Christmas at Grandma's

[franksolich]

note: this story is based upon Grandma, the "hippywife" primitive on Skins's island; it is of course fictitious, but grounded in what Grandma has, either wittingly or unwittingly, revealed about herself on Skins's island.

This is fiction, but I believe it very much resembles the life of Grandma, and hope very badly that even Grandma herself likes the story, as a sort of Christmas present to her, because her hippyhubby the bone-chewing Alfred Packer isn't likely to get her that chest freezer she so badly wants.

Christmas at Grandma's.  In the late-afternoon darkness of the kitchen, Grandma paused over washing the dishes in a basin, to look out the window, where the snow was gently falling among the woods of rustic northeastern Oklahoma.

It's the same, but yet it's so different, she thought, as she tried scraping off cold fat from a plate immersed in water.  It's like Ohio, but then and again, it's not.

Grandma finished wiping the plate, streaking it instead of getting the grease off of it, because the water in the basin was cold and unsoaped.

Of course, this was Christmas 2009, not Christmas 1889, and one didn't have to live this way, other than that her husband, called "Wild Bill" by his friends, preferred to live this way, isolated far out in the country away from humanity.

Grandma stopped to wipe an incipient tear from her eye, thinking of her old beau back in Ohio, Johnny, from her days as a young girl and in high school.  Johnny had been a likeable lad, and knew how to treat women in a decent and civilized manner.  Johnny had dreamed of getting a job at the tire factory, at union wages, and providing for a wife and children all the good things in life.

Grandma shut her eyes tightly, and tried to remember; tried to remember how good and gentle and clean Johnny was, when they kissed.

Feeling ashamed of trying to remember, Grandma reminded herself she was married to Wild Bill, not clean-cut Johnny, and it was up to her to make out the best she could with that.

[franksolich]

For reasons unknown to her, Grandma had dumped clean-cut Johnny; perhaps it had been "that time" of the month, or her hormones got mixed up, and in an act of sheer madness, she had told him she wanted nothing to do with him.

Clean-cut Johnny had been confused and despondent, pledging his love and fealty to Grandma over and over again, but Grandma had made up her mind, and it was final, even though she had no rational idea of why she had made up her mind thusly.

"I may marry someone else," clean-cut Johnny had said; "but I'll always love you."

Finished with the dishes, Grandma took the basin and tossed the water onto the ground outside the front door.

She started the daily late-afternoon house-cleaning, inside of what was half an old log cabin, and half a "modern" addition made from pilfered lumber.  She could not make the worn-away, cracked, linoleum floor look whole and uncracked, but Grandma nonetheless got down on her hands and knees to scrub it; if nothing else, at least it would be clean.

It was Christmas, but the house had no traces of Christmasery in it, not even an unadorned sprig of a fir tree.  The first Christmas she had spent with Wild Bill, she had set up an Italian-style nativity set, with colorful plaster figurines.  

Grandma had grown up in the bosom of a tight-knit family of northern Meditteraneac derivation, where the ancient traditions of the holiday had been respected, and observed.  A large Christmas tree glittering with multi-colored bubble lights, strung with multi-colored glass beads, and draped with "icicles."  Big presents, and many of them, under the tree.  Midnight Mass, in all of its medieval pageantry, glory, and splendor.  A blessing by the priest.  And then after some sleep, cooking the day's feast, singing or happily humming Christmas carols all the while.

Christmas; a time of love and joy and goodwill to all men.

But that first Christmas with Wild Bill, hippyhubby, upon coming in drunk, and in a foul mood, had smashed the miniature wooden stable and breaking the plaster figures, tossed them onto the compost heap outside.

"Know your place, woman," Wild Bill said; "we don't do Christmas here."

[franksolich]

After dumping clean-cut Johnny, Grandma had remained within her family for years, slowly acquiring the stature and respect as the maiden aunt, the never-married favorite of the young nephews and nieces.

However, Grandma secretly retained the desires of a woman longing for a man, and the advent of the internet during the 1990s allowed her to try this "in love" thing a second time, and it was through one of these on-line "matching services" that she had found the love of her life, a guy near her own age down in northeastern Oklahoma who professed to like the "simple life."

