The kids got here about 11:00 a.m., all agog and excited about roughing it.
From now until Wednesday morning, they’ll be here.
There’s a 12-year-old, male; two 11-year-olds, female twins; one 11-year-old, male, one 8-year-old, male, and one 8-year-old, female. Since I’m responsible for them, I keep a mental “clipboard†and “pencil†in my head, for roll-call.
They set up the four tents in the front yard, underneath a big old tree sheltering one of the antique picnic-tables kept in the yard. They can’t have a campfire down there, but there’s an army-sized barbeque grill nearby.
(Later on, when I had a premonition, the 12-year-old and I moved the grill up on the front porch.)
I re-explained the rules to them, stressing that they weren’t supposed to look at the carnies and freaks camping down on the river, which effectively makes the west side of the property off-limits to them, unless if they‘re with an adult.
The front yard faces east, with the
Jungfrau-looking William Rivers Pitt, and then a vast pasture that stretches clear to town seven miles beyond.
One side-yard faces north, undulating with planted stuff all the way to the highway two miles up.
The other side yard faces south; a pasture, then woods, and because the river curves, ultimately the river.
The pasture there is the end of this property, and the woods that then began is property owned by certain Italianate interests in New Jersey. However, as Meyer and Alberto haven’t been here since they first bought it in 1948--I’m sure it’s used as just some sort of tax write-off; it certainly isn’t used for anything else--it’s generally conceded to be the responsibility of franksolich, and so if the kids want to go that way, no problem.
There’s plenty of room for these kids; no need for them to “explore†the west side.
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About noon, the kids started getting dressed to play lawn croquet; as I’d figured, they had no objections to wearing Connecticutian attire, thinking them as some sort of “costumes†for play. I was already suitably attired, and ready to go.
This was when the insurance man from town drove in, bringing with him the retired banker’s wife, both of them appropriately attired, and he driving his restored white-and-blue 1926 Ford with an open top. Usually such vehicles bear “antique†plates that allow them on public roadways on only special occasions, the reason being if their use isn’t limited, the insurance skyrockets.
But this guy’s an insurance salesman, and has connections to get cheap insurance, so he uses just regular motor-vehicle license-plates, which allows him to drive it anywhere, any time he wishes.
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Parking the vehicle in the empty garage, he joined us in picking up all the gear we needed, and we all walked down towards the grove of walnut trees. All other times when croquet’s been played out here, we’ve played in the north yard, but the walnut trees are closer to where the carnies and freaks are camping, and I wanted the kids to at least get a view of them…..under adult supervision.
When we got there, we set up the corner flags, the stake, and the wickets.
Glancing over towards the camp-site on the river, I was disappointed to see that nothing was happening; Ebony and Ivory apparently were slumbering in their Volkswagen-sized wheelchairs, and the three-legged woman was idly watching television, hooked up to the cigarette-lighter of the Toyota pick-up truck; nothing worth pointing out to the kids.
As I was teaching them how to make a triple peel at the penultimate, rain started pouring down, and heavily so.
We picked up what we could and started heading back to the house, three football-field-lengths away, but suddenly a late-model sports utility vehicle pulled up, having driven across the meadow, and the six kids and the retired banker’s wife bundled into it. It was my guest, from southwestern Nebraska.
She drove them to the house, while the insurance man from town and I walked in the rain. We got to the back porch, considerably drenched. She was standing at the top of the steps, wearing a white cotton dress and a big floppy hat, and waving a parasol at us, laughing.
“This is right out of
The Great Gatsby,†she said. “The car in the garage is a riot.â€
“Well, we had to do it right,†I reminded her. “We’d been sloppy about following the rules lately, and had to get back to doing it the right way, so that chicken-keeping Connecticutians don’t think we’re uncouth.â€
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After drying off, I checked up on the kids, who had the barbeque grill on the front porch going; they were later going to roast marshmallows and hot dogs, which was fine with me.
The other three adults were on the back porch, at the table. Since the afternoon was shot anyway, they’d explored the premises for something to drink. The insurance man from town was okay with any of the beer found in the four refrigerators in the garage, but the two women were hoping to find something else, and did; eleven bottles of
liebfraumilch, kept in one of the upper cupboards for what reason only God now remembers.
While they sipped--the insurance man from town switching to the wine--we all casually chitchatted, watching the rain pour down, hoping something exciting would happen where the carnies and freaks were similarly avoiding the precipitation (but nothing did).
I reminded my guest that she has to be here early in the morning, as I’m going to see a cardiologist in the big city, and someone needs to be around in case the kids need something.
She said she would, and then asked if I had any plans for the afternoon.
I looked at her, appalled. “There’ll be kids and freaks around.â€
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The eager young lad, the 8-year-old son of the neighbor and the neighbor’s wife, came out to complain.
“They aren’t doing it right, the older ones,†he said.
Apparently the older four were playing bridge on the floor of the front porch as the younger two watched.
“Well, but they’re the ones playing the game,†I reminded him; “and if all four of them agree on what the rules are, it’s all right.â€
But I went out to the front porch and sat on the swinging bench, watching for a while, and when my opinion was solicited, gave it.
The eager young lad asked me how much money I thought they’d make, when the hippies come.
Trying to remember how it went two years ago, when hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer and her crowd were here, I guessed, “oh, maybe about three hundred bucks.
“Split six ways, that’d be fifty bucks apiece; remember, [the grandson of the retired banker’s wife] gets to take all that he rakes in from the popcorn sales, while the rest of you split the admission proceeds.â€
“Oh, but we’re going to make more than three hundred bucks. Lots more.â€
I grimly smiled; ah, the optimism of youth.
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About an hour later, I wandered from the front porch back to the back porch.
The three out there were indulging in local gossip and chitchat; about who’s hopping around in the sack with who, about who’s having to get married, about who’s having money problems, about who’s cheating on his wife, about who’s in trouble with his boss, about whether or not the new teacher at the high school has singular sexual proclivities, about who’s going into the hospital for getting treated for a disease respectable people don’t get, those sorts of things.
I noticed they were getting sauced.
Like, really sloshed.
to be continued