franksolich wants a primitive for Christmas

[franksolich]

It started snowing here on the roof of Nebraska about noon, so I decided it’d be a good idea to head to town to pick up the mail and some provisions in case the snow got bad.  It’s not predicted to, but this is Nebraska after all, where the unpredicted is what usually happens.

While in the lobby of the post office, I saw my hostess from Thanksgiving, who’s also going to be my hostess for Christmas Eve.

She had given me the details last week about what was to go on, but I didn’t bother grasping them because I figured I’d see her before Christmas Eve anyway, and could get them this second time around.

I’m expected at 5:00 in the afternoon, supper at 5:30.  The ancients are going there on Christmas day; this time around, it’ll be the hostess, her husband, and her niece’s family; nephew-in-law, niece, and three grand-nephews aged 9-14.  (This niece is the daughter of another sister, not the same sister who’d borne the waterbed mattress primitive.)

So it’s going to be the contrary of a primitive Christmas Eve; a “family values” Christmas Eve.

That’s fine, because I’m sure I’ll have a primitive Christmas day.

The niece had been there Thanksgiving, which had gratified me much, as I hadn’t wanted to be the only “youngster” there.  Her husband had to work that day, and so she’d shoved her sons off to their grandmother’s for Thanksgiving, while she came here to help her aged aunt.

I’d been startled by the conduct of my hostess that day.  She’s 86 years old, and I’d always thought she was unusually lively and animated for her age.  But she had “good” moments and “bad” moments the three hours I was there. 

I’ve only ever seen her at the post office or the grocery store, maybe five or ten minutes at a time, and she seemed powerfully activated those times.  Apparently those were some of her brief “good” moments, and the rest of the time, she’s tired, worn out, detached, and when she returns home from such excursions, she lays down for a while.

As mentioned before, she was born the same year as my mother, and I’ve had problems with that.  My mother had died at the age of 54, and despite stretching my imagination to its furthest, I can’t see my mother so frail and ancient-looking as my hostess.  No way.

Eternally young--sort of--my mother, inside this head.

She described the menu--it’s to be the standard Christmas dinner, turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh corn and peas, whole-wheat biscuits, and a vast assortment of pies.  To drink, coffee or milk.

The postmistress interrupted us, reminding her that she had a package from Omaha.

The Looming Dilemma; I took my leave, assuring her I’d be there at 5:00 in the afternoon Christmas Eve.

[franksolich]

About 5:00 last evening, the business partner was here, and we decided to go into town for some fine dining at the local bar (there’s actually three bars in town, but I usually go to the one with the biggest kitchen).  The neighbor was here too, and as his wife hasn’t gotten back yet from shopping in the big city, he decided he’d join us for supper (the children are with their grandparents for the day).

I was very happy to see that the owner’s husband was the cook tonight.  He doesn’t cook often, as he’s a long-distance truck driver; maybe about five or six times a month.  Of Norwegian derivation, his well-known and much-famed specialty is Italianate cuisine.

Even Italians from Minneapolis, Des Moines, and Kansas City come this far to savor it.

I scanned the menu.  The usual-and-standard pitina, gnocchi, polenta, risotto, pasta e fagioli, risi e bisi, fegato alla veneziana, tiramisu, mascarpone, baicoli, ossobucco alla milanese, cottoletta alla milanese, cassoeula, tortelli de zucca &c., &c., &c., and because it’s nearing Christmas, panettone.

The neighbor ordered strozapretti, and the business partner flammekueche and andouillette; the latter’s choices were off-menu, but the beaming truck driver said he could whip them up anyway.

Then he looked at me, scowling.  “The usual,” I said; “a hamburger smashed down hard on the grill so that all the grease is squeezed out of it, extremely well done, french fries fried on the grill and not in the fryer, and a side dish of sour cream.”

I dunno why he never likes my order--it’s been the same thing every single time since I moved up here more than eleven years ago, and it’s easy and simple and quick.  He’s a very busy man, and being a nice guy, I don’t want to trouble him any more than necessary.

- - - - - - - - - -

While we were dining, a cowboy drinking at the bar came over to sit with us.

I wasn’t fond of the new company; every town, no matter how small, has its Sullen and Surly One, and he’s ours.  He didn’t know the business partner, who lives way out in the middle of the Sandhills, but he knows the neighbor and me.

Sitting across the table from me, he looked at me with disbelief.

“Hey, I heard you were that guy who got lost, and have been meaning to ask about it.”

Inwardly I groaned. 

My going to the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants happened nearly twenty years ago, and I’m surprised that once in a while someone out of the blue brings it up.  It’s true that I was prominent in Nebraska and a few other Great Plains newspapers at the time as a “human interest” story, but that is so much water past the dam that even I think of it only rarely, and am surprised when others remember it.

I’ve spoken only sporadically about it because it was one of those experiences one has to actually see and endure, before one can possibly believe it.  It’s a wholly different world than this time and place, and I saw and lived it from the bottom, not hovering from overhead.

Plus, there’s the “twist” that I saw, and experienced it, as a deaf person.

And when it comes to writing, there’s two things I refuse to write about--the time when I was three years old and run over and severely broken by an automobile, and my first six days in the socialist paradises.  The first because it sounds too much like James Thurber’s “The Day the Dam Broke,” local citizenry running amok like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off, and the second, because, well, it’s sort of hard to describe a wolkenkuckkuckensheim, a cloud-cuckoo-land, in a way that’s credible.   It would read more like fantasy science-fiction, even though it was all real, very real.

And it’d happened simply because of a transposed telephone number.

But I wasn’t in a mood to talk about it, merely confirming that yes, I was that guy, but you know, it all was so very long ago…..

I’ve dealt with people like the Sullen and Surly One all my life.  The only way I ever learned to react to rudeness and discourtesy is by acting as if the person extending it doesn’t exist.  It usually works, but it also tends to egg on a few.

And it wasn’t working here.

He changed the subject, mentioning he’d heard about a primitive who’d spent a couple of days out here this past week.

I confirmed that yes, a primitive had spent a couple of days here, but was now gone.

He added the observation that franksolich sure seemed to like primitives.

But only as anthropological research, I reminded him, much in the same way medical researchers collect specimens of germs and viruses and parasites for examination and study.  They’re dangerous to handle, but they must be handled, and one can learn how to handle them with care and deftness.

He wondered if I too might be a closet primitive, “All those goings-on out there, with hippies…..”

Now, in case anyone’s curious, despite my utterly normal-looking appearance and large size (6’3”, 174 pounds), I’ve always been a red flag for certain personality types, the confused and the insecure.  I don’t like it, but I’m used to it.

I’ve never been quite sure what it is.  Sometimes I suspect it’s the voice, in which every word is distinct and crystally-clear but seems as if coming from a ventriloquist rather than from myself.  The speech therapists did a good job several years ago, but alas nothing could be done about the seeming “detachment” of the voice.

It’s always seemed to me that hearing people put a great deal more importance on the sound of a voice than they should; and of course the confused and the insecure even more than that.

Or, if one knows me and knows that I’m deaf, it’s discombobulating that I appear to understand what’s being said to me.  It freaks them, and of course it freaks the confused and insecure even more.

<<freaks out people, especially primitives, all the time, but doesn’t mean to.

The neighbor and the business partner wanted to say something, but per my instructions given other times, other places, they let it be; I prefer to let such situations handle themselves, with the usual inevitable conclusion.

“All these people running around naked as jay-birds…..”

The business partner’s face got red, and the veins stuck out on his neck.  The neighbor looked alarmed, but it was difficult to determine if he was watching the cowboy or the business partner.

Having a brain-flatulence, and apropos of nothing, I idly commented, “Well, if you’ve got it, show it off……”

I have no idea why I said that; it just came out on its own.

But anyway, the cowboy, still sitting in his chair at the table, scooted it back, scraping the floor, and looked as if he wanted to hit me.

- - - - - - - - - -

Then suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder; the Italianate cook of Norwegian derivation, who said, “I’m sorry, buddy, but I have to shut you off, and if you cause these gentlemen any more problems, I’ll have to put you out.”

