The dark blue 1989 Ford pick-up was heading home. Almost like an old western movie, Bevington thought. Just me and Old Paint, riding off into the sunset, going home.
Home, now there's a word Bev had always shunned. Home meant farming, basketball, not fitting in, and mom. Well, it's been decided. It's me, I am the one to go home and take care of the farm, to support mom to do whatever has to be done. Okay, so I had been contemplating coming home anyway. Home was beginning to mean other things too; how about consistency? What about boring? Safety? Expectations? Oh man would would mom want now? A girly-girl? A giggler, a flirt? Ahhhggg! Why did I agree to do this?
The first drop of rain splattered the windshield, hard. It startled Bev out of her reverie. "Well, Paint, at least you'll have somewhere to run when we get to the farm." The old, black lab raised his head and panted a smile.
I hope the Hendersons have the corn in Things will be different with me in charge. For the first time in five years, our crops will be harvested first.
"Paint, what did the weatherman say?" Bev asked as she turned the dial to the old familiar farm channel she had heard blaring out each morning at five a.m., which was dad's way of saying 'Rise and Shine!' Can this be the same guy I've heard all my life? He must be 100 years old? Beans are down? Down? Did the Hendersons contract them or did they sell them directly out of the field? Are we paying any storage?
"...rain is forcasted for the area through the end of the week." "It looks like a we harvest this year." I hope the corn is in! Why didn't I leave a week earlier? What was holding me? My job? My life? I can't believe how easy it is to fall back into the farm mentality. Okay, Bev, you promised yourself you'd not give up some of the things that were part of your life in L.A. You could go to the city to see some plays, the local University had visiting operas and symphony companies. But you'll do all these things alone, you won't want to go, but you will. The fear of being alone was why you left and it's also why you're coming back.
"Rest stop ahead, ya wanna run baby, ya need to relieve yourself, huh?" Paint jumped from the floor to the pick-up's seat and looked expectantly out the windsheild at the sound of Bev's most talking-to-a-baby voice.
Bev slowed the truck to the posted 25 miles per hour. She wondered how in the heck you could from 65 miles per hour to 25 miles per hour in the short distance between the interstate and the off-ramp without slamming on your brakes and risking a neck injury.
Wow! This is a crowded stop. Well, it's probably the intermittent rain. Nothing makes you as tired as the hypnotic slap, slap of the windshield wipers. "Come on baby, the rain's let up - let's go for a walk, ya wanna, huh?" Paint threw himself out of the driver's side door as soon as Bev's booted feet had touched the damp pavement.
"Wait, you big 'ol baby, I gotta put the leash on!" Paint stood patiently while Bev snapped the red canvas strap to Paint's collar. Poor baby, he's so used to this chain. I can't wait to get him to the far where he'll have the whole yard to run in. Where he won't have to be so quiet, where he can be a dog, be himself, follow his natural instincts. Oh man, I'm starting to sound just like Mom. "It's unfair to keep a dog in the city." "That dog is too well-behaved, it isn't natural!" Well, I've heard her say the same about the grandkids. How can my brothers and sisters stand it? Mom's criticism would account for my coming home to take care of the farm rather than any one of them, who live closer.
Bev smiled to herself. Mom's criticism, my lack of a marriage, my lack of responsibilities. Hey, what about my intelligence? My ability to farm? Who helped Dad, always? Who wanted to farm? Who planted corn instead of attending her senior prom? Who walked beans and detasseled corn every summer of her teen life so that she could buy calves to raise? Calves the good old system wouldn't let her show at 4-H competitions because only boys could show livestock. They wanted her to enter a sewing or cooking project first, then they might let her show calves. Well, she'd beaten them, she had Bill show them for her.
Bev clapped her hands and Paint came around the picnic table and jumped on Bev's knees. "Hey you 'ol pig-baby, yer wet, aren't ya?" "Don't jump on me!" "Did you do yer business?" "Are you ready to hit the road, head home, huh?"
The next fifty miles sped by. The rain started up again, this time in earnest. The drops were big and round and they sounded cold when they hit the windshield. The wipers were on low and they made Bev irritated with their inability to keep the glass clear. But putting the on high caused them to make a screech that made her teeth ache.
