the dog days of summer

[franksolich]

Just before leaving, the caretaker told me he’d gotten one more call, about using the river here for camping over the Labor Day weekend.

“An older woman with a droning monotone of a voice, from Milwaukee…..or something.

“Name’s Judy.

“She says she’s an avid flea-marketer, and wants to be in this area about that time, to replenish her inventory.  She’s bringing quite a few people along with her--her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren, her great-great-grandchildren.

“A big group; looks like she was pretty fertile.”

Yeah, I said; “and at such a very young age; that’s one generation about every twelve years.

“But no, she won’t do, because this doesn’t sound like old hippies--I mean, she probably is, but she probably dresses and looks normal, not like an old hippie at all.  I need to find a group that looks like old hippies, not just with the mindset of old hippies.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

The neighbor came by just as the sun was setting, and we sat out on the back porch, hoping to see some action among the carnies and freaks sitting on the river bank.  There hadn’t been any new ones showing up, and all these were just sitting near a fire, drinking and making out.

So we just talked about things in general until it got dark, and he got up to leave.

Suddenly he saw a vehicle approaching the camp-site, a reasonably-late-model sports utility vehicle.

He dashed over to the telescope, and looked.  The first to emerge was some guy who had to be at least seven feet tall in his stocking feet.

While the neighbor was still looking, he suddenly gasped, “Oh…..my…..God.

“I wonder what that is.”

I got up to look.

“Well, whatever it is, it’s the shape of an oblate spheroid.”

to be continued

[Bad Dog]

Thanks Frank, anticipation will keep me up all night now.

[BlueStateSaint]

That muley in the foreground is nice.  (Black tip of tail.)

[franksolich]

That muley in the foreground is nice.  (Black tip of tail.)

Actually, the picture's like about four years old, but it was taken on the south side here--and not by me.

I don't want anybody to get the idea franksolich runs around with a camera; I'm one of these people who maybe once or twice a year buys one of those $5 disposable cameras at the convenience store.

[franksolich]

The neighbor came by this morning before heading to church, to drop off things the kids’ll need while they’re “camping” here tonight, and the next two nights.

“You know,” I said, “those kids have nice clean air-conditioned bedrooms at home; I have no idea why they want to rough it here.”

Then lest the neighbor think I was less than enthusiastic about having them here, I quickly added, “of course, they want ‘adventure,’ and this is the first time any of them are going to ‘adventure’ without family or adult supervision, so I guess for them it’s a big deal.

“But they’ll learn; a nice clean air-conditioned bedroom trumps a hot, insect-ridden tent any time.

“The last time I went camping--other than, of course, those two years roughing it in the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants--was the summer I was seventeen, and it was my father, my younger brother, and myself.

“When looking at my father, I thought, ‘come on now--you’re an old man, all tired and worn out, and you really deserve a nice comfortable motel room instead of all of this nature stuff.’  Of course, I only thought that, I didn’t dare say it.

“After it was over, my father and younger brother alleged they’d had a ball, a great time, riding horseback through the buttes--this was west of the Sandhills--boating on the lake, hiking through the brush, cooking outdoors.

“But I always wondered; my father died the following spring, and I’ve always suspected he would’ve lasted at least a little bit longer if he hadn’t subjected himself to the hardships and rigors of roughing it the preceding summer.  After all, this stuff does wear-and-tear on one.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

The neighbor agreed; he like me endures the vicissitudes of outdoor life every single day--if not more so--and finds it less than exciting.

“But kids’ll be kids.  By the way, when they’re done with all this stuff Wednesday morning, could we just stash it here on the front porch for them to use Labor Day weekend?”

Sure, I said, but I didn’t think they’d be camping but one night here that weekend.

“What do you suppose is going to happen?”

“Well,” I replied, “if--if--if--if--I can find some show-worthy old hippies to camp here, all lively and colorful in their decrepitude, it’ll probably go like it did two years ago, when hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer and her in-laws were up here.

