RANDOMONDAY X
I had almost forgotten the little battered top-half-of-a-double-boiler with its little metal elbows for handles, given me by the daughter of a childhood next-door neighbor. It has a tiny washer-arrangement in one spot, inside and out, with a wee smitch of cracked black rubber beneath each. EVERYTHING was re-used, repaired, re-modeled in her lifetime, I suppose, mostly by the traveling folks with the big old panelwagons (descendants of those creaky peddlers' wagons with all sorts of metal utensils swinging clank-in-the-wind on the outside).
The tinkers came through town every year in Spring, and ladies (or their kitchen help) came out to meet them, bearing their broken or dented items, or great sheaves of knives and scissors for the attention of the wizened little gnome manning the spinning sharpening stone. The men would fix or polish or sharpen, climb the tallest trees to trim the branches, or whitewash any building or fence, whilst the women of the group shopped in the little stores on Main Street or stayed out at the "camp" on a kind farmer's place. The children were interesting and were shyly welcomed onto the swingsets and sandboxes in our smalltown park, and later on in life, I remember a quite dashing young man in an embroidered vest. I wonder how many of us town girls dreamt of that gleaming smile and cascade of dark hair.
Our neighbor's little pot had already seen a lifetime of use, exclusively for making good ole 40-weight Mississippi Iced Tea. She would put the big white "kittle" on the burner, toss a good handful of Lipton leaves into the small pan with a mountain of sugar, and then pour on the boiling water. (Her borrowing of a great quantity of tea from my Mother and paying it back by putting a box into Mother's basket whilst they were in Kroger--that's another story).
The tea "steeped" the required time, was strained into a pitcher of ice and water, thence poured over more ice in big clunky goblets almost too heavy and round for my hands. My Mammaw had the same glasses, the clear ones with flocked grapes like clumps of sand on the sides, but they were for the grown-ups, whilst all us kids enjoyed our tea (unsweetened---I don't know WHERE my family came from, but they'd been in the South for generations by then) in Welch's or Garrett glasses.
And Mrs. P. put LEMON in it. Nowhere in my house was ever a lemon for tea; my Mother shuddered at the thought of any kind of sweetener approaching her tea, thence lemon was deemed unnecessary, save for the odd icebox pie, to take "the fish smell" off your hands and kitchen utensils, and perhaps a hair-rinse now and again.
Mrs. Prine's tea was nectar for whatever minor gods were relegated to that hot, steamy Delta we lived in. It was almost syrupy-sweet, extra-flavorful from the unaccustomed lemon, and just the best thing this side of a cherry Coke at the local drugstore. I would shakily lift my half-full goblet, swig it down, then wipe my lips of all traces, fearful that my clean-fanatic Mother would know that I had been sipping something made by a woman she considered just this side of "trashy in her ways." Not in a moral way, of course---Mother would never have let me past the fence---but in housekeeping and yard-tending.
Mrs. P’s parents lived with them for great stretches of time, those seemingly endless Summers of heat and dust rising, and that lovely tea an oasis in all that too-bright atmosphere. Grandma was diabetic, and always smashed her saccareen tablet between two spoons, adding it and stirring it into the already-toothache-sweet tea. Saccharine was available only at the drugstore, was a tablet like medicine, was FOR diabetics, and thus negated all the sugar content.
And I did love that tea, and so inherited the little pot when Mrs. P. broke up housekeeping to move in with her daughter. The little round silver discs will spin on the wee knob-ended pin which keeps them captive, the memories flood in, and the little pan is never used except for remembering.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
RAINED-ON PARADE
We seem to have come full circle from “Can you believe this gorgeous weather? In JULY??” to “I can’t believe it’s raining all day on the FOURTH!!! (in tones of Suellen when Scarlett stole Mr. Kennedy).
