It’s been harder than usual this year,” I’m thinking to say. “How’s it been for you?”
And I’m cool with that.
headline of the day, IV
‘Tell loved ones they are overweight this Christmas’
from the comments
My sister made up bedtime stories when I was little she called “Fortunately, but unfortunately.” Essentially they started like this: There was a princess living in a castle. Fortunately, she had a cat. Unfortunately, the cat smelled like rotten eggs. Fortunately, she loved the cat. And so on.
I like to think the telling of the stories raised her IQ. I also hope she has learned new storytelling methods for my nephew.
headline of the day
NPR’s Winter Songs: Bill T. Jones on Schubert’s ‘Winterreise’
As cold weather descends on most of the country, we’re asking for winter songs — songs that evoke the season, and the memories that come with them. So far in our [NPR] series, we’ve heard some lighthearted or slightly wistful tunes, but this next song goes to a far icier place. It’s the choice of the celebrated dancer and choreographer Bill T. Jones.
His winter song comes from “Winterreise,” — or “Winter Journey” — by Franz Schubert. It’s a song cycle about a solitary traveler in a savage winter whose heart is frozen in grief. Jones chose the last song in that song cycle: “Der Leiermann,” or “The Hurdy-Gurdy Man.”
“For me, it’s the musical arrangement underneath,” Jones tells All Things Considered host Melissa Block. “It speaks about a bleak landscape. And this bleak landscape takes me back to a day when I was in fourth grade out on the edge of town, looking at a snow-covered highway many, many yards away from my window — I should’ve been paying attention, but I was dreaming.
Clusterflockers with Children…
…is there a book you wouldn’t want your children to read?
tweet of the day
Home for Thanksgiving
I’m spending time with Miss Nell, who is pushing 92. I tried out some locks/alarms for her last night and left a note by the coffee pot: “Don’t try to open the doors. I’ll disarm them when I get up.” But she wanted to read the newspaper and didn’t want to wait. At dawn, she climbed through a window out onto the porch, then back in again.
She’s taking a new exercise class, at church.
While I’m here, she wants to have a talk with the three of us, her children. “Because when I ‘go,’ I plan on going fast. So y’all need to know some things.”
Where I’m Calling From…
Stoneledge Farm, South Beloit, IL.
Dan’s sister’s new world-champion, three-year-old Morgan gelding, Peeps “Town Affair.” On board and training at Stoneledge Farm, Danny’s niece’s and nephew-in-law’s facility. Peeps is an athlete, IMHO.
Thanksgiving in Rockton, y’all. It don’t get much better. One thing I’m thankful for.