“Once they’re settled in, the kids’ll set up their stands, selling admission to see the hippies, and it’ll be a big, a really big, draw; there’ll be hundreds of people passing over this property to gawk at, laugh at, and take pictures of, the hippies.

“The sheriff’ll hear about it early on, and the sheriff doesn’t care much for tumult and congestion.

“However, since these are kids, he’ll let them carry on until their shoe-boxes are full of money, and then come here to courteously inquire of the old hippies if they’re being bothered, which of course they’ll say they are, and then he’ll instruct me to shut down the show.

“But he won’t do it until after the kids have made some bucks first.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

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.

- - - - - - - - - -

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.

- - - - - - - - - -

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.  â€œThe car in the garage is a riot.”

“Well, we had to do it right,” I reminded her.  â€œWe’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.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

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.  â€œThere’ll be kids and freaks around.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

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.”

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.”

“Oh, but we’re going to make more than three hundred bucks.  Lots more.”

I grimly smiled; ah, the optimism of youth.

- - - - - - - - - - -

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

[franksolich]

The neighbor’s wife stopped by in the evening, to see how her oldest three were doing; the younger two were at home with the neighbor.

It’d been a trial, dealing with three people who’d gotten so soggy they couldn’t even walk straight.

I could’ve driven them home, but ooops, I got six kids to worry about.

Finally, I’d telephoned the wife of the insurance man in town, and she came out here with a friend, to take them back.  Her friend drove my guest’s sports utility vehicle; the 1926 Ford sedan was left in the garage here, because the insurance man wants to give the kids a ride in it, maybe on Tuesday.

- - - - - - - - - - -

After the neighbor’s wife and I cleaned up the back porch, we sat around chatting, hoping to see some sort of action--any sort of action--going on down where the freaks and carnies are camping, but there wasn’t any, other than the arrival of yet another vehicle, with one person.

It was too dark to use the telescope, so I said I’d give it a look-see in the morning.

While we were sitting around, her 8-year-old son, the eager young lad, kept going back-and-forth from the front yard to the back porch, to inquire of me about one detail or another.  “Are you going to make us sleep inside tonight?”  “I don’t want to sleep in the same tent with my girl cousin” (there’s a 12-year-old, three 11-year-olds, and two 8-year-olds here; three belong to the neighbor’s older brother, and the other three, to the neighbor).  “The inside of the tents stink; can I sleep on the front porch?”  “Will you leave a light on so we can find the bathroom in the night?”  “They’re arguing out there.”  “If the tent falls, will I be able to get out?“  “Are you sure there’s no snakes around?”  “Can we keep the fire in the grill going, so we have a night light?”  And so on.

“He’s all excited because you’re giving him charge of the show when the hippies come over Labor Day,” the neighbor’s wife apologized.  “He’s been lording it over the older ones, that he’s the ‘boss.’”

Yeah, I noticed that, I said.  “But that’s okay; he’ll learn soon enough.”

“You know ever since infancy, he’s been very attached to you,” she commented.

Uh huh, I said; for example, he insists upon having his hair cut in the same manner as I wear mine so as to disguise the absence of ears, even though he himself has ears.

I speculated it’s because he feels as if the odd man out in the family; having dark brown hair, he’s the only one who’s not blond, or reddish-blond.  And not only with his family; in society in general around here, brunets and brunettes are distinctly a minority.

“However, I’m the worst possible person for a child to emulate, a wretched role-model; look at all the trouble I get into, and it‘s never easy to get out of it.  He really needs to find a competent adult to hero-worship.”

to be continued

[RobJohnson]

The pictures are great and your positive influence on the children is heart warming!

[franksolich]

When I got back from the big city, my guest and the six kids were trying their hand at croquet, but this time, where we usually play croquet, in the north yard, rather than down by the grove of walnut trees.

I watched for a bit, and finally interrupted.

“No, no, you’re doing it all wrong,” I complained; “you’re teaching them garden croquet, and we were trying to teach them association croquet.  They’re going to get confused.