The usual typical night out on the town.

[franksolich]

The femme here this morning, Saturday morning, very early, about 8:30. 

The temperature’s plummeting and the wind’s picking up, and snow’s on its way, and so she wanted to be sure we had everything squared away for the next couple of weeks, when it’s too cold for her to be out, or too snow-infested for franksolich to get out.

As it’s almost noon now, she probably made it back to the big city, where she lives, okay.

December’s a very busy month for her, what with all the regional Elizabethan Christmases and Boar’s Head Dinners and Plantagenet Yules and Tudor Festivities and Renaissance Dances.  She’s an instructor in the theater arts and dance, and does a lot of this sort of thing.

Sometimes I’ve even been in them--the renaissance dances--but this Christmas, no.  The Great Barack Drought of ‘12 devastated the health, the physique, and the motivation, and I haven’t recovered yet.  It was a really bad summer here.  The drought affected the health and mood of others around here, but not as much, as they aren’t the same genetic make-up as I am.

I told her from the way the calendar looks, I’ll go to the show on Christmas as it was celebrated in the court of Philip IV of France (1285-1314), and one or the other of the two Victorian Christmas shows.  They all demand driving long distances, though.  We’ll see how the weather is in mid-month.

I told her where I was going Christmas Eve for supper, but didn’t tell her I’m still looking for primitive for Christmas Day itself.

She’ll be in Omaha, spending Christmas with her sister and her family.  The femme and I have been sort of an item for seven years now, but we’ve never spent holidays together, because her sister doesn’t like me, nor do she and the business partner, who shows up near the beginning, or the end, of holidays, like each other.

I wish people would get along, but I might as well wish the elections hadn’t happened.

- - - - - - - - - -

There was a certain iciness--not due to the weather--in our get-together, as she still hasn’t forgiven me for something, and I’m not budging an inch.  On some things, one must stand firm, unmoving.

Some time early last month, that thing that happens to women about a dozen times a year happened, and I got irate about it.  I’m really tired of women who moan and groan and bitch and whine and complain and carry on when that time comes, as if men are supposed to drop everything and be sensitive to their every mood and whim.

I dunno; perhaps my mother ruined me.  A man’s image of women is of course rooted in how he saw his own mother, and I’m no exception.  My mother had moods that fluctuated, swung violently back-and-forth, but on the whole, she controlled them, usually maintaining equanimity at least on the outside.

Such is important for the growth and development of a young child; a mother who’s the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow, always the same.  No mood swings in my mother, although I’m sure that on the inside, invisible to me, she was swinging all over the place.

My mother of course had something lacking in women of the baby-boom-and-after generation; fortitude.

- - - - - - - - - -

I’d pointed out that men have “that time of the month” too, although it hasn’t been scientifically defined, due to the femocentric nature of medicine, and the femme’d freaked (this wasn’t today, but about five weeks ago).

I’m an equal-opportunity non-sexist egalitarian; whatever problems women have, men have something similar in some other way, shape, or form, with the same degree of discomfort and inconvenience.

And I pointed out that men tend to handle such periods with fortitude, not letting on that they really want to moan and groan and bitch and whine and complain and carry on, but out of consideration for the sensitivities of women, we don’t.

She didn’t take it too kindly, and actually had the chutzpah to think I should apologize, but as I said before, there’s some things too important to budge on; one has to stand one’s ground, firmly and permanently.

Well, that’s led to a frosty past five weeks, but she’s getting over it.  The femme loves franksolich, and franksolich loves the femme, and even if the twain never meets, we’re pretty much set.

[franksolich]

On Saturday evening, because the snow hadn’t come yet--the cold and the wind sure did, though--and because I was bored, I headed into town to dine at the bar.  I guess I was also hoping for some innocent merriment, with the insufferable bully from the night before.

I wasn’t going to get any of it if anyone I knew was around, because other people have a habit of jumping in to “protect” me from a malicious person.  Usually it’s appreciated, but sometimes I’d just like to see what happens when I’m on my own.

Yeah, yeah, I know; I was really looking for a fight.

- - - - - - - - - -

Wanda, a heavy-set grey-haired woman of Polish extraction, was the cook this night; she has no specialty, instead being the general-order cook for ordinary cuisine.  Usually she works breakfasts.

She smiled when she saw me.

But then it confused her when, rather than placing my usual order, the same thing I’ve ordered every time the past eleven years, I instead requested pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, whole-wheat bread, real butter, hot syrup, and a side dish of sour cream.

She looked at me with wonderment.

The deal is, the last time she’d fixed my usual order, a hamburger pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, it’d been underdone, still light brown in the center.  Since she’s a very nice person, I didn’t complain, but that was the first time I’d had a hamburger without eating all of it.

But I didn’t tell her that; I just told her I was varying the diet a little bit, this being the holiday season and all that, an explanation she cheerily accepted.

- - - - - - - - - -

The bar was crowded, but the cowboy I was looking for wasn’t around.

I went to sit in the darkest corner, so as to be alone.

I was reading a newspaper when a friend of the property caretaker came over, and sat down.

“Still looking for a hippie for Christmas?  Any luck?”

No, I said, but I hadn’t begun looking in earnest yet.  I’d casually looked around, and commented upon the matter to others, but planned to start doing some serious looking later this next week.

“Well, there might be a problem finding one around here this year,” he advised, “what with the way the elections turned out.  Freeloaders and bums are pretty unpopular at the moment around here, and I think they know it.

“And even being related to the mayor or the governor’s brother isn’t enough to spare them.”

He pointed out I had other invitations, but I in turn pointed out they’re all with decent and civilized people, and while I’m very grateful, I was confident I’d find a primitive.

“See, it’s important to me.  I’ve watched people all my life, and I still haven’t figured out what makes some of them so stupid.  It fascinates me, the primitivity in some people.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The cook Wanda brought over my order, assuring me the bacon was fried until dried, and that the eggs were thoroughly scrambled.

“I suppose it’s okay,” she mused, “that you ordered this, but I’d gotten rather used to your regular order.”

Just as the friend of the caretaker was getting up to leave, three women who operate a child-care center in town came over.  Two are blonde, one is brunette, all three of them in their thirties, and with a little bit of lardage packed on them, but not obesely so.

All of them married with children, all of their husbands long-distance truck drivers.

One of them mentioned she’d hoped to see me at the renaissance dance program the femme had put on last August, at our own county fair, and was disappointed not to.  (This was when the adherents of the Bagwam were staying at my place.)

“It was the Great Barack Drought of ‘12,” I said; “look at what it did to me, wasting me and rendering me unhealthy.  I was too tired."

“You look mighty fine to me,” one of them said.

“And besides,” I continued, “she wanted me to wear a costume.  I was willing to do all this, but only in regular clothes, which are cooler than those stupid costumes.  But no, she didn’t want a show that was only 99% perfect, it had to be 100% perfect.”

“You two are s-o-o-o-o good together,” another of them said.

“That one you two do at the end is awesome.  I wish my husband could dance with me like that.”

She was referring to the lavolta, where the dancing pair are glued tightly together, and the woman lifted high into the air while turning.  I didn’t say anything, but I rather suspect she and the husband probably couldn’t maneuver it, all this turning and lifting.

I mentioned that, given my age, I prefer the alemains, finding the galliards somewhat too draining.

But the easiest were the bransles, on which square dances a few hundred years later were based; because one’s in a crowd, if one errs, it’s not noticed.

And franksolich has the potential to err grievously.

- - - - - - - - - -

I didn’t reveal the secret; it’s all a fraud, a sham.  In renaissance dances, the man always leads, but in this case as I can’t hear the music, I have to concentrate on the femme, who’s doing the women’s steps.  It looks as if I’m leading her, but actually, she’s leading me.

A distinction fortunately no one seems to have picked up.

“Well, I think you’re a good dancer,” the third one.

I desisted from telling her the femme is the only woman with whom I can possibly dance; with any other woman, unaware that I need to be led, it’d be disastrous.  (It’s been tried before, with a few of the femme’s female students.)

