hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer returns to the Sandhills

[franksolich]

note: hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer returns to the Sandhills is dedicated to the brain-damaged primitive, “DainBramaged,” with the hopes that it eases his current discomfiture, ameliorates his woes, and solaces his sorrow.

This is a work of fiction, interspersed with the truth.  The people described herein--other than the primitives--are real, live, breathing human beings, and I believe I give an accurate portrayal of their characters and conduct. 

The primitives are based upon those who inhabit, or formerly inhabited, Skins’s island, and since I know none of them personally, I may be a little “off” in describing their characters and conduct.

But if so, I’m probably not off by very much.

The “happenings” are based upon real-life events, but usually involving other times, other primitives.  Such things have in fact happened the eight years I’ve lived out here in the middle of nowhere, the eastern foothills of the Sandhills of Nebraska.

One can guess, for example, that there are actually old hippies camping down on the river this holiday weekend, the fictitious part being that I’m giving them the characteristics and habits of the Packer clan.

As God knows, I don’t have the imagination to make these things up.

This follows a somewhat different format than previous journals from the Sandhills.  Usually I’ve written about people and things as they happened, but as real life tends to not be orderly and in sequence, the journals too tended to stray and wander and digress all over the place.

Here, people and events are reported a day later than they happened, myself having had the time to determine what’s important and what’s not important, to mention.

One hopes that Doug Bluto, or whatever his name is, late of Gearhart Chevrolet in northern New Jersey, especially enjoys this, because probably nobody else‘ll ever dedicate a story to him.

- - - - - - - - - -

Thursday, August 29.  The neighbor’s older brother drove up into the front yard this morning, in his big black pick-up truck.  He has three of them; black, red, and white; a 2009 Ford, a 2011 Ford, and a 2013 Ford, in that order.

He was towing a trailer, and as I walked out on the front porch, and then out into the yard, I recognized it.

“So…..” I said; “you’re going into the antique business?  I haven’t seen one of these since we were kids.”

It was a 1968 pop-up-and-unfold tent-trailer, a Starcraft; he told me he’d gotten it at a farm auction the week before, for $400.  He was bringing it out here to have it cleaned up, and wife was going to come and repair the tears in the canvas and screens, after which the kids were going to use it while camping out here over the Labor Day weekend.

I’m not fond of camping, period, but I admitted at least it was better than them sleeping on the ground, in hot stinking canvas tents.

There’s to be six of them here, three belonging to the neighbor, and three to the neighbor’s older brother; one male, aged 12, two females, aged 11, one male, aged 10, and a male and female each aged 8 years.  The 8-year-old boy, the eager young lad, is going to “supervise” all the others in collecting gate receipts to see old hippies.

The old hippies in this case being the hippywife primitive Mrs. Alfred Packer, hippyhubby Wild Bill, and Wild Bill’s brothers, all from northeastern Oklahoma.  There’s probably going to be some others with them, but I dunno yet who they are.

The Packer clan was up here two years ago, and so they aren’t going to be strangers.

I reminded the neighbor’s older brother, who knows some about Mrs. Alfred Packer’s hippyhubby and in-laws, but not all, “Don’t forget to not take any ten-dollar bills over the weekend; take two fives instead, because while Wild Bill has that counterfeiting rap hanging over his head, he hasn’t been convicted yet.”

The neighbor’s older brother wondered why it was only ten-dollar bills, rather than one of the larger denominations.  “It seems an awful lot of trouble, for just ten bucks.”

Because ten’s the highest Wild Bill, who’s illiterate, can count, I illuminated him.

“Mrs. Alfred Packer herself, she works in the kitchen of a nursing home, and has to hand over her paycheck every week to him.  Wild Bill usually needs it for bail for one of brothers.  And in exchange, he gives hippywife one of those fake tens, thinking that’s all she needs, for weekly spending money.

“That’s the reason thrift-stores down in that part of Oklahoma will take ones, fives, twenties, and fifties, but they refuse to take any tens, from anybody.”

- - - - - - - - - -

About noon, the neighbor’s older brother’s wife showed up, with three of their children in tow--the 12 year-old boy, the 10-year-old boy, and the 8-year-old girl--and they immediately began air-compressing out the tent-trailer, and then with much soap and water and rags, cleaned it.  She also did a pretty good job on repairing the torn canvas and screens.

The interior was as clean and shiny as a hospital, when they got done.

By now, it was about six p.m., dinner-time, the hottest part of a 100+-degree day, and she informed me the trailer needed moved.  I was surprised; the trailer was set up in the front yard, right where I thought the ideal place for it.

“No, it needs moved down to the river,” she said.  “The children want to camp by the river, and then tomorrow before the hippies come, you can bring it back up here to the front yard.”

Uh, I objected.  “The river’s 500 yards away from the back porch; it’s not exactly at one’s elbow.

“These are kids, and they need to be nearby, so I can keep track of them.

“Add to that, that because I can’t hear, they might as well be 500 miles away if something were to happen; I’d be utterly unaware of it.  And only God knows what could happen during the middle of the night when everybody’s sleeping.  A homicidal tramp, or a suicidal walrus-looking guy, might be walking along the river, and come across…..these kids.