It was not quite so bad as all that, with the parade time pretty cloudy, very cool for flag-waving-time, but quite enjoyable. We simply walked the small distance to the parade route, stood leaning on a conveniently-parked car beneath the trees, and watched the small-town assortment of bands, small children, old soldiers, crepe-papered trailers and tractors and Radio Flyers and a great gaggle of door-postered vehicles announcing this and that political someone whose eager minions scattered theoretical blessings at our feet in the form of Tootsie Rolls and a good percentage of all the cellophaned sweeties available in the local markets.
The motorcycle patrol led off, with sirens paving their way---their crisp black uniforms and shiny kneeboots lending a polished air to their basketweaving maneuvers up and down the street, and when the first band, T-shirt clad and perhaps forty strong, stopped in review and started the strains of “God Bless America,” I felt the swell of hometown and country-pride, as well as the prickles of tears. We stood erect from our casual hip-slumps against a stranger’s fender as the Colors passed, and then for the dozen or so older gentlemen in various uniforms of past service, some smartly stepping along, and others moving more slowly, their step and waves not quite as brisk, but their aura of brave determination as palpable as at Normandy, at Pan Mun Jom, in the grim steambath of the Tet Offensive and the dry oven of Desert Storm.
Then came all the political figures who could lay claim to a local position of note; their vehicles passed in a slow blur of star-and-stripe posters, waving hands and flung candy, and were rather ironically followed by a fire-and-brimstone preacher with a loud microphone and a trailer encircled with dire depictions of Hell.
Horses with ribboned manes, strollers full of babies and dogs and balloons, Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts and tiny gi-clad dojo-kids, kicking and lunging their way along the route, firetrucks and motorbikes and a great phalanx of roller-skaters, with a surprising dearth of in-lines---they wore the same ankle-high four-wheelers that we all rented on Saturday nights at the rink. They all made up the character of the parade, and of the red-white-and-blue pride we were watching pass on the everyday street.
Another band, perhaps two hundred this time, led off with rifle girls snapping those white plastic weapons with the expertise of blunt-chinned Marines, then the great ranks of silver instruments with a rousing rendition of “Glory, Glory, Hallelujah” following them past the crowds. The Flag Girls were like bright butterflies bringing up the rear, with flutters of red and white still visible down the route til they turned the last corner.
A few cool, misty drops hit our arms just as the parade was winding down; we strolled home, full of patriotic pride and gratitude. We went to Golden Corral for a few lingering bits of the wearying brunch, came home to the first earnest raindrops, read for a bit, then took a nap in the windows-open cool to the sound of the soft Summer rain.
A hot dog for supper, just because, and a retrace of our route out at 9:30, in the still-pattering raindrops, the unaccustomed slacks and windbreakers feeling just wrong for fireworks. We stopped short of the gotta-be-muddy-by-now park grounds, took shelter under the deserted colonnade of the shopping strip, and watched the fireworks glow through a glass darkly, as the clouds and mist afforded a barely-translucent view. We opened our bag of sweet dark cherries and for politeness’ sake, bagged our spit-out seeds into a smaller bag for disposal. Grass is one thing and all, but it just wasn’t right, somehow, to spit anything onto the public pavement.
I did notice something I’d never seen before---the slick wet black of the parking lot between us and the fireworks had the shine of the arc-lights over on the outer rim, and mirrored the skyward colors as the fireworks made a brave attempt at their usual glory. Neither the real nor the valiant reflection of themselves fulfilled the clear-skies splendor of former nights. Tomorrow that old black lot will be dulled and dry, with only the ranks of yellow lines for color, but last night was its night to SHINE.
It was not quite so bad as all that, with the parade time pretty cloudy, very cool for flag-waving-time, but quite enjoyable. We simply walked the small distance to the parade route, stood leaning on a conveniently-parked car beneath the trees, and watched the small-town assortment of bands, small children, old soldiers, crepe-papered trailers and tractors and Radio Flyers and a great gaggle of door-postered vehicles announcing this and that political someone whose eager minions scattered theoretical blessings at our feet in the form of Tootsie Rolls and a good percentage of all the cellophaned sweeties available in the local markets.