Bev turned the heat up a little and dialed the knob to 'mix'. Paint snuggled down on the floor directly next to the heater vent, made a big doggy-sigh and went contentedly to sleep. The radio was tuned to a classical station that didn't too much static interference. Bev would definitely miss the L.A. orchestra season. The windshield wipers could finally be put on low and left there, and Bev could see just fine. Their hypnotic slap, slap, the faint symphonic music, and the heat made conditions just right for Bev to finally put her mind to the real reason she was going home.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Randall Stanhope, Hampton Clarion & Stuart Panora
The three large mid-western shaped men looked like fat Vienna sausages sitting in the Chevy Chevette. The Chevette was a great commuter car; it made about 32 miles to the gallon, but it wasn't made to seat three builkily dressed men. Every time the care went over a bump the frame made a squishing noise on the rear tires.
The Chevette was one reason Randall hated the carpool when it was Stuart's turn to drive. Ham drove an older pickup and it was crowded too, but Randall didn't have to worry about rubbing a tire flat every second they were on the road.
He worried about things like that. Randall drove a 1978 silver Buick Regal. He and his wife referred to it as the 'work car', although their good/family car wasn't in much better shape. They both had over 100,000 miles on them, but the Regal didn't have air-conditioning, unless you counted the rusted out placed in the floorboards. Randall had rivetted plywood to those spots, but he fretted about someone falling through the boards onto the highway. To be able to bear being a rider in the carpool, Randall pretended to sleep most of the way to work. That way he didn't have to concern himself with how many times Ham or Stu went over the center line or passed unsafely, which they tended to do as if other's lives weren't their responsibility.
The three men started carpooling six years ago when the packing plant they worked for cut back wages. Since none of them could afford to quit, they saved money by carpooling. In those six years the carpool had many different riders, but Randal, Ham and Stu were always at its core.
They were a group, a circle of friends, although not one of the would consider it so. They had shared dreams, disappointments and laughter. They never socialized outside the carpool and since they each worked in a different area of the packing house, they only saw each other in the cocoon of the carpool. The forty-five minutes every a.m. and every p.m. gave the men ample time to get to know each other. None of them had spent that much close time with another male since boyhood.
Randall was a worrier. He would replay the conversations he had with his wife or his children over and over while doing the repetitive cuts on the thousands of heads of hogs that passed him each day. He'd analyze the tone and inflection of their voices. He'd try to remember each facial expression and think if he was missing any non-verbal clues to the meaning of the sentences exchanged. Sometimes all this reflection would assure Randall that his wife loved him and that his children respected him. More often it made him angry with his life's circumstances. It made him regret choices made ten years ago and hesitant to make decisions today.
Ham, who supervised the killing line, played mean and hurtful practical jokes on his co-workers. He also embellished the details when telling Randall and Stu each evening. Ham had worked at the hog factory for twenty years. Some of Ham's jokes were twenty years old too but with the high employee turnover, he had fresh victims every few months or so. One of his favorite pranks was to 'blue ball' any new unsuspecting male employee.
The blue ink used by the Federal inspectors to stamp "USDA Approved" on the cuts of meat came in large containers. Ham would use a Dixie cup to scoop up the dye and catch the unfortunate guy in the toilet and douse his genitals with the ink. When regaling Randall and Stu with this story he'd make ribald remarks about the size of the balls just blued.
Stu was the consummate family man. His wife cleaned the house, cared for their three teenaged daughters and made life comfortable for Stu. Everything Stu did shouted "Married with Children". Stu's family car was a small, economical and nondescript color He was usually attired in jeans, T-shirt and sneakers. He wife cut his hair and it looked it. Stu and his family spent Saturday evenings grocery shopping. Then they'd stop at the local Hardee's for supper and on to home for a big batch of microwave popcorn and family TV. They spent all day in church or at church related activities on Sunday.
The Chevette was one reason Randall hated the carpool when it was Stuart's turn to drive. Ham drove an older pickup and it was crowded too, but Randall didn't have to worry about rubbing a tire flat every second they were on the road.
He worried about things like that. Randall drove a 1978 silver Buick Regal. He and his wife referred to it as the 'work car', although their good/family car wasn't in much better shape. They both had over 100,000 miles on them, but the Regal didn't have air-conditioning, unless you counted the rusted out placed in the floorboards. Randall had rivetted plywood to those spots, but he fretted about someone falling through the boards onto the highway. To be able to bear being a rider in the carpool, Randall pretended to sleep most of the way to work. That way he didn't have to concern himself with how many times Ham or Stu went over the center line or passed unsafely, which they tended to do as if other's lives weren't their responsibility.
