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“Who’s that down by the river?†I harshly asked the property caretaker this morning.
“You didn’t tell me I was having guests.â€
The caretaker looked at me as if I were Bozo from Outer Space.
“Here,†I said, dragging him out to the back porch and pointing.
“There’s a boat parked over there, less than 1500 feet away from where we’re standing, and I have no idea who they are.â€
(http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y223/dummiedestroyer/elkhornspr.jpg)
The caretaker looked at me as if I were the Man from the Moon.
“I have no idea, boss; this is new to me.â€
I went back inside and got the telescope. The telescope, a garage-sale item the caretaker had bought for me some years ago so as to increase security out here in the middle of nowhere, is usually kept mounted on a bracket on a railing of the back porch, but is brought inside during the winter.
And it’s winter here right now in the Sandhills, snow covering everything.
“Brrr,†I said; “it’s way too cold to be camping.â€
I peered through the telescope. “It doesn’t look like anybody’s around.â€
The caretaker peered through the telescope, reciting the license serial-number on the side of the boat.
Just then the neighbor showed up, and he looked too.
“Uh oh,†he said; “it’s got a couple of those little red-white-and-blue 0bama flags flying on the hull, and there looks to be an 0bama-Biden bumper-sticker near the top of the windshield.â€
Hmmmm.
“Well, what to do now?†I asked.
“Let’s go down to the river and check it out,†the neighbor suggested.
Uh, no way, I said. “I respect the privacy of other people, and don’t want to snoop.â€
The caretaker in the meantime had telephoned the county sheriff; usually such intrusions are harmless, but this was an uninvited intrusion, and so it was best to check things out.
The sheriff called back a few minutes later, informing the boat was registered in California, to an affluent couple with an English-sounding last name. “But what’s odd is, it’s not only registered as a boat, but apparently they live on it.
“They can afford a place in a gated neighborhood, say around San Diego, but they live on the boat.â€
The sheriff added, “I wonder how it got here, all the way from California.â€
The caretaker, the neighbor, and I discussed it, coming to the reasonable conclusion that they’d sailed down the coasts of California and Mexico, gone through the Panama Canal up into the Gulf of Mexico, entering the Mississippi River at New Orleans, and the Missouri River at St. Louis. After that, it was up the river to Omaha, turning left at the Elkhorn River, ending up here.
to be continued
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Sounds more like it was stolen or driven to some location west of you. A boat small enough to get to the middle of Nebraska isn't built to take on the seas of the Pacific and the Gulf of Mexico. It wouldn't have the range or a small enough draft(?) to do both.
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This just ain't gonna end well. :old:
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Not in the middle of winter in Nebraska, global warming or not. :lmao:
Might end up like those idiots that almost froze to death and a main course on a polar bears' menu heading to the North Pole to swim across it to prove global warming was real.
God loves making fun of these fools, even if it involves frostbite and polar bears. :lmao:
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Sounds more like it was stolen or driven to some location west of you. A boat small enough to get to the middle of Nebraska isn't built to take on the seas of the Pacific and the Gulf of Mexico. It wouldn't have the range or a small enough draft(?) to do both.
I know next to nothing about boats.
But I do know the cbayer primitive's boat has 300 square feet, which is slightly smaller than the living room here, and assume it's both seaworthy and riverworthy.
I dunno if it's a motorboat or a sailboat.
This of course is a work of fiction, with real-life experiences dealing with primitives camping here, inserted into the story here-and-there. I've been here since the autumn of 2005, and lots of primitives have camped here. And some things happened that even the most-vivid imagination can't make up.
Thus far, the first chapter, it's wholly fiction, but the next two chapters will be part fiction, part fact (although they were things that happened with other primitives other times).
I had to write this story after the cbayer primitive, against whom I originally had not an iota of animus, trashed the decent and civilized people who read the DUmpster.
"If you can't say something nice about somebody, then don't say anything at all"--one of those hoary old maxims the primitives fail to remember.
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Oops, I forgot.
The picture of the river is real, the telescope is real, and the description of the weather is real.
So the first part isn't wholly fictitious.
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Sounds like a good start to a great story! It's been a long time since you and/or Big Dog wrote one up!
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This is gonna be good.
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Good work as usual frank.
I'm thinking we need to put you and Big Dog on some sort of quota system where you've got to write at least story or two per quarter or we dock your VRWC stipend.
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This of course is a work of fiction, with real-life experiences dealing with primitives camping here, inserted into the story here-and-there. I've been here since the autumn of 2005, and lots of primitives have camped here. And some things happened that even the most-vivid imagination can't make up.
Can you add something about them cooking kale chips over a campfire?
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Sounds more like it was stolen or driven to some location west of you. A boat small enough to get to the middle of Nebraska isn't built to take on the seas of the Pacific and the Gulf of Mexico. It wouldn't have the range or a small enough draft(?) to do both.
No. It can be done.
There was a DUmmy here in Tennessee who a few years ago hammered together a big ark, in his yard, out of Home Depot 2X4s and scrap plywood.
He had a plan all laid out for sailing this ark from the wilds of Tennessee to the California coast, where he would dock it and live onboard, just like DUmmy cbayer the odiferous thread slayer.
He had the course all plotted and ready to go, freshwater all the way. The Continental Divide only exists in your mind.
The only obstacle between him and his dream was moving his big wooden castle to a place with enough water to float it.
That obstacle was a dealbreaker, and he died, still in Tennessee.
The ark still sits there, hidden amidst pokeberry bushes and blackberry briars.
The only good thing about the whole deal was another dead DUmmy.
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Get off of the porch, get into the house, shut off the lights, and close the curtains. I have a feeling that those DUmmies are going to be showing up at your door mooching provisions. Those boats only have room to hold so much.
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No. It can be done.
There was a DUmmy here in Tennessee who a few years ago hammered together a big ark, in his yard, out of Home Depot 2X4s and scrap plywood.
He had a plan all laid out for sailing this ark from the wilds of Tennessee to the California coast, where he would dock it and live onboard, just like DUmmy cbayer the odiferous thread slayer.
He had the course all plotted and ready to go, freshwater all the way. The Continental Divide only exists in your mind.
The only obstacle between him and his dream was moving his big wooden castle to a place with enough water to float it.
That obstacle was a dealbreaker, and he died, still in Tennessee.
The ark still sits there, hidden amidst pokeberry bushes and blackberry briars.
The only good thing about the whole deal was another dead DUmmy.
That would be the late Wiley50.
http://www.conservativecave.com/index.php/topic,54549.0.html
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“They’re still here, but they’re not here,†I groused to the neighbor’s older brother when he stopped by in late afternoon to pick up some tools.
“I’m really not up to visitors--especially primitives--given my decrepitude. I really want to be healthy and vigorous again by my birthday, and it was going that way…..until this…..this…..this…..boat showed up here.
“I can’t understand it; it’s winter, there’s snow and ice all around, and Californians being wimps about weather, I can’t imagine why they’d come here now.
“But they just parked the boat, and evaporated.â€
The neighbor’s older brother and I walked out to the back porch, as he wanted to see the boat through the telescope. He already knew the story--the whole town knew the story, and was all abuzz about hippies showing up, an early start to the season here.
“I think I already know,†he said, handing the telescope back to me.
“I think it was them at the bar last night, an older middle-aged couple, not from around here, but obviously rich, and the husband’s a European--given his accent and mannerisms--he sniffs and snorts, contemptuous of everything and everybody around him.
“She’s a mousy little woman, but pushy.
“They were driving a rental car--it was parked right in front of the bar--and said they were staying at a motel in [the big city] until the weather cleared up.
“They didn’t say what they were up here for; they were very secretive.
“Now, they didn’t identify themselves as the owners of that vessel out over there, but I think that was them.
“And there was almost trouble at the bar, but it got stopped right as it started.â€
Swede, the husband of the owner of the bar, cooks there the nights he’s not on the road as a truck-driver; he’s of Norwegian derivation, and his specialty is Italianate cuisine, for which he’s justifiably famous. Italianate restuaranteurs from six states oftentimes show up here to sample his wares and to get his recipes.
He’s also very temperamental.
“She went back into the kitchen, as she wanted to give him advice about his pollo marsala portobella--she thought he should put some red peppers in it, ‘like people do in California.’
“Well, you know Swede--two counts against her.
“He doesn’t like anybody back in the kitchen when he’s working there, and he doesn’t take kindly to criticism of the way he cooks things, the same ways old peasants in Italy taught him to cook more than forty years ago.
“’I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’re not in California,’ he told her; ‘you’re in Nebraska, and people in Nebraska like Italianate cuisine the way it’s made in the land of its origin, not American west coast modifications.'
“He wouldn’t put red peppers in her pollo marsala portobella, and she had to have it the way he made it.
“She didn’t strike me as a woman who backs down, but you know Swede…..â€
Yeah, I said.
“After they left, Swede went to his wife and told her to have ‘Tiny’ Gustl bounce at the front door the evenings he cooks, to keep this woman out of the establishment.â€
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As long as he doesn't put peas in it.
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“After they left, Swede went to his wife and told her to have ‘Tiny’ Gustl bounce at the front door the evenings he cooks, to keep this woman out of the establishment.â€
This is not going to end well.
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I'm thinking we need to put you and Big Dog on some sort of quota system where you've got to write at least story or two per quarter or we dock your VRWC stipend.
Okay now, I'll describe the sources of the material.
The people described in all the stories are real--the property caretaker, the neighbor, the femme, the neighbor's wife, the business partner, the cook at the bar, the neighbor's older brother, the retired banker's wife, the property caretaker's wife, the 420-pound guy who shovels grain at the local elevator five and a half days a week, &c., &c., &c.--they're all very real, and I hope to God I'm giving an accurate depiction of their character and habits.