The motorcycle patrol led off, with sirens paving their way---their crisp black uniforms and shiny kneeboots lending a polished air to their basketweaving maneuvers up and down the street, and when the first band, T-shirt clad and perhaps forty strong, stopped in review and started the strains of “God Bless America,” I felt the swell of hometown and country-pride, as well as the prickles of tears. We stood erect from our casual hip-slumps against a stranger’s fender as the Colors passed, and then for the dozen or so older gentlemen in various uniforms of past service, some smartly stepping along, and others moving more slowly, their step and waves not quite as brisk, but their aura of brave determination as palpable as at Normandy, at Pan Mun Jom, in the grim steambath of the Tet Offensive and the dry oven of Desert Storm.
Then came all the political figures who could lay claim to a local position of note; their vehicles passed in a slow blur of star-and-stripe posters, waving hands and flung candy, and were rather ironically followed by a fire-and-brimstone preacher with a loud microphone and a trailer encircled with dire depictions of Hell.
Horses with ribboned manes, strollers full of babies and dogs and balloons, Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts and tiny gi-clad dojo-kids, kicking and lunging their way along the route, firetrucks and motorbikes and a great phalanx of roller-skaters, with a surprising dearth of in-lines---they wore the same ankle-high four-wheelers that we all rented on Saturday nights at the rink. They all made up the character of the parade, and of the red-white-and-blue pride we were watching pass on the everyday street.
Another band, perhaps two hundred this time, led off with rifle girls snapping those white plastic weapons with the expertise of blunt-chinned Marines, then the great ranks of silver instruments with a rousing rendition of “Glory, Glory, Hallelujah” following them past the crowds. The Flag Girls were like bright butterflies bringing up the rear, with flutters of red and white still visible down the route til they turned the last corner.
A few cool, misty drops hit our arms just as the parade was winding down; we strolled home, full of patriotic pride and gratitude. We went to Golden Corral for a few lingering bits of the wearying brunch, came home to the first earnest raindrops, read for a bit, then took a nap in the windows-open cool to the sound of the soft Summer rain.
A hot dog for supper, just because, and a retrace of our route out at 9:30, in the still-pattering raindrops, the unaccustomed slacks and windbreakers feeling just wrong for fireworks. We stopped short of the gotta-be-muddy-by-now park grounds, took shelter under the deserted colonnade of the shopping strip, and watched the fireworks glow through a glass darkly, as the clouds and mist afforded a barely-translucent view. We opened our bag of sweet dark cherries and for politeness’ sake, bagged our spit-out seeds into a smaller bag for disposal. Grass is one thing and all, but it just wasn’t right, somehow, to spit anything onto the public pavement.
I did notice something I’d never seen before---the slick wet black of the parking lot between us and the fireworks had the shine of the arc-lights over on the outer rim, and mirrored the skyward colors as the fireworks made a brave attempt at their usual glory. Neither the real nor the valiant reflection of themselves fulfilled the clear-skies splendor of former nights. Tomorrow that old black lot will be dulled and dry, with only the ranks of yellow lines for color, but last night was its night to SHINE.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
6/4ths
The weather has been simply glorious lately---every single getting-twilight evening, I say to myself: If I were having a patio dinner/party/gathering, I’d want it to be TODAY. It’s been just that beautiful. Thursday, though a little bit overcast all the way on our quick trip up and down I-65 to and from Chicago, was just beautiful as well. The sky and the sunlight and the breezes---just conjured from a climate catalog.
And now the whole day is supposed to be rainy. No matter. We’ve watched floody parades and waded to and from the fireworks, hoping our chairs didn’t mire up in the grassy field, and trusting that we would not leave divots to plague all the ballplayers.
We sat a couple of years ago beneath umbrellas, sorta huddled together in the evening chill (I still find it weird to be writing that---my Summer standard has been shaken and my heat indicator thrown awry, in this not-like-home place four states from our raisin’). We ducked as the drizzle dripped from the brims, kept big towels across our laps, and squinted at the kaleidoscope-blur of the colors racing skyward, their rainbow totally skewed from the norm and muddled a bit into a strange oil-on-water reflection of themselves through the gentle rain.