The three men started carpooling six years ago when the packing plant they worked for cut back wages. Since none of them could afford to quit, they saved money by carpooling. In those six years the carpool had many different riders, but Randal, Ham and Stu were always at its core.
They were a group, a circle of friends, although not one of the would consider it so. They had shared dreams, disappointments and laughter. They never socialized outside the carpool and since they each worked in a different area of the packing house, they only saw each other in the cocoon of the carpool. The forty-five minutes every a.m. and every p.m. gave the men ample time to get to know each other. None of them had spent that much close time with another male since boyhood.
Randall was a worrier. He would replay the conversations he had with his wife or his children over and over while doing the repetitive cuts on the thousands of heads of hogs that passed him each day. He'd analyze the tone and inflection of their voices. He'd try to remember each facial expression and think if he was missing any non-verbal clues to the meaning of the sentences exchanged. Sometimes all this reflection would assure Randall that his wife loved him and that his children respected him. More often it made him angry with his life's circumstances. It made him regret choices made ten years ago and hesitant to make decisions today.
Ham, who supervised the killing line, played mean and hurtful practical jokes on his co-workers. He also embellished the details when telling Randall and Stu each evening. Ham had worked at the hog factory for twenty years. Some of Ham's jokes were twenty years old too but with the high employee turnover, he had fresh victims every few months or so. One of his favorite pranks was to 'blue ball' any new unsuspecting male employee.
The blue ink used by the Federal inspectors to stamp "USDA Approved" on the cuts of meat came in large containers. Ham would use a Dixie cup to scoop up the dye and catch the unfortunate guy in the toilet and douse his genitals with the ink. When regaling Randall and Stu with this story he'd make ribald remarks about the size of the balls just blued.
Stu was the consummate family man. His wife cleaned the house, cared for their three teenaged daughters and made life comfortable for Stu. Everything Stu did shouted "Married with Children". Stu's family car was a small, economical and nondescript color He was usually attired in jeans, T-shirt and sneakers. He wife cut his hair and it looked it. Stu and his family spent Saturday evenings grocery shopping. Then they'd stop at the local Hardee's for supper and on to home for a big batch of microwave popcorn and family TV. They spent all day in church or at church related activities on Sunday.
Jewell Eldora
Jewell's 1978 dirt-brown Chrysler was loud. It was loud inside and outside. The muffler, tied to the body frame with an old wire coat hanger, fell off about sixty miles ago. Jewell kept turning the volume of the radio higher and higher to drown out the noises; the no-muffler rumble, the rustling of the plastic trash-bags stuffed with all her worldly belongs, the empty soda cans rattling on the backseat floor, and the intermittent static from the radio itself.
Jewell had been traveling four and one half hours - she though she'd been moving away from noise, from things that were always too loud. Jewell, herself was loud. She knew the loudness screamed her background to others. Her make-up was too harsh, it glared, and worst of all it didn't cover the acne scars. Her hair was bleached so startling blond that it made people blink. It was pulled back into a ponytail and sprayed into the big-bangs look she favored. It contrasted sharply with the dullness, the ashy, almost dirty look of her complexion.
Upon closer inspection you'd find that Jewell was older than she first appeared. She'd followed all the latest fads, like piercing her ears two or three times, having a small tattoo placed on her ankle, and wearing spandex. Unfortunately these fads were not those of the middle-class life in which she so desperately wanted to belong. Jewell was extremely thin, unnaturally thin. Her slimness was alarming, as if she had been carved out of the thinnest, most fragile piece of balsa wood left over from a model airplane project. She smoked most of her meals, rather than eat them. She existed on caffeine and nicotine and she looked used and tired.
Jewell had been traveling four and one half hours - she though she'd been moving away from noise, from things that were always too loud. Jewell, herself was loud. She knew the loudness screamed her background to others. Her make-up was too harsh, it glared, and worst of all it didn't cover the acne scars. Her hair was bleached so startling blond that it made people blink. It was pulled back into a ponytail and sprayed into the big-bangs look she favored. It contrasted sharply with the dullness, the ashy, almost dirty look of her complexion.
Upon closer inspection you'd find that Jewell was older than she first appeared. She'd followed all the latest fads, like piercing her ears two or three times, having a small tattoo placed on her ankle, and wearing spandex. Unfortunately these fads were not those of the middle-class life in which she so desperately wanted to belong. Jewell was extremely thin, unnaturally thin. Her slimness was alarming, as if she had been carved out of the thinnest, most fragile piece of balsa wood left over from a model airplane project. She smoked most of her meals, rather than eat them. She existed on caffeine and nicotine and she looked used and tired.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Why did the man throw the clock out the window?