“You two were made for each other,” the first one said; “it’s even sexy, watching you two.”

I blushed, and as I was already done with my meal, excused myself, saying I had to go home to change the air in the tires of the automobile; they were sauced enough it seemed a reasonable excuse to them.

[BlueStateSaint]

I think that they were hitting on you, Coach.

“You look mighty fine to me,” one of them said.

[franksolich]

I think that they were hitting on you, Coach.

Probably; I've been hit on before, but substantially less than "average," because I've always been known for turning into ice in a hurry.  Allegedly franksolich can even cause the room-temperature to drop.

I probably need to explain something, in case outsiders wonder what goes on, on the eastern slope of the Sandhills of Nebraska, all this "art" and "culture" and "drama."

The late television talking face Johnny Carson was from this area.  Before he died, whenever that was, he set up a foundation to promote the dramatic arts.  He'd been a mega-multi-millionaire, and so the foundation's pretty big.....and I'm sure that 99% of that money's gone to here.

It's like West Virginia, where everything's named for the late racist Democrat Senator Robert Byrd; there's places all around named for Johnny Carson.  One can't avoid driving into a town of 200 people and seeing something that's named for him.

(The difference here being the taxpayers were stuck with paying for those memorials to Senator Foghorn, while all the Johnny Carson stuff here was paid for by his foundation.)

The high school in the big city has a Johnny Carson theater that's enormous, and could serve Omaha or Kansas City or Minneapolis well, if it were in Omaha or Kansas City or Minneapolis.

And it's not only buildings, but scholarships, fellowships, endowments, programs.

There's been lots of big bucks expended on a regional population that's pretty small.

Everybody around here seems to be in the dramatic arts, but what's disturbing about it is that it's deflected from more important things.  We need tool-and-die makers, diesel mechanics, agricultural experts, carpenters, plumbers, electricians, laboratory scientists, &c., &c., &c., not comedians.

<<at stores and restaurants, gets waited on by a lot of kids fresh out of college with four-year degrees in the fine arts.

[franksolich]

“Well, boss, it looks like you put yourself into a situation you didn’t have to,” the property caretaker said to me this morning. 

The oldest son of the owners of this place and the caretaker were here on Sunday morning to pick up some surveying papers, as they have an appointment with an attorney in the big city on Monday.  The place had been surveyed over the summer, and the son of the owner had the original papers, but copies were kept out here.  I dunno what’s up with that; perhaps they couldn’t find the originals.

“Really, when you go out picking a fight, you should have somebody along with you. 

“Not that you can’t take care of yourself, but with somebody along to do your hearing for you, it could come out better.”

I looked at him, blankly.

“Last night, you went to the bar, looking for [the cowboy]. 

“You were looking for him because he’s a miserable piece of work, and deserves to be beaten up.

“Well, you announced you were looking for him, and now you’re in a situation.

“If you’d just let things be, that would’ve been the end of the matter.  When Swede [the cook of Norwegian derivation] told [the cowboy] to cool it, that was that.  The end.

“If anything would’ve happened, it would’ve been between [the cowboy] and Swede, and Swede’s nobody anybody wants to mess with it.  But probably nothing would’ve happened.

“But last night you put yourself back into it, and now it’s between you and [the cowboy] again.

“He wasn’t there last night, but he’s going to hear about it.”

Well, excresence happens, I said.  I’ll deal with it when it comes up.

“I dunno, boss,” the caretaker said, eyeing me skeptically.  “You’re as tall as him, but he’s got a good fifty, sixty, pounds on you.  It’s true you’re always sober, and he’s usually drunk, but he knows how to fight, and you know only how to hit.”

“I wish somebody, anybody, would beat him up,” the son of the owners interrupted; “he’s nothing but bad news.”

“Nobody needs to worry about [the cowboy],” the caretaker replied.  “He’s already on his last legs at his job because of drunkenness and battery, and probably before the month’s out, he’ll be moved on, out of here.”

Then looking at me, the caretaker said, “The son-of-a-bitch bastard said some might nasty things to you.”

“I know,” I lied; “I heard it all, but when somebody’s being rude, best to simply pretend one didn’t hear.”

“Oh, you didn’t hear what he said, you only guessed,” the caretaker corrected me; “if you had, there would’ve been a melee there that night, and only God know how it’d turn out.”

Well, I repeated, I’ll deal with it when it comes up.

[franksolich]

This afternoon, I spent in the kitchen while the neighbor, the neighbor’s older brother, and a couple of their friends were here, getting their trucks ready for the winter snows.  We were supposed to have snow up here on the roof of Nebraska beginning last night, Saturday night, but got only a few flurries, and there’s nothing now.

But snow is coming; it’s inevitable.

Because it’s also inevitable there’ll be times when franksolich is snowed in here, I decided to experiment with some culinary delicacies.  I’m of course well-provisioned against the weather, but sometimes one runs out of a certain something, and is compelled to make something else.

The other day, when in the big city at the grocery store where the Country Club set shops--I’m not a member of the Country Club set, but it’s good being able to shop in a place that doesn’t cover dozens of acres, even if the prices are higher--I noticed packages of freshly-made finely-shredded mozzarella cheese, and suddenly waxed nostalgic for the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants.

One of the Ukrainian delicacies I remember was when the wife of a worker was in her lilliputian socialist kitchen, about the size of a broom closet here, making it--thinly-sliced rye bread plastered with real butter and finely-shredded mozzarella cheese sprinkled heavily on top.  And then it was toasted.

- - - - - - - - - -

When everybody was done out in the garage, they came inside the house to drink some beer and get warmed up.

The neighbor’s older brother was concerned about what I’d done last night.

“You didn’t have to announce to the whole world you wanted to fight him.”

Whoa, I said.  I hadn’t announced anything to the whole world, and I hadn’t said anything about a fight.

“All I did was ask Wanda [the cherubic Polish cook at the bar] if she’d seen [the cowboy] there that night.

“Nothing more than that; I announced nothing to ’the whole world,’ and said nothing about a ’fight.’”

“Well, this other word got around; it was in the bar across the street within seconds.”

Oh well, I said.  I’m used to being misquoted.

“Do you think you could tackle him?” one of their friends asked.

I dunno, I said.  I’d worry about it when it came up.

[BlueStateSaint]

You'd better have that S/K adjustable wrench handy, Coach . . . that character may just try to 'drop by' for a 'visit.'

(Which, BTW, is why we were adamant about you getting some kind of firearm.)

[franksolich]

I got off work early today (Monday), and went to town, where I saw the behemoth who shovels grain at the local elevator five and half days a week.

These parts had suffered a one-day "cold snap," with temperatures plummeting below zero and harsh winds (it's back to normal now), and everybody's suffering from it.

The guy told me his boss held a meeting in the morning, and said that probably until he gets it all straight, what 0bamacare's all about, at the beginning of the year, he's just going to cut all employees down to 30 hours a week, which didn't make franksolich's expert on fatness happy.

Apparently 0bamacare can be "interpreted" so many different ways, all the way to the moon, and it's costing the grain elevator a lot of legal fees, to figure it out.

You know; money that could otherwise go for employee salaries, fringe benefits, taking on new people, facility improvements so as to make the cost of bread lower for the consumer.

But money that has to go down a bottomless hole.

- - - - - - - - - -

"To keep my mind off my problems, though," he said, "I've been thinking about your one guy, the unemployed fat guy down over in Las Vegas.

"So maybe walking up and down the Strip might be too hard on his feet, and maybe he really needs a sedentary sit-down job.

"Working at a call-center, soliciting subscriptions for magazines via telephone, might work, but it also might be boring for him.  And I don't think the employees sitting near to him would appreciate the odors.

"But what about bouncer in a bar?

"You know, those guys who sit on stools outside of bars looking intimidating and checking IDs and stuff.

"I'm sure Las Vegas has some bars."