“The closer they are to me, the safer they are.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she said.

So the trailer-tent was collapsed together, and I hitched it to one of the pick-up trucks kept here by the business partner, and pulled it through the meadow down to the river, where it was set up anew.

- - - - - - - - - -

I was dripping with sweat and exasperation when the neighbor’s children showed up; the 11-year-old twin girls and the 8-year-old boy, the eager young lad, on whose behalf much of my energy’s been spent.

The two mothers offered to stay with them while I went to town, to meet the femme at the bar, for dinner. 

Swede, he of Norwegian derivation whose specialty is Italianate cuisine, was in the kitchen.  I ordered my usual, a hamburger well-done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, while she had crostini con condimenti misti, sugo al pomodoro, grissini torinesi, pizza ai funghi e salsicce, pansotti alla genovese, panzanella, and cassata siciliana.

Then I returned home and checked on the kids; all was okay.

During the middle of the night, however, I got uneasy.

There were six kids down there, innocently slumbering away, blissfully unaware that a primitive with malicious motives could stumble upon them, doing them some sort of damage.

I got up, grabbed a sleeping-bag, and drove the business partner’s pick-up truck down near the Starcraft, and slept in the bed of the truck the rest of the night, so as to be close by in case peril arose.

[franksolich]

Friday, August 30.  The kids were up early in the morning, all agog and excited about the old hippies who were arriving this day.  As it was torridly hot and humid, I  decided to wait on moving the tent-trailer back up to the front yard.

I fed the kids breakfast in the kitchen, and fortunately they’re kids, finding simple ways to entertain themselves, as I figured it might be a long day.  The Packer clan and hangers-on were due to arrive “some time” today, but I had no idea exactly when.

The eager young lad, the 8-year-old son of the neighbor, did however query me once in a while, “When are they coming?  When are they coming?”

I pointed out northeastern Oklahoma’s a long way away from the roof of Nebraska, and even if they’d left on Tuesday or Wednesday, given the state of their motor vehicles, they might’ve had some break-downs on the way, delaying them.

- - - - - - - - - -

In early afternoon, out on the front porch, I noticed the 12-year-old, a son of the neighbor’s older brother, was sketching some designs, trying to intermesh Nebraska ears of corn with Connecticut nutmegs.

I asked him what was up with that.

He told me that for one of his Eagle Scout projects, he hopes to hand-make and hand-carve an entire croquet set.  All six of these kids had of course been taught croquet a few weeks ago, but as was expected, not all of them were enthusiastic about the game.

However, two of them--him, and one of the 11-year-old twin daughters of the neighbor’s--had gotten obsessed with it; in fact, during this conversation, the girl was out in the side yard, competing with the business partner at whacking the balls.

(The business partner had arrived the preceding night, and slept in the house.)

The budding Scout pulled out other sketches he’d made, of the various parts of a croquet set.

“I based their measurement upon your own croquet set,” he said.

I reminded him there’s different types of croquet, and he might want to check the sizes of those types, too, in case another size might work out better for him.  After all, association croquet’s pretty sophisticated, and he might find making the tools for garden croquet, or golf croquet, or nine-wicket croquet, or American croquet, or ricochet croquet, somewhat more along his skills.

- - - - - - - - - -

He asked me if I’d ever been to Connecticut; despite his young age, he’s been a lot of places, but not to the northeastern states.

Too many times to count, I told him, especially during the early 1980s.  “But by the late 1980s, I’d seen pretty much all that was there, and after that, Connecticut was just ‘fly-over’ country for me, on my way to Boston.  And as small as Connecticut is, it took maybe two minutes to fly over the entire state.”

He asked many questions about Connecticut, under the assumption that croquet had been invented there.

“Well,” I explained, “in Connecticut, a quarter of an acre’s considered a farm, it’s so small.”

He looked at me, incredulous.

“It’s true,” I said; “a primitive told us; a quarter of an acre makes a farm there.”

He was still incredulous.

“I suppose they can put one horse, one cow, one goat, and one pig on that, making a farm, but they have to let the chickens run free out in the yard, because there’s no more room after that.”

He was dumbfounded.

“They let chickens run loose in their yards in Connecticut?”

I somberly nodded.

Ew, he said; “what kind of diseases are common among Connecticutians?”

I dunno, maybe hookworm, I said.  “I know a primitive in Connecticut who has hookworm; it lodges in the intestines, but it’s a certain parasite that attacks the brain.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Long about suppertime, I saw some action down by the river; the approach of the old Snap-On Tool van that hippyhubby Wild Bill had converted into a funeral hearse, WILD BILL & BROS. WHOLESALE UNDERTAKERS DISCOUNT FOR QUANTITY.

The six kids, the business partner, and I rushed down to greet the incoming hippies.

But that’s all that came, just the old van, from which Wild Bill emerged.

“Where’s everybody else?” I asked.  “I thought there were lots coming.”