“And besides, nobody’s dressed for the game.”

“Oh,” my guest countered, “their clothes from yesterday got all soaked through and muddied, and have to be washed.

“And what difference does it make, what kind of clothes we’re wearing?”

“Well, we don’t want Connecticutians to think we’re uncivilized, that we don’t know how to play croquet way out here in the Sandhills.”

“Who cares about what those people think?” she asked; “after all, they’re the ones who let chickens run around free in their front yards, like yokels and hillbillies and rustics.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

Shouldering her mallet, she walked with me to the back porch, where we sat down on the steps while I described the events of the morning at the cardiologist’s.

- - - - - - - - - - -

When we were done talking about that, and had moved on to other things, the eager young lad came up, and grasping me on the arm, informed me, “I saw a freak today.”

I glared at my guest.  I hadn’t wanted any of the kids to see something like that without adult supervision.

“Oh, it was okay,” she said; “he came up to the house, and it was a surprise.”

“It was the ‘striped man,’” the eager young lad continued.  “He was like a zebra, all white and blue.

“And he had a bald head.  He was striped all over.”

I heaved a sigh of relief.  At least it hadn’t been the one with the eggplant-shaped head, the ‘world’s biggest drug addict.’  “And don’t forget,” I reminded my guest; “that’s the one freak I absolutely want kept away from the kids, an absolute no-no.  Don’t ever let that one get within two hundred yards of them.

“The one with the pineapple-shaped head, the ‘world’s biggest dork,’ same thing, except he’s a little safer, and maybe can be trusted up to a hundred yards of them.”

“His stripes ran up and down,” the eager young lad continued, still clutching my arm.

“And there’s one I don’t want them to even see,” I continued; “the 84”-38”-41” Minnesota Mammaries; I’m sure they’re fake, but the kids wouldn’t know, and I don’t want them traumatized.”

“He had a bug-eye,” the eager young lad kept on.

My guest wondered why the main attraction hadn’t showed yet.

“She’s their main draw,” I said; “she does two fairs a week--it’s a summertime hobby of hers, as she’s really a Ph.D. in something, and uses her, uh, attributes, to excite donations for her university.

“So she’s really busy, and won’t show up here until the day the county fair starts.”

“He gave me a quarter,” the eager young lad persisted.

Yes, there’s some really sick women out there, my guest said.

“He wanted to buy a can of  beer,” the eager young lad added.

“I took him out to the garage and let him have a whole six-pack for another quarter.”

“Fortunately, that means the kids’ll already be gone by the time she shows up here.”

“The striped man wanted to know the ‘store hours’ for the beer.”

Absent-mindedly, I turned to the eager young lad, “Probably some sort of naturally-occurring venous disorder, his blood-veins too close to the surface of the skin.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

A lot happened today (Tuesday), but I'm ill and not up to writing.  Maybe tomorrow.

In the meantime, I got this, from someone:

Had a family reunion last week, up in Minnesota.

I waved as I flew overhead.

Relatives are all pretty well off, and quite Conservative.  Loved it.

I came really close to driving up there just to run through the hills.

Maybe another time.

Unlike you, I tend to drag a camera whenever I can.

Hit 500 shots, 400 are of birds..etc.   

Enjoyed the visit. Had a great time.

I'm sure the individual will recognize this, from the Elkhorn River a little up from me.

The bridge, a local landmark in his childhood town on the edge of the Sandhills, however, was washed away during the massive floods that occurred here the same year whatshisname was elected.  It's since been replaced by one almost exactly same.

And as for cameras, I was today advised by my hostess for my upcoming trip to my childhood home in the middle of the Sandhills late this next month that, yes, she and everybody else has plenty of cameras, and so the next journal should be profusely illustrated.

But that'll be in the Sandhills forum, not here, and for an exclusive audience which in no case includes lurking primitives stalking franksolich.