Because time flies! That was an old Floppy Show joke, told ad nauseum at least once a show - and poor Duane had to listen to it every weekday for 20 some years!
But I titled this post in such a way because - time does fly! It's been EIGHT months since I've posted anything on this blog. What a shame - I am slapping myself with a wet noodle as I type.
This evening I was posting pictures from my family - the Keasey family - to Facebook, and even though some of them were taken 40 plus years ago, I can remember the smell and sounds and atmosphere of the day. Especially those Keasey family Christmases. They were usually on Christmas day - it seemed they were always fraught with tension and stress.
My parents were so young! I remember being dressed up, each of us in our 'best'. I remember the tension coming from mom and dad because dad would undoubtedly drink too much and he and grandma would get in a fight or there would be a 'scene' with one of his sisters. I remember how my mom felt inadequate - that her clothes weren't the best, that we kids would reflect poorly on her as a mother, that dad's drinking would reflect poorly on her as a wife. I can't imagine bearing that responsibility as a 22 year old!
I posted some pictures of the horrible monkeys and their 'playing' with my mom and brothers. I mentioned these beasts in a previous post. I posted the pictures as proof that I was not fabricating this monkey business, as I know it seems such a rare situation for the 60's. I can remember the screeching and their sharp little fingers they liked to poke in your ears and nose and those grabby hands pulling your hair. They smelled too. Like, well, like you'd imagine a monkey to smell. Dank, of urine, a little crazy - if crazy has a smell, and I like to think it does.
There are pictures of the diner and motel that Grandpa and Grandma Keasey owned. When I look at them I feel summer heat (as that is when we usually visited), I smell newly spread white gravel's dust. I feel the stiff, starchy- clean, blindingly white sheets of the motel beds. I hear the humbuzz of the air conditioner in the motel room (a luxury we did NOT have at home). It was like heaven, staying in that clean, quiet motel room.
There are pictures of my cousins - all of us youngsters of course. Linda, who was the epitome of beauty for the time (still is actually) - golden hair, rosy skin, I adored her! When she started dating her husband, Craig Flathers, I would sometimes be sent along as a chaperone. One time in particular, I think we went to see the movie Herbie the Love Bug, she gave me a pony tail fall...falls (hair extensions now) were very popular then. I remember sitting in the front seat with Linda in the middle. I was enamored of Craig too - he was such a handsome young man, and a bit 'rakish' - maybe like Kenickie of the movie Grease. Craig would put his hand on Linda's knee and hold her hand - I thought they were so romantic and naughty!
My cousin David is in the pictures too. He was a shy boy, but always quick to smile. He was thin with big ears, as the pictures will show. When he was a young teenager, he was stylin'! He had the puca shell necklace, the long blonde hair and the big bell bottom jeans with a hemp belt - true early 70's fashion extraordinaire! But in the pictures, he looks like all little boys from the early 60's - no indication of the rebel he was about to be when he hit the teenage years!
And then there is Uncle Daryle - who was only 7 years older than me and always, always in every picture, because he was always, always in my life. He passed away a few years ago and I miss him dearly....sometimes daily. Growing up with Daryle was special. He made me feel smart and beautiful and destined to do something great. He was bright and articulate and charasmatic. Everyone loved him and me most of all.
There are pictures of my mom and dad as young, young people. I was born when they were both 18 years old. By the time my brother Tony was born, they were only 23! They had four kids under the age of 5 by the time they were 23. This astounds me, although I know it was not unusual for the times.
There are pictures of them at holidays, at each new child's 'home coming' and some before they were parents - just having fun. I have a lot of my dad as a child - as I mentioned he was the 'golden boy' in the family and those pictures prove that. He has sailor suits so he can look like his daddy (Grandpa Roy) who was in the Navy.
Posting these pictures and looking back on the pictures in my Facebook album "Tammy Grows Up" made me see how fast the time we have on earth flies. Most of my life, I've been so worried about the little things in the big scheme of life that I haven't always enjoyed and treasured those every day things.
I have only one regret in my life, so far, and it is that I wasted such a great amount of time "getting through" portions of it, that I missed some simple pleasures, didn't form some everyday memories. And as science of the brain has proven, as we age, we tend to remember most clearly those things that happened a long time ago. Our short-term memory tends to fade and so days of our fifties and sixties won't be as memorable as the days of our childhood and young adulthood. Truly, I am ashamed.
