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ome what may, always make sure you’ve got plenty of groceries, and be sure to keep the refrigerator filled.” Those were my pa’s exact words, and he drummed ’em into my head countless times ’fore he passed on at home in Jamesport, Missouri in 1986. As I stood by his deathbed while he breathed his last, Pa made me promise I’d heed his warnin’, and I have.
I’m sure his request sounds odd because it sure as hell seemed strange to me back then. Pa’s lesson took many years to sink in, but it finally did. Today, I’m fanatical about makin’ sure I keep the ’fridge and freezers well-stocked. You never know what tomorrow will bring . . . which leads me back to Pa, and why he got so worked up on the subject.
Most folks today regard the Great Depression of the “dirty thirties” as a mere historical footnote. Like Latin, it’s a dead issue. There’s darn few folks around today who had to go through those horrible times. My ma and Pa did; they was among the poorest of the poor: stuck in central Oklahoma like a tick on a ditch dog. Despite all they did to save their farm, they lost the battle. What Mother Nature didn’t take, the bank did.
Afterwards, ma and Pa bounced around all over the Midwest like drunk pinballs, doin’ seasonal farm work for other richer folks before plunkin’ down in Jamesport, Missouri in 1939. Jamesport’s Mennonite country, and I suppose Pa settled there ’cause he respected Mennonite folks for workin’ hard and not complainin’ when things turned against ’em.
I didn’t come along ’til 1947, so I don’t have any recollection of how bad the Great Depression was. But when I became old enough to grasp what Pa was tellin’ me, I was badly shaken by the insecurity in his voice as he faced down his personal demons by talkin’ ’em out.
I ’spect pa’s yammerin’ about the horrors of them dark times prolly helped keep him sane, but just barely. I can’t recall how many times I heard him come awake in the middle of the night screamin’ like all the demons of hell had pitched a tent on his chest and was havin’ themselves a shindig. First thing pa’d do after comin’ to his senses was stumble down the hall to the kitchen in his ’jammies with his ass on sideways to make sure food was still in the ’fridge.
I don’t recollect how many times Pa told me about goin’ to the icebox durin’ the depression only to find it empty. And the cupboard was so bare it woulda’ made Mae West blush—nothin’ in there but a few shriveled mouse droppin’s, a dead bug or two, and lots of dust.
The years of the depression had made my Pa a hard man. While he was okay part of the time, his temper could go off with no warnin’. Durin’ those times, you didn’t wanna be within a hundred miles of him.
Once when I was nine, Pa backhanded me so hard I thought my head was gonna come clean off and go bouncin’ across the family room floor. And it was all ’cause I asked him for a new pair of shoestrings to match my old, worn-out dress shoes—the only pair I had. Then there was the time Pa burned my forearm with his cigar ’cause I didn’t clean my dinner plate; and the time he made me drink out of the toilet; and the time he poked that wasp nest up under the eaves with a rake while I was weedin’ the flower bed underneath and missed a patch. Naw, I don’t even wanna talk about that one. I hate wasps, and won’t suffer havin’ ’em on my property. When I can catch one, I pull out its stinger, wings, and legs with tweezers. And then I fry the sorry, wriggling little poison sack with a magnifying glass.
But Pa never done nothin’ without good reason. He told me more times than I can count how bad a son I was, so I knowed I deserved my punishment.
Yeah, I loved the old fart despite his ways ’cause I knew he’d had a tough go. An’ losin’ my ma in ’51 ’cause he didn’t have money for proper medical care ate him up inside the rest of his life. Years after ma’s death, I’d catch Pa all slumped over in his worn out old gray vinyl recliner, starin’ at the floor. The look on his face said it all. Pa carried ma’s death around like a two hundred pound backpack full of pissed-off rattlesnakes. For most folks the depression came and went. But for my Pa, it never ended. Leastways, not between his ears.
I guess the important thing’s that I learned my lesson. And it’s a good thing I did ’cause I lost my job as a house painter near on eight years ago. I ain’t worked steady since gettin’ out of the slammer four years back.
And it was all ’cause of that confounded Kristy Ewing gal. Too bad she left her diary lyin’ around where her nosy ma found it. Too bad she wasn’t eighteen. Hell, she flat lied to me sweet as you please the whole time she and her heavenly little love box was singin’ an entirely different tune. Dammit, she looked eighteen goin’ on twenty-something. What’s a man to do nowadays when half the sixteen year-olds look better than ninety-percent of the twenty-something gals I knew twenty-five years ago? It just ain’t fair—not for all them underage gals, and not for us older fellers who think they’re legal.
I tried explainin’ that to the judge in that fancy court down Kansas City way. Yeah, my lawyer got the trial moved so I’d have a fair shot. Fat lot of good that did. Try zip-o. Hizzonor slapped my ass with four year’s-worth.
While I was in the slammer I did manage to hang onto my house by rentin’ it out to my best friend Jake Bosley. Jake and I’s been friends since first grade, so I knowed I could trust him.
Anyway, I come to find out that a man’s sentence ain’t over when he gets out of stir. ’Specially on a statu—statuary rape charge in a small town. After I got out, nobody’d hire me to do diddledy-squat. Was like I had the bubonic plague or somethin.’