One Fourth, years ago, we gathered at a neighboring farm, where my son’s band was playing for the afternoon. Several guests were going home with us for burgers later in the day, and we’d already been to my parents’ house for a huge lunch of the same, plus great pans of baked beans and bowls of potato salad, all of which went home with us for the “party” later---at Mother’s insistence. As we lolled on quilts and lawn chairs, someone mentioned supper, and another chimed in---somehow the word went round the lawn, and when we gathered our things to leave, we seemed to have acquired quite a procession of young folks, hungry from dancing and beer, and ready to head for the familiar kitchen of so many meals in the past.
I dispatched a couple to the little store for ice and more Cokes and extra buns, and delegated this one to gather chairs and another to get out the paper goods, still others to start slicing great plates of tomatoes and onion and cheese. One of the ladies began to inventory amongst all the condiments in the fridge, and brought out mayo and mustard and ketchup, jars of homemade dills and pickled okra and chowchow and salsa. We decided against burgers, from the sheer number---twenty-five, I think, when seven were invited.
I started browning the meat and stirred up a big pot of Sloppy Joes in quick-time, set out the salad, and heated up the beans. The food went onto the kitchen bar just as the errand-crew returned with ice and drinks, and everyone lined up. It was a fun, memorable time, with more than enough food to go around more than once, and I wouldn't take anything for the memory of an impromptu meal with grown-up young folks whose childhoods had been so much a part of our lives.
(No mention here, among the lovely family memories, of the one year that a bunch of us, young folks ourselves, opted against all those festivities and went to see The Graduate instead, and I saw so many people I knew entering the theater, and then was so embarrassed that they might see me leaving that scandalous movie with all that racy dialogue, I scurried out through the lobby with my purse over my face, like Paris fleeing paparazzi).
We plan to walk out the back gate to the fireworks tonight, after our off-the-grill dinner at home, but we’ve already mentioned to each other one Fourth that stands out, even though it was just us two. We were in Georgia to visit the children, and since the one tiny Granddaughter had an early bedtime, we went back early to our hotel.
We went to our room from that bright hot day, stripped into just our underwear, and stood in the cool at our top-floor, almost-shoulder-high window, looking down at the crowds parading past in that Georgia heat---trundling baby strollers, wheeled coolers, little red wagons full of children/lawn chairs/beer. And as the twilight fell, we watched the behind-the-scenes magic of fireworks being shot from a parking garage just below and to the right, flying skyward and bursting over the river that flowed almost beneath our feet.
A scan of the horizon showed nine separate fireworks displays, going off inch-high all at once in every town within sight-range, while we munched drippy, salty boiled peanuts and drank icy Co-Cola. No travel agent could have arranged the "Southern experience" better.
And A Happy, Safe Fourth to Everyone!!
And now the whole day is supposed to be rainy. No matter. We’ve watched floody parades and waded to and from the fireworks, hoping our chairs didn’t mire up in the grassy field, and trusting that we would not leave divots to plague all the ballplayers.
We sat a couple of years ago beneath umbrellas, sorta huddled together in the evening chill (I still find it weird to be writing that---my Summer standard has been shaken and my heat indicator thrown awry, in this not-like-home place four states from our raisin’). We ducked as the drizzle dripped from the brims, kept big towels across our laps, and squinted at the kaleidoscope-blur of the colors racing skyward, their rainbow totally skewed from the norm and muddled a bit into a strange oil-on-water reflection of themselves through the gentle rain.
One Fourth, years ago, we gathered at a neighboring farm, where my son’s band was playing for the afternoon. Several guests were going home with us for burgers later in the day, and we’d already been to my parents’ house for a huge lunch of the same, plus great pans of baked beans and bowls of potato salad, all of which went home with us for the “party” later---at Mother’s insistence. As we lolled on quilts and lawn chairs, someone mentioned supper, and another chimed in---somehow the word went round the lawn, and when we gathered our things to leave, we seemed to have acquired quite a procession of young folks, hungry from dancing and beer, and ready to head for the familiar kitchen of so many meals in the past.