But I titled this post in such a way because - time does fly! It's been EIGHT months since I've posted anything on this blog. What a shame - I am slapping myself with a wet noodle as I type.
This evening I was posting pictures from my family - the Keasey family - to Facebook, and even though some of them were taken 40 plus years ago, I can remember the smell and sounds and atmosphere of the day. Especially those Keasey family Christmases. They were usually on Christmas day - it seemed they were always fraught with tension and stress.
My parents were so young! I remember being dressed up, each of us in our 'best'. I remember the tension coming from mom and dad because dad would undoubtedly drink too much and he and grandma would get in a fight or there would be a 'scene' with one of his sisters. I remember how my mom felt inadequate - that her clothes weren't the best, that we kids would reflect poorly on her as a mother, that dad's drinking would reflect poorly on her as a wife. I can't imagine bearing that responsibility as a 22 year old!
I posted some pictures of the horrible monkeys and their 'playing' with my mom and brothers. I mentioned these beasts in a previous post. I posted the pictures as proof that I was not fabricating this monkey business, as I know it seems such a rare situation for the 60's. I can remember the screeching and their sharp little fingers they liked to poke in your ears and nose and those grabby hands pulling your hair. They smelled too. Like, well, like you'd imagine a monkey to smell. Dank, of urine, a little crazy - if crazy has a smell, and I like to think it does.
There are pictures of the diner and motel that Grandpa and Grandma Keasey owned. When I look at them I feel summer heat (as that is when we usually visited), I smell newly spread white gravel's dust. I feel the stiff, starchy- clean, blindingly white sheets of the motel beds. I hear the humbuzz of the air conditioner in the motel room (a luxury we did NOT have at home). It was like heaven, staying in that clean, quiet motel room.
There are pictures of my cousins - all of us youngsters of course. Linda, who was the epitome of beauty for the time (still is actually) - golden hair, rosy skin, I adored her! When she started dating her husband, Craig Flathers, I would sometimes be sent along as a chaperone. One time in particular, I think we went to see the movie Herbie the Love Bug, she gave me a pony tail fall...falls (hair extensions now) were very popular then. I remember sitting in the front seat with Linda in the middle. I was enamored of Craig too - he was such a handsome young man, and a bit 'rakish' - maybe like Kenickie of the movie Grease. Craig would put his hand on Linda's knee and hold her hand - I thought they were so romantic and naughty!
My cousin David is in the pictures too. He was a shy boy, but always quick to smile. He was thin with big ears, as the pictures will show. When he was a young teenager, he was stylin'! He had the puca shell necklace, the long blonde hair and the big bell bottom jeans with a hemp belt - true early 70's fashion extraordinaire! But in the pictures, he looks like all little boys from the early 60's - no indication of the rebel he was about to be when he hit the teenage years!
And then there is Uncle Daryle - who was only 7 years older than me and always, always in every picture, because he was always, always in my life. He passed away a few years ago and I miss him dearly....sometimes daily. Growing up with Daryle was special. He made me feel smart and beautiful and destined to do something great. He was bright and articulate and charasmatic. Everyone loved him and me most of all.
There are pictures of my mom and dad as young, young people. I was born when they were both 18 years old. By the time my brother Tony was born, they were only 23! They had four kids under the age of 5 by the time they were 23. This astounds me, although I know it was not unusual for the times.
There are pictures of them at holidays, at each new child's 'home coming' and some before they were parents - just having fun. I have a lot of my dad as a child - as I mentioned he was the 'golden boy' in the family and those pictures prove that. He has sailor suits so he can look like his daddy (Grandpa Roy) who was in the Navy.
Posting these pictures and looking back on the pictures in my Facebook album "Tammy Grows Up" made me see how fast the time we have on earth flies. Most of my life, I've been so worried about the little things in the big scheme of life that I haven't always enjoyed and treasured those every day things.
I have only one regret in my life, so far, and it is that I wasted such a great amount of time "getting through" portions of it, that I missed some simple pleasures, didn't form some everyday memories. And as science of the brain has proven, as we age, we tend to remember most clearly those things that happened a long time ago. Our short-term memory tends to fade and so days of our fifties and sixties won't be as memorable as the days of our childhood and young adulthood. Truly, I am ashamed.
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