I finally took to haulin’ hay and mowin’ rural cemeteries in the warm months. But Missouri summers has been dry as a popcorn fart the past three years, so I guess you could say that line of work sorta’ dried up. In fall and winter, I chopped wood, shoveled hog shit, an’ did all the nasty farmin’ chores no one else would do. It didn’t pay much but it helped me get on; it helped pay the bills.
Life sure can be funny, though. Would you believe Kristy Ewing sneaks by my rundown old Victorian out in the sticks ever week now for some hot lovin’? Yep, she’s in her twenties now, so it’s alll nice and legal. We do it on the sly, though. Wouldn’t do to have a bunch of holier-than-thou types nosin’ around. ’Specially after all the fuss Kristy and I stirred up the first time.
When Kristy came by the first time after I got out of stir I told her to scram, but she kept comin’ back all broke up and cryin.’ Shoot, I’m just a creampuff when I see a pretty face all teary-eyed. I guess she truly felt sorry about what happened to me ’cause she left her diary lyin’ around. She always says no one else will do, and that makes me feel a little better. I gotta admit we do go good together. Like bacon and eggs. Or beer an’ Rocky Mountain oysters.
Which brings me back to groceries.
I once heard a feller say somethin’ about how nobody escapes death an’ taxes. He forgot to add groceries to the list. Yep, I make sure I keep my ’frigerator and chest freezers filled like my Pa said. I raise my own veggies, but I drive to Kansas City to get my meat two or three times a year. Local meat’s fine most of the time, but they’s places in the city for bargains to be had if a feller has the patience to look.
So now I got my meat squared away for another few months, and I’m headin’ home on the back roads in ol’ Sheila. Sheila’s my car—a ’76 Cadillac Sedan DeVille. You know: one of them big ol’ yachts on wheels from the good ol’ days, ’fore the gasoline situation became such a pisser with them A-rabs
a-bendin’ us over for informal proc—proctology exams. Sheila’s been one helluva car, an’ I’ve kept her runnin’ like she just came off the showroom floor despite tough times. Costs some serious coin, but Sheila’s been well worth the effort. What’s a tank of gas compared to seven or eight months-worth of meat?
I got Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s “Takin’ Care of Business” playin’ on Sheila’s custom installed Magnavox eight-track tape deck, an’ it sure is soundin’ fine. I guess BTO’s just about the best rock band in the whollle world despite what ol’ Jimmy high-and-mighty Hutchison thinks; he likes that faggoty group that did the song “A Night at the Opera,” or somethin’ like that. But what can you expect from a guy who ended up in the turd line when they was handin’ out brains just around the corner?
Anyway, back to ol’ Sheila.
’Sides her engine and interior, I really like her trunk space. Hell, a feller could put roughly half the State of New Jersey in there. Good for all the meat I get when I tool to Kansas City for a big haul. Better to get meat in bulk. The fewer trips, the less it costs. I usually make my meat runs durin’ the fall and winter months, ’cause I get so much that it won’t all fit in the coolers.
Pretty soon I’m gonna have to spring for some more shocks for ol’ Sheila, though. Drivin’ all them back roads is tough on her. But I won’t drive Interstate 35. Too many high-speed wrecks. Too much chance of somethin’ goin’ wrong with ol’ Sheila, or just gettin’ stopped by the highway patrol for some namby-pamby reason.
Yeah, it’s good to have the groceries squared away. A feller can never tell what tomorrow will bring. But before I take the meat to the ’fridge and freezer after I get home, I’m gonna marinate a couple of special, prime cut steaks for tomorrow night. Kristy’s comin’ by for dinner and “afters,” so I’m gonna throw her a big shebang. We’re gonna have steak, ’taters, fried morel mushrooms that I brought up from the freezer and thawed, and Mad Dog 20-20. It don’t get no better than that. She likes her steaks the same way I do—nice and rare.
After I’ve got the steaks marinatin’, I’ll stop off and visit Pa in his special nook in the cellar. Forgot to tell you about that. I just couldn’t stand the thought of Pa down there all alone in the cemetery, so I snuck out there one night a couple years back, an’ brought him home. He seemed downright pleased, and didn’t argue none. Matter of fact, pa’s been a lot less pissy an’ we get on a whole lot better, now.
Since a few folks pop in at the house ever so often, I couldn’t put Pa up in his old bedroom like before. People simply wouldn’t understand. So I made him a real cozy hidden nook behind the fruit cellar. Dug him a whole new room. Even has his own mattress and a little night stand. We have some real nice talks down there from time to time by candle light. Don’t know how I’d get on without him.
That’s where I’m headed soon’s I finish with the steaks—to visit Pa. And I’ll pay him his rightful due: eight fingers from that sorry-assed judge who fucked me over down in Kansas City. Yeah. My meat run this time was reallly special. But maybe next time I oughtta do my shoppin’ in St. Joe while things cool down a tad in Kansas City.
Well, the steaks are marinatin’ and I’m into my fifth can of Schlitz. Pa’s tellin’ me it’s time to let Kristy in on my little secret, an’ he’s right. Lovers shouldn’t have no fambly mysteries ’tween ’em. I’ve been gettin’ kinda sweet on her anyway, so it’s time I proposed. Even if she is less than half my age. I’ll propose an’ if that goes good, I’ll let her in on the rest. I sure do hope she don’t get all twitchy on me, though.
’Cause if she does, I’m sure I could find room for more meat in one of the freezers. |
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