[Skul]

You need to remember, coach. He who has the camera, never gets photoraphed.
You don't have to take any, and everyone avoids you likethe plague.  

[franksolich]

You need to remember, coach. He who has the camera, never gets photoraphed.
You don't have to take any, and everyone avoids you likethe plague.  

I was thinking maybe it'd be a good idea to pick up one of those $5 disposable cameras at a convenience store on my way there, but apparently I won't have to.

<<<supposes can photograph just as well with a $5 disposable camera as nadin can with her "big rig."

[GOBUCKS]

I was thinking maybe it'd be a good idea to pick up one of those $5 disposable cameras at a convenience store on my way there, but apparently I won't have to.

<<<supposes can photograph just as well with a $5 disposable camera as nadin can with her "big rig."

Do they still make film?

[franksolich]

Do they still make film?

Of course, but quite obviously it's like typewriter ribbons, finding it any more.

[franksolich]

Well, damn, I did it again, misidentifying someone's childhood hometown.

This happens, I suppose, because I'm leery of giving out too much information leading to where I live, in case the lurking primitives figure it out.  Fat Che, the "BenBurch" primitive, had me located within a 100-mile radius of where I'm actually at back during the Scamdal of 2005, and I'd just as soon that's all the primitives know, lest they come stalking.

Anyway, the photograph of the river and bridge are not in my correspondent's childhood hometown; he grew up in another town about 60 miles west of there.  I forgot.  The deal is, there's so many towns around there one sometimes disremembers which one is which.

My correspondent surely will be heartened, though, to learn that what was a decrepit run-down falling-apart hotel in his childhood hometown when he was growing up there, sometime during the Bush administration when money was flush, it was purchased by a retired officer from the U.S. Marines, who lived in Florida.

And--gulp--an officer of one of the.....dark minorities.

He restored it to its original 1920s glory and splendor, and it also houses a five-star restaurant now.

<<<sometimes gets careless about details.

[franksolich]

I got very ill beginning Monday night, and even though I was around, I have no idea what all happened; not because I was out of it or anything, but simply because I didn’t care.

The kids got on well having my guest superintend them, and packed up and left Wednesday morning, so as to get ready for their exhibits for the county fair, which started that day.  She also taught them some more croquet, and it looks likely that out of the six, at least three of them will take to the game.  We’ll see.

They also got a ride in the insurance man’s open-top 1926 blue-and-white Ford the preceding evening, but I dunno where they went, only that they were gone a very long time.

This morning, the neighbor’s older brother came by, and I commented that the camp-site down by the river seemed “different,” and was wondering how and why.

“The county sheriff came in [to the county fair] Wednesday afternoon and arrested all the freaks even before their first show,” he told me.

He told my why, but I didn’t catch it.

“Right now, they’re all locked up in the county jail,” he added.  “It hasn’t been so full since 1931.

“In fact, it hasn’t even had anybody in it since 1977, during our last crime wave. 

“And that guy, Louie the Nose, is fit to be tied, because he says the freak show’s his biggest ‘profit center,’ and the sheriff won’t let them out until he posts bond for them.”

[franksolich]

“Boss, you’re always missing stuff,” the retired property caretaker announced, when he dropped by unexpectedly for an early-morning visit.

“Last night, the little Italianate hawk-nosed Louie was running around, wringing his hands, because the night’s take was less than half of what it usually is, given that the freak show didn’t show up.

“They’re all in jail, and since Swede has the contract for feeding county prisoners, and as he hasn’t had one to feed for thirty years, he’s making up for lost time.

“The county’s going to go broke, feeding the freaks, especially the two fat ladies and the fat one that’s trying to look like a cat, not to mention the one that looks like a bowling-ball with arms and legs.

“They’ve been ordering braciole, pizza quattro stagioni, bagna càuda, cannelloni ai carciofi, bruschetta, spaghetti al nero di seppia, coppia ferrarese, peperoni imbottiti, sugo al pomodoro, risotto allo zafferano con petto d'anatra, bozza pratese, verdure in pinzimonio,  penne all'arrabbiata,  tagliatelle alla boscaiola, risotto di seppie alla veneziana, acciughe fritte in pastella, &c., &c., &c., like there’s no tomorrow.