The neighbor's older brother was actually here this afternoon, although the converation described between us was created out of whole cloth; we actually discussed the weather.
The episode described the by neighbor's older brother--the invasion of Swede's kitchen--is something that really happened in real life a few years ago, when a primitive went back there to tell Swede he need to put tofu in his lasagna al fresco.
The next chapter, I guess, the action starts picking up, again based upon previous real-life experiences with primitives.
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Perhaps the Swede could garnish her next dish with a dollop of mucoso fresco.
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Today, after working, I returned home, and as is my usual custom, scouted the area for anything amiss. Nothing was out of order, nobody had been here, and so I went out to the back porch to see what was up with the boat parked on the river.
Taking the telescope, I scanned the immediate area around the boat; nobody was around.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/0010.jpg)
But then looking to my left, I spied a human figure, male, average build, grey-haired, wearing a tweed suit-jacket with leather patches sewn on the elbows, walking around.
He had a great nose, an impeccable proboscis, making him seem hawk-like.
Now, I know people don’t really make noise as they walk around, but at times I like to imagine they are, and in this case, I was imagining him as walking around making a putter-putter-putter-splut-putter-putter-putter-splut-putter-putter-putter-splut sort of noise, as if a power lawn-mower needing tuned up.
Putter-putter-putter-splut, as he darted around, closely looking at things.
Perhaps, I thought, he was near-sighted.
I debated whether or not to bother walking down to see him--it was after all cold and wet, and he was more than 1500 feet away from me, a goodly distance.
I finally decided, well, I might as well find out now, what’s going on.
As I approached him, it was obvious at first he didn’t notice me, so preoccupied he was in puttering around. I hadn’t seen it from the telescope, but he had both binoculars and a handled magnifying glass hanging around his neck.
And then he noticed my presence, blinking and staring at me.
“What sort of apparition are you?†he asked.
“The owner of this property,†I replied; “actually, just the renter, but by the laws of the state of Nebraska, with the same rights as if I owned it, exclusive of any exceptions on the lease.â€
He kept blinking and staring at me, as if he hadn’t heard a word I said.
Straightening himself up, he said, “I’m looking for something. What sort of birds live around here?â€
I looked at him blankly.
“All sorts of birds, but I don’t bother paying attention to them. If I notice the difference between a goose and a hummingbird, I’m probably being more observant than I need to be.
“There’s birds all around here, but I generally leave them alone to go their own thing, while they leave me alone to do my thing.
“That is,†I added, “excepting for a couple that are a nuisance.
“There’s the wild turkeys. Sometimes when going to town, on my private roadâ€--taking care to emphasize it was my property--â€there’s an acre of them on the other side, and they decide to come here.
“But once they reach the edge of the road, they decide to cross it single-file. I dunno why, but they do that.
“As I’m reluctant to run over one of them, I just kill the engine of the car and sit there, until they’ve all crossed; single-file, and it can take twenty minutes, half a hour, for them to get across.
“And then in the summer, there’s the bald eagles. I dunno anything about bald eagles, but they look like vultures, and so I suspect they act like vultures too.
“I keep a whole pile--dozens and scores--of plastic frisbees on the back porch--I get them at garage sales, for a dime or a quarter apiece, as the cats here like to play ‘fetch.’
“But when the bald eagles are around, I fling the frisbees at them, to scare them away; I‘m always in dire fear one of them‘s going to swoop down and snatch up a cat with its talons.
“But other than that, despite their numbers, I don’t pay much attention to birds around here.â€
He blinked and stared at me as if I were Bozo from Outer Space.
Finally he commented, “Well, I read in a magazine that passenger pigeons have been seen in this area, and came to check it out, as it would be quite a find.â€
“No way,†I said; “passenger pigeons have been extinct since 1917.â€
“But one doesn’t know for a certainty,†he hotly insisted; “the world’s a very large place, with plenty of nooks and crannies for one to hide, in isolated remote uninhabited areas such as this.â€
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he sounds like a spy.... :popcorn: passenger pigeons hiding and all. Oh please...I hope some cracked reporter dosn't show up.
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I once read an interesting article about the extinction of passenger pigeons. We've always been told that it was due to unregulated commercial hunting and that seems possible until you consider the millions or billions of birds involved. They could have fed the continent for decades, if people wanted to eat that many pigeons. These were the same decades, we're told, when the continent was feasting on buffalo meat.
Anyway, this article said the pigeons were very peculiar in that if the section of woods where they'd nested for centuries was cut down, they wouldn't relocate en masse. Instead the gigantic flock would break apart. And, it said, in another quirk, smaller flocks of these pigeons had much, much lower nesting success. So, when a huge flock broke up, the resulting smaller flocks would gradually become smaller, not larger, all apart from any effect from netters or shooters.
Over period of decades, as the human population grew and inevitably displaced the unimaginably huge original flocks, the pigeon population declined. If they could not breed in gigantic numbers, many of them would not breed at all, and eventually they disappeared. For the last thirty years or so, their numbers were too small for anyone to be interested in commercial hunting, but still they declined until the last bird died.
They may have been just like the buffalo, incompatible with human civilization.
It was several years ago I read that, and I apologize for not having nadined to relocate it. I think I remember at least its essence accurately.
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Over period of decades, as the human population grew and inevitably displaced the unimaginably huge original flocks, the pigeon population declined.
That could never happen today with moonbats having so much influence in the Federal Government. They would tear down cities, putting millions of people out of work to save one rare Mosquito from extinction.
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It's been y-e-a-r-s since I've read about it, many years, but essentially what you said is what I remember of it too.
Things in nature work in quirky ways; take deer for example.
The more of them that are bagged every hunting season, the more they seem to proliferate.
It still freaks me that Nebraska today has many more deer than it had in 1890.....during the same time the human population here increased from circa 160,000 to 1,600,000.
This, despite a lengthening of the hunting season, and increased allowances for more bags.
There's a lot of hunting stories in reminisences of pioneers 1880-1910--bison, grouse, ducks, geese, turkeys, prairie dogs, coyotes, antelopes, rabbits, squirrels, elk, mountain lions, whatnot ever else--but one notices deer hunting wasn't one of them.
In raw unsettled Nebraska, one apparently rarely, if ever, encountered a deer. Nowadays, one can't turn around without running into one. And that includes in the urban areas too.
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Oh please...I hope some cracked reporter dosn't show up.
As far as I know, no, one's not going to see the oblate spheroid (or any other primitive) in this story.
It's being written after all to honor the cbayer primitive, and I don't want her character diluted by the presence of other primitives; to her alone, the glory.
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As far as I know, no, one's not going to see the oblate spheroid (or any other primitive) in this story.
It's being written after all to honor the cbayer primitive, and I don't want her character diluted by the presence of other primitives; to her alone, the glory.
You'd better be nice to her or she will lock your thread, ending the saga. The reach of her powers is far and wide. Ask her, she'll tell you.
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A boat small enough to get to the middle of Nebraska isn't built to take on the seas of the Pacific and the Gulf of Mexico
Portage !!
[youtube=425,350] dGLoAKotGOU[/youtube]
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Portage !!
[youtube=425,350] dGLoAKotGOU[/youtube]
Portage, my my, interesting story's about portage can be found in the diary's from Lewis and Clark.
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Obviously considering me an idiot, he went back to putter-putter-putter-splutting around.
The boat was up a little ways from where we were, and since he was ignoring me, I thought about going to look at it, to see how two people could possibly live in a space about the size of the living room here. The living room has a couch, a recliner, a coffee-table, and a set of bookshelves; most consider it “barely furnished,†while I tend to not use it, feeling it cramped and crowded.
Suddenly one of the cats appeared, having wandered over from the house, probably wondering what I was up to. The bird-watcher, upon seeing it, lost his temper, throwing the magnifying glass at it, cursing.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute,†I said; “that’s my cat, here on my property, and where the cat wants to go, the cat has the right to go.â€
He sputtered indignantly, pointing out their predatory nature and some other data about cats versus birds, but he talked so fast I couldn’t keep up with him.
“Wait, wait, slow down,†I said; “remember, I’m deaf.â€
After uttering that, I suddenly remembered no, I hadn’t told him that, and since my hair’s long, covering up the absence of ears, he wouldn’t have noticed.
He contemptuously looked at me as if I were Bozo from Outer Space.
“Now, that’s a dirty, knavish thing to do,†he snorted, “playing games like that.
“It’s a miserable affliction, deafness; you have no idea what it’s like.
“The gloomy eternal silence, the isolation from other people, the confusion about one’s surroundings, the social and intellectual retardation, the inability to engage in the arts and culture, the ulcerating stresses of trying to get along, no sense of belonging, the melancholy that one can‘t articulate.
“It’s a bloody different life.
“I had a friend once, who was deaf, but that was forty years ago, and he’s been dead for a long time now.
“You have no idea what it’s like, being deaf.â€
I looked at him as if he were Bozo from Outer Space.
“And besides,†he continued, “you speak too well, unusual among sloppy Americans and their abominable accents and dialects. If you were deaf, you’d have no idea what sounds sound like.
“It’s impossible to be deaf, and to speak with more clarity and preciseness than hearing people.â€
Sorry, I mumbled, backing down.
Now, the temperature had been 22 degrees when I’d gotten home from work, and it was drizzling. Supposing I was going to be down by the river only a short time, I hadn’t dressed for the outdoors, instead rushing out wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, gym shorts, and tennis shoes.