Well, the rustic simple life appealed to her, too, and Grandma took the dive.

The first meeting between Grandma and Wild Bill was not an auspicious one, being attended by Grandma's own family, so as to ensure that Grandma was not making a rash decision.

Quite simply put, they had not liked him; Wild Bill struck them as an uncouth wild-eyed craggy-looking cadaverous decrepit hippie with a hot temper.  A child of the backwoods, he had grown up in a two-room log cabin with seven siblings and an outhouse with only one hole in it.

Upon checking into his antecedents, the concerned relatives learned Wild Bill was a distant descendant of the man-eating Alfred Packer, who had terrorized the Rocky Mountains of Colorado circa the 1870s.  They also learned he had been married once before, to a woman who had died under mysterious, but obviously bloody, circumstances.

[franksolich]

But Grandma had her own mind, and so here she was.

The house was cold, and had propane-gas heat, but Wild Bill, scorning modernity, insisted that only the wood-stove be used, and the kerosene lamps rather than the electric lights hanging by wires, bare, from the ceiling.

The pair had not forgone modern conveniences entirely, however; Grandma possessed a microwave oven, and Wild Bill "owned" the television set in the living room, which he watched while sitting on the couch, a couch covered with some sort of old blanket grown shiny and smooth from dirt.

The cat had a litter box, so the place was not entirely devoid of modernities.

At times, Grandma had made modest requests, such as that for a chest freezer, which Wild Bill had denied, alleging that the electricity might go out, conveniently forgetting that if that was an excuse, then there was no excuse for having anything electrical, period, in the house.

He had in fact seemed offended at the idea; "Everything you want, woman, you want just for yourself, just for your own ease and pleasure."

Actually, Grandma had not wanted it just for herself; Wild Bill demanded good chow, and much of it, and a chest freezer would save her time, and him money.

Men, Grandma thought; they always think everybody's as selfish as they are.

She had later downgraded her desires for a good set of kitchen-knives, at which Wild Bill spittered and sputtered.  

"Those big knives you got now, those knives I got cheap at the coroner's office auction, are plenty good enough for you, woman."

[franksolich]

Grandma, cleaning up the gristle from the coffee-table, was humming Adeste Fideles when suddenly a hand covered her mouth and bent her head back from her neck.

"We don't do Christmas here," Wild Bill said; "so shut your damned snapper and forget this foolishness."

[The Village Idiot]

Wow, sounds like a real keeper doesn't he?

lol

[franksolich]

Wow, sounds like a real keeper doesn't he?

lol

It's a good thing I don't claim to be a good writer; this was whipped up in a hurry, and dedicated to Karin because of a comment she made that inspired the whole idea.

However, above all, I hope Grandma somehow manages to see it, and enjoy it, because given hippyhubby, the bone-chewing Alfred Packer, and his attitude about Christmas, it's probably the only Christmas present Grandma's getting, a story about herself.

One does what one can, to make a forlorn woman happy.

[The Village Idiot]

If she somehow saw this, she's gonna 

heh

[SilverOrchid]

Poor Grandma.

[GOBUCKS]

It's a good thing I don't claim to be a good writer; this was whipped up in a hurry, and dedicated to Karin because of a comment she made that inspired the whole idea.

However, above all, I hope Grandma somehow manages to see it, and enjoy it, because given hippyhubby, the bone-chewing Alfred Packer, and his attitude about Christmas, it's probably the only Christmas present Grandma's getting, a story about herself.

One does what one can, to make a forlorn woman happy.

I'd say the odds are close to 100% that she has received this link in a PM. Mirth is surely forbidden in that grim household, but just for a moment, while Alfred Packer is otherwise occupied, she might almost crack a rueful smile, silently remembering what could have been. That will be the extent of the Christmas celebration she is allowed to have, and then she'll go back to her life as a hateful crone.

[Tucker]

After she read this, there might be a killin in NE Oklahoma.

A wonderful read, BTW.

[Oceander]

I think we might have just stumbled upon the next Stephen King!   Still, it was a pretty decent story!