[franksolich]

Monday evening, about supper-time, I was headed to town when I noticed a woman walking alongside the road leading to here.  There’s a very tall pole with a bright red light in front of the house, which is visible from the highway two miles north of here; the only sign of human habitation around, and meant to be a beacon for traveling motorists stranded on the highway, as it’s a very long walk to anywhere else.

As I slowed down and pulled closer, I got alarmed.  This was no young woman, or even a middle-aged one; in fact, she bore a great deal of resemblance to the grasswire primitive’s good friend, the chronically-helpless primitive, Paper Roses.  She’s the primitive who used to ask other primitives things such as how to unscrew the cap on a jar or whether the left-handed glove goes on the right hand, or the left hand.

I say “used to,” because the chronically-helpless primitive, good friend of the pie-and-jam primitive, hasn’t been around lately, and one reasonably assumes she’s gone to the Great Garage Sale in the Sky.

Also, I say “resembled,” because it wasn’t in fact the Paper Roses primitive; only an ancient woman who looked very much like her.  She appeared to be in her late 70s, and was badly dressed for the weather.  It’d been a decent day, 27 degrees in late afternoon, no wind, but darkness had already fallen, and she was pretty old and seemed confused.

I stopped the truck upon reaching her, which is about the time she first saw me. 

Now, franksolich is utterly average-looking, normal-looking, but my manner’s not the same as what strangers might expect.  I’m deaf, and so the sound of my voice and my body language is “different,” and can be intimidating to those not expecting it. 

I assured her that wasn’t the situation, that I meant no harm, and much to my surprise she immediately understood.  She allowed me to help her up inside the passenger seat of the truck.

It took a while for me to grasp the details, but apparently she’d been driving on the highway and gotten a flat tire.  No, she didn’t have a cellular telephone with her.  Now, franksolich has an eminently-reasonable excuse for not bothering with such toys, but she was an old woman, a stranger to the area, obviously incapable of automotive mechanics.  She of all people should’ve had one.

I was going to take her back to this place, where she could get warm while I summoned help for her motor vehicle.  I can of course replace a flat tire, but I’ve found that when strangers have a “flat tire,” usually they have other problems too.  But then she mentioned she’d left her husband in the car.

Ooops.  As old and frail as she was, her husband was likely to be older and frailer, and I got alarmed.  I’d already turned the truck around, pointed towards home, and suddenly turned it around again, headed towards the highway.

Now, this is a nice highway and all that, but there’s hardly any traffic on it.  And so she and her husband didn’t have to worry about the blue state perils of Italianate-looking thugs or Treyyon Martin lookalikes or primitives looking for an easy victim to rob and pillage; none of that.

But there’s just hardly any traffic on it.

- - - - - - - - - -

I reached the highway, and about three-quarters of a mile west, saw the automobile; a late-model sedan, a Buick, the sort of vehicle preferred by the affluent retired elderly.  It had license-plates from Iowa, and a bumper-sticker promoting a Democrat congressional candidate from the eastern part of that state, which didn’t make me too happy, excepting that these were ancient people, and perhaps touched in the head, which would excuse the bumper-sticker.

I parked the truck on the rise of a hill, so as to be visible from far away, and flew the ROMNEY-RYAN pennant on the radio antenna, to signify I might need some help, if help was around.  It was dark, and so the pennant was pretty much useless as a means of communication, but I left it there anyway, and shined the headlights onto the back of the Buick, so as to give me light to change the tire.

I kept the old woman inside the truck, and walked towards the passenger side of the car, where her husband was sitting.  The poor old man was a sight, obviously senescent.  His face looked like cornbread muffin mix with too little water in it.  I assured him I was legit, meant no harm, his wife was with me, and I was going to fix the tire.  It seemed to reassure him, or perhaps he was in such a state it didn‘t make a whole lot of difference to him.

- - - - - - - - - -

Now, I can change a tire in five or ten minutes, but in this instance I took my time.  It seemed to me the flat tire was the least of the old folks’ problems, and I wanted to think about what to do.  Town was seven miles to the east, but there was nothing in town that would be of any use to them.  The big city was forty-one miles to the west, where there’d be plenty of help for them, but that was, after all, forty-one miles away in the darkness.

After about fifteen minutes of thinking and thirty seconds of assembling, I’d gotten around to putting together the jack when the neighbor pulled up alongside.  He’d been headed to my place to get something, and at the intersection, looking west, he’d seen the truck, its rear red lights blinking.

I explained the situation to him, and he had a new tire installed inside a couple of minutes.

He peeked inside the car, and looked at the old man therein, his eyes shut and his mouth wide open.

Then he went over to the truck I’d been driving, and talked with the old woman.

He explained to me that they were headed west, clear over to the other side of the state, to meet relatives, after which they were heading southwest to Arizona for Christmas.  They’d left eastern Iowa early this morning, and had a reservation for a room in the big city, which was about halfway to where they were going, a destination they’d planned on reaching tomorrow.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, I’m not sure,” I confided to the neighbor.  “The old geezer in the car’s in another world, and she’s pretty lightweight and flighty, addled.  Normally, I’d suggest they stay with me for the night, but they’re old, old as the hills, and the cats back home are still not getting along.

“I’m not sure they can make it to the big city, though.”

The neighbor, an emergency medical technician, did a quick “risk assessment” in his head, and decided they would probably be okay, continuing on to the big city.

I stood my ground; I wanted a second medical opinion before letting them go.

The neighbor, using his cellular telephone, summoned the county sheriff, who’s not only an EMT, but like the business partner, a paramedic too.

After about forty-five minutes, the sheriff showed up (not that he was dilatory; this was after all not an urgent emergency), and upon having the situation described by the neighbor and myself, went and talked with the old woman still in the truck, all warmed up now.

Then he took a gander at the old guy in the sedan.

He telephoned the motel where the woman had said they had a reservation, finding it checked out, but given the hour, they were thinking about canceling it.  He told them not to cancel it, and that they were on their way, and he’d be greatly obliged if the motel called him if they weren’t there in an hour and a half.

And then he called the relatives of the ancient couple w-a-a-a-a-a-y over on the western fringe of the state, to advise them what was going on, and to assure them all was okay.

After which he let them go.  He said I was too cautious in my impression, but also that the neighbor was a little bit too unconcerned; something in between the two.  The old lady was tired, but given that the weather was clement, and given that the highway led straightaway to the motel on the fringe of the big city where they were to stay, they’d probably make it okay.

- - - - - - - - - -

Well, that’s that, the neighbor said as we both headed for my place, myself having given up on going to town.

Not quite, I reminded him; “I hope to God she gets a good rest, a very good rest, tonight.

“They still got 350 miles to go in the morning, and 300 of those miles are crossing the Sandhills of Nebraska, the most daunting, the most formidable, the most fearsome, miles of highway in all of North America, making going through the passes of the Rocky Mountains in winter, or skimming across the deserts of Nevada in summer, a piece of cake, as a easy as strawberries-and-cream.

“There’s a very good reason not many pass through here; they can’t handle it.”

[franksolich]

Early this morning, Tuesday morning, I was standing in line at a truck stop near the big city, waiting to purchase a package of cigarettes, when a guy standing in front of me turned to chat with me.

I brusquely commented I’m deaf, and while he might be a nice guy and all that, it’s very trying for me to understand people.  It’s nothing personal; I just can’t hear.

He suddenly went all primitive on me, telling me how sorry he was that this was the case, it must be very hard for me, I must be missing out on a lot in life, he wished there was something he could do to make it easier, blah-blah-blah.

This was a primitive, for sure.  Decent and civilized people, when apprised of the situation, usually just absorb the information and then adapt accordingly, without any of this “oh poor you” bullshit.

Suddenly I remembered something.  I’m still looking for a primitive for Christmas.

As the pickings seem pretty slim, it’s important to leave no stone unturned.

And so I suddenly warmed to him.

- - - - - - - - - -

I have no idea, no idea at all, how this primitive-for-Christmas thing is going to be carried out; it could be simply Christmas dinner with a primitive joining his or her family, Christmas dinner alone somewhere with a primitive, or even, God forbid, a primitive spending Christmas day and night here.

