franksolich acquires a primitive harem (now rated R)

[franksolich]

note: franksolich collects a primitive harem is dedicated to BainsBane, who for reasons that will become obvious as the tale unfolds, will be absent from this story.

This is a work of fiction, but as usual it’s based upon real-life people and experiences, occurring at different times and places in this life, and with the primitives tossed in to spice it up.

This story is not rated because I just started it, and have no idea if anything racy’ll appear in it or not--but if it suddenly becames "R"-rated, I'll make that note in the title.

Readers as usual are free to--in fact, encouraged to--interrupt with comments as the story goes on, to suggest turns it might take.

- - - - - - - - - -

franksolich collects a primitive harem.  “You know, I’ve never had a problem with carnies,” I said to the property caretaker, when we were discussing plans for three weeks hence, during the county fair.

“When I was a kid, yeah, sure, others were always telling me to stay away from them because they did ‘bad’ things to kids.  They were dirty and odoriferous and stole, and that they were usually of gypsy or Italianate derivation made them even more fearsome.

“But as it turned out, as a kid, I never met a carnie.

“By the time I was an adult and had seen more of the world, I encountered them a great many times, and much to my surprise, found them illuminating, interesting; and that they always paid cash for everything impressed me all the more. 

“Their personal hygiene wasn’t so great, but cash can encourage one to overlook a lot of character defects.”

This will be the third summer in a row the carnies have camped here, instead of on the county fairgrounds, as alcohol is prohibited on governmental property in Nebraska, and the last time the carnies were caught imbibing there, the $100 fines paid for new tennis courts and air-conditioned bleachers for the high school football field, not to mention extensive landscaping for the local golf course.

This being private property, and with the consent of the owner or tenant (myself), they can drink out here.

- - - - - - - - - -

Unfortunately, the property caretaker had been unaware of my commitment to the carnies, and given someone else permission to camp here at the same time.

“She’s from Chicago, and just got done with a nasty divorce from her husband.  She wants to camp out here for a week, to ‘heal.’  She’s got considerable tattoos, and is bringing along a bunch of cats and chickens to keep her company.”

Oh, I said; “that’s Big Mo.  I know her, but she doesn’t know me.

“Big Mo’s great.”

The caretaker looked at me, puzzled.  “But she’s a primitive, and you don’t like primitives.”

“Big Mo’s an exception,” I assured him; “I used to dislike her intensely--she reminded me too much of a late older sister, God rest her soul, who was a hysterical hypochondriac.

“But then some weeks ago, she got into a tussle with other primitives--they really ganged up on her--who dragged her through the wringer. 

“It was really sordid, all these rabble, the lumpenunterprimitiven, getting on her like they did, as if they were better than she was.  They ripped Big Mo apart, eviscerated her, tore her to pieces.

“As if they had any right to criticize one of their betters.

“Big Mo’s the epitome of primitivity; they don’t get much better than her.

“But Big Mo stood her ground like a man; she was admirable.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, there’s going to be a couple of others with her, and maybe even more than that,” the caretaker said; “they’re calling it ‘the girls’ week off,’ getting away from everybody and everything, especially men.

“One of them’s a poetess from California--”

“Say no more,” I interrupted; “CaliforniaPeggy’s welcome here any time.”

The caretaker looked at me, puzzled.  “But she’s a primitive, and you don’t like primitives.”

“CaliforniaPeggy’s an exception,” I said; “I used to really loathe her, she being one of these affluent white liberals who has no idea what the real world, and what people, are like.

“But then two things happened; one of them was that a near-lumpenunterprimitiven, the Kali primitive, not to be confused with the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, got on her case for supporting Big Mo.

“And the truth is, the Kali primitive isn’t even good enough to brush CaliforniaPeggy’s teeth, much less find fault with her.

“But CaliforniaPeggy showed real class, real dignity, in dealing with this unwarranted personal attack.

“And about that time, I’d encountered CaliforniaPeggy somewhere else, and even though she knew who I was, while Lamond hadn’t figured it out, she was cordial to me.  Our conversation was short, but it was marked by nothing but the utmost cordiality.

“CaliforniaPeggy’s great; she can come here any time.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

“And then there’s someone currently vacationing over in Italy for three months, renting a servant-staffed villa, who’s taking a break from that to come out here to be with the ‘girls.’  She’s an expert on cooking--”

Wow, I said; “a five-star guest list.  That’s the cbayer primitive.”

The caretaker looked at me, puzzled.  “But she’s a primitive, and you don’t like primitives.”

“I know, I know,” I said; “but the cbayer primitive’s an exception.

“I’ve always been ambivalent about the cbayer primitive, the feelings back-and-forthing from hot to cold, but currently I got nothing but the greatest affection and goodwill for her.

“She’s showing dear old sweet--but lazy--Lu how to run a forum on Skins’s island.

“The cbayer primitive’s great; I’d love to see her again.”

- - - - - - - - - -

There was however the matter of two groups--the carnies and the ‘girls’--and just one camp-site, although I supposed it’d be okay to use the Italianate-owned property next to this one.  It was purchased by Meyer and Alberto back in 1948, and while the property taxes have been diligently paid on it every six months since then, nobody Italianate’s ever been out here to do anything with it the past sixty-six years.

“You could put one in one place, and the other in the other place,” the caretaker said.

“The problem though,” I pointed out, “is that I prefer campers use the road from the highway to get to my campground.

“But to use the Italianate tract further down, they have to drive right through the middle of this property, and I’m not too keen on that.

“I didn’t have any problem with Lamond’s people doing that, they being decent and civilized church-going people.

“But here we got primitives and carnies.

“And the carnies might scare the ‘girls,’ so best to keep them unaware of each other.

“I don’t have to watch out for the carnies; they can take care of themselves.

“But the ‘girls’ are another matter; they need watched over, so nothing bad happens to them.

“And also being femmes, they have special needs that could be better given from here, not to way over there.