“The jailkeeper says it’s starting to smell pretty ripe and rank inside there, what with everybody jammed in it, and no sanitary facilities.  If they have to go, a deputy has to handcuff them and escort them over to the building in the public park.”

Yeah, I said, “and probably with the Minnesota Mammaries and her battleship-sized jugs, it’s probably even more crowded.”

“No, boss, she hasn’t shown yet.  Because she’s their biggest and best, she comes only on the last day, to draw in a repeat audience of people who’d already seen the other freaks.

“This way, your Italianate pal gets twice the gate, because it’s not advertised at first, that she doesn’t show up until later.”

Interesting, I said; “but why did they get arrested?”

Just then, the former caretaker’s cellular telephone rang.

“Gotta go, boss; breakfast is waiting.”

to be continued

[Skul]

Interesting, I said; “but why did they get arrested?”

Just then, the former caretaker’s cellular telephone rang.

Aaarrrghh       

[debk]

  we want



glad you are feeling better!

[franksolich]

“Yeah, the whole town’s talking about it, all the freaks being locked up,” the neighbor said when he was here late this afternoon.

“They’re jammed in there--the fat twins, the freak pretending to be a cat, and the bowling-ball with arms and legs, though, make it even more unbearable.  The building’s bursting at its gills.

“People are walking from downtown through the park and over to the jail, to look at them.

“And Louie the Nose is standing, his back to the bars, trying to cover it all up, yelling at everybody, ‘Hey, don’t look!  Don’t look!  Save your looking for the fair!  Not here!  Don’t look!’

“Every time one of them has to use the sanitary facilities in the park, it’s a struggle for the jailkeeper to yank them out, because one arm or one leg looks just like another arm or leg.”

“What were they arrested for?” I asked.

The neighbor ignored me however, continuing, “But this afternoon, the sheriff released the three-legged woman and the three-armed man, saying he couldn’t hold them.

“Louie the Nose went ballistic, because while these are freaks, they aren’t among his top draws, and he wanted those let out too.  ‘I’m gonna go broke if I don’t get the freak show going,’ he said, ‘and you’re giving me two of my crummiest freaks.  How the Hell am I gonna run a freak show with them?

“’The public’ll pay a quarter to see these two, but what’s a quarter?  They’ll pay five bucks to look at eggplant-head and pineapple-head.’

“The sheriff told him to calm down; he’d release the others as soon as big-nosed Louie comes up with the bail money.  But no bail money, no freaks.”

“What were they arrested for?” I asked.

“It all started Wednesday afternoon, when the freak pretending to be a cat and the bowling-ball with arms and legs got into a shouting match, about which one of them was the biggest bitch, and then fisticuffs, and then rolling in the dust and the mud, grappling with each other."

“But why did the sheriff arrest all of the freaks?” I asked.

Just then, the neighbor’s cellular telephone rang.

“Ooops, gotta go; the wife says supper’s ready.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Well, the freak show last night was a dud,” the neighbor said this morning when he was here.

“I threw in my fifty cents to see the show, but it was an act of charity, as one didn’t get anything from it.

“I’ll bet Louie’s sweating bullets, because usually he gets five-dollar admissions from standing-room-only crowds, and last night, he got fifty cents apiece from about a dozen people, tops.

“He staged a wedding between the three-legged woman and the three-armed man, but that was it.  Louie himself was dressed in a pastor’s frock-coat with a clerical collar, and did it.

“The music was provided by an old record-player, and a carnie gave away the bride.

“The rest of the carnival’s pretty much okay, the rides and games, lots of people doing that.”

I hadn’t been to the county fair yet, being too preoccupied with other matters.