I just don’t know, and so while looking around, best to anticipate the worst possible case, a primitive spending Christmas here.

Which means a primitive of the female persuasion is out, absolutely out; I’m not in it for sex or anything.

I imagine one can spend Christmas with a woman primitive without sex getting into it, but one has to consider something here.  Primitive femmes tend to be notoriously delusional, making up things, and if franksolich were alone with one, I’d be headed into a whole world of trouble.

The problem lies in that in a “she said, he said” sort of situation, she’s the one who gets believed.  One can be St. Francis of Assisi, but if she says he was Attila the Hun, well, that’s the indelible scarlet letter one has to carry around with him.

Imagine, for example, if the oblate spheroid were to be with me all alone, an innocent tete-a-tete.  Since being bedded by franksolich would be a feather in her cap, the oblate spheroid would make up a lot of things so as to make herself look good and franksolich look a monster.

So best to deal with a female primitive only when others are around to observe.

Since I don’t know under what sort of circumstances I’ll have a primitive for Christmas, best to look around for a safe primitive, where sex isn’t part of the potential picture, either in reality or fantasy.

If nothing else, franksolich is very conscious of public impressions.

- - - - - - - - - -

The guy said he was from Colorado Springs, a truck driver, and up this area a great deal.

My eyes grew as big as saucers.  A gainfully-employed primitive?

And not only that, but employed in a profession demanding arduous physical labor?

I was also suspicious because he didn’t look like any truck driver; he was only a little more than slight in build, rather than being, uh, rather large.

And he was drinking bottled water.

Probably a primitive who was telling me a bouncy; I wasn’t falling for it.

- - - - - - - - - -

He kept asking me questions about myself, but I wasn’t interested in myself, and so kept directing queries back to him; what about him?

He said he was 35 years old, and guessed I was about the same.

Whoa.

Let that be a lesson to primitives; avoidance of drugs, alcohol, the too-sedentary life, the too-lazy life, of decadence and carnality and materialism and self-indulgence, must be the true Fountain of Youth.

- - - - - - - - - -

Then he mentioned he used to play soccer for the University of Maryland, and wondered if I’d played it too, as ostensibly I have the “build” for it.

Now, this was getting too deep.  I was being served a bouncy for sure.

It’s true that as late as when I lived in Lincoln and Omaha, various people into soccer commented about my legs and build, and speculated I’d make a great soccer player, or barring that, a kicker on a football team.

Flattery which I always brushed aside; soccer didn’t row my boat, rock my chair, push my buttons.

I dredged out of the deepest recesses of my memory all that I’d known about the University of Maryland soccer team, and surreptitiously posed some underhanded “trick” questions for him.

Much to my astonishment, he knew all about the University of Maryland soccer team.

I asked him how he’d gotten interested in soccer, and he told me it’d been while he’d lived in Europe a couple of years.  When apprised of the places he’d lived there, I posed some more trick questions, asking about things only someone who’d actually been at those places would know.

Much to my astonishment, he knew all about these very places.

I inquired how he’d ended up being a truck driver, what with his college education and all that.

He said he’d gotten a bachelor’s degree in government and political science, but as there’s no jobs for that degree, he needed to do something, and had wandered into truck driving by random chance.

He was satisfied with it, being a single person and all that, and met a lot of interesting people.

- - - - - - - - - -

This guy was no primitive, what with all his communicative skills, his robust health, his working for a living, his Pollyanna outlook on life, and his interest in people other than his own self.

The final “test” was when he mentioned he had a “little house” at the base of Pike’s Peak, after which I interrogated him about various aspects Colorado; its people and its history.

When I by chance mentioned personages such as Frederick Bonfils, Harry Tammen, and Paul Whiteman, he knew exactly who they’d been.

- - - - - - - - - -

There were a whole lot of things wrong here.

What he’d said about living in Europe, playing soccer, being a truck driver, having a home in Colorado, all rang true.  It was utterly credible.

It’s not in a primitive to be honest.  No way.

But on the other hand, this was this condescending manner about my deafness, and that he was drinking bottled water…..

So maybe he was just an anomalous primitive, a sui generis one.

I dunno.

He said he was going to be up here Christmas weekend, delivering some goods to Sioux Falls.

I really doubt he’s the primitive I want for Christmas, but just to be safe, in case nothing else comes up, I got his vital statistics and gave him mine, including the telephone number of the neighbor (I have my own telephone, but it’s useless excepting when I want to call someone).

But I’m still looking, and will finally start looking in earnest later this current week.

Surely there’s a primitive out there, a primitive for Christmas for franksolich.

[franksolich]

addendum to the above.

After thinking about it, I suspect the "primitive" is actually an Air Force brat.

Because I can't hear all, I get only fragments of clues, and while piecing a few fragments and chards together (unmentioned in the telling because it made no sense to me at the time), it looks reasonable his father was in the Air Force.

So alas this was no primitive.

When writing dialogue, I try my best to replicate the conversation as best as possible, but because of deafness, there's significant "white spots," blank spots, where something was said or indicated, but I picked up nothing of it.

Or in this case, not quite blank--a word here and there, but that's it.

I must say however this was a most remarkable individual.  Usually when meeting strangers for the first time, I pick up nothing, nada, zilch, because I haven't yet adjusted to their "language."

In this case, the guy was so expressive--and naturally so (i.e., not only for my own benefit)--I probably caught circa 20-25% of what he really said.  That might not seem like much, but it is.  Life's always easier when one has 200-250 pieces of a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle, instead of only a dozen or score pieces.

Even among people I know very well, catching 20-25% of what they're saying would be awesome.

[franksolich]

“Hey, boss, they’re taking bets on you at the VFW Club,” the property caretaker announced when he came over this morning to tune up the motor that runs the water pump here.

“And believe it or not, you’re only a 3-2 underdog.”

Yeah, yeah, I said, like anything’s going to happen.

“Well, it won’t happen this week, because it’s his turn to be on 24-hour call, and so when he’s not at work, he’s stuck at home in case someone calls.”

The cowboy works for a large cattle-feeding operation in the next county, and being “on call” means he’s the one delegated to handle problems that arise during odd hours.  And as anything can happen with cattle at 2:00 a.m. or on a weekend or holiday, it means being always at the ready, always sober.

“And he won’t be around Sunday either, when his turn’s over, because that’s the day of their big company Christmas party. 

“But I think any time starting Monday, it’s on.”

Yeah, yeah, I repeated; “I’ll deal with it when it comes up.  If it comes up at all.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The caretaker suddenly became less jocular, more solemn.

“You’re not taking this seriously,” he said; “you know, nearly everybody here likes you, and hardly anybody likes him, but the sentiment’s that he can bash you into a red spot in the dirt.

“You know how to hit, and you can hit pretty good, but he knows how to fight.

“He won’t come out here, but I suggest that every time you go to town, you have someone with you.

“Not that you can’t take care of yourself, boss; it’s just that things are easier on you when you got somebody doing your hearing for you.”

I pointed out that while it’s always good to prepare for the worst possible thing to happen, usually it doesn’t happen, and so I’d wait to deal with it when it comes up, if it comes up at all.

“Well, boss, I think you should take this more seriously than you are, but you should know that Swede’s taking on any and all bets against you.”

- - - - - - - - - -

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

“Swede?  He loathes and detests me, although I have no idea why.  I’m a nice guy.”

Swede is the husband of the woman who owns the bar.  He’s a truck driver, but when he’s back home off the road, he cooks at the bar.  Of Norwegian derivation, his specialty is Italianate cuisine, for which he’s very famous; even those of Italianate derivation from places such as Omaha, Minneapolis, Des Moines, and Kansas City, swear that no one cooks more italiano than Swede.

“Why is Swede backing me?”

“It’s not that he has any faith in your fisticuffs, boss; he just says that you’re the luckiest son-of-a-bitch he’s ever met in his life, and it’s stupid to bet against you.  He says something bad‘s always supposed to happen to you, but it never does.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Changing the subject, I said, “You know, it constantly mystifies me; I can’t figure out why he doesn’t like me.  He’s been out here a lot, hunting and dropping off beer kegs for parties, but while formally he’s polite, it’s easy to discern his scorn and contempt.”