“So we’ll have the carnies on the Italianate property, out of sight, and have the ‘girls’ here, where I can better protect and shield their frail womanhood.”

to be continued

[ChuckJ]

Frank,

It’ll probably be tomorrow before I get a chance to read the story and I don’t mean to hijack you before you get in full swing, but that first photo is amazing. That particular view almost exactly matches a view on a river near where I grew up.

[franksolich]

Frank,

It’ll probably be tomorrow before I get a chance to read the story and I don’t mean to hijack you before you get in full swing, but that first photo is amazing. That particular view almost exactly matches a view on a river near where I grew up.

The picture's like three or four years old.

That part of the river's 500 yards from the back porch of the house.  Looking north.

The other one, that looks similar, isn't.  It's on the Italianate tract, looking south.

<<<not in "full swing" on the story yet; just started.

[ChuckJ]

The picture's like three or four years old.

That part of the river's 500 yards from the back porch of the house.  Looking north.

The other one, that looks similar, isn't.  It's on the Italianate tract, looking south.

<<<not in "full swing" on the story yet; just started.

It brings back memories. The only difference that I can see from what I'll call my river is that on my river the growth on the sandbar is just a little bit farther back from the water. Not much, but a little.  On my river, about 500 foot to the left is a pretty big cliff. It's been 30 to 35 years since I've been there, but I can remember it like yesterday.

By the way, I just finished the story. Great start.

[franksolich]

By the way, I just finished the story. Great start.

Remember to whom it's dedicated; I hope to make it as offensive as Hell, to women's-libbers.

Not to women, and not to the femme primitives who'll be in the story--but to the screeching banshee she-women of Skins's island, who whine and bitch about genderized language as if it's the most terrible ordeal women of the world face today.

Never mind that millions, tens of millions if not possibly hundreds of millions, of women are being brutalized, mutilated, and killed in the world today, but because it's being done by groups for whom it's politically-incorrect to criticize, the women's-libbers don't care about those women.

Again, I hope to make this story as offensive, as sexist, as toxic, as Hell--not to women, not to the femme primitives who'll be in the story--but to the rabid women's-libbers on Skins's island.

[franksolich]

“Well, I dunno,” I said to the neighbor’s wife; “you know what women like to do.

“But even though [the femme] and I have been an ‘item’ for some years now, I still don’t know myself, what they like to do.

“One idea, though; the week of the county fair, when the ‘girls’ will be here too, there’s the community-wide late-summer garage sales, and maybe Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive would go for that, to see how we here in the Sandhills of Nebraska hold garage sales.

“I’m sure they’ve never seen garage sales such as those we have.

“It’s a great time to stock up on home-made rhubarb pie, for example.

“And [the wife of the retired property caretaker]’s told me that she’s planning to have her biggest sale ever; remember, she’s got all that stuff to sell, from what the Packer clan abandoned here on Memorial Day.  I don’t think the ‘girls’ would be interested in the boat or the trailer or the cadaver-carvers, but they might get a kick out of seeing hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer’s white cotton underdrawers with the 56” waistline.”

- - - - - - - - - -

We were sitting on the back porch, and the property caretaker was there too, being done with his work for the day, and relaxing with a couple of cans of beer.

“You know,” I said, “I’m really glad both of you are here right now, because I’m really concerned about something.

“To wit, the ease and comfort of CaliforniaPeggy.

“Big Mo and the cbayer primitive can take care of themselves pretty well, but CaliforniaPeggy’s, uh, kind of ancient.  Probably she’s got stiff joints and muscles that ache.

“And I want her to be comfortable.

“But I’m not intimately acquainted with the problems peculiar to ancient women; my own mother and sisters died long, long, long before they attained any length of age anywhere near that of CaliforniaPeggy.

“However, at the same time, we have here three women who’ve borne infants, and by tackling the problem from that angle instead of the age angle, Big Mo and the cbayer primitive could be comforted too.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

“What are you thinking of?” the property caretaker asked.

“Sanitary conveniences,” I euphemized.

“Now, normally,” I went on, “I’d have the same attitude that [the femme] has about women camping here--’oh, they can just dig a hole and squat over that.’”

The femme is a woman of feminine grace and elegance, but she grew up as a cowgirl with four older brothers, then three younger brothers, and finally a sister at the end.  So generally if it doesn’t bother men, it doesn’t bother her either.

“But I rather respect women who’ve borne infants.

“Now, women who’ve borne infants, whether last week or fifty years ago, whether eighteen years old or eighty-eight years old, whether one single infant or a score of them, well, their bodies get significantly weakened, and they’re afflicted with inconveniences such as always having to go to the bathroom,” I again euphemized.

“People who’ve camped here have either brought along those flimsy camp-stools with little white plastic bags hanging underneath or, as with the Packers for example, whenever hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer needed to do some business, hippyhubby Wild Bill drove her into town to use the women’s restroom at the convenience store.

“But I don’t want the ‘girls’ to have to do that; I think that as mothers of the human race, they deserve somewhat more convenience and comfort.

“I need to have a sanitary facility built down there, temporary but state-of-the-art, so clean and sleek and handsome that even CaliforniaPeggy would admit it beats what she has to use at home.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“I told you a couple of years ago you needed to have me build an outhouse down there,” the property caretaker said.  “It’d be handy for the convenience of campers.”

“But that’s precisely why I don’t want a permanent one down there,” I replied; “if I put up amenities, then everybody and his uncle would want to camp here.

“This way, with no amenities, pointing out this is real ‘roughing it,’ it cuts down on the requests; only the heartiest few bother applying.

“And besides, an outhouse would destroy the pristine virginal look of the river-side.

“I’m not in the campground business, and I don’t charge anybody any money for staying down there, so I’m not legally or morally required to provide amenities.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I’m not the boss of the property caretaker, although the one who’s now retired used to refer to me as “boss;” I’m merely a tenant on a piece of property about the size of six and a half football fields. 