“The only game that’s not pulling in bucks is the three-baseballs-for-a-dollar game, when one pitches a baseball against the back of the canvas, hoping to hit the face of someone whose head is sticking through a slit in the tent, and winning a big teddy bear.

“Usually it’s the freak with the eggplant-shaped head--’the world’s biggest drug addict’--or the freak with the pineapple-shaped head--’the world’s biggest dork’--but they’re in jail, and nobody wants to lob a baseball towards an ordinary run-of-the-mill carnie.

“Louie’s been begging and pleading to the sheriff, to let them go, but the sheriff says that of all the freaks in jail, those are the last he’ll set loose; that he’d let Charles Manson go before he’d let them go.”

We were standing out in the garage, near the back.

“Why did the freaks get arrested in the first place?” I asked.

The neighbor pulled open the door to his refrigerator.  There’s four refrigerators kept there, his, his older brother’s, the caretaker’s, and for the ranch-hands that work across the road.  Each keeps his own stocked with beer.  They do this so their wives back home don’t know how much they drink.

“What the fu….dge?!” the neighbor suddenly spurted.  “Who’s been in my icebox, taking my beer?”

I looked.  Yeah, about half his beer was missing.  And there was a lid from a jar, with a bunch of quarters in it.

to be continued

[franksolich]

The business partner and I had just changed drivers--myself now in the driver’s seat--when he said, “Oh, look--a train.”

As incredible as it might sound, while trains were ubiquitous, everywhere, in our childhoods, nowadays we’re lucky if we see a train maybe once every six months.  And never around where either of us lives; those rails were torn up a long time ago.

The business partner grew up on the roof of Nebraska, and the roof of the Sandhills, the northernmost part of the state, through which the old Chicago & Northwestern ran, from Chicago to Casper, Wyoming.  There’d been plans to construct a line clear to the western coast (during the 1880s and 1890s), but money ran out by the time they reached Casper, and so they stopped.

As such, this branch never became anything major, other than that from Theodore Roosevelt through Herbert Hoover, it was used regularly by the presidential train going to the summer White House in the Black Hills of South Dakota.  But after an effete elitist eastern establishment president, who thought there couldn’t possibly be anything worthwhile way out here, was elected in 1932, everybody forgot about that summer White House.

I’d grown up underneath the Sandhills, until I was 10 years old, alongside the fertile fruitful Platte River, through which ran U.S. Highway 30 and Interstate 80, the most important highways in America, and the Union Pacific, the most important rail-line in America.

So trains had been a rather larger piece of my life, than his; especially the nearly-mile-long Union Pacific passenger trains, strings of very long yellow cars with a red stripe near the top.

- - - - - - - - - - -

“But when we moved north, up into the heart of the Sandhills, there was just the little rinky-dinky Chicago, Burlington & Quincy line that ran from Grand Island up to Billings, Montana.  It’s different now, with all that coal up in Montana, and the line’s double- and triple-tracked, but this was before the energy crisis.

“Hardly anybody went between Grand Island and Billings.

“What I missed was seeing the passenger trains; there was only one of them, again, between Grand Island and Billings, and it passed through (both of them, going opposite directions) town during the middle of the night.

“Nobody I knew took the train, but surely there must’ve been those who did.

“Once, our first summer in town, the train was late for one reason or another, coming into town in the light of day, and sitting there for some hours.

“My best friend and I were out bicycling, and he called my house to tell my younger brother to come on down, and to bring a camera with him, because this was something big.

“We chitchatted with the passengers walking around, and the engineer and the conductor, but most interesting of all was the Pullman porter.  He struck me as a man very conscientious about his job, and had a good manner of speaking with curious kids.

“A nice guy, a gentleman, one of the nicest guys one could ever hope to meet.

“A few years after that, when Amtrak came long, I suspect he retired, dismayed at the collapse of railway passenger service into governmental decrepitude.  He didn’t strike me as a guy who cared for people who weren’t dedicated to their jobs, who didn’t try to do their best.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

The property caretaker was here this evening, and took inventory of his refrigerator out in the garage.