“He thinks you’re making fun of his cooking, boss, because you’re always ordering the exact same thing, a piece of charcoal in a bun, and dried out spuds.  It’s like you don’t think he can cook any better than that.”

I was appalled.  “That isn’t the case at all.

“I order what I order because he’s a very busy man, and I want to take up as little of his time as possible.  It doesn’t take a whole lot of care to make up a well-done hamburger and ungreasy potatoes, and he doesn’t have to worry about me complaining.

“While he’s doing all his Italianate cuisinery, he has to fuss and bother and sweat and worry and fret to be sure it comes out exactly right, to be sure the customer’s happy.  It’s obvious, how nervous and concerned he gets, trying to make it just right.

“It’s a wonder he doesn’t have ulcers, worrying so much.

“And here I come along, and give him an order that’s as easy as strawberries-and-cream.”

“Well, boss, he thinks you think he’s a bad cook.”

“That’s nonsense,” I replied; “everybody knows he’s a good cook, an excellent cook.  They tell him--and others--that all the time.  He’s a good cook, a great cook, and I’ve always been one of the first to say so.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, boss, what you could do is one time, order one of his regular dishes.”

“Uh, I’m not fond of that idea,” I said; “I like what he makes me.  I’m perfectly happy with a well-done hamburger and nongreasy french fries.  It’s the food of the gods, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Just once, boss, order something of his specialty, to please him.  If you try just one thing, he’ll like you.”

I thought about it.

“Okay, my birthday’s less than three months away; for my birthday, I’ll go in and order something Italianate.

“Isn’t one of his most popular dishes that burrata caprece con pomodoro arrosto?”

“Delectable beyond belief, boss.”

“And then the salciccia e pepperoni con poleta?”

“Yeah, that too’s good.”

“Of course, one would have to start off with the insalata di spinachi, and some bombolotti amatriciana and gnocchi sorrentina con polpettine.  He makes all those, right?”

“Right.”

“And for the main course, pollo alle erbe.

“And for dessert, his famous tiramisu.”

“That’s quite a tab, boss; you’re talking some big bucks there.”

“But I won’t have wine with it,” I reminded him. 

Still, that’s a pretty big dinner-check, the caretaker pointed out; “More than what you spend on groceries in a whole month.”

No problem, I said; “Remember, on one’s birthday, the bar gives one dinner for free.”

[franksolich]

I'd crashed on the couch about 3:00 a.m., after coming home from a Christmas event, and tallying up the votes for Top DUmmies of 2012; I was really tired, too tired even to get undressed and go to the bedroom.

My rest was disturbed after only three hours, when the light in the kitchen went on, and I walked in there to see a duck-hunter making some coffee.

He's the social type, and as I'm a nice guy, I chitchatted with him.

He wanted to know how I'd found the event the preceding evening.  I admitted I'd gone to it only as a favor to the femme, who puts great stock in my opinions of her "historical re-enactments."

Of course I told her it was fine, and in specific ways, but generally I'm not fond of this sort of thing, renaissance events.  I know too much about history.

"For example, last night's dealt with Christmas in the court of Philip IV, king of France 1285-1314, but it incorporated elements--fashions, manners, things--that didn't exist until Charles VI of France in 1380-1422 or Edward IV in England 1461-1483.

"I know, I know, I'm a bitch about it, historical exactitude--I'm sure if I were into watching television and movies, I'd be a real rag about it--and that it doesn't make a whole lot of difference to the rest of the audience, but the inaccuracies irritate me.

"But because it was the femme, I told her it was fine, and pointed out the few instances where it was historically accurate, without reminding her they were few and far between."

- - - - - - - - - -

He inquired about my search for a primitive for Christmas.

I told him I'm going to begin the search in earnest today, and if nothing looks promising a week from now, I'll go to the big city and walk up-and-down the sidewalks, a painted piece of plywood in front of me and a second piece in back of me, strapped together over my shoulders, advertising "WANTED: A PRIMITIVE FOR CHRISTMAS.  APPLY HERE."

I told him I had a problem of equal magnitude going on right at the moment, the Looming Dilemma, where I'm to be offered an expensive Christmas present by someone I barely know.

"Oh, but that's just a pittance, a bagatelle, a small thing, to her," the duck-hunter said; "you were in her house, you saw how much, and what, she has.  It's nothing, to her."

I begged to differ, but whatever.

- - - - - - - - - -

He also brought up the Situation I Put Myself Into.

"You know, Swede's going to go broke, taking on all the bets against you."

I inquired what he thought of the matter.

"I put down five bucks on the cowboy, but don't take it wrong.

"It's only five bucks, after all."

[franksolich]

The neighbor’s wife was here in late morning, curious if I’d be willing to go to the big city later today, so she has some company Christmas shopping.  Unlike the last time she asked, I said yes, as I have somewhat more energy for such a distasteful, arduous task than I did that time.

So we’ll see what happens.

She mentioned she’d enjoyed the renaissance Christmas pageant directed by the femme last night; I reminded her to compliment the femme on it, not me.  I didn’t have anything to do with it.

“I still can’t believe they used Tudor wimples in a depiction of a 13th-century royal Christmas.  And in France, not England.  Wimples came into use in different centuries in these countries.”

She insisted it was very good, hinting that I tend to get too nitpickery in my analysis of historical re-enactments.

“The problem with these things is that they give an utterly false perception of what life was like back then.  Everybody’s healthy and robust and vigorous.  There’s no stench, there’s no bodily deformities or infirmities, there’s no oozing sores, there‘s no piss and vomit and shit on the floor.

“To see life in the Middle Ages as it actually was, I’d suggest one go to the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants.  It’s not a perfect replication--there’s too much modernity in it--but it at least gives one a vague idea.”

- - - - - - - - - -

She was concerned about my relations with the femme.  “I wish you two would kiss and make up.”

I reminded her that after the event--she was already gone--the femme had covered me with kisses after I told her my estimation of the show, and so she’s warming again.

“But this is too important; I can’t budge an inch.

“She’s got to develop fortitude, for anything to work for the two of us.

“I know women have this thing happen to them twelve times a year, and that it’s miserable, but damn, things just as bad happen to men too, and we men don’t whine and carry on about it.

“I can immediately sense when she’s got that problem, and just as immediately take steps to ameliorate the way she feels, until it’s all over.  Despite all appearances, I can be kind and tender and caring.

“The problem here is she wants me to actually say, ’Yeah, you’ve got a problem, and you’re miserable.’

“I ain’t saying nothing.

“Words are just words.  Actions--behavior and conduct--speak so loudly even I can hear them.

“Why women put more stock into words than into action, drives me up the wall.”

- - - - - - - - - -

She asked me about the Looming Dilemma; I told her no, I haven’t figured out yet how I’m going to deal with it.

“You know my policy on presents; I don’t accept them.”

She pointed out that I’m, ahem, rather generous with giving presents myself.

“That’s different,” I said; “other people need to be given presents so as to be assured one’s a nice guy, and I rather like having people think I’m a nice guy.

“But I on the other hand don’t need presents to know somebody’s a nice guy.

“For example, [the property caretaker]’s coming by here in late afternoon, to drop off a pallet of forty 20-pound bags of cat-litter, a Christmas present to me from him and his wife, you and your husband, and three other people in town.

“I assure you it’s very very much appreciated, and I kiss your feet for it, but really, you don’t have to do this, to make me like you.  In your case, madam, you know I’d love you just as much as I do, even if you gave me no present at all.

“Nobody has to buy franksolich.  franksolich is unbuyable, incorruptible, a man with no price.

“Even the oblate spheroid doing a belly dance isn’t enough to entice me.

“If it makes me a sanctimonious prig, so be it.  I can’t help being myself.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Did you find out how much it’s worth?” the neighbor’s wife asked.