[franksolich]

I think we might have just stumbled upon the next Stephen King!   Still, it was a pretty decent story!

Oh.

Actually, I was striving to make it read more like O. Henry.

Apparently I failed, but as mentioned, I never claimed to be a writer.

[GOBUCKS]

Oh.

Actually, I was striving to make it read more like O. Henry.

Apparently I failed, but as mentioned, I never claimed to be a writer.

Coach, you protest too much. It's an excellent tale, and begs a second chapter.

[The Village Idiot]

Oh.

Actually, I was striving to make it read more like O. Henry.

Apparently I failed, but as mentioned, I never claimed to be a writer.

Ah but you got the traffic! lol

I only strive to be called a writer, someday in the future.

[franksolich]

Coach, you protest too much. It's an excellent tale, and begs a second chapter.

Okay, I'll cobble together a part 2, but it probably won't show up until tomorrow, as I have a party to attend tonight (Tuesday night) way out in the country, and then I'm headed to the big city to do some work.

[Oceander]

Oh.

Actually, I was striving to make it read more like O. Henry.

Apparently I failed, but as mentioned, I never claimed to be a writer.

Failed?  I think not.  I look forward to reading the second chapter.

[franksolich]

Okay, I have to go for the night, but here's where I'm at right now, and I hope to have more tomorrow.

As everyone knows, real life oftentimes interferes with internet life.

< < < < <

Convinced he had shut Grandma up, Wild Bill released his hold on her, causing her to fall against the back of the couch.  Grandma sat there, her legs folded underneath her, clinging to the collar of her Mother Hubbard apron as she caught her breath.

"Don't you understand, woman?" Wild Bill snarled; "we don't do Christmas here, and I don't want to see the slightest little thing, hear the slightest little noise, about Christmas.  We don't do Christmas here, so get that out of your head, and fix me some supper, before you learn what not doing Christmas is really like."

Grandma got up and put on an old trenchcoat and rubber galoshes, to go out to feed the chickens, and to select one for supper.

Wild Bill noticed the black-and-blue bruises on her legs had nearly cleared, and so perhaps it was time to touch them up again; but later.

As Grandma stood outside in the darkness, in the gently falling snow, under the stars, she thought again of clean-cut Johnny back in Ohio, who had in fact married someone else, but who had oftentimes confided in others--who whispered it along to Grandma--that while he was enamoured of his wife, his heart still lay with his real love.

Wild Bill appeared at the door, framed by the light inside the house.

"We just got called, and we got company coming, so you'd better hustle, woman, unless you want me to teach you how to hustle."

Grandma sighed, and asked how many.

"My five brothers and their wives, and my sister and her husband, and Mom, too," Wild Bill said.  "They expect some pretty good eats, and you'd better give it to them, unless you want me to teach you how to provend good eats."

Grandma sighed again, and began strangling chickens.   

[Karin]

Thank you, Frank, for the dedication and the good read!  You're very good at painting portraits of characters. 

Remember, an homage to O. Henry needs a surprise twist at the end.  What do you have up your sleeve?

Anybody who would break up my creche and put it in the compost pile is fixing to be a bachelor again, immediately.  This is a divorcable offense.  Before leaving though, I would take his most cherished possession, and sell it along the way. 

[franksolich]

Remember, an homage to O. Henry needs a surprise twist at the end.  What do you have up your sleeve?

Yeah, there's an odd twist at the end, but what it is, is for me to know and for everybody else to find out.

As soon as I get done with it.

Now, remember, this is fiction, but it's fiction extrapolated from what Grandma has told us about herself.  I wouldn't be surprised if it's actually at least 67% accurate.

< < < < <

Grandma sat on the chopping block plucking and peeling the chickens, thinking about her in-laws, Wild Bill's family, who ate everything placed in front of them including the bones and gristle, and who would chew the ceiling if they could latch their teeth onto it somehow.

It was so different from her own family back in Ohio; the loving mother, the hearty uncles and gentle aunts, the clean courteous cousins, the well-mannered children, all of them dining together at Christmas with grace, elegance, and class.