No point in wasting time dressing for the weather if one’s going to be out only for a few minutes.
But I’d by now been outdoors longer than only a few minutes, and was starting to get cold.
Time to get inside, but I needed an all-important question answered first.
I wanted to say, “Well, you’re welcome to stay here, no problem, but how long do you plan on being here?â€
Unfortunately, I hadn’t even gotten half the first syllable out, when his cellular telephone rang.
It was obviously his wife, as he seemed engaged in an argument.
Well, I wasn’t going to get my question answered, so I walked back to the house.
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Okay, I'm explaining the origins of this story as I go along.
The conversation about birds actually happened, maybe three summers ago, but with a primitive who wasn't the cbayer primitive's husband. He was an old hippie camping here, and found my "lack of appreciation" for my surroundings deplorable.
After a long recitation on his part, I answered that I respect nature very much, more than most people do.
"I leave nature alone; I don't intrude upon it, I don't mess with it, I don't interfere with it, I don't snoop on it."
The second part happened about a year before that, and is remembered with much relish and glee, as "the time that one hippie tried explaining to [franksolich] what being deaf is like."
When I was young and green in judgement, and entertained fantasies of being a writer, I had a professor in college who constantly sputtered at me because I wanted to write facts, not fiction.
He constantly urged me, "Meet someone at the post office?--make a story out of it. Get shorted in change at McDonald's?--make a story out of it. Caught in an embarrassing situation?--make a story out of it. Discovering one of your shoes has a hole in it?--make a story out of it. Changing the air in your car's tires?--make a story out of it." And so on.
I suppose by now, most readers understand the cbayer primitive meets franksolich is a work of fiction, but it's based upon real-life observations and experiences; I don't have the imagination to make these things up.
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He constantly urged me, "Meet someone at the post office?--make a story out of it. Get shorted in change at McDonald's?--make a story out of it. Caught in an embarrassing situation?--make a story out of it. Discovering one of your shoes has a hole in it?--make a story out of it. Changing the air in your car's tires?--make a story out of it." And so on.
He wanted you to write bouncies.
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He wanted you to write bouncies.
Maybe he thought I had some talents in that direction, but no.
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The femme and I went out to supper in the big city; because she likes to talk, chitchat, converse, gab, and because I’m not especially communicative, I insisted that a second couple come with us, to keep her occupied.
After telephoning around to see who was available, she latched onto the older brother of the neighbor and his wife, who weren’t doing anything in particular.
The neighbor is perhaps my best friend, having known me the longest, but relations between his older brother and myself can be tenuous. His older brother’s my age, well-educated, been around about as many places as I’ve been, met about as many people as I have, but he thinks I’m, uh, a little peculiar.
However, probably because of my decrepitude, he was warm and genial this evening.
The weather’s pretty bad, but we made it to the big city, forty-two miles away, without mishap.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/18-107_zps638a2bc5.jpg)
As the femme wanted it, we decided to go to a particular restaurant where the cook, Juanita, is famous for her German cuisine.
After being seated, I noticed the bird-watcher at another table, with who was apparently his wife, a mousy but assertive little woman, the cbayer primitive.
I pointed them out to the neighbor’s older brother, who recognized them.
“You know,†he said, “I don’t understand their reasoning.
“They insist it’s cheaper and more ecologically sensible to live on a boat rather than in a real house.
“But because of the weather and other conditions, they seem to spend an awful lot of money on motel rooms and car rentals, probably as much as what a monthly mortgage would cost them, if not more.
“And environmentally, I’m not seeing where anything’s being saved.â€
I agreed. “But these are primitives, after all,†I pointed out.
“Yeah,†he replied.
After a while, there seemed to be an argument evolving, much carrying-on between the cbayer primitive and the waitress.
And then soon Juanita, all 400 pounds of her, came out from the kitchen to join in. She crossed her arms over her expansive bosom, a wooden spoon in each hand, and glared at the cbayer primitive.
I of course can’t hear, and my curiosity inspired, I asked the femme what it was all about.
The femme, who’s used to such inquiries from me, replied that the woman had ordered jagerschnitzel, one of Juanita’s most popular dishes, and appeared upset that it had no almonds in it, “like they make it in California.â€
“Well, that’s pretty dangerous,†I said; "if anybody knows Teutonic fare, it’s Juanita, and Juanita’s not the sort of person one wants to challenge.â€
“Well, she’s still saying it’s supposed to have almonds in it.â€
Them came the denouement; Juanita picked up the plate of jagerschnitzel, and walking past the table-clearer’s cart, turned the plate upside down, dumping the whole thing into the plastic tub.
And then she turned to hiss at the cbayer primitive, indicating she wouldn’t be served that night, and went back into the kitchen, her enormous rear end stopping a split-second to wiggle at the unfed primitive.
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A hand suddenly clenched my shoulder, and I jerked around.
It’s a very good thing I usually wear brown pants.
This computer sits on a large table in an alcove between the dining room and the living room. One comes inside the house from the front porch into the dining room, and when one’s at the computer, one’s back is to the front door.
It was the cbayer primitive’s husband.
“I knocked on your front door, and could see you sitting there, and then pounded on the door, and then battered on the door, and you didn’t react. I even tapped on the windows.
“Good God, man, you are bloody deaf, aren’t you,†he remarked.
Sorry, I mumbled.
Getting up, I meant to remind him that while it was okay that the two of them stayed here, no problem, it’d be nice to know for how long they planned, but before I could get a word out, he inquired of the terrain beyond this property.
I took him out to the back porch, and pointed to a tree way far to the southwest on the edge of the river.
“This property ends there; south of that is someone else’s property. The owners, in New Jersey, haven’t been out to see it since they first bought it--or their parents or grandparents first bought it--back in 1948.
“They’re never around, but two times every year, the county treasurer gets a check from a law firm in New Jersey, to pay the property taxes.
“But even though you wouldn’t be bothering anything, I suggest you don’t go beyond that tree, because the sheriff might drive by and toss you out. It’s the same sort of stuff that’s on this property, minus any buildings.â€
Then I pointed to another tree way far to the northwest on the edge of the river.
“That’s where this property ends, and what’s beyond that is rented by a farmer, but he hasn’t done anything with it all the years I’ve lived out here. You could probably go that way, north towards the highway, but best to ask his permission first.
“Since he’s divorced, he eats supper at the bar in town every evening, seven days a week.
“If you say I sent you to ask, he’ll probably say okay, no problem.â€
He asked about the opposite side of the river.
“Well, all of that’s owned by another farmer, an old guy, a widower, who spends all of his time out in California. He doesn’t do anything with the land, and actually, in his absence, I’m the one paid to watch it for him.
“I suppose it’s okay if you want to go look on the other side.â€
“Good God, man,†he ejaculated again; “all this land, and nothing’s done with it. It just sits there.â€
It’s been this way in Nebraska all my life, I reminded him.
And decades before, going clear back to the New Deal.
“You see, it’s a consequence of our system, which taxes productivity and subsidizes non-productivity.
“And it doesn’t look like it’s going to change any, until at least 2017.â€
But of course he was a primitive; he’d have no idea what I was saying.
Having shown him the world he was free to explore, I asked if there was anything else I could do for him, to make his stay here more comfortable.
Well, yes, he said; actually he’d come here to borrow two tablespoons of sugar, as his wife, the cbayer primitive, was fixing dinner on the boat.
I inquired if they were going to stay on the boat now, at the same time suggesting it was rather too cold for that.
No, I was told; they were still staying in a motel in the big city, but his wife was tired of rude service at restaurants around here, and decided they should dine on the boat instead.
We went into the kitchen, where I opened the refrigerator and pulled out an unopened two-pound package of sugar. “Here, take this, the whole thing,†I said.
“It’s new and unopened. I don’t do sugar, but bought it in case someone was here, and needed to make something with it.â€
He glared at the bag of sugar.
“Good God, man, there’s no room on the boat for that much sugar; it’ll crowd us out.
“When the wife brings on board one wooden match too many, we’re jammed elbow-to-elbow until it’s used.
“Just two tablespoons, please; the boat’s no Cunarder.â€
-
“Good God, man, there’s no room on the boat for that much sugar; it’ll crowd us out.
:rofl:
-
When I drove up to the front yard this afternoon, I spotted the cbayer primitive’s husband walking around east of the house (the river is west of the house), dressed, incongruously, in lederhosen.
Or perhaps not incongruously, even in the Sandhills of Nebraska, given the temperature, the snow, and that the William Rivers Pitt looks as if a miniature Alpine Jungfrau on the other side.
He was walking around the base of the mound bent over, stopping every so often to pluck a piece of winter-dried foliage, examining it with his magnifying glass.
Again, I’m aware that people really don’t make noise as they move around, but I like to imagine they do, based upon body language, and in this case he’d changed from the putter-putter-putter-splut to something like “wut-wut, wut-wut, wut-wut, wut-wut.â€
I waved at him before going inside the house, but he paid no attention.
He did however come up to the front porch after some minutes, while I was making coffee, and I invited him inside, to sit down and visit a spell.
He told me that his wife had gone to Omaha, as she wanted some kale, and there’s no kale to be had in the big city.
Yeah, I said, kale’s not exactly a hot item in [the big city], but on the other hand, it was too bad the cbayer primitive was driving all the way to Omaha to get some. “She’ll probably have to go five or six places there before she finds any.
“She could’ve gone to Yankton, just over the border in South Dakota, which is considerably closer.
“Kale’s more popular than French fries in Yankton, and all the grocery stores there have it.â€
Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he too sat down at the dining room table and related a dolorous event that had taken place the previous evening.
