Pickle Dish Update

One pickle slice finished -- only 8 million to go!!!

Church Ladies

We ate turkey with the Presbyterians in Walnut last night. It was Dave's first experience with a church supper and mine after a long hiatus. I'd forgotten how well church ladies cook.

It was the real thing -- real mashed potatoes, real green beans someone had canned, real pie crust -- even real plates. I missed out on that great pink salad that's mostly whipped cream and cherry pie filling with a few marshmallows mixed in, but I made up for it with the pistachio version that was all the rage in the 70s after Watergate.

We had a great time at our table comparing pie choices. I'm a sucker for coconut cream, and Dave always goes for blueberry. Nancy had a piece that I'm convinced had every fruit in it except kiwi. Apparently pie is a secret of longevity because a friend kept pointing out very spry people who were well into their nineties.

But, as always, the best part was laughing and talking with friends and playing "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" with the decorative gourds.

It was a rare occasion in the city to go anywhere and see the same person twice. Now when we go out, I'm beginning to see people I know -- my fellow quilt guild members and one of our favorite auctioneers, although I almost missed him because he was out of uniform. That's as comforting a feeling as knowing church ladies will always make cranberry salad to go with the stuffing.

Teddy Among the Auction Spoils

Bouncing Back Or Why I'll Wear a Rubber Suit if I Have To

Because my mom was my teacher for both kindergarten and first grade, she literally taught me to read. Which means, she can't give me grief for reading books at ballgames and embarrassing my sisters -- she's the one who started it.

She figured up one time -- in her forty-some years of teaching, she taught 1000 kids to read. That's a far better stat than "yards after catch" or "runs batted in". How amazing to be responsible for so much literacy in the world.

She's taken some falls in recent years. In fact, I've threatened to make her a rubber suit so if she falls again, she'll bounce back. But she does that anyway -- she bounces back. I went with her yesterday to her physical therapy appointment. She's struggles with movement I take for granted -- bending a knee or lifting a leg straight up, even walking backwards, but she never complains. When the therapist asked her to do something, she just said, "OK," and did it as best she could. That has to be refreshing for the therapist -- I'm thinking of myself as a potential whiner in the same situation.

It's also true, as one of my sisters pointed out, that Mom also wants to prove she can do it, which actually consoles me considerably because I see myself more and more in her -- the Ham family stubbornness (I get it from the Keenans too.), the smart aleckness (that might be all Mom), and the determination to get the hell out of a hospital bed and stay independent.

It struck me during this last stay in the hospital how much she's still teaching me -- how she's teaching me to always bounce back.

The Joy of Dirt

Under the category of Things That Would Never Have Happened in Ann Arbor, we have a load of dirt in our back yard ready to use next spring for a strawberry bed and hosta beds around the tree trunks.

It's all thanks to our neighbor, Ron, who knew we were planning more gardens and who pulled in our driveway yesterday to let me know that the county was digging out ditches a mile or so from us. Apparently, the county road crew is happy to recycle the dirt if you just ask, so Dave walked down and visited with the guy on the back hoe and voila -- we have dirt.

Have I mentioned lately that I'm really happy to be back in Iowa where even the people who work the window at McDonalds are friendly?!

Sold on Auctions

For a paltry amount of cash, I came home from an auction yesterday with two boxes of doilies, a box of aprons, a canner, a canister coffee pot, and a 1950s coffee carafe. I love a good treasure hunt. It's even better when the money involved registers in the "pittance" category as opposed to the "Geez, how am I going to make the car payment?"

You never know what you'll find because, of course, you can't tell from the sale bill. "Antique oak table" can translate visually into "table someone knocked together out of oak forty years ago and let sit around in the damp basement until we pulled it out for the auction and evicted the spider colony." You have to look underneath the tables, test the chairs for stability, dig through boxes, unfold the quilts, and sniff the linens. But therein lies the excitement.

I have come home with fuzzy black buttons I thought would make great applique spiders, table linens still in the dry cleaning bag with the bill attached, a cloth napkin from TWA, grape trivets made by crocheting purple variegated thread over bottle caps. Of course, I've also come home with a crocheted parrot pot holder, plastic doilies that had melted onto a vinyl tablecloth, and some really smelly old lace. Not only is it a treasure hunt -- it's a crap shoot.

Some -- I'm thinking of my oldest sister here -- might ask why I want all this "treasure". (Actually, Lynn would use a different word.) Lots of different reasons. Holding onto the crafts of the past is one. I can't make doilies or lace -- and will never try again after a rather horrific tatting incident -- so I can appreciate the work and patience that created them. I know how much time goes into handquilting, and gingham apron fabric is getting harder and harder to find.

I am also fascinated by the possibilities -- a retro party with nut cups served on luncheon plates, a backyard barbecue with long tables covered in all the white cloths I bought for $5, hanging my small quilts with the wooden pants hangers that came from the Madsen Bros. of Walnut and Minden.

Auctions, at the very least, are recycling occasions, and at the most are events of transition -- death or moves to assisted living, usually. This is someone's life splayed out on tables and lowboys for people to pick through, assess, and either dismiss or covet. It's Christmas, Mother's Day, years of collecting. These things that we auction-goers casually brush past meant something once; they possessed importance, conjured memory.

And so, having brought my trove home, I feel a responsibility to surround it with new memories, imbue it with new worth, integrate it into my history. In short, treasure it.

Pearl

Pearl is hanging out on the porch again. Pearl, the riddle. Pearl, who desperately wants to be petted, but who always seems to remember he's supposed to be scared and runs away when I get to within three feet of him.

He's a large, white and fluffy, one of the cats we inherited when we bought the place and who we named before we got close enough to determine his gender. He meows constantly to draw attention to himself; he flomps on his back submissively -- all from a safe distance. He definitely wants us to notice him but can't commit.

Pearl makes me ponder the inequity of the fates of cats. Miss Kitty was immediately affectionate. In fact, the first night we sat on the porch, she came running up and dropped a mouse in Dave's lap. Arnold, the tuxedo Teddy mimic, took a few days and then figured out that humans sitting outside drinking coffee meant head scritching and tail tickling. And then there's Teddy who has two rational adults jumping up to let him in every time he jumps up in the window, a full food dish and the best chair in the house to sleep in.

We never knew any of our cats as kittens. We have no idea what happened to them to form their quirks and personalities. Teddy is aloof, even for a cat, as if he can't afford to get too attached in case we abandon him. But Pearl breaks my heart. How much terror and betrayal has Pearl survived?

I have never understood the attitude of disposable cats. Even our farm cats had names and plenty to eat. Is it because cats don't always come when they're called? Because they purr like race cars and then turn around and bite? Because they don't fawn like dogs? I like dogs, but if I'm honest, I've always preferred the stance of cats -- "You want to pet me? You come over here." Cats have self-esteem, poise, balance. Cats have control over their emotions. They're affectionate, but it's on their terms.

I believe Pearl will eventually permit me inside his perimeter. We