The caretaker’s boss owns substantial real-estate in the county, although in scattered bits-and-pieces.

The owner, a guy about my own age, prefers just to work at the steel mill in the big city, leaving worries about maintenance of the properties to the caretaker, a guy in his 30s, a distant relative; he alleges working in the steel mill is easier.

I’m however the only human tenant of any of these diverse tracts, and so the caretaker leaves his tools, equipment, and vehicles here, which explains why he hangs out here a lot.

Myself, my needs are modest and I have few complaints, so I don’t cost him any great deal of labor.

The caretaker is, really, his own boss, deciding what needs to be done, and when.  He’s very well paid, but I wouldn’t want his job, because sometimes it entails working 80+ hours a week, especially during bad weather.  He’s “on call” 24/7/365.

But he likes it because he gets to set his own schedule, doing things at his own whim.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, I guess, no problem” he said, “but did you have anything specific in mind?”

“Just a well-built, top-notch little miniature dwelling--temporary--to house a commode,” I said.

“And something pretty for the ‘girls,’ at the same time not being an eyesore on the appearance of the river-side.

“It’d be nice if the commode had a heated seat, but that might be too much,” I suggested.

“And the standard stuff--lighted, no wastes seeping into the ground, and oh God please, no odors.

“Try to figure out some way so there’s no odors.

“When I was wandering around the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants, there was the ugly odor of human shit all over the place; it permeated, fouled, the air.  I don’t want to smell that any more.”

to be continued

[GOBUCKS]

A convention of DUmpettes without grasswipe Judy Smith?

Her years of homelessness would shed a different light on concerns about sanitary facilities.

Of course, there on the riverbank there are no doorways or alleys.

Maybe a great-great-grandson can front her a Trailways ticket.

[franksolich]

A convention of DUmpettes without grasswipe Judy?

Much to her disappointment, it's looking that way, no Judy grasswire in this tale.

[franksolich]

“I got a call from New Jersey today,” the caretaker said; “from one of Big Mo’s friends who’s coming here.

“She wanted to know if she had to bring any protection against wild Indians.”

Yeah, I said; “they’re very provincial not only down in San Diego and Mexico City, but in the northeast too.

“Who was it?”

“The NJCher primitive, the one who sleeps eight hours a day, works four hours a day, and spends twelve hours a day preparing supper, although she calls it ‘dinner.’

“I got the impression she’s pretty uppity.”

No problem, I said; “she’ll come down to earth soon enough, once she gets here.”

“And there’s two others, also pals of Big Mo’s,” the caretaker continued.

Since I’m deaf and find use of the telephone cumbersome, I use the business partner, the femme, the neighbor’s wife, and the property caretaker as my answering-service.  They do all the listening-and-talking for me, and then pass on the details to me.

“One of them’s a great-aunt from Chicago--”

“Oh yes,” I interrupted; “the former neighbor of Fat Che, at one time the ‘BenBurch’ primitive, but his house was foreclosed, and so he had to move.  A spinster aunt who eats like a bird but who’s built like a brick house, a touch of black hair on her upper lip, and with badly-fitting false teeth.

“She doesn’t like me, but we could probably be at least formally cordial to each other.”

“The second one, I can’t figure out,” the caretaker went on; “this is supposed to be ‘the girls’ week off,’ away from men, but Skippy from California’s coming too.”

“Actually, that’s okay,” I said.  “Skippy’s undeniably a male, but he’s no man.

“Don’t get me wrong--he likes to poke women, not other guys.

“But he’s got no backbone, no fortitude, no manhood in him.  Skippy‘s Jello.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

The business partner was here early this morning, on his way down to Missouri to pick up a horse he’d bought; he breeds horses and does one other thing as his main enterprises.  Our accounting forensics, while a large part of my income, is but a small part of his.

“Some crazy woman called me the other day,” he said, “looking for you.  But as she’s obviously a nutcase, I figured it wasn’t important enough to bother you at the time.”

If I had ears, they would’ve perked up.

“She was that big tumbling jugs broad who was here recently; from Minnesota.

“She wanted to talk to you because she wants your pal Romeo’s address, as she wants to come out to see him again.  I got the impression she doesn’t want to deal with you any more, but you’re her only avenue to what she wants, Romeo.”

“Your pal” had been said with sarcasm; the business partner doesn’t care for him…..as neither does practically everybody else, finding him insufferable.  I too find him a pain, but somebody’s got to be a friend.

“I played with her a bit,” he continued; “she’s really hot for him.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I can’t figure it out.  He hopped around in the sack with her, and then dumped her.  I didn’t hop around in the sack with her because she wants to be liked for her mind, not her body.

“And she likes him, and despises me.”

“You played that wholly wrong,” the business partner said, “and I can’t figure out why, because you before anybody else knew the score from square one, from the start.  You knew that she’s just interested in being poked, and that all this women’s-libber stuff is just for show.

“You knew that, and so should’ve poked her.  She’d love you then.”

Uh no, I said; “some women, I don’t want to be loved by.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“So…..how’d it end up?” I finally asked.

“I told her she didn’t have to contact you,” he said, at which I heaved a sigh of relief.

“I told her I could tell her myself, where Romeo lives.”

My hair stood on end.

“But really, I gave her dutch508’s address.

“’I don’t have his telephone number on me, but it’s okay to just pop in on him--make it a surprise.  And don’t worry about the timing, because any time’s a good time for him,’ I also told her.”

- - - - - - - - - -

This is the eastern slope of the Sandhills of Nebraska; dutch508 lives on his Connecticut-sized cattle barony on the western slope of the Sandhills, more than 300 miles away.

“Well, dutch508’s certainly got the quarters, and the means, to treat her well,” I said; “and besides, he sets a good table. 

“But she’s going to know it’s a trick, because Romeo’s here, and dutch508’s way over there.”