He and she had gone to a Chinese restaurant in the big city, because they’d heard the moo goo gai pan there was incomparable. “But then when she noticed that the chocolate chips, the way it’s served in California, were absent, some big Hibernian chap came out of the kitchen and ordered us out--â€
Oh, I said; “Wolfgang. He’s not Irish, but of Austrian derivation.
“You met Wolfgang, the premier chef of Chinese cuisine outside of Peking.
“I don’t do Chinese, but his reputation among those who do, is stellar.
“In fact, every year--it’s always in the newspapers--the Red Chinese and the Free Chinese send delegations here to Nebraska, to look over our agriculture and to steal our ideas.
“And no matter what part of Nebraska they’re in, they insist upon coming up here, to dine on Wolfgang’s Cathayan delicacies.
“Both the Red Chinese and the Free Chinese insist Wolfgang’s cooking is the best they’ve had anywhere, including what their mothers used to make them on the mainland or in Taiwan, probably the only thing they agree on.â€
-
Oh good, I was hoping the kale made an appearance..... :-)
-
Oh good, I was hoping the kale made an appearance..... :-)
I was kinda hoping for VRWC Agent Cab Bage . . . :tongue:
-
“Kale’s more popular than French fries in Yankton, and all the grocery stores there have it.â€
That is inspired prose. Worthy of being printed on a T-shirt.
-
The cbayer primitive’s husband glanced around the dining room while twiddling with his cup of coffee, blinking his eyes, but I wasn’t sure if he was looking out one of the two picture-windows to the south, or at the large framed photograph of Clare Boothe Luce on the wall.
Because I can’t hear, I have to rely upon analysis of body and body-language.
If he had a pipe, I thought, he’d look like an older version of Lord Curzon.
Taking off his magnifying-glass, which hung with a string around his neck, he finally said, “That’s not a natural mound out there, that pile about a block and a half away from here.
“It’s man-made. I wonder what it is.â€
Whoa, I thought. To non-natives of the Sandhills, it’s just another bump in the ground, if they notice it at all among the hills. Natives intuitively recognize it as not natural, and then stop thinking about it.
The cbayer primitive’s husband was the first outsider I’d met, to see that distinction.
Yes, it’s man-made, I said, circa 1875 when this place was first settled, up until 1950.
“The William Rivers Pitt, decaying old barn junk.â€
Then he asked the question I most dreaded.
“What’s its composition, what’s it made of?â€
Trying to delicately skirt the subject, I described how the first people here raised pigs, and that there’d once stood a very large barn--the largest barn in the county--near where the mound is. These people raised not blue-ribbon, but purple-ribbon, pigs, tens of thousands of them over seventy-five years.
The enormous barn, which had been the first building erected on the premises (the family lived in a dugout, and then a sod house, until about 1890, when waxing rich and prosperous from the pigs, they put up a regular house, the core of this one), caught fire and burned down the Sunday morning that the socialists invaded South Korea in June 1950.
Rather than rebuilding the barn, since pigs were on their way out and cattle on their way in, the family switched to raising beef instead.
I hope that satisfied him, but it didn’t.
“But it doesn’t strike me as decayed timbers and whatever else might’ve been a barn--and besides, there’s far too much of it--it’s a fine sort of soil, blacker and more adhesive than the natural soil around it.
“And obviously it’s very fertile, even warm, as one notices plants are already starting to sprout on it, despite the cold weather and the snow. I imagine the other end of the year, as winter descends, it’s also the last place here where the foliage dies.â€
Yes, I said; the foliage on the William Rivers Pitt starts coming forth about mid-February every year, and stays green until about mid-December.
“It’s been measured at 740 cubic yards,†I said, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere; I didn’t care where else, only that it would be somewhere else.
-
“That’s a lot of offal,†the cbayer primitive’s husband said.
I was gratified I didn’t have to tell him.
“And yet it sits here, unused, just like the land.â€
Well, there’s nobody around here who needs it, I told him, other than the occasional recreational gardener, such as the retired banker’s wife, who comes here three or four times a year with a dozen steel bushel containers and fills them up.
“Otherwise, they can generate their own--and do, whether they want to or not--but for the most part, this area’s naturally rich fertile black soil. Go a few miles west, and one reaches the Sandhills, but this isn’t quite the Sandhills yet…..and we all know what happened when man tried to farm the Sandhills.â€
“Ah, yes,†he said, for some reason inserting a monocle. “The famous Dust Bowl.â€
I reminded him there’s also wreckage--found to by now been decayed to dust--in the William Rivers Pitt of the once-tallest windmill in northeastern Nebraska, put up in 1888 and blown down in 1934 (it was mostly wood, not metal).
I described it as the ancient elderly gentleman had seen it, being a boy at the time, standing at the doorway to the cellar, enduring the howling wind, the blinding darkness, the flying soil striking the skin as if sandpaper, and the infernal noise, as if from Hell, of the wind madly spinning the blades high above, creating showers of electrical sparks, making it look as if a gigantic 20’ tall lit pinwheel firework in this darkness at noon.
And then the collapse, which seemed to shake the ground.
Ruminating a while, he finally asked, “Well, has anyone else ever thought of selling it?â€
I looked at him as if Bozo from Outer Space.
“What I mean,†he continued, “is if it can be proven to be 100% pure natural fertilizer--and surely they weren’t feeding swine pharmaceuticals or chemicals even as late as 1950--it would be a bonus selling-point, in 20-pound bags, to gardeners all across America.
“And that it’s antique, one could charge even more for it.â€
Its composition’s already been scientifically proven, I told him, back in the summer of 2009, when the William Rivers Pitt was the subject of a Ph.D. thesis by someone in soil science--that’s how come I know its exact dimensions and what’s in it.
“It was fascinating,†I said, “when I was shown samples created when Rutherford Hayes was in the White House, and then Theodore Roosevelt, and then Calvin Coolidge, stuff pumped out by pigs during Custer’s Last Stand, during the Spanish-American War, during the Roaring Twenties.
“It all looked the same to me, but still, I felt as if I were glimpsing history.â€
“Well, you or the owners should consider selling it,†he said; “organic gardeners in Vermont would eat this stuff up.â€
He took off the monocle and slipped it into a pocket of his shirt.
“By the way, why ‘the William Rivers Pitt’?
I was taken aback; being a primitive, surely he’d know the literary light of Skins’s island.
But apparently not; even though a regular visitor on Skins’s island, he’d never noticed the Bostonian Drunkard.
So I explained the name to him, much the same way I’d explained it to people around here many years ago. This is an internet-savvy area, but Skins’s island had fallen through the cracks, nobody having any idea what it is, or of the personage of the literati.
However, happily, the name took; as the retired banker’s wife said, “It’s better than referring to it as ‘that big pile of old pig shit.’â€
-
Just as the cbayer primitive’s husband was getting up to leave, the neighbor came by; the furnace here had inexplicably quit working. It wasn’t cold inside for me yet, but as the cats were huddled under the bedcovers, that was a pretty good clue.
Cats are great for people who can’t hear; they let one know when something’s wrong.
The property caretaker was out on the other end of the county, doing something else, and as the neighbor had some idle time, he came over instead.
He greeted my guest, and pointed out it was a pity they weren’t staying until the end of April--my hair stood up on end--so as to see the blues festival in the big city.
“It can get like 125th Street on Manhattan, people coming from inner-city Omaha, Kansas City, and even Minneapolis, to rap and hip-hop and reggie around.
“But mostly they come for the food.
“Paddy O’Brien, who works at the post office, makes ham hocks, hushpuppies, and sweet potato pie soul-food enthusiasts die for.â€
-
This morning, when surveying the world to the west of the house, to the river, in the telescope I caught the figure of the cbayer primitive’s husband putter-splutting and wut-wutting in the grove of walnut trees.
He was wearing a kilt, with the plaid of the Sutherland clan, and incongruously, a Ukrainian peasant’s intricately-embroidered blouse.
It reminded me of an episode in the socialist paradises, when my guide and I, in a part of the country with which he wasn’t familiar, both needed new pairs of socks. Socialist-made socks, which were expensive, tended to not last long. We found them after much searching, a twin matching pair.
On them were sewn really nice designs.
While hiking around, we noticed that people seemed to want to laugh at us, and were suppressing it because of their good manners.
The mystery was solved later in the day, when we learned that for this particular Carpatho-Ruthenian area, this was a pattern used by virgins “advertising†for a husband.
Whatever. Excresence happens. One accepts, adapts, and moves on.
The cbayer primitive’s husband was too far away for me to imagine him as making noises when he walked around, inspecting each tree, but I did discern a faint imaginary “rickety-rickety-room-room†in his movements.
Tiny puffs of smoke burst from the smokestack on top of the boat; I imagined the cbayer primitive was in there, cooking a breakfast of borscht and kale.
Since I wasn’t doing anything in particular, I decided to walk down there to visit.
-
This time, I was dressed better for the weather. I debated whether to approach the boat and meet the cbayer primitive first-hand and up close, or to go over and speak with her husband.
Since I hadn’t been formally introduced to the cbayer primitive yet, I figured it would be good manners to leave her alone, and so went to her husband in the grove of walnut trees.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/02-281_zpsff7a5b97.jpg)
“They’re sorry-looking things, aren’t they?†I said, as I neared him.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/18-108_zps04d8670e.jpg)
“All the years I’ve lived here, they’ve given me the impression they’d rather be somewhere else.
“And it’s true that nature never meant for walnut trees to be in Nebraska.â€
He looked at me and harrumphed, although I have no idea why.