Grandma knew that her in-laws were not typical of Oklahomans in general, but instead some sort of feral anomaly.  When Grandma had first come here, Wild Bill had allowed her to work as a waitress in Tulsa, where she had gotten to know many other Oklahomans.

They all seemed such decent and civilized people; the women lovely, the men handsome, and the children endearing.  Good tippers, too.

The sorts of people who commemorated Christmas.

Grandma had been happy waitressing in Tulsa, but Wild Bill became jealous, and got her a job in a nursing home closer to where they lived, so he could keep his eye on her.

Her second Christmas with Wild Bill, Grandma in the kitchen was reading a greetings-card mailed from her aged mother, when Wild Bill entered, and upon seeing the "Merry Christmas" on the front of the card, he had grabbed it and shoved it into the wood-burning stove.

"We don't do Christmas," her angry husband reminded her.

After that, Grandma had tried running away; Ohio was too far away, but Grandma had a good friend just over the state border, in Arkansas.  She ran through the woods and the brush and the undergrowth, cutting her feet; Grandma was barefoot, as her husband always locked up her shoes, so she would stay around.

Wild Bill sent the dogs after her, and brought Grandma back.

After he was done with her, Grandma was in bed four days, unable to move because of the pain.

[dandi]

I think we might have just stumbled upon the next Stephen King!   Still, it was a pretty decent story!

I like this line:

""Those big knives you got now, those knives I got cheap at the coroner's office auction, are plenty good enough for you, woman."

I'm thinking more of a young Clive Barker, or maybe Tobe Hooper.

Will there be a van full of stranded college students involved here?

Good stuff, Frank.

[The Village Idiot]

I like this line:

""Those big knives you got now, those knives I got cheap at the coroner's office auction, are plenty good enough for you, woman."

Good stuff, Frank.

Me too. That was funny.

[franksolich]

Me too. That was funny.

I really hope to finish this tonight; there's two more parts, because I really have to get going on the TOP 10 PRIMITIVES OF 2009, even though that's not scheduled to be released until next week.

But much to my aghastment, I'm already finding myself writing about New Year's Eve in the sparkling husband primitive's home in a suburb of Baltimore.

I'm not the sort of person who starts one thing, and then finishes it before moving onto a second thing.  I start one thing, get it about a third done, start on another thing, get that about a third done, start on a third thing, get that about a third done, and then return to the first thing, getting that another one-third done, and then on to the second thing, getting that about another one-third done.......

I dunno if that's a good thing, or a bad thing, or because I'm anal.

[The Village Idiot]

I thinks thats pretty normal actually.

[franksolich]

Grandma finished plucking and peeling the chickens at the same time Wild Bill's family drove up to the front yard.  They were sauced, including Mom, which meant ravenous appetites, but that also meant they would be less picky about the food.

In fact, sometimes they would just tear off a limb and begin chewing on it before it was defeathered or defurred.

Grandma used the table-top to chop the chickens, having the cracked oilcloth to cover it.

"See, woman?" Wild Bill chortled; "those are good knives, plenty good for what we need, capable of cutting to pieces anything."

"Why's she so sulky?" asked the brother-in-law with both eyes on the same side of his nose; "She seems just so really pouty."

"Cheer up, Grandma," said the sister-in-law with a goiter the size of a canteloupe.

"Aw, she just needs a little man-love," said the brother-in-law with the inverted nose, goosing her.  "Brother Wild Bill isn't what he used to be, when he was tomcatting around the whole county, making women drop kids like ripe apples."

"She gets enough," Wild Bill said; "in fact, probably more than what she deserves."

"Why so down, sister?" asked the sister-in-law with no teeth.

"She's put out because we don't do Christmas," Wild Bill said.

"Oh.....Grandma wants to.....do Christmas....." screeched the chinless sister-in-law.

"Grandma wants to do Christmas.  What an uppity person she is, wanting to do Christmas.  Grandma wants to put on fancy clothes and trot around. 

"That's Grandma for you; she thinks only of what she wants, and nothing of what anybody else wants."

"Wild Bill's first wife was so much better," Mom offered; "she made such a good dinner."