“THIRTEEN six-packs gone--who the Hell--”

I asked him to count the quarters left in the refrigerator.

“Six dollars and fifty cents.”

“Well,” I said, “at least the striped man freak was honest, leaving fifty cents per, not a penny less.”

The caretaker looked at me.  “You know something about this.”

Yeah, I said; “[the eager young lad]’d told the striped man that’s what he’d have to pay.

“But he’s [the neighbor’s] kid, and only a kid, so best to let it go.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Sensing an opportunity, since the caretaker didn’t have his cellular telephone on him, I commented, “I suppose the striped man’s in jail too.  I wonder why all the freaks were arrested.”

The caretaker described the fight between the freak trying to be a cat and the bowling-ball with arms and legs, and that when the sheriff had been called to break it up, he did a “name check” on them.

“He found out the one trying to be a cat had several outstanding warrants on her, in Maryland; cruelty to animals, creating a public nuisance, assault and battery, assault with a deadly weapon--apparently a boa constrictor she’d whacked against somebody--public indecency, whatnot.

“And then when he checked on the bowling-ball with arms and legs, he learned she too had warrants out on her, from California--several of them, for obstructing police officers and fire-fighters.

“He took those two in, but while he was gone, another fight broke out between the eggplant-headed freak an the pineapple-headed freak, about which was the baddest of the two, and he was called back in, to break up that fight.

“When he checked on eggplant-head--’the world’s biggest drug addict’--he found California also had warrants on him too, failure to pay child-support, wife battery, shop-lifting, purse-snatching, welfare fraud, and drug-dealing.

“And pineapple-head--’the world’s biggest dork’--well, Michigan has all these outstanding warrants on him, for all sorts of really stupid stunts he’s pulled.

“He took the second two in, but while he was gone, a third fight broke out, this one between the two fat twins, Ebony and Ivory, over a last slice of pizza.

“Upon checking them out after pulling them apart, he discovered one was from Wisconsin and the other from Louisiana, and they had warrants out on them for food-stamp fraud.

“Being six-for-six, he ordered his deputies to arrest anyone on the fairgrounds who looked like a freak, and haul them in, so he could check them out.  Anybody and everybody who looked like a freak was brought in, including, alas, a couple of our own, but they were cleared right away, and let go.

“Thus far, it appears only the three-legged woman and the three-armed man are the only freaks without any record, which is why he let them go.

“So he’s holding all the others until Louie the carnival-man posts bail for them.

“But all the freaks aren’t here yet; for example, the surfer-boy freak from Connecticut or the 84”-38“-41” Minnesota Mammaries; they’re showing themselves off somewhere else tonight, but they should be here for the big closing tomorrow night, Saturday night.

“The sheriff’s waiting for them, to get their identities, and check them out.

“Louie’s sweating bullets, about what he‘s going to find out, because Saturday night‘s freak show‘s going to make him or break him.”

Yeah, I said, I’m planning on going to the county fair Saturday night.

The caretaker said he’d planned on going tonight, but now he was going Saturday night too, with his wife, because “with you along, it’s got to get interesting.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

I was out on the back porch enjoying the early morning and otherwise minding my own business, when suddenly an apparition popped up from the ground, between the porch banisters, making my hair stand on end.  

It was the freak with both eyes on the same side of his nose; hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer’s hippyhubby Wild Bill’s younger brother, the Profile.

After my fifth-of-a-second of startlement, I got cool again.  I didn’t have a shirt on, but at least I was wearing underpants.  My sudden visitor on the other hand looked frightened, really frightened.

Since he wasn’t capable of doing me any harm, I gently told him to calm down, not to worry about anything, and offered him a cup of coffee and a cigarette, if he wanted one.  He took my offer, and slowly walked over to a chair at the table.

“So…..Louie posted bond, and the sheriff let you out?” I asked.