“These trees are over a hundred years old,†he insisted; “quite obviously they’ve adapted.â€
“Right,†I said; there’s exactly sixty of them, planted in a rectangle six trees by ten trees, with twenty-five feet in between each one.
“They started as seedlings in 1888, bought off an itinerant peddler who couldn’t unload them over in Iowa, and wanted to get rid of them before they died on him.
“As it’s turned out, there’s never been anybody living here a walnut fancier, and so every autumn, the walnuts just fall off the trees and rot back into the ground again. I dunno why they don’t sprout new trees, but they don’t. These are still the original sixty trees, and there’s been no new ones.â€
Then changing the subject, I asked, “How’s the wife?â€
Out of sorts, I was told. They’d gone to dine at a French restaurant they’d been told was superlative, where the cbayer primitive had ordered bourride de fruits de mer, and when it came without chicken gravy in it, like it’s served in California, she’d gotten upset.
Which upset the cook in the kitchen, Wu Fen-shen, who cursed at her.
“Well now,†I said, “Wu’s a wonderful French chef, studied under Alain Senderens in Paris.
“There isn’t anything about French cuisine Wu doesn’t know.â€
Just then, the cbayer primitive popped up from belowdecks of the boat, hollering at her husband.
“You know, I haven’t met her yet,†I reminded her husband.
He looked at me sadly. “Now’s not the time.
“It’s that time of the month again, and even long after women are overage, they still get those ‘that time of the month again’ foul moods.â€
-
The business partner was in town, so he and I went out to dine at the bar last evening.
It was my first time there since Christmas, given that I’d that day been keeled over by a disease usually only teenagers get, and am still recovering. Everyone had known however that franksolich still lived, because occasionally someone went there to pick up a take-out order for me, the usual-and-standard hamburger and French fries but not with sour cream, because I always have an ample supply of that here.
Upon seeing me, Swede, the cook of Norwegian derivation who’s famous throughout several states for his Italianate cuisine, dropped what he was doing and came out from the kitchen to greet me, reminding me it’s not the same, catering to my tastes by stuffing it into a brown paper bag, and seeing me in person.
Then he looked beyond me, out to the crowd in the dining room.
“You have guests, and I don’t want them in here,†he said, in a voice loud enough for the behemothic “Tiny†Gustl, sitting on a bar-stool at the doorway, to hear. “Tiny†yawned; bouncing in a bar’s pretty boring work, nothing to do, and even though one’s paid for it, he’d just as soon be bellied up to the bar spending money rather than earning it.
The business partner ordered bistecca alla Fiorentina and zuppa Inglese, at which Swede beamed, while I ordered my usual, at which Swede grimaced.
As we were sitting down--being nice guys, some of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet, we’d ordered at the bar, with Swede there, to save the waitress the time and trouble of coming to take our orders--the business partner commented, “You make that poor man v-e-r-y unhappy…..â€
“Don’t worry,†I said; “he’ll be happy soon enough, with my birthday next week, when I’ll come in and order the most expensive Italianate delicacies on the menu.â€
The bar serves customers a free meal on their birthdays.
“Maybe he’ll think something’s up, though.â€
No way, I said; even though I’ve been coming here for years, I’ve never once taken a free meal, and so he doesn’t know my birthday. “I’ll invent some excuse for ordering something other than my usual, and then I’ll announce it’s my birthday.â€
Swede condescended to bring our dinners to our table himself, carefully and fussily arranging the table around the business partner, smiling as he gently put down each plate.
Then at my side of the table, he slammed down the plate with a hamburger, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, and French fries cooked on the grill, not in the fryer. The plate wobbled and rattled before coming to a rest.
“You know,†I said, “Swede’s got a problem, and I mean to break him of it.
“Other than pepperoni pizza from the convenience store, I don’t do Italianate cuisine, but at the same time I’m the first person to stand up to remind others that Swede’s an excellent cook, the best there is, based upon what others, including professional Italians, say about it.
“He’s a great cook, a wonderful cook, an extraordinary cook, based upon what those who enjoy Italianate dishes say. I trust their judgement; if they say he’s sans peer among Italian chefs, well, he is, and he rightfully needs to be proud of it.
“But it seems to stick in his craw, that I, a nobody, a nonentity, a non-connoisseur, self-admittedly with no ‘taste’ when it comes to food, never dine on any of his creations.
“It drives him nuts, and it shouldn’t.
“I wouldn’t know good Italianate chow from bad Italianate chow. Not that I can’t discern the difference, but simply and only because it’s unimportant; I don’t care.
“He’s got gold medals, purple ribbons, newspaper write-ups, and the acclaim of professional Italians; he doesn’t need [franksolich]’s seal of approval for his food.â€
-
This caused me to chuckle:
professional Italians
I guess that makes me (1/4 Italian, and 1/4 Irish, among other things) an 'amateur Italian,' eh? :tongue: O-) :fuelfire:
-
Every time the mention of Swede, the cook, pops up, I get this mental image of a hot platter of spaghetti and lutefisk balls. :lmao:
On another note.
The walnut trees bring back memories of the woods next to a neighbor's house in ONeill.
The neighbor's kid and I played there many times. Several old, natural, black walnut trees grew there.
It's all gone now, taken over by houses. :mad:
-
I was pretty ill today, but no big deal, as the day outside was white or grey, or grey and white.
Some time in the morning, while out on the back porch, I saw the cbayer primitive’s husband walking along the shore of the river, but on the other bank. I dunno how he got over there, as one can’t just take a boat and row over.
(http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y223/dummiedestroyer/elkhorn2007f.jpg)
The only other way is via automobile, up to the highway two miles north, then crossing a bridge, and coming down two miles to here, or rather, to across the river from here.
He was wearing Oshkosh bib overalls, and a red flannel shirt, a straw stuck in his mouth.
No smoke wafted from the boat, so I assumed the cbayer primitive wasn’t around.
Because I was low, the femme dropped by in the afternoon, bringing with her one of those plastic milk-crates with four gallons of pure orange juice, and a separate fifth gallon, enough to last me maybe until Sunday evening.
It probably doesn’t help mononucleosis--I really don’t know, and if it doesn‘t, at least it doesn‘t hurt--but damn, ever since the afternoon of Christmas Day, it seems I developed an insatiable thirst for orange juice. Forget coffee, forget milk, forget Diet Dr. Pepper, forget any other liquid; this at the moment’s been all I want to drink.
When looking at grocery-store receipts since December 26, I see that I’ve spent 72% of the grocery money on…..pure orange juice. (Of course, it needs pointed out “grocery money†doesn’t include dining out, which is “eating out money.â€)
She mentioned she’d had lunch with a friend at a Mexican restaurant in the big city. I asked her which one, and she told me.
“Oh,†I said; “that’s where Rajanigandha cooks.
“Exquisitely lovely, Rajanigandha, from Hindustan, in her silken sari.
“And the best cook of Mexican cuisine in the spinal column of America, from the top of North Dakota down to the bottom of Texas.â€
The femme mentioned she’d seen that woman there, although her husband was absent.
“She ordered a taco de pollo y enchilada de pollo, along with a ensalada de la casa, and was upset when chutney and pickles didn’t come with it.
“Rajanigandha almost broke out crying in vexation. She knew what pickles were, but she had no idea what chutney is, and when it was described to her, she thought it was disgusting and wouldn't dare insult customers by serving them anything like that.â€
-
Early in the morning, the cbayer primitive’s husband showed up here, just in time for fresh coffee.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/18-109_zps63e491a6.jpg)
He was dressed in a government-surplus uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, although I forgot to inquire why.
“I say, do you have any maps of Nebraska?†he asked.
Of course I did, and I pulled out two of them.
He didn’t pay attention to the second map, the one specially made for the Hollywood and movie production interests, but intently studied the map of the rivers of Nebraska, as if it were a road-map.
“I dunno if you know this,†I said, “but of the fifty states in the Union, Nebraska has more miles of rivers than any of the other forty-nine, and that includes even Alaska and Texas.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/vrsmap_zps31b2946d.jpg)
“This just shows the major rivers, navigable ones. An aircraft carrier’s not going to float on one, but a 300-square-feet boat would have no problem, no problem at all, floating on them.â€
I was hoping he wouldn’t think I was trying to push him to take his snobbish wife and boat and go on his way, even though really I was.
We discussed the qualities of the various rivers, but I got the impression he rather liked this sort of river that goes by this house, and suggested that the Niobrara River, much larger, might have a greater abundance of avian life, including those species long ago thought extinct.
“And also, dutch508’s cattle barony is alongside that river, way over on the other side of the Sandhills.
(http://i1100.photobucket.com/albums/g419/Eferrari/19-101_zps33da7d8a.jpg)
“dutch508 sets a good table, and he’s always looking for company.â€
Then I remembered something; “Oops, you can’t do that, getting there from here, because the Niobrara and the Elkhorn don’t meet anywhere.
“You’d have to go back down to Omaha, and then further up the Missouri River, to get on the Niobrara.â€
But I thought of an ameliorating circumstance.
“One of your pals, Omaha Steve, lives right where the Platte River (into which the Elkhorn flows) and the Missouri meet; maybe you could tie up the boat near his front yard and visit him a while, too.
“His wife, the long-suffering poor dear Marta, makes great pies.â€
The cbayer primitive’s husband snorted. “Loser,†he said.
I was impressed. He didn’t know the Bostonian Drunkard, but he knew the big guy.
He asked if he could borrow the map, and I said yeah, sure, no problem. After which we sat at the dining room table drinking coffee and dining on whole-wheat toast with real butter. I inquired how things were going; was he finding his stay here on the roof of Nebraska pleasant?