Oh, they’re coming all right, hippyhubby groused to me; “there’s eleven more of us, but in different vehicles, and it’s been slow going because they kept breaking down on the highway, or the cops were always stopping us for one reason or another.

“I imagine the others’ll limp in over the next few hours.”

The eager young lad and I heaved a sigh of relief.  There were going to be hippies here after all; just late.

Wild Bill looked at the Starcraft, and then at me.

“You already gave this spot away to somebody else?”

No, I assured him; the spot was his.  “The kids were using it to camp here last night.  I’ll go get a truck and haul it back up to the front yard--”

But then hippyhubby interrupted, “Hey, we’re going to be a little short on canvas accommodations this trip--some unexpected company hitched on with us--how much would you charge to ‘rent’ this to us, for three nights?”

I dunno, I said; “It belongs to the kids.”

The eager young lad popped up, “Thirty dollars.”

Wild Bill stroked his beard, thinking.

“Okay,” he finally said; “thirty dollars.”

He pulled out his wallet to get three new crisp ten-dollar bills, but I stayed his hand.

“There’s six kids involved in this,” I pointed out, “and they have to split it six ways.

“To make it easier for them, give them six fives instead.”

Wild Bill grimaced, but he paid as requested.

[franksolich]

Saturday, August 31.  The kids spent the night in sleeping bags on the front porch and the back porch, greatly disappointed that hippyhubby Wild Bill was the only old hippie who’d showed up, and they didn‘t consider him the friendly sort.  (The rest came later, but during the middle of the night.)

As the sun began downing, the kids sat on the back porch, peering through the telescope mounted on the railing, watching him.  He built a campfire, and then sat on a wooden box, sharpening his collection of cadaver-carvers, at least until the kids got bored and hit the sack for the night.

In the morning, while giving the kids breakfast, I outlined the strategy for them.  They’d already made up signs--four of them on 4’x8’ thin plywood--SEE THE HIPPIES, REAL HIPPIES, decorated with paisleys and peace signs and other nonsense, two of them advertising admission of $1 for a drive-by view, and the other two advertising admission of $5 to park-and-watch from the meadow here.

They also had three metal cash-boxes for the loot, one for the two kids at the $1 signs where one turns off the highway and follows an eroded and rutted path along the river, the second for the two kids at the $5 sign where one turns off the highway and comes up the two-mile driveway to this place.  And the third for the 8-year-old eager young lad, boss of this enterprise, and his 8-year-old girl cousin, who were to superintend the park-and-view customers, offering to rent lawn-chairs and to sell ice.

Timing was everything, I reminded them.  This could possibly last for only a few hours, and they had to strike when the time was right.  The Packer clan had been through this before, two years ago, mobs of people coming to look and laugh at them, and so they had to be caught unawares.

This day was probably too early for it, I said, it being Saturday, and everyone on the road for the holiday off the road now; I figured Sunday, when it’d be slightly cooler, or Monday, when everybody’s going home, would be better times.  (Mrs. Alfred Packer and family and friends are scheduled to stay here through Tuesday evening.) 

So one just had to sit, watch, and wait.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Just as we were getting ready to go down to the river to meet the Packer clan, the retired banker’s wife and her 8-year-old grandson drove into the front yard.  He’s not part of this enterprise, but he’s going to sell popcorn on his own, to the park-and-watchers.

He’s not a popular kid with the other kids, although I dunno why.

But as I’d insisted he be included, he was.

The retired banker’s wife was wearing a big floppy hat with a rose in it, a thin cotton light-blue dress, and high-heels.  As usual, she was decorated with her pearls around her neck, and loose-fitting bracelets of what was not cheap metal and stones.

I explained the set-up to her, and suggested it probably wouldn’t happen today, but rather on Sunday or Monday, and so perhaps her grandson should stay out here with all the others, pointing out that yes, there were plenty of spare camping-out goods here, and so it wouldn‘t be a problem.

She agreed that was a plan.

The seven kids piled into the bed of the pick-up truck, and the retired banker’s wife and I into the cab, and I drove all of us down to the river.  It’s on this property, but still, it’s 500 yards away from the back porch, and it was a hot day.

- - - - - - - - - - -

When we got there, at first we saw only the hippie men folk, six of them.  There was of course hippyhubby Wild Bill, and his younger brothers, the one without a chin, the one without a forehead, and a third one without a neck.  I assume the brother with both eyes on the same side of his nose is still estranged from Wild Bill.  With them was a feeble, tremulous, old drunk from New Mexico, a friend of theirs, who oddly spoke with a New England accent and alleged himself to have been at one time a world-renown chef, and a bewhiskered guy with the face of a Pennsylvania Dutch farmer.

The hippie women folk, were harder to see and count, usually just peering at us from a corner of a tent or the Starcraft, or watching us from inside the motor vehicles.  There was of course hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer, greyer and stouter than ever, and her muu-muu more grease-stained than ever.  And dear old sweet Lu and Granny from Arkansas and addled Grandma Judy and some old lady with a record-breaking Adam’s apple and the misanthropic Ms. Piggy, perhaps the youngest of the lot.

Saturday’s journal entry is too long; more later