No, I hadn’t, I said.  I’m no expert on internet “searches,” but I did try, not finding anything that comes remotely close.

“The music-box was manufactured by Samuel Troll, circa 1866, and’s utterly aesthetic in its plainness, its austerity, its lack of ornamentation.  A nice walnut wood case.  No fancy stuff on it; just that wonderful minuet by Exaudet.

“I imagine it’s probably maybe worth $150-200, which is way too expensive for me to accept.

“Although if the “vinca” primitive, the vindictive primitive, the notorious re-seller, got her hands on it, she’d probably try to pawn it off as something made by Leonardo da Vinci and demand $400 for it.”

- - - - - - - - - -

She had to run home to get something, and now we're off to the big city. 

Fun, fun, fun.....

[franksolich]

The neighbor’s wife and I got done with the ordeal in the big city circa 5:00, just in time for her to fix supper at home, and for me to meet the property caretaker here.

It was pretty much a futile trip for me.  While she shopped, I carefully scrutinized faces in the crowds, looking for someone who might be a primitive, or at least someone who might have a primitive for a relative who’s coming here for Christmas.

The problem is, even though it’s the big city (population circa 22,000, the fourth-largest city in Nebraska), primitives are a rare commodity in these parts.  I saw plenty of decent and civilized people, but no primitives, or decent and civilized people who looked worried over the prospect of having a primitive relative for Christmas.

The plan had been, upon seeing one, to approach the individual and strike up a casual conversation.

It might seem rashly audacious to those living in other places, especially in blue areas where people are hostile to each other, but actually it’s pretty much the “norm” for Nebraska.  We’re very receptive to each other, and to strangers.

But nothing happened; it was a dry run, only decent and civilized people around.

- - - - - - - - - -

The property caretaker, as promised, delivered a pallet of bags of cat-litter, slipping them into the garage; it’s my Christmas present (one of them) from him and his wife, the neighbor and his wife, and some other people, and has been given me every year.

The gift isn’t so much the cat-litter itself; the gift is that in deep mid-winter, if it’s -10 degrees outside, with 42 inches of snow on the ground and a 55 mph breeze wafting through, I won’t have to brave the elements to go get cat-litter if I run out.

That’s the gift, and it’s a great gift.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, boss,” the caretaker said when he was done, “Swede’s going to go broke if you don’t come through for him.

“He’s already covered $310 in bets against you, and says if he loses it, he’s never going to give you anything but bright red raw hamburger and greasy raw potatoes the rest of your life.”

[franksolich]

About 7:00 this morning, after I’d gotten done dumping the used cat-litter where there’s a large garden on the side of the house, and was up on the back porch, I looked towards the river, seeing a lone figure walking alongside it.

It’s quite a distance away, but I “hallo’d” him and he waved back.

It’s been raining here pretty good for some hours, with temperatures in the lower 40s.

About twenty minutes later, the guy came up to the house.  He’d been hunting, and I recognized him, as I’ve done his income taxes for years.  He’s a steelworker in the big city, 33 years old, married, three small children.

Because of the damp and since hunting wasn’t so great, he accepted the invitation for a jug of coffee and whatever was there for breakfast that he wanted.  He updated me on the family and work, and then mentioned that many in town were waiting with stopped breath, to see what was going to happen between the drunken cowboy and myself.

I said yeah, I’d been in town last night getting my usual supper, and found out the odds were still holding steady at 3-2 against me.  “But actually, I think it’s pretty silly; I don’t think anything’s going to happen.

“I’m not getting worked up about it, because I’m pretty sure nothing’s going to happen.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Changing the subject, I mentioned my concern that the odds are against me, making it seem as if my own fellow townsmen (the cowboy is from Iowa) had no faith in me.

“Of course, it’s irrelevant because nothing’s going to happen, but still--”

“It’s being realistic,” he said; “everybody wants you to win, but it just doesn’t seem likely.

“And the odds would be even greater if Swede weren’t betting for you; in fact, he’s about the only one betting on you, and from what I‘ve heard, he‘s bet a chunk.”

Yeah, I knew that, I said; it’d been disheartening to learn that even the property caretaker had put down ten bucks against me.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Tell me,” I said; “as you know, I live far out of town, and for obvious reasons--even if I did live in town--I’m never aware of what people say about me.  Even if it’s said in front of my back, I don’t grasp it.

“What do people in town really think of me, franksolich?

He assured me that they think very highly of me, and that it appears unanimous; that I’m a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet.  “The sort of guy who’d give the shirt off his back to somebody in need, even if you didn’t have a second shirt handy.”

He took more eggs and hash-browns from the cast-iron skillet on top of the stove.

“When you first came here, no one knew what to make of you, especially since you showed up out of nowhere.  One day boom! surprise! you were just here.”

I’d moved up into this area in August 2001, from Omaha, living in town the first four years, and then moving out here.  I hadn’t come up here totally cold, though, as I’d known the neighbor when he was a student at the University of Nebraska and myself the manager of a privately-owned student union on campus; from about ten years before that.  In the interregnum, I had gone to the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants, and he’d returned to farming and ranching.

I was tired of people; I wanted to get away.  He’d suggested that I come up here, to the roof of Nebraska, the eastern slope of the Sandhills.  It’s not quite the Sandhills, where I had spent much of my earlier life, what with too much black dirt, but it’s close, and so I did.

“At first, you were around, but then and again, you weren’t.”

Because I was new to the area with no reputation (good or bad), I was always working, some days as much as eighteen hours, so as to establish a reputation.  That took about three years, after which life became easier and I could afford to be sociable.

“In fact, it wasn’t until after you’d moved out here, that people in town got to know you.

“Nobody was even aware you’re deaf, excepting the last few years.

“And right now, people think it was a great idea--they didn’t at first--that you came out here, to the abandoned side of the county, to this place, bringing life and activity.

“Nobody, but nobody, ever used to come out here, for twenty years after the old woman died.”

This place had first been settled the spring of 1875, and was continuously inhabited until the summer of 1986, after which it lay desolate and neglected until I moved here nineteen years later.  The last tenant of these premises had been a daughter of the original settlers, and who died in town the autumn of 1986, aged 102 years.

The old woman, as I reminded my guest, had actually been a most singular, heroic, person; the sort of girl, wife, mother, who made the Sandhills.  She’d suffered much tragedy and loss, but she’d endured.  Her last fifteen years she was blind, but with ears still as sharp as tacks, she could still wield a shotgun with as much skill as a sighted marksman.  And even though she couldn’t see the vegetables and flowers, she on her own maintained three large gardens.

- - - - - - - - - -

“But still, most worry for you, being all alone with no protection.  You don’t even lock your doors.  Cats are fine, but they’re not dogs.  And you don‘t know how to use a gun.”

Of course I don’t lock the doors; in fact, I’d lost the key sometime when George Bush was still president, and never got around to replacing it.  Since I’m the only person way out here in the middle of nowhere, it’s important that I be accessible to anyone in need.

And there’s no worry about things getting stolen; what’s here wouldn’t bring a hundred bucks in a garage sale, as all those things valuable to me are kept in a locked storage place in town, in a bank safe-deposit box, and in the safe of an automobile dealership. 

Besides the cats, the only thing “valuable” out here is me, and I don’t think anybody’s going to try to steal me, I assured him.

[franksolich]

“MERRY CHRISTMAS!  MERRY CHRISTMAS!  It came early for you this year!”

I of course didn’t hear the shouting, but the cold wind hitting my back told me the front door had been opened, and people were here.

It was about 11:30 p.m., and it was a good thing I was wearing brown pants, not having gotten undressed and gone to bed yet.

The computer sits on a large table in an alcove separating the dining room from the living room, and one’s compelled to sit with his back against the front door coming into the dining room.  And…..since I’m deaf, that means I’m not aware someone has come in until, well, sort of late.

It was seven people from town, six of whom I knew and one I didn‘t, quite obviously in a state of hilarity after several hours of sucking down the juice.
 
It appeared to be what I thought it was; the party wasn’t out here to wish me well, but rather that the bar was closed, and they weren’t done for the night yet.  It’s happened before, and this is just as good a place to party on as any other.