It seems it’s getting harder and harder for the cbayer primitive and her husband to find a decent place to eat, they having been expelled from so many establishments by insulted cooks.
“Last night, for supper, we had to use the drive-thru at McDonald’s, but then when the wife insisted their Whopper was supposed to be served with anchovies, the girl told us not to bother coming back again, and slammed the window shut in our faces.â€
I thought of something.
“There’s one restaurant famous for its Australian cookery, but it’s little-known. The few Australians who come here insist that it has the best Australian food they’ve had since leaving terra australis incognita; that there’s nobody on the top hemisphere who’s captured the essence and taste of their native cookery, more than our own Ja’maal.
“Ja’maal’s been written up in the Melbourne and Sydney newspapers.â€
Then I thought of something, growing alarmed.
Ja’maal’s, uh, somewhat temperamental, fretful about what diners think of his cuisine.
Just as quickly, I said, “We can’t do it today, or Wednesday evening, which are booked up for me, but perhaps sometimes the next few days we can go there together. I haven’t met your wife yet, and I’ll be happy to pick up the check.â€
-
By the way, the top picture was taken while standing atop the William Rivers Pitt, looking to the east.
One can see the tip of the William Rivers Pitt, bottom, left side.
This is my front yard.
(disclaimer: the picture's not from this morning, and was actually taken a couple of years ago--but it's an accurate depiction of what this morning looked like.)
-
“I need your help,†I told the neighbor’s wife when she was here this morning.
“And you owe me one,†I reminded her.
She sat patiently as I explained. I’d offered to take the cbayer primitive and her husband to the Australian restaurant in the big city as guests of mine, but it’s nothing I wanted to deal with all alone.
I’m ill.
“[the femme] said ‘no way;’ she doesn’t like me dealing with primitives, always afraid one’s going to hurt me, or worse. I asked [the business partner] and he said ‘no way’ too, because he doesn’t like me dealing with the primitives, always afraid I’m going to give them something.
“I can’t handle this alone. You have to come with me.â€
She looked at me, surprised.
“But last November, you were the one who suggested I hire a woman to come and cook and clean and take care of the children while I was to lay in bed all day and take care of myself because I’m pregnant.
“And now, eight months along [the infant’s due in April], you want to drag me out to dine with primitives?â€
I repeated it’s an emergency.
“It won’t upset the infant,†I promised. “And I really need somebody with me.â€
Much to my relief, she agreed that her husband could watch the four children, and barring any unforeseen event, she’d go with me, for morale support.
-
“So….†the property caretaker said, when he was here in late afternoon with a friend; they’d come to work on a pick-up truck in the garage.
“You’re taking a woman about to give birth, out to lunch with a couple of hippies?â€
She’s not due until some time in April, I reminded him; it’ll be okay.
“What if it’s an early arrival, and the first thing it sees is a couple of old hippies?
“That first impression of the world’ll wreck its life for sure.â€
Oh now, I said; while these two are primitives, they pretty much look like ordinary people.
“It’s not grossly obese ‘Auntie’ again, scaring small children with her tattoos and body piercings and grotesque make-up and miniature hand-tools dangling from her nose, ears, chin, jugs, and navel.â€
“Wait,†the property caretaker’s friend interrupted. “You saw ‘Auntie’’s tits?â€
Only through her pull-over, I said, which was about six sizes too small for her bulk.
“It’s kind of hard to miss big pointy metal stars trying to puncture through the cloth.â€
I repeated that the cbayer primitive and her husband look pretty average, even if they’re messed up in the head. “He’s obviously an Englishman, and she’s just a mousy little woman--although brassily assertive--and so I seriously doubt they’ll frighten a newborn infant.â€
“You’ve been pretty chummy with that guy, though,†the caretaker said, “and because you pay attention to what people say, he’s not converting you to wacko politics, is he?â€
No way in Hell, I said. “I’m just being nice to him because he’s a guest--I haven’t met her yet, only seen her--and I want him to be comfortable while here.
“And besides, he’s great to listen to; he has a pleasing nose.â€
The two older guys looked at me as if I were Bozo from Outer Space.
“Oh, come on now,†I said. “You know what it is. Since I can’t hear, I have to keep looking at other people’s faces to see what they’re saying.
“I’ve seen the insides of more mouths than even dentists, becoming intimately acquainted with every dentalogical phenomenon.
“And the eyes; I’m always having to study the eyes.
“Now, usually people up close aren’t very attractive, even if they look good six feet away. You got people with really bad teeth, you got people who talk with their mouths full of food, you got methamphetimine addicts with all their dental corrosion, you got epileptics with their gums covering their teeth, you got tobacco chewers; you got crooked teeth, missing teeth, yellow teeth, malformed teeth.
“And I have to look at it. All the time. Otherwise, I couldn’t ‘hear.’
“Now, being a nice guy, and having to endure such intimate sights since infancy, there’s not anything I haven’t seen, and so it doesn’t bother me like it would hearing people if they had to ‘read’ faces all the time.
“I don’t necessarily like it, but God gave me a stomach of steel, so I endure it.
“Although it still drives me nuts, people who have a protruding bump at the end of their chin; I dunno why it bothers me, but I’m barely able to concentrate on what they’re telling me, that odd-looking bulge flipping-and-flopping as they exercise their jaws.
“I’m a nice guy, and try to not let others know they’re making me uncomfortable with some unaesthetic feature of theirs, but I just can’t handle chins like that. I’m of course polite to such people, but then I try to get away from them as soon as possible, lest I hurt their feelings by bursting out laughing.
“The ‘perfect’ human face of course doesn’t exist, but many people have other aesthetic characteristics that distract from their facial flaws.
“In the case of the cbayer primitive’s husband, the guy’s got a perfect nose, not too large, not too small, not too sharp, not too dull, and so for me, it’s a joy to ‘listen’ to him.
“I don’t care what he’s talking about. Like Big Dog enjoying a good cigar, or Karin enjoying a fine wine, there’s few things in life I enjoy more than a fine nose.â€
-
“You look worried,†the neighbor said when he was here early in the morning.
Well, yes, I said.
I described how the cbayer primitive’s husband had shown up here late in the evening yesterday, as he was all agog and excited, and wanted to show me something.
“He was all dressed up as if going to the opera, but in all the hubbing-and-bubbing, I forgot to ask why.
“When he came inside, he took a handkerchief from his pocket, which was full of little stones, which he dumped on the dining room table.
“He asked me if anybody’s ever discovered gold around here.
“I said no.
“Now, I know that gold in its original state isn’t really gold, and in fact looks quite the opposite of gold, but I’m not sure exactly what it looks like--â€
“He’s a bird-watcher,†the neighbor said. “How would he know gold?â€
“That’s what’s been bothering me,†I said.
“As a bird-watcher, he pays attention to details the rest of us overlook.
“He can tell the difference between a bullfinch and a partridge, after all.
“It’s reasonable to assume then, that he pays attention to small details about other things, including rocks.â€
“Where’d he say he found it?†the neighbor asked.
Unfortunately, I said, he’d disregarded my advice about staying away from the property to the south of here, that vast tract owned by the Italianate interests in New Jersey, and found it there.
“True, they haven’t been out to look at it since they originally bought it in 1948, but they pay the taxes on it every year, and it’s freely and clearly their property, so it’s good manners for others to leave it alone, not disturb it.
“He said he was going to have the rocks assayed in the big city on Monday, and I’m hoping to God it’s just fool’s gold. The last thing I need is an invasion of hordes of primitives, coming here in hopes of striking it rich.â€
-
By the way, the top picture was taken while standing atop the William Rivers Pitt, looking to the east.
One can see the tip of the William Rivers Pitt, bottom, left side.
This is my front yard.
(disclaimer: the picture's not from this morning, and was actually taken a couple of years ago--but it's an accurate depiction of what this morning looked like.)
Great view and great picture.
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Great story! I like the Mountie uniform and the cooks.
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Great story! I like the Mountie uniform and the cooks.
You know how it is around here; there's so few people and so much work that needs done.
Those who prosper the most are those with more than one skill.
And while learning another skill, many find that they're actually more fitted for this new thing, than what they'd been doing. The competent carpenter who finds himself an even better mechanic, for example--but he would've never known that unless he'd been compelled to try it out.
This goes for cooks, too; the sullen "Swede," who is very real, of Norwegian derivation but acclaimed for his Italianate dishes, is a long-distance truck-driver too. He'd indulged in Italianate cuisine while in the Army forty+ years ago, but never gave it a second thought until one night his wife, who owns the bar in town, was absent a cook, and so he went in to cook.
The rest is history.
Most of the cooks depicted herein derive from a single isolated real-life observation, made shortly after I'd moved up here from Omaha. This was more than ten years ago.
A friend and I were dining at an all-purpose restaurant. At the table next to us were two college chicks, obviously in the "fine" arts. Their car outside had Lancaster County license-plates on it, so they were probably from the University of Nebraska. Also, it had a GORE-LIBERMANN bumper-sticker on it.
They ordered vegetarian dishes, tofu and all that nonsense.
They were so pleased, said it beat any vegetarian fare to be had in Lincoln and Omaha, that they wanted to thank the cook.
Out from the kitchen stepped the now-late Cornelia, wiping her hands on her apron. Cornelia of sacred memory was a big heavy black woman, maybe 400 pounds, amd moved about slowly.
After she left, one of the coeds said to the other, "I didn't know those people could do vegetarian."
-
I went over to the neighbor’s house for Sunday lunch; his older brother and family were there too, so it was pretty much a full house, five adults and eleven children, with a twelfth imminent.