I dispatched a couple to the little store for ice and more Cokes and extra buns, and delegated this one to gather chairs and another to get out the paper goods, still others to start slicing great plates of tomatoes and onion and cheese. One of the ladies began to inventory amongst all the condiments in the fridge, and brought out mayo and mustard and ketchup, jars of homemade dills and pickled okra and chowchow and salsa. We decided against burgers, from the sheer number---twenty-five, I think, when seven were invited.
I started browning the meat and stirred up a big pot of Sloppy Joes in quick-time, set out the salad, and heated up the beans. The food went onto the kitchen bar just as the errand-crew returned with ice and drinks, and everyone lined up. It was a fun, memorable time, with more than enough food to go around more than once, and I wouldn't take anything for the memory of an impromptu meal with grown-up young folks whose childhoods had been so much a part of our lives.
(No mention here, among the lovely family memories, of the one year that a bunch of us, young folks ourselves, opted against all those festivities and went to see The Graduate instead, and I saw so many people I knew entering the theater, and then was so embarrassed that they might see me leaving that scandalous movie with all that racy dialogue, I scurried out through the lobby with my purse over my face, like Paris fleeing paparazzi).
We plan to walk out the back gate to the fireworks tonight, after our off-the-grill dinner at home, but we’ve already mentioned to each other one Fourth that stands out, even though it was just us two. We were in Georgia to visit the children, and since the one tiny Granddaughter had an early bedtime, we went back early to our hotel.
We went to our room from that bright hot day, stripped into just our underwear, and stood in the cool at our top-floor, almost-shoulder-high window, looking down at the crowds parading past in that Georgia heat---trundling baby strollers, wheeled coolers, little red wagons full of children/lawn chairs/beer. And as the twilight fell, we watched the behind-the-scenes magic of fireworks being shot from a parking garage just below and to the right, flying skyward and bursting over the river that flowed almost beneath our feet.
A scan of the horizon showed nine separate fireworks displays, going off inch-high all at once in every town within sight-range, while we munched drippy, salty boiled peanuts and drank icy Co-Cola. No travel agent could have arranged the "Southern experience" better.
And A Happy, Safe Fourth to Everyone!!
Friday, July 3, 2009
WATERMELON 101
In reply to a Friend's Inquiry---Thoughts on Cutting a Watermelon:
OH, Sweetpea! We've got to get you into the G.R.I.T.S.!!
You just have to let it know who's boss. Lay it on the counter (on a tray if you worry about spillage), on a wet towel for traction. Hold the knife, a good long one, like Norman Bates. Yes, you're gonna stab that melon, but gently---you don't want a ricochet or a projectile.
Stick it right in the middle of the top---I usually cut them lengthwise, but you're the boss of this team. Let the knife go in pretty deep, THEN rock it a bit, slicing toward the end the blade faces. Lots of times, the melons will give a great, surrendering sound---a deep, rich, satisfying noise between a "crack" and a "thud," and split of their own accord, sweetly eager to give up their ripe redness.
Turn it around and slice toward the other end, and if it's a big one, you may have to turn it over and try to make the cuts meet, like two highway-line painters coming from opposite directions.
There you are. Make quarters, or half-moons, or quarter it lengthwise, slide the knife all the way from one end to the other right where the white meets the red, then slice that into neat one-or-two-inch slices, right in the shell. If you're fancy and it's a party, slide each slice out a bit, alternating sides---pretty presentation. Next time: A Baby Carriage, but that calls for calling in the Expert---Caro is our Carver-in-Residence, and is an artist with the knives.
And for the Complete Experience, conduct all the above at Twilight with a shade-cooled melon, picked early as dew and left beneath the trees. Eat it face-first in a creaky lawn chair or at a battered old scarred-veteran of a picnic table, letting drops fall where they may, spitting seeds far into the grass, and skeeting away all traces from hands, face and table with cold blasts from the garden hose as the locust sing. Sit back with the sweetness lingering on your tongue and breeze-dry as the firefly show begins.