“She’s a sex-starved broad,” the business partner said, “and being from a congested, crowded blue state, she doesn’t know excresence about the geography of Nebraska.  As far as she knows, Omaha’s in Tennessee, and we’re west of Idaho…..somewhere.

“She fell for it, and plans to drive there this weekend.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Well, cancel the plans for a two-seater,” I told the property caretaker in mid-morning.

“Keep everything else the same, but the weight-limits’ll support only one of the ‘girls’ at a time, so it‘ll have to be a one-seater.

“By the way, why is there such a thing as two-seaters?  Do people really sit down side-by-side, their hips and thighs rubbing together, doing their business?”

“These are women,” the caretaker reminded me; “you know how women can’t go to the bathroom alone.”

Oh.

“Well, anyway, the weight limit’s going to be stressed enough, with just one of the ‘girls’ in there--Big Mo just invited LynneSin to come out here too.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

About lunch-time, I was helping the neighbor adjust something on a tractor in the garage, when a big black car pulled up into the front yard.

Like the property caretaker, the neighbor stores stuff out here instead of his place, because this place has certain advantages, including plenty of room, plenty of equipment, plenty of tools…..and there’s three ancient refrigerators in the garage stocked full of beer.

Stuff one likes to have at home, but it’s just not convenient.

Out of the back seat emerged, of all people, Louie, the “advance man” for the carnival that’s going to be here for the county fair.  Louie, of Italianate derivation, is a short thin middle-aged guy with a perpetually worried expression on his face.

He’s the one who goes around putting up posters advertising the carnival, and being sure that the site is “well-prepped” for when the rides, booths, and carnies arrive to set things up.

I’ve known Louie for three years now; he travels all over, and I’ve seen him more than just the times the carnival’s coming to town.

- - - - - - - - - -

I first met Louie the final time the carnies camped on the fairgrounds (three years ago); the county treasury was running dry and the people were demanding some new public amenities, and so the sheriff decided it’d help matters if he collected more fines from law-breakers.

Since the sheriff is popularly-elected, and likes his job, he couldn’t do much to local law-breakers, but outsiders, well, they don’t live and vote here.

Consumption of alcoholic beverages on governmental property in Nebraska is against the law, subjecting one to fines ranging from $100 up to the skies.  It’s a good thing, and to our credit, it’s no secret; an outsider can’t be around more than five minutes before learning it’s the law.  It’s no secret.

One can drink in a bar or restaurant, in one’s own home or yard, or on private property where one has permission (or invitation) of the owner.

This a pretty vast arena for drinking, but for some perverse reason, outsiders seem to think it should be okay to suck on the bottle on the sidewalks, on the streets, in the parks, in other public areas.

Some people just can’t be satisfied.

- - - - - - - - - -

The sheriff passed out plenty of tickets the four nights of the county fair that year, to drinking carnies.

Louie, who’s also the manager of the carnival, begged and pleaded; he’d go bankrupt paying all those fines.

It wasn’t that bad, though; as it turned out, the amount of the fines matched the amount of the “take” for the rides, games, and sideshows, no more than that.

It was enough to build six new tennis courts, air-condition the bleachers at the high school football field, and re-landscape the 18-hole local golf course.  The locals were happy; it hadn’t cost us a cent.

Louie threatened to bring his carnival here no more, until I interceded, reminding him I’m tenant of property not only scenic but great for camping, too.  And because it’s private property, and with my permission, the carnies could camp and drink all they wanted without breaking the law.

This property’s five miles straight down the road from the county fairgrounds; a piece of cake.

And so the carnies camped here and drank all they wanted, last year and the year before that.

There were no problems, other than that the enterprising eager young lad, the 11-year-old son of the neighbor, sold all the beer in the three refrigerators in the garage here to the carnies…..at a dollar a case.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Louie of course smiled upon seeing me, and then introduced me to the two others, Vinnie “the meat grinder” and Giovanni “the smiling undertaker,” who made me a little nervous.

“I give you franksolich, a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet,” Louie enthusiastically announced to the pair, who broke out in genuinely-nice smiles.  “Everybody, but everybody, likes, loves franksolich, a nice guy--”

“Well, not everybody likes him,” the neighbor interrupted.  “Primitives don’t like him.”

Louie’s face clouded with contempt.  “I spit on the primitives,” he said; “bastardos, merda, ritardos, stronzos, finocchios, culos, all of them, the primitives.

“May their [rectal apertures] permanently shut so they’ll never again know the relief of emptying their bowels.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Louie, the neighbor, Vinnie “the meat grinder,” Giovanni “the smiling undertaker,” and I went out to the back porch, to socialize for a few minutes.

Louie grabbed the mounted telescope screwed to the top of a porch-railing, to scan the camping area on the river-side 500 yards distant.  Peering, he spied what appeared to be the beginnings of a miniature Swiss Alpine chalet, which suddenly gave me an idea.

The “girls” were going to be camping there, something I hadn’t told Louie yet, and the carnies would be camping around the bend out of sight, on Meyer’s and Alberto’s tract.

I didn’t want the carnies to know about the “girls,” lest they run amok among them, pillaging and other unspeakable things.  I’m very concerned for the sanctity of womanhood.

“Yeah, there’s some construction going on down there,” I pointed out, “and so I’m putting your people further down, about a mile down, around the corner.  It’s very similar to this campground.  But they have to get there by driving through this property, not by driving along the river.

“Whatever else, don’t have them drive along the river to get there.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Everybody sat around the table on the back porch, chitchatting, when Louie made an unspoken wish to have a drink.  It’s not my thing, but it’s their thing, and so I acquiesced.

The femme keeps a horde of wine here, because I’m the only one who lives here and I don’t drink, so nobody’ll touch it.