Concerned that they all were so drunk, and the icy conditions on the roads this night, after recovering my composure I got up to turn on the coffee, as they all looked as if they were going to stay a while, too.

- - - - - - - - - -

Instead of making themselves comfortable in the dining room and the living room, they all came into the kitchen, crowding around me.

“MERRY CHRISTMAS!  MERRY CHRISTMAS!  YOU GOT YOUR PRESENT TONIGHT!”

I wondered what that was all about, and looked at the one I knew best, quizzically.

“You won,” he said.  “You won.”

“You won big,” someone else chimed in, “and Swede too; he’s so happy--gloriously happy, happy as a pig in strawberries.”

My eyes crossed in vexation.  I had no idea what this was about.

There was much more yimmer-yammering, and gibbering-gabber, but finally I got one of them to sit down at the kitchen table and illuminate me.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, Swede’s having some problems collecting on his bets, because there’s some who insist he didn’t win a damned thing.  But not to worry; Swede’s nobody to mess around with, and everybody’ll pay up.”

My eyes went opposite directions in vexation.

I pleaded with him to start at the beginning; eventually it must make sense.

“The cattlemen had their big Christmas party tonight, at the country club [the one in the next county, not the one here].  The ‘social hour’ started at four, and they always have a good bar, unlimited drinks.

“Swede got there about six, having to deliver his famous sfogliatelle as a treat to go with their steaks and potatoes, and he said people were getting pretty well tanked up even then.

“About 10:00, when Swede was getting ready to shut the bar down for the night, someone called him, telling him the whole story; what’d happened after he left.  He heard it through, and then started going around collecting on his bets.

“There were some who protested, ‘but franksolich didn’t beat him up,’ and then he pointed out the small print of the bet.  The bet wasn’t that you’d beat up the cowboy; the bet was that you’d come out the winner.

“A nice little distinction there, that nobody seemed to see at the time.

“A few are still complaining, but they’re paying up.”

Well, maybe it wouldn’t eventually make sense.

“So…..it’s nice to know the beginning and the ending of the story.  How about the middle of it now?”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, it’s pretty short.  The cowboy was drunk even before the dinner, and about nine o’clock, he got into a fight, a fight with a nephew of his [i.e., the cowboy’s] boss.  The cowboy didn't like the sound of the other guy's voice, saying it drove him nuts--but there was some furniture busted and dishes broken and decorations torn down, and somehow even some ceiling-tiles got pulverized and light-fixtures yanked out.

“And yeah, a few other people hurt, but only minor damage.

“The cowboy didn’t know the guy he was fighting was related to his boss.

“But no matter; the other guy must’ve learned pugilism somewhere, and learned it pretty good.

“The cowboy had to be taken to the emergency room of the hospital, somewhat blood-stained.

“And now he’ll soon on his way back home, back to Iowa, after he gets out of jail, as his boss finally fired him.”

“He should’ve been fired a long time ago,” someone else said.

“Months ago,” a third person said.

“Well, anyway, it’s over now, and you came out on top,” the main guest said..

“And Swede’s bragging of his backing you, gloating that you’re the luckiest son-of-a-bitch he’s ever met in his life, and that it’s stupid to bet against you.

“He says you got baraka, and he’s not talking about the idiot in the White House.”

[franksolich]

The femme and I went and had lunch in the big city early this afternoon; as we wished the conversation to be intimate, we went to one of those smaller restaurants, where she had boeuf bourguignon and I had my usual hamburger et les pommes frites jaillissent fait.

The chef on duty at the time, busy with her specialty nourriture française extraordinaire, is named Olga Yaroslavnova, and she’s a very nice woman.

The part of the chitchattery that wasn’t intimate dealt with the femme’s regret that she never learned a usable practical skill, such as typing or shorthand or surveying, instead being all caught up in this “fine arts” stuff.

As long ago as November 2008, she’d seen the handwriting on the wall (but was hoping that after four years, the nightmare would be over); the “fine arts” are dependent upon wealthy individuals and foundations, and with all the new tax laws slowly coming into effect, that money’s going to dry up.

“Laundry.  I can do laundry.  I suppose I can take in laundry.”

I assured her that while it’s going to be bad, we’ll get through it, being smarter, more flexible, more adaptable, than Democrats, liberals, and primitives.

[franksolich]

The business partner drove in from the heart of the Sandhills of Nebraska, to drop off work enough to keep me busy for a while.  We discussed plans for the holidays.

I dunno how or why it evolved over the years, but anyway, the business partner and franksolich have spent just about every holiday evening--the evening of Thanksgiving Day, the evening of Christmas Day, the evening of New Year’s Day, the evening of Easter Day, the evening of Memorial Day, the evening of the 4th of July, the evening of Labor Day, the evening of Armistice Day--doing something, more than half the time going over to the neighbor’s house where the neighbor’s wife kindly fixes up the holiday feast leftovers for us…..even if I myself had been there earlier in the day and chowed down on it.

So he’ll be back here--it’s a long drive--the evening of Christmas Day.

He inquired how the search for a primitive for Christmas was coming along.

I had to admit it’s thus far been a dismal flop.  Primitives around here this year seem extinct.

But I haven’t given up hope.  Random chance or luck or happenstance might bring franksolich a primitive for Christmas.

“It’s like a butterfly-collector pursing a rare specimen, or a bird-watcher looking for an elusive avian.

“I’ll find one; remember, I usually find things people say aren’t there.

“It reminds me of when I was in college, and collecting the half-dollar-sized English copper pennies, 1861-1967.  Within a couple of years, I had a complete collection--minus the 'one of a kind' issues, of course--excepting for 1950 and 1951.

“Tens of millions of these pennies were made each year, but because there was no demand for them at the time, the Royal Mint turned out only 240,000 in 1950 and 120,000 in 1951.

“Even that was too much for the demand, and so bags of these pennies were used as door-stops in, of all places, banks in Bermuda.  Most of them were eventually sent back, and melted down.

“Every coin dealer I contacted insisted they didn’t exist any more.

“But these issues were still listed in the books, and so there had to be some, somewhere.

“About a year before I graduated from college, when looking around for something else, I found not one of those years, but both of those years, and the guy wanted only $40 for both.  I was floored; why was the price so low?

“’Nobody collects English pennies,’ he said; ’they’re dead inventory, and I’m happy to get rid of them.’”

[franksolich]

I met the property caretaker on the sidewalk in town today, and right out there in public, he began mimicking a worshipful Arab, walking away from me backwards, bowing at the waist, and rotating his right hand in the air.

“Bah-rah-ka, bah-rah-ka, bah-rah-ka.  You got it, boss.”

I indignantly told him to cut it out.

He asked if I’d been to the bar yet.

I told him yes, and that I’d immediately walked out, and decided to get something at the grocery store.

Someone had already posted tonight’s menu--it’s an Italianate night apparently, with Swede cooking, although Swede wasn’t around the minute I was in there--advertising manzo tritato bruciato e patate essicate nel modo di francesco soliche, and for four bucks instead of the usual five.

“But he’s complimenting you,” I was told; “you won him $420 this weekend.”

[GOBUCKS]

manzo tritato bruciato e patate essicate nel modo di francesco soliche

A burned hamburger and dried-out potatoes, the way franksolich likes it.

I don't think four bucks is a bargain.

[franksolich]

A burned hamburger and dried-out potatoes, the way franksolich likes it.

I don't think four bucks is a bargain.

I asked about it one time, because I have a problem with their hamburgers.

They use seven ounces of ground beef per hamburger.

And then turn around and use regular-sized hamburger buns.

I prefer that they use a little less beef, and a little more bun.

[GOBUCKS]

I asked about it one time, because I have a problem with their hamburgers.

They use seven ounces of ground beef per hamburger.

And then turn around and use regular-sized hamburger buns.

I prefer that they use a little less beef, and a little more bun.

After they press it down, hard, until every trace of fat and taste has been expelled, that seven ounces will be more like three.