OH, Sweetpea! We've got to get you into the G.R.I.T.S.!!
You just have to let it know who's boss. Lay it on the counter (on a tray if you worry about spillage), on a wet towel for traction. Hold the knife, a good long one, like Norman Bates. Yes, you're gonna stab that melon, but gently---you don't want a ricochet or a projectile.
Stick it right in the middle of the top---I usually cut them lengthwise, but you're the boss of this team. Let the knife go in pretty deep, THEN rock it a bit, slicing toward the end the blade faces. Lots of times, the melons will give a great, surrendering sound---a deep, rich, satisfying noise between a "crack" and a "thud," and split of their own accord, sweetly eager to give up their ripe redness.
Turn it around and slice toward the other end, and if it's a big one, you may have to turn it over and try to make the cuts meet, like two highway-line painters coming from opposite directions.
There you are. Make quarters, or half-moons, or quarter it lengthwise, slide the knife all the way from one end to the other right where the white meets the red, then slice that into neat one-or-two-inch slices, right in the shell. If you're fancy and it's a party, slide each slice out a bit, alternating sides---pretty presentation. Next time: A Baby Carriage, but that calls for calling in the Expert---Caro is our Carver-in-Residence, and is an artist with the knives.
And for the Complete Experience, conduct all the above at Twilight with a shade-cooled melon, picked early as dew and left beneath the trees. Eat it face-first in a creaky lawn chair or at a battered old scarred-veteran of a picnic table, letting drops fall where they may, spitting seeds far into the grass, and skeeting away all traces from hands, face and table with cold blasts from the garden hose as the locust sing. Sit back with the sweetness lingering on your tongue and breeze-dry as the firefly show begins.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
QUESTION
HAPPY JULY TO EVERYONE!!! I have a question for you.
In times ago, I lived in what was practically a full-time Huntin' Camp, with shotguns and rifles racked in every truck, fishing poles and equipment standing in every garage, and camo and the smash of Dayglo orange punctuating every closet. My first FIL loved hunting---he marked his calendar by the open seasons, was a renowned marksman, and could name every dog in five counties, just by the distant bay of their voices.
Once his hunting proclivities caused me a fright that I still conjure in my deepest dreams. He had shot a bobcat out at the deer camp, and brought it home, where he stashed it in MY freezer. And we had LOTS of freezers---we lived on a farm, and the family "compound" consisted of a several-acre lawn with four houses---five generations right there in one yard, surrounded by big fruit and pecan orchards and immense vegetable garden, melon patches, and cornfield.
We had freezers for fruit, and freezers for game; several held the bounty of the huge vegetable gardens, and others were for miscellaneous stuff. Everybody's little top one on the fridge was usually full of butter, margarine, maybe pizza boxes, etc. There were upright ones and downright ones, chests you could store an ox in, and a smaller one just for ice. The ancient one out in my utility shed had seen better days, and wore battle scars all over its alligatored white skin.
Even the catch in the hinges which was supposed to hold the lid up was broken, resulting in our all learning a weird little dance of lift, stick-your-head-under-to-hold-up-the-lid-while-you-look-inside, grab whatever you were looking for and try to lower the lid with one or both hands full of frozen chunks of something. This more often than not led to the dropping of frozen items onto your feet or shattering them on the concrete, and almost always to the slamming of the lid with a resounding whoomp! and a bruise to some portion of your anatomy.
On the day in question, I hurried home from work in order to get started on a Shrimp Creole dish for a friend's unexpected houseguests. (Did I mention that you had to sort of kick the front of the freezer in order to jiggle the wiring or the lightbulb or whatever controlled its sporadic light supply? It would obligingly come on for a while, or stay on past your closing the lid, just to be contrary. We checked it once, sort of snuck up on it by opening the lid a hairline, way less than it took to trigger the old black button in the recess, and sure enough---light as day in there).
So I knew just where to locate the packages of shrimp, ran in the door, lifted the lid, leaned WAY over to position my head JUST SO to hold the top up, rested the lid on my skull, and kicked the side of the still-dark freezer. And as the light gleamed on, I found myself face-to-face with a freezer full of bobcat, all brindle-fur and shining eyes, lying there all snarly-fanged, just inches from my face.