This however was a special occasion, and she wasn’t going to mind.  There’s about sixty bottles in her collection, and not knowing anything about wine, I simply grabbed some Italianate-labeled bottles at random, which included 1990 Giuseppe Quintarelli Amabile del Cere Bianco Veneto, 1999 Barbaresco Crichet e Pajè, 2002 Marchisi Antinori Firenze, 1985 Sassicaia Tenuta San Guido, and 1970 Brunello il Greppo Riserva Biondi Santi.

Louie beamed when reading the labels; apparently I’d randomly selected well.

to be continued

[franksolich]

As it neared suppertime, and Louie, Vinnie the meat-grinder, and Giovanni the smiling undertaker seemed a little too sauced for their own good, I suggested they come with me to dine at the bar in town, not least because the femme would be there, and also Swede, the cook of Norwegian derivation whose specialty is Italianate cuisine.

They were spending the night in the big city, about 45 miles away, and it’d be good for sobering them up.  The property caretaker had left, to have supper at home with his wife.

When we got to the bar, Swede exuded a sour grimace upon seeing me, but then lightened up at the sight of the other three, s-o-o-o-o-o-o obviously sons of the central Mediterranean.

The femme was already there, along with the neighbor’s older brother, the insurance man, Dane the local mechanic of Norwegian derivation, Finn the town cop also of Norwegian derivation, and Romeo, a ranch-hand who works across the road from where I live.  Even though the other side of the large table was unoccupied, I pulled up a chair and squeezed in between her and Romeo.

The femme was outnumbered nine-to-one, but that’s hardly unusual; having grown up in the middle of seven brothers on a ranch out in the Sandhills, and despite her not having any attributes of the “tomboy”--in fact, she’s rather daintily feminine--she’s always been considered one of the guys, one of us.

- - - - - - - - - -

Swede, curious about the three who’d come in with me, shoved the waitress aside and came over to our table to take our orders.  He immediately brushed me off, already knowing that I wanted a hamburger well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, french fries cooked on the grill and not in the fryer, and a side dish of sour cream.

I’ve been going here for supper a few times every week since August 2001, and being regular in my habits have always had exactly the same thing, every time.  If nothing else, I’m at least consistent.

Already having the orders for those who’d gotten there before us, Swede concentrated upon dealing with Louie, Vinnie, and Giovanni, exchanging insight and opinions about the various dishes offered.

It was a wonder to watch, this tall light-skinned blond-haired (although with copious grey) son of the kongeriket Norge explaining Italianate dishes to three short dark swarthy sons of Ausonia--and in Italiano, no less.

Knowing an expert when they saw one, the three accepted Swede’s suggestions.

- - - - - - - - -

Since I’m deaf, I didn’t participate in any of the chit-chattery and yim-yammery that went on among the others--they were certainly an animated crowd this evening--and instead just sat back and watched.

One of the things I thought about was the wisdom of my decision to have the neighbor’s wife deal with Big Mo and the ‘girls’ when they came here, instead of the femme.

I dunno what’s going to happen, but in case Big Mo’s crowd wanted female guidance on things to do, places to go, I’d decided to offer them the neighbor’s wife, because if they met the femme, they’d want to scratch her eyes out, tear her to pieces, shred her.

Both the neighbor’s wife and the femme are a year, two years, under forty, but lithely aesthetic.

The neighbor’s wife has borne five infants in twelve years, but still retains her petite, Nancy Reagan-like figure and poise.

The femme has undergone no such trials and tribulations, but despite age, remains teenager-thin, almost wiry.

But when it comes to the neighbor’s wife, it’s pretty obvious, even to primitives, how she does it; once a dental hygienist in Omaha, she’s now an avid horsewoman up here, and taking care of horses is more than just riding them a few hours a day.

It’s a great way to stave off surplus poundage, taking care of horses.  24/7/365.

So while Big Mo’s crowd might envy the neighbor’s wife, at the same time they’d see it’s because she works so hard, and the primitives would sooner just be lazy and accept their fat and decrepitude.

But in the case of the femme, a theatre arts and dance instructor, who’s this way for no apparent reason, they’d get all green-eyed and jealous…..especially if they caught her eating, because the femme eats like a horse; she makes LynneSin seem bird-like in appetite.

to be continued

[franksolich]

“I really appreciate it,” I told the neighbor’s wife while we were driving to the big city.  “[the femme] can deal with, interact with, the carnies all she wants, but I don’t want Big Mo’s girls to even learn of her existence.

“They’ll get envious, and tear her up, rip her to pieces, out of sheer spite and jealousy, because she can put down chow like a bison and not gain an ounce, while any one of them could just have a parsley-sprig, and pad on more lard.”

We were going to the big city because I had an appointment with a physician; the neighbor’s wife was coming along in case something was done that I wouldn’t be able to drive back here.  The older three children were with their father, working, and we had the five-year-old son and the two-year-old daughter with us.

“Does she know what’s going on yet?” the neighbor’s wife asked.

Sort of, I said; “after all, she was at the bar last night and met Louie, Vinnie, and Giovanni, so she knows about the carnies coming.  I haven’t told her yet about Big Mo’s gang.

“By the way, thus far there’s going to be Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, the cbayer primitive, the NJCher primitive, the great-aunt from Chicago, Skippy, LynneSin, and I found out earlier this morning that the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive and the raccoon-bitten primitive, the ‘Aerows’ primitive from Mississippi, are coming too.

“Big Mo knows how to rope in the good ones, for a primitive get-together; Big Mo’s great.

“And to think--it’ll take place on franksolich’s turf.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“What do you suppose they’ll want from me?” the neighbor’s wife asked.

“I have no idea,” I replied; “it’s wholly possible they won’t want to have anything to do with anybody here, in which case you’d be home free. 

“They’re not going to deal with me, because I’m a man, and for the moment at least they hate men.

“But for you, being a woman, it could be anything from just answering questions about what to do, what to see, all the way to actually participating in whatever it is they wish to do.”