Large crowds confuse me, what with all the hubble-bubble going on, and so I sat in a corner talking mostly with the neighbor’s wife, who’s to accompany me when I take the cbayer primitive and her husband out to dine at the Australian restaurant in the big city.
No date’s been set, and it’s probably going to be after Wednesday, the evening I plan to dine upon the Italianate delicacies of Swede at the bar in town.
“He hasn’t told me yet, and I think it’s because he hasn’t discussed it with his wife,†I told her.
“I get the impression they argue a lot.â€
“It’s too bad, but maybe you and I can give them a lovely time,†the neighbor’s wife said.
The neighbor’s wife isn’t as Pollyannaish as franksolich, but she’s close.
“I dunno,†I said; “it seems to me primitive marriages tend to be ‘dominator-dominated’ type, one partner overwhelmingly lording it over the other.
“I must’ve been unusually blessed, I guess, with the marriage my parents had. Everything was fifty-fifty between them, absolutely equal, no dominator, no dominated, partners rather than boss-and-employee.
“On Skins’s island, you have the magisterial primitive and the truemud primitive, both of them dominated by their wives to where it’s a brutal sado-masochism thing, with chains, leashes, collars, leather, and humiliation and degradation involved.
“And what’s sicker about it is that the husbands love it.
“But whippings and other brutalities seem to be applied in other ways too; you got the examples of the hypochondrial ‘mopinko’ primitive and the babbling sister the ‘Babylon Sister’ primitive. Their husbands cater to their every material whim and pleasure, pamper them, coddle them, but no matter how much they do, it’s not enough.
“But at least the now-former husband of the babbling sister primitive gave it up.
“And then you got that rich old guy with gout, who probably spends a minor fortune to keep his much-younger attractive trophy wife happy with diamond trinkets and golden toys. As long as the trinkets and toys keep coming, she won’t leave him.
“But one of the more-pathetic cases is that of the adroit sparkling old dude, married to a bubblehead who’s about as deep as a teacup-saucer. She won’t love him unless she can embarrass him, humiliate him And he puts up with it because he really believes she’s the best he can get.
“And on the other side, you have hippyhubby Wild Bill terrorizing the hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer; he even locks up her shoes so she can’t run away.â€
“Well, what sort of relationship do you think these two have?†the neighbor’s wife asked.
“I think the cbayer primitive has a problem,†I answered.
“She’s had a rough life, a lousy first marriage, and a son who got into some sort of trouble and had to be scared straight.
“Like Mrs. Alfred Packer, she has this absurd idea that she’s not ‘complete’ as a person unless she has a husband. Never mind if he’s a bad husband; she must have a husband, lest she end her days unfulfilled, incomplete.
“And so she married this eccentric Englishman.
“I don’t see any evidence that he’s the dominating sort, but because the cbayer primitive thinks the way she does, he ends up dominating nonetheless.
“It doesn’t seem to me that he demands she cater to his every whim; it seems more to me that she herself feels compelled to kowtow to him, lest she lose him.
“The cbayer primitive seems to me to be an average woman, who appreciates stability and sensibility and a few comforts and luxuries in life; she wants to have a home of her own on solid ground--but because he’s eccentric, and one of his eccentricities is insisting that they live on a boat, well, she goes along.
“He doesn’t mean to dominate her, but she lets him dominate her.
“The cbayer primitive needs to get a healthy sense of self, but for a primitive that’s probably too much to expect.â€
-
“Well, it didn’t turn out gold after all,†the neighbor’s older brother told me when he was here about noon.
“I don’t know why that damned fool thought it might be gold.â€
“Well, he never said it was gold, he said it might be gold,†I reminded him.
“He’s not your typical know-it-all primitive; he thought it might be promising, but checked it out before alleging it was gold.
“If only the other primitives would be so careful; their lives would improve immeasurably,†I concluded, thinking of the addled grasswire primitive who announced the opening of a pie-and-jam shoppe, and then got in the newspapers…..and the wish never came to anything.
It’s really odd, this primitive notion that by simply wishing for something to be, it becomes.
I asked the neighbor’s older brother if he was going to town to dine on Wednesday evening.
He said he was planning on it; didn’t want to miss it.
“I’ll bet it’s packed, even though Wednesday evenings are usually slow,†he said.
“What are you going to order?†he asked.
I told him I haven’t made up my mind yet.
The other day, while picking up my usual take-out of a hamburger well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, and French fries made on the grill rather than in the fryer, I’d borrowed one of their menus.
The menu’s folio-sized paper sewn into a leather binder, and has 22 pages--four pages of regular chow, such as hamburgers and French fries or ham and eggs or chicken-fried steak, six pages of Italianate cuisine, six of German dishes, and six of French dishes.
It’s all text, no pictures, as people around here are literate, and don’t need pictures to illustrate what something is.
What’s on the first four pages is available any time, every day. What’s on the following pages is available only when a particular cook is cooking at the bar. So some evenings one can order French, the next evening German, and so on. It depends upon who’s cooking.
These are new menus, with each page laminated in transparent plastic and the line for prices left blank.
One uses a “dry-erase†pen to write in the prices.
The menus were ordered last November, right after the presidential election, in anticipation of third-world inflation; it’s much easier to wipe off one price and to write in the new, higher, price, than to constantly order new menus, which aren’t cheap.
-
Every time the mention of Swede, the cook, pops up, I get this mental image of a hot platter of spaghetti and lutefisk balls. :lmao:
Now that I finally get around to addressing this . . . this is what I think of.
(http://images1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20111104173209/muppet/images/thumb/4/41/Swedish-chef.jpg/300px-Swedish-chef.jpg)
Coach, when you ask him for a hamburger, does he react like this? (Someone recorded this commercial, but it's still pretty good. The woman in the purple dress asks the Swedish Chef for a hamburger. He's not impressed.)
[youtube=425,350]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J5X_ENqoA8Y[/youtube]
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“Well, it’s too bad it didn’t turn out gold,†I said to the cbayer primitive’s husband this morning when he came for coffee.
There was no smoke coming from the funnel of the boat down by the river, so I assume the cbayer primitive herself had stayed in the motel in the big city.
He was wearing one of those hats with ear-flaps on the side, made popular by Nikita Khrushchev during the Cold War. They look silly, and I could never figure out why they’d been so popular.
“It happens,†he replied; “but it had to be checked out.
“As your old American saying is, ‘success is 99% perspiration and 1% luck.’â€
This guy, although a primitive, certainly didn’t think like primitives.
He noticed the menu from the bar laying on the dining room table, and leafed through it.
“There’s no wine list here,†he said.
The bar doesn’t have a license to dispense wine, only beer and liquor, I told him.
“But how is it possible to enjoy Italian food without--â€
I interrupted. “Oh now, don’t be a snob on me. It’s eminently possible to enjoy Italianate--or French or German or Polynesian or Congolese or whatever--food without wine.
“This isn’t a place where the climate, the terrain, the life-style, the cultural and moral values, the taste-buds, of the people encourages drinking wine.
“Where is it written that one must have wine with Italianate cuisine?â€
He arched his eyebrows, as if I’d mentioned something he’d never thought of before.
“And besides, if one wants alcohol with his chow, one just orders beer or whiskey.
“Swede’s wife keeps a binder under the cash-register, full of letters from professional Italians, and shows it to anybody who wants to read it. The letters, usually on stationery of well-known Italianate eateries all across the country, in the beginning, the early 1980s, are full of compliments and suggestions, although since about 1990, they’ve been wholly compliments, nothing to suggest.
“There’s one from somebody a member of the Italianate parliament, and another from the city treasurer of Naples, and five or six job offers from well-known Italianate eateries in Boston, New York City, Baltimore, and Los Angeles. But most are just letters from professional Italians who own and operate restaurants, complimenting him on this thing or that thing.
“Nowhere does anyone mention ‘lack of a wine list’ as a deficiency.
“It’s silly, this notion that one has to have wine with Italianate cuisine; nobody’s going to go to Hell because they didn’t get sauced while dining on tournedos Rossini or pollo al Mattone.â€
-
He asked me what I was planning on having for my birthday supper. I said I didn‘t know--and hence the menu--and was open to suggestions.
“The only Italianate I dine upon are those $1.59 slices of pepperoni pizza from the convenience store in town, which are pretty good.†And then I reminded him, “It‘s not because I‘m a barbarian or anything; it‘s simply because it‘s not that important to me.â€
He sifted through the six pages of Italianate dishes.
“Well, this zuppa di pesce Fra di Avolo looks like a good one,†he said.
“It probably is,†I said, “because [the femme] orders it all time.
“But it’s got dead fish in it, so it’s out, no way.â€
He pursed his lips. “Well, that eliminates about two out of the six pages.â€
He kept reading.
“If you’re a soup person, which you probably are, the sausage soup with tortellini might be good.â€
Nope, I said. “It has onions in it. No way.â€
“How about the lasagna Verdi al forno then?â€
Nope, I said. “It has liver in it. No way.â€
“All right, then the melenzana ali olio, perhaps.
Nope, I said. “It has peppers in it. No way.â€
“You’re really limiting youself,†he advised. “How about the pepper salad?â€
Nope, I said. “It has mushrooms in it. No way.â€
“Well, perhaps you could ask this Swede gentleman to omit those things you don’t like,†he suggested.
No way I said; “I’m not about to tell Swede how to make something.â€
We went over and over, and round about, the menu.
“This chicken alle marche doesn’t seem to have anything objectionable in it.â€
If I had ears, they would’ve perked up.
“It seems to be just chicken, broccoli, and alfredo sauce, nothing more.
“But despite its simplicity, it’s one of the most expensive items on the menu.