Just a-layin' there, takin' his ease, right on top of the peas and turnip greens.
I don't know which happened first---I must have gasped frosty air, and I jumped back and up enough to drop the lid enough to really bang my head, thus freeing the lid, which thumped down upon one of my uplifted hands, whumping it underneath its fall. I think it even bounced once or twice. And I don't remember if it hurt. I just remember my heart racing, and the folks running over from the lawn and field nearby.
And they laughed at me a long time. It got told and re-told at church and all around the community. And a taxidermist DID stuff it, with a dangly dead squirrel in its mouth, and hokey red paint on its front teeth. They even offered it to Chris as part of my "dowry" when we got married.
And what REALLY ODD thing is in YOUR freezer?
In times ago, I lived in what was practically a full-time Huntin' Camp, with shotguns and rifles racked in every truck, fishing poles and equipment standing in every garage, and camo and the smash of Dayglo orange punctuating every closet. My first FIL loved hunting---he marked his calendar by the open seasons, was a renowned marksman, and could name every dog in five counties, just by the distant bay of their voices.
Once his hunting proclivities caused me a fright that I still conjure in my deepest dreams. He had shot a bobcat out at the deer camp, and brought it home, where he stashed it in MY freezer. And we had LOTS of freezers---we lived on a farm, and the family "compound" consisted of a several-acre lawn with four houses---five generations right there in one yard, surrounded by big fruit and pecan orchards and immense vegetable garden, melon patches, and cornfield.
We had freezers for fruit, and freezers for game; several held the bounty of the huge vegetable gardens, and others were for miscellaneous stuff. Everybody's little top one on the fridge was usually full of butter, margarine, maybe pizza boxes, etc. There were upright ones and downright ones, chests you could store an ox in, and a smaller one just for ice. The ancient one out in my utility shed had seen better days, and wore battle scars all over its alligatored white skin.
Even the catch in the hinges which was supposed to hold the lid up was broken, resulting in our all learning a weird little dance of lift, stick-your-head-under-to-hold-up-the-lid-while-you-look-inside, grab whatever you were looking for and try to lower the lid with one or both hands full of frozen chunks of something. This more often than not led to the dropping of frozen items onto your feet or shattering them on the concrete, and almost always to the slamming of the lid with a resounding whoomp! and a bruise to some portion of your anatomy.
On the day in question, I hurried home from work in order to get started on a Shrimp Creole dish for a friend's unexpected houseguests. (Did I mention that you had to sort of kick the front of the freezer in order to jiggle the wiring or the lightbulb or whatever controlled its sporadic light supply? It would obligingly come on for a while, or stay on past your closing the lid, just to be contrary. We checked it once, sort of snuck up on it by opening the lid a hairline, way less than it took to trigger the old black button in the recess, and sure enough---light as day in there).
So I knew just where to locate the packages of shrimp, ran in the door, lifted the lid, leaned WAY over to position my head JUST SO to hold the top up, rested the lid on my skull, and kicked the side of the still-dark freezer. And as the light gleamed on, I found myself face-to-face with a freezer full of bobcat, all brindle-fur and shining eyes, lying there all snarly-fanged, just inches from my face.
Just a-layin' there, takin' his ease, right on top of the peas and turnip greens.
I don't know which happened first---I must have gasped frosty air, and I jumped back and up enough to drop the lid enough to really bang my head, thus freeing the lid, which thumped down upon one of my uplifted hands, whumping it underneath its fall. I think it even bounced once or twice. And I don't remember if it hurt. I just remember my heart racing, and the folks running over from the lawn and field nearby.
And they laughed at me a long time. It got told and re-told at church and all around the community. And a taxidermist DID stuff it, with a dangly dead squirrel in its mouth, and hokey red paint on its front teeth. They even offered it to Chris as part of my "dowry" when we got married.
And what REALLY ODD thing is in YOUR freezer?
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