The neighbor’s wife said she would think of things beforehand, ”but really, it’s difficult imagining what a bunch of miserable women would like to do, other than just sit around a campfire and bitch.”

“Think of things to get them out of their funk,” I replied.

“For example, most of them are from crowded congested blue places, and most of them are baby-boomers who grew up with all the modern conveniences given them on a silver platter, and so have no idea how life used to be, or how life is sometimes out here.

“They need some illumination in that direction, and it might be interesting for them.

“For example, you could maybe take them to the ladies’ fabric shoppe in the big city, to show them the acres and acres of material, the miles of thread, and the stacks of Simplicity paper patterns.

“Excepting for CaliforniaPeggy, who’s a special case, I’ll bet not a one of them has ever seen such a thing, a fabric shoppe; I’ll bet it’s never occurred to most of them that people used to make their own clothes, and some still do.  I can right now ‘see’ the NJCher primitive trying to figure out why some pins have holes in them, or the cbayer primitive trying to figure out why the blades of pinking shears are the way they are.

“It’d be something wholly new to them, like a trip to Mars, and they might find it interesting.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“All those women,” she said; “it’ll be a handful, and I’m sure you’ll find dealing with carnies a lot easier.”

Maybe, I said, “but I’m sure that Big Mo can keep them in line.

“Big Mo’s solid and sturdy, unbreakable as a rock.  She can make them behave.”

Having gotten back from the big city, I’d been out in the yard repairing croquet wickets when my latest visitor arrived.  As I don’t know her all that well, she’s an acquaintance, not a friend.

Years ago, she’d been a sorority sister at the University of Nebraska with another woman who was into soil science, and who’d stayed here one summer analyzing the William Rivers Pitt, that 740-cubic-yard mound of antique swine excrement, dating from 1875-1950, which eventually became the subject of her Ph.D. thesis.

The Jungfrau-looking William Rivers Pitt looms about a city block-and-a-half from the front porch, in between the house and the abandoned road leading to a large tract of land owned by Italianate interests in New Jersey.  Any more, it looks just like any other hill in the Sandhills, excepting that the foliage growing on it tends to be a bit greener.

“Does [the femme] know yet, that they’ll be here?  Maybe she could help you.”

No, I said, “and I’ll wait until next week to tell her.  This week’s a bad time.

“Three out of every four weeks, we get along like strawberries-and-cream; then each fourth week, I stay out of her way as much as possible, and if close to her, walk as if on eggshells I don’t want to break.”

“Well, all women are like that,” she said; “I’m truly surprised you never noticed.”

Oh, I noticed it a long time ago; “decades ago, I noticed it.

“And it’s never been right, for women to act that way.

“Women have no sense of fortitude; the least little thing, and they start whining.

- - - - - - - - - -

“We men go through the same things--not exactly the same things, but things like it--times when we get irritable, bitchy, grouchy, bent out of shape, and probably much of it’s both cyclical and organic, physical.

“But you never hear a man whine, ‘oh, but it’s that time of the month again…..’

“And when growing up, I don’t recall my mother ever whining.  At times, one could sense that she was irritable or uncomfortable or despondent, but she never whined about it.”

“But by the time you could remember her, you mother was probably already in menopause,” the visitor commented.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, “that ‘change of life,’ after which women are supposed to get mellow, not having to deal with this other thing every four weeks.

“But I don’t believe it; even after they’re well into middle-age, they still have some sort of ‘cycle.’

“When my mother died, womanhood lost something.  Fortitude.

“One can’t control one’s feelings, but one can control one’s behavior.

“Women still have a lot of virtues, but fortitude ain’t one of them.”

“Oh man,” she said; “when Big Mo and her girls get here, you’re going to have lots of problems.”

I’m not worried about it, I said; “always-level-headed, even-tempered, mellow, laid-back Big Mo can keep their attitudes in line.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

I was outside changing the air in the automobile tires when I looked up, and lo and behold, were standing before me Italianate Jesus and a brother of hippyhubby Wild Bill’s, the one born with both eyes on the same side of his nose.

I’d been expecting them, but not for two and a half weeks yet, when the carnies come to camp here.

Italianate Jesus looks like his name implies; he’d been the number-two man to Rhinestone Santa, who headed a contingent of cultists belonging to the Bagwam Maharishi Rawalpindi Thiruvananthapura Yogi out in Oregon, who’d camped here three summers ago.

He’d later run away, and become a carnie.

The brother of hippyhubby Wild Bill’s been a carnie for years, but only part-time.

Louie’s carnival’s currently at a county fair north of here, after which it heads for South Dakota, and sooner or later turns around and comes back down here for our county fair, the last county fair of the season.

They’d driven all the way here to ask if they could camp here the rest of the weekend, before they have to head north.  It’ll make for a one-way commute of 82 miles the next three days, but they were okay with that; they didn’t care much for where they were at.

Apparently Italianate Jesus had gotten into a fight with some local up there, and busted him up pretty good.

And apparently Wild Bill’s brother had made some moves on a local woman who didn’t wanted moved on.

I said yeah, sure, whatever, no problem.

- - - - - - - - - -

Having already anticipated an affirmative, they had all of their camping gear with them.

We went out to the back porch to have drinks, they alcoholic, me a flower-vase of iced milk.

Wild Bill’s brother looked longingly towards the river 500 yards away, where they’d camped the last time they were here.  He looked through the telescope screwed onto a railing of the back porch, spotting the miniature Swiss Alpine chalet, now surrounded by transplanted roses, geraniums, mums, begonias, and other flowers.

He had no idea what it was, but I suddenly thought of something.

“There’s construction going on down there,” I said; “you’ll have to use where you’re supposed to camp during the county fair, on the property adjacent.”

Actually, the sanitary facilities for Big Mo and her girls isn’t quite done, but done enough to be usable, and if the two camped there, they might think it was okay to use it, when I wished instead to have CaliforniaPeggy be the one to break it in.