“With salad, bread, and dessert, you may be looking at a hundred bucks.â€
“That’s it,†I announced; “that’s what I’m having tomorrow night, this marched chicken.
“And Swede picking up the tab, because it’s my birthday.â€
-
“Happy birthday,†the cbayer primitive’s husband said this morning, when he dropped by.
He was attired by Gieves & Hawkes of Savile Row this day, looking even more strikingly like Lord Curzon, and I asked him what was up; why the dude clothes.
“That’s the other reason I came,†he said; “I’m going down to Omaha for a few days to meet with some lawyers, and won’t be back until Sunday, and you’d offered to take us to that wonderful Australian restaurant in [the big city].
“It’s now impossible for me to go along, as we’re leaving this place on Sunday, so as to float back to California.â€
I was relieved to hear of a definite departure date, but was concerned about dining with his wife.
Yeah, sure, I said; no problem; I’d pick her up in the big city on Saturday and take her out.
But most of all, I was intrigued why he suddenly had a meeting with lawyers in Omaha.
Doing mental gymnastics inside my head, to me it seemed a land deal was imminent, and I inwardly groaned.
However, he set my mind at ease right away; it’s a project involving Hollywood, and has nothing to do with Nebraska.
“I’ve been working on it for a long time now,†he said.
“But why would one close a Hollywood deal in…..Omaha?†I asked.
“You’d be surprised who’s in Omaha,†he said, cryptically, and left.
-
I contacted the neighbor’s wife.
“You’re out, you’re off the hook,†I told her.
I explained that the cbayer primitive’s husband wasn’t going to be able to come with us to the Australian restaurant, and so I didn’t need her any more.
“It’s not that there’s anything ‘wrong’ with you,†I assured her; “it’s just that she obviously doesn’t like people around here, and with two of us against one of her, she might feel outnumbered, uncomfortable.
“So best that I tete-a-tete with her alone.â€
Then later the neighbor came over.
“You know,†I said, “they’re living out of the honeymoon suite over there in [the big city]; four rooms including a stocked kitchen, a private sauna and jacuzzi, an on-call maid and a personal valet.
“And like any other guest there, they have access to the Olympics-sized swimming pool, the indoor-outdoor tennis courts, the polo grounds, high tea, a masseuse by appointment, and passes to the country club.
“I’ll bet they’ve been spending at least three hundred bucks a day for all that.â€
I explained that I have to pick up the cbayer primitive, as her husband took their rental car to Omaha, and didn’t want to rent a second one for such a short time.
The neighbor looked out a picture-window of the dining room, at the front yard.
“Which one are you going to chauffeur her in?†he asked.
Outside, there was my car, the 2007 Buick sedan owned by the old guy who lives across the river but who’s now out in California, the 2010 Cadillac sedan owned by someone else whose property I’m watching while they’re vacationing in Macao, the 2010 Ford pick-up truck owned by the guy with the Buick, the property caretaker’s 2012 Ford pick-up truck, someone else’s 2005 Nissan sedan, and two 2013 Ford pick-up trucks awaiting delivery to the business partner’s automotive dealership out in the middle of the Sandhills.
All for which I have the keys, and permission to use as I wish while they’re kept out here.
No, none of these’ll do,†I said; “I have an image to uphold.
“What I’d like to do is borrow your brother’s 1972 Chevrolet pick-up truck, to take her out.â€
The neighbor’s older brother’s pick-up truck is a light--and faded--green, considerably rusted, and hardly runs. However, he keeps it for sentimental reasons, as it was the first motor vehicle he’d ever owned, bought used for $600 or something, back in 1976.
“Remember, I have an image to uphold,†I repeated.
“And also, I’d like to borrow your gun-rack and guns, to mount inside the cab.
“And also too, if you or he have a couple of old deer carcasses laying around, I’d like them tossed in the bed, for added ambiance.â€
“And you’ll dress in dirty jeans, a torn flannel shirt, and cowboy boots?†he inquired, “to add to the effect?â€
Nope, no way, I said.
“Now, Ja'maal, the cook there, likes me and thinks highly of me, but he’s fussy about how his customers look, and he’d throw me out of there in a second, if I came there dressed like that.
“I’ll wear one of my usual custom-made three-piece pin-stripe suits and leather shoes, and have my hair neat.â€
-
I got detoured, sidetracked, derailed--no, to be bluntly honest, it was train wreck--last week and was unable to finish this story. My apologies to those who cared.
And I’m sure the cbayer primitive’s been looking all over for the ending.
Well, far too much time has passed, and no point in picking it up where it broke off.
But for those who were left hanging--I’m sure there were at least three or four--the rest of the story runs something like this:
- - - - - - - - - -
I went to the bar in town for supper the evening of March 6, planning on ordering superdeluxe superexpensive ultra-ultra special dishes prepared by the bar owner’s husband Swede, he of Norwegian derivation who’s also renown for his Italianate cooking.
And for free, because it was my birthday.
- - - - - - - - - -
But Swede, who’s also a long-distance truck driver, had gotten an unexpected summons early in the morning, to deliver a truckload of soybeans to Shreveport, Louisiana, and so couldn’t work that night.
Donna, the cook at the local VFW club, since it was her night off there, went in for him. The heavy-set cherubic always-smiling always-pleasant Donna knows how to cook only ordinary food.
So I had my usual, the hamburger pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, french fries made on the grill, not in the fryer, and a bowl heaped with sour cream.
- - - - - - - - - -
Then on Saturday evening, March 9, I drove to the big city to pick up the cbayer primitive so as to take her out to dine at the restaurant specializing in Australian fare, as her husband was in Omaha making some sort of movie deal, and suggested to me she’d appreciate the company.
Despite the faded green, considerably rusted, mufflerless, smoking 1972 Chevrolet pick-up truck with two dead and dried-out deer in the bed--and that I’d accidentally run over an already-dead skunk in the middle of the highway--and gun-rack with actual firearms on it, the cbayer primitive was not fazed.
Not the least, not at all.
This woman’s been around; despite appearances, she’s no snob; she’s known the rougher sort of life, and all that entails.
- - - - - - - - - - -
The Australian restaurant, as mentioned before, is lorded over by Ja’maal, a tall angry guy who looks like Bobby Seale excepting with a bigger Afro hair-style. Again, despite appearances, Ja’maal is actually a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet, and he makes Australian dishes better than anyone else on the northern hemisphere.
The cbayer primitive ordered kangaroo strip loin tartlet with sweet potato and bush tomato jus.
I ordered a hamburger pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, french fries made on the grill, not in the fryer, and a bowl heaped with sour cream; my usual.
- - - - - - - - - -
The cbayer primitive thought her food not prepared properly; it was supposed to have anchovies on top of it, like kangaroo strip loin tartlet’s made in California.
I suggested she discuss it with Ja’maal, but she decided she wouldn’t.
Ja’maal is black, remember, and it goes against the primitive code to disparage anything a black does.
That’s a real definite no-no.
- - - - - - - - - -
After dining, I drove the cbayer primitive back to the five-star hotel in the big city--better than any accommodations to be found in Baltimore, Maryland or San Diego, California, remember--where she invited me up into the four-room suite she and her husband had taken, finding the weather in Nebraska too inclement for living on a tiny little boat.
I said no, mentioning the femme, to whom I owe all.
The cbayer primitive said forget the femme, who’s “only a Nebraska girl.â€
I wanted to say something, but because franksolich is above all a gentleman, I didn’t.
The cbayer primitive insisted I wasn’t a “normal man†if I could spurn her advances.
To which I replied, I’m just as carnal and lustful and tumescent as any other man, but I do have boundaries; no matter how clean she is, I’ll be damned before I hop around in the sack with a woman with a “(D)†after her name.
Some things, one just doesn’t do.
- - - - - - - - - -
On Sunday morning, the cbayer primitive’s husband, now back from Omaha and readying to get the boat going back to California, showed up. He was dressed in a combination Boy Scout-Forest Ranger uniform, but I neglected to ask why.
He requested that I mail to him information about the potash industry in Nebraska.
- - - - - - - - - -
As a going-away present to the cbayer primitive, while her eccentric English husband was coaling up the boat to get underway, I gave her two dainty little English bone china demi-tasses because there’s not enough room on that tiny little boat to store regular-sized tea- or coffee-cups.
- - - - - - - - - -
That’s how this story ended, in case anybody cares.
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Nice finish.
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Glad you are back. I was a bit worried about you.
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Well, I guess that does make three. :lmao:
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Thanks for the great story, Frank. I loved the different outfits.
(I saw you dropped my name as the boozer. :rofl: )
Hope your train wreck is long behind you.
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Damn, coach. Whatever happened to taking one for the team?
Every DUmpette, save nadin, has had an open invitation to a life-changing session of hopping around in the sack.
Have they allowed their window of opportunity to close?
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Damn, coach. Whatever happened to taking one for the team?
Every DUmpette, save nadin, has had an open invitation to a life-changing session of hopping around in the sack.
Have they allowed their window of opportunity to close?
:lol:
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Thanks coach. It was a fine piece. I always enjoy your work and look forward to the next one.
:cheersmate:
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Thanks coach. It was a fine piece. I always enjoy your work and look forward to the next one.
:cheersmate:
Thanks; I'm currently working on "dear sweet old Lu meets franksolich," but as I'm tired of the primitives always coming here, in this one, franksolich'll go there.
I think dear sweet old Lu'll like it, but if she doesn't, she has only herself to blame; if she'd been a hostess interacting with guests, instead of just sitting there like a Queen Bee, such an inspiration would've never occurred to me.