No, he said; he’d never been picked up, because when the round-up of freaks started, he’d hidden underneath an upside-down wooden barrel, staying there until the middle of the night, after which he’d walked back here--four miles--hoping to stay hidden in the camp-site until the fair was over.

“Not to worry,” I assured him; “the sheriff won’t come here unless I call him, so you’re safe.  But tell me this--if the sheriff were to look you up, would he find anything?”

More confident now, he replied unfortunately yes, because he was wanted down in northeastern Oklahoma for passing counterfeit ten-dollar bills.

“But it’s my brother who made them, and forced me to use them,” he insisted.

- - - - - - - - - - -

I nodded; I’d long ago figured as much.  â€œWild Bill--he’s quite the dominating type, isn’t he?”

The Profile then nodded himself, and told me what I already knew.  Mrs. Alfred Packer worked at the nursing home down there, and hippyhubby Wild Bill took her weekly paycheck for himself, giving her a counterfeit $10 bill for spending money.  The hippywife primitive also sells home-made jewelry on esty.com, but the proceeds go into Wild Bill’s paypal account.

“And he keeps her shoes locked up so she can’t run away.  And one time when she tried to do Christmas, she was laid up in bed for a week after, recovering from sores and bruises.”

“No question about it,” I said; “Wild Bill’s the boss, and everybody else dances to his tune.”

“But she’s no angel herself, hippywife,” the Profile insisted.  â€œShe‘s a sucker for anybody with anything dangling between his legs.”

Yeah, I agreed; I already knew that.

He also talked about the Federal Express deliveryman and Hop Sing, the door-to-door salesman of culinary implements, both of whom haplessly ended up as cuts and chops in the meat-freezer.

- - - - - - - - - - -

I mentioned we’d met before; he’d been up here with the Packer clan two years ago this coming Labor Day.

He remembered that; “Wild Bill was looking for franksolich.

“He was all bent out of shape and paranoid because he thought franksolich had been stalking him--tapping the telephone and internet, opening the mail, peeking through the windows, questioning the neighbors, flying overhead in a helicopter--because franksolich sure seemed to know an awful lot about him and hippywife, every detail of their lives.

“But the truth of the matter was, hippywife has a big mouth, and blabs about everything, and so it’d be easy to know everything about them.

“Anyway, the meat-locker was empty about that time, and he decided he’d fill it up with franksolich.

“Even though we were up here for a week, Wild Bill could never find him.”

I thought about something, and since the Profile appeared to have severed all relations with the Packer clan, I felt safe in commenting, “but all of you were here, right on this property.  I’m franksolich.”

He looked at me, his eyes growing as big as saucers.

“No way,” he insisted.  â€œWild Bill said the other guy, the one you always hang around with, was franksolich, and he wasn’t around this time.”

I had to pause for some minutes, trying to remember.

“But what made hippyhubby think my business partner was franksolich?”

“Well, Wild Bill said you were pretty dumb-looking and stupid, while the other guy was good-looking and witty and articulate, and so the other guy had to be franksolich.”

“It’s too bad all of you came up here then,” I said; “you could’ve stayed down there in northeastern Oklahoma that week, and gotten ’franksolich,’ because my business partner was attending a horse show right there in Tulsa.”

Just then, apparently the Profile heard something, and scurried off the porch, hiding underneath it.

- - - - - - - - - - -

It was the property caretaker, coming to pick up some tools to finish a job somewhere else in the county before he, his wife, and I went to the county fair in the evening.

“You know,” I asked him, “has anyone else called about camping here over the Labor Day holiday?”

Several, he said; “but they’re people like Boy Scout troops, old folks’ groups, religious organizations, and a bevy of professional fishermen--one has a television show, and wants to do one about the fishing here--but no old hippies, and you want old hippies so the kids’ll have a good show.”

Right, I said; “and today’s the day you promised to call Mrs. Alfred Packer and tell her ’yes’ or ’no’ about camping here.

“When you get around to calling her, tell her I said ’yes.’”

to be continued

[Skul]

Absolutely, a "yes".  Gonna be fun.