- - - - - - - - - -

We sat around for a while, as they updated me on what’s going on with them.

Italianate Jesus has slowly been losing his paranoia--he’d been really jumpy a couple of years ago--but still had some concern that the Bagwam Maharishi Rawalpindi Thiruvananthapura Yogi and Rhinestone Santa were still looking around for him, as he “knows too much” about how the commune’s run.

Wild Bill’s brother assured me that probably hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer and hippyhubby Wild Bill won’t be coming up here any more, as I ostensibly “put the fear of God into that Godless old reprobate.”

“He thinks he got baptized when you were wrestling around with him in the water.

“Wild Bill’s different now; he’s scared and nervous and uptight, afraid that ‘fundies’ have stolen his mind; he’s sure there’s some sort of invisible parasite eating away at him on the inside, and’s gotten to using all sorts of purgatives and laxatives and Epsom salts to blow it out.”

Too bad for hippyhubby Wild Bill, I thought; but it’s all worry for nothing, because nothing happened.

It was raining when I’d arrived at the river-side, where Lamond, the MrsCorpio primitive, looking very much like a sunglassesed Ray Charles in the garb of the Archbishop of Canterbury, was baptizing the masses; the crowds were confining, and I twisted and squirmed my way to the front.

Upon seeing me standing there, Lamond became transfixed, like John the Baptist, raising his crozier into the air, announcing, “Behold the Son of God has cometh.”

I don’t mean to sound sacrilegious or irreverent, because I’m not.  But I have no control over the delusions of other people.

hippyhubby Wild Bill in the meantime had been in a boat, circling in the water, hollering and cursing at the “Jesus freaks,” when I raised my hand to silence Lamond…..at the very same moment there struck a bolt of lightning, knocking Wild Bill into the water.

to be continued

[franksolich]

The property caretaker, after dropping off his stuff from other jobs and heading home for supper, invited me to come down to the river-side to check out the sanitary facilities being built for Big Mo and the girls, but principally for the ease and comfort of CaliforniaPeggy.

It’s been torridly hot and I didn’t want to go down there, but he insisted.

“It’s almost done, and I need to know before I finish up, if you want any changes.”

“Well, if it makes CaliforniaPeggy happy, then I’m happy,” I insisted.

But still, he had me check it out.

It was as if a child’s playhouse of the sort commonly found in backyards when I was a kid, in the design of a Swiss Alpine chalet.

“I made it this way, and out of scrap materials, because you wanted only a temporary structure, and I figure once the primitive women have been here and gone, I could haul it to the children’s playground at the city park and set it up there--minus, of course, what’s inside.”

“Okay, what did you use inside?” I asked.

“A Clivus Multrum,” he said, “that I picked up at a garage sale in the big city.  It was unused, still in its original packing from Sweden.  Odor-free.”

I opened the door and looked inside.  “It looks like an ordinary commode,” I said, “but I’ll take your word on how it works, no problem.”

I looked at it again.  “Good,” I added; “it’s high.

“Given CaliforniaPeggy’s ancient age and her sore and aching joints, we want her to be able to just ‘sit,’ not ‘sit down.’

“I think it’ll work.”

I made a move to return to the house, but he stopped me.  “Wait, you haven’t seen everything.”

There was a water-wheel, about four feet high, on the side.

When one goes inside and sits, water gets fed onto the wheel, which then turns.

“But that’s not all; you can’t hear it, but as the wheel turns, a music box plays Ach du lieber Augustin, Augustin, Augustin…..”

to be continued

[franksolich]

The neighbor’s wife came over after supper--this time with all five kids--to drop off some stuff.

“I just got word Big Mo’s bringing yet two more,” I announced.

“There’s plenty of room here for a primitive meet-up, but I hope you and Big Mo can handle it.

“The first of the new commitments is the elleng primitive, the primitive who hates her husband even though he’s dead.

“He died from utter exhaustion; he tried his best to please her, he catered to her every whim and caprice, he gave her everything she asked for, but it wasn’t enough.

“The second’s the William769 primitive--”

“Now wait,” the neighbor’s wife said; “that sounds like a guy.”

Yeah, it is, I said; another guy along with Skippy.  “But Wills is part of the gaiety crowd, and so despite that this is an anti-men get-together, he’s harmless to women, so Big Mo invited him.”

“Who’s all in so far?” she asked.

“Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, the cbayer primitive, the NJCher primitive, the great-aunt from Chicago, Skippy, LynneSin, the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, the raccoon-bitten Aerows primitive, and now the husband-hating elleng primitive and Wills.

“You know I’m going to write about all this, and that each primitive’s going to get her or his own individual chapter, or ‘profile,’ usually a colorful description of their first encounter with franksolich, although none of them are aware I’m franksolich.

“It’s a tolerable group so far, but there’s one mean bitch in it that you’ll have to watch for.

“That insufferable snob the NJCher primitive.

“You need to see what she said on Skins’s island today:

I was living in the midwest, where I was born, in the midst of "conservative" types. They were driving me nuts with their backwards policies. I used to hate seeing outdoor boards that were anti-choice, for example. I was a born radical and in those days, Berkeley was the place to be. I asked my dad to send me to school there, but being somewhat of a conservative, he declined.

While I worked in several radical (at the time, now mainstream) political groups in the midwest, I still couldn't stand the slow pace. I also believed in myself and didn't want to waste my career in some backwater small city.

I decided to seek a job where I could work in the "big time" of my field. That meant NYC. Oddly enough, I applied for three jobs with major Fortune 100 firms, received three offers, and enjoyed a terrific career in media. They even moved me, found me a place to live, and paid for everything.

As a result, I largely got away from republicans and took up residence in a very liberal town. I soon began seeing how important it is to live in an area where one shares at least broad political views with one's fellow residents. I continued to work for liberal causes, only now I felt I was really among my peers.

“In fact, she’s such a rectal aperture I think she’s too big of a job for you to handle.

“So probably I’ll have to deal with her myself, to put her back in her place.”

to be continued

[Tess Anderson]

Frank, do you know exactly where in the Midwest Cherie is from? Looks to me like she had family in Omaha, NE and Port O'Connor, TX? She omits everything but "West Orange, NJ" on her FB page.

[franksolich]

Frank, do you know exactly where in the Midwest Cherie is from? Looks to me like she had family in Omaha, NE and Port O'Connor, TX? She omits everything but "West Orange, NJ" on her FB page.

She's a primitive, and has a vast ignorance of geography.

To a primitive, the "midwest" can be western Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa, too.

She has no idea what the "midwest" is, although she could look at an atlas and see what's east, what's west, what's north, what's south, and what's "mid."

I swear, she's not a tenth as smart as she thinks she is.

[franksolich]

“This effete elitist snob reminds me of the film critic Pauline Kael, who moved in such rarified circles that when Richard Nixon won re-election in 1972 carrying 49 out of 50 states, she was confused as to why Nixon had won, because ‘I don’t know anybody who voted for him,’” I said to the neighbor's wife.

I pulled a book out of a drawer of the buffet, Michelin’s Haute cuisine d’Nebraska nord-est.

“It’s in French.  There’s no English translation, because Michelin figures Americans already know this stuff anyway, and what’s already commonly known doesn’t sell books.

“Please notice even Swede’s wife’s bar has a three-star rating.

“I’m going to take this sanctimonious bitch out to dine in every three-star restaurant in this book, and she’d better bring along a big fluffy beach-towel, to wipe off all the egg that’s going to splatter her face.”

to be continued

[Chris_]

The Michelin guide was originally designed as a travel brochure to promote driving, automobile use, and (naturally) the purchase of new tires when the old ones wore out.  Nothing more.

[franksolich]

You know I'm writing this as I go along; it's wholly spur-of-the-moment, first draft.

I'm bored using hippywife, grasswire, and Atman as the villains in stories; once vibrant, colorful, and lively characters, they're old and stale now.  I need a new primitive to pick on, to mock and deride its pretensions of holier-than-thouness.

And so in the manner of that old movie It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World--not the plot, but its use of a whole lot of big-name stars--I decided to unleash a vast horde of PoP, primitives of prominence, to see which one's character develops, evolves, the best for use in future stories.

Until now, it wasn't working very well, because most of Big Mo's crowd has at least a trace, a tincture, an iota, of decency in them that inhibits one from making fun of them.  I wanted a 100% pure unadulterated primitive; a 99.9% primitive isn't enough.

It's early in this story, but I suspect I found the one.

[franksolich]

Having borrowed money--Swedish plumbing isn’t cheap--from the business partner, when the property caretaker showed up this morning, I started writing a check to him, for the Clivus Multrum commode, when he stayed my hand.

“You built the thing out of scrap materials, which were just laying around here not being used for anything,” I pointed out, “but you had to go out and specially spend money for this, a private request of mine, and per the lease, I’m responsible for those expenses.

“Although I’m not sure what to do with this…..this…..this thing, after Big Mo’s party leaves.”

No, he said; “I’m taking it, to install in my hunting cabin [on the shores of the Missouri River seventy miles distant].  It’s always a pain, on a cold rainy grey day in November, to step outdoors for the standing-up business, and to drive twelve miles to the nearest town for the sitting-down business.”

It needs noted that indoor plumbing was invented before Nebraska was, and so unlike the congested filthy germ-ridden blue states, we never went through this phase of more-primitive facilities.

I, for example, never even saw an outhouse until I was 11 years old…..and it was in New Jersey.

- - - - - - - - - -

Grabbing a cup of coffee, the caretaker sat down at the kitchen table.

“Well,” he said; “in two weeks, they’ll start showing up here.”

“But we’ve still got a lot to do,” I commented.

“For example,” we have to provide clean water for Big Mo and the others.”

“Now wait,” the caretaker protested; “I’ve always suggested you have me run a pipe from this house to down there, for the convenience of campers--”

“And I always said ‘no,’” I interrupted, “because if I put too many amenities down there, I’d be swamped with people wanting to camp here.

“When people hear that they have to bring their own water, or get it from here, a 500-yard trek through the meadow, it cuts down considerably on the number who want to camp here.

“But last night while sleeping, I had a nightmare about Big Mo or one of the others having to put one of those wooden yokes behind their necks, to haul water in two buckets, one at each end of the yoke, from here to down there.

“These’ll mostly be women who’ve borne infants, and so life’s already been hard enough on them, their bodies broken, their strength exhausted--they deserve some ease and comfort.

“And we have to do something so they have hot water, too.

“All temporary, of course.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I rummaged through my mind, thinking of other things that needed done.

“You know,” I finally said, “Big Mo’s bringing her chickens here too.

“I dunno how she plans to keep them, but we can’t have them running around here uncorraled, splattering their droppings all over the place, making a mess of things.

“There’s that hazard of hookworm, and we all know how hookworm’s devastated dear old sweet Lu, making her too sick and weak and tired to tend to her duties as hostess of the cooking and baking forum.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Then my hair stood up on end, a sense of urgency in my voice.

“We have to figure out a way so the carnies don’t discover the women.

“It’s true the groups’ll be separated by about a mile, and around a curve in the river so they can’t see each other.

“And Big Mo’s people, to get to their camp-site, have to use the ‘road’ that runs alongside the river from the highway two miles north of here, while the carnies, to get to their camp-site, have to drive right through the middle of this property, past the William Rivers Pitt.

“But still, the carnies might discover the women, after which one might as well cry havoc, them running amok in an orgy of pillage, plunder, rapine.

“Big Mo’s the only one with balls to fight them off; CaliforniaPeggy because of her great age would have a heart-attack, and the others, well, they’d just meekly submit.

“And then it’d get in the newspapers, and I’d hear no end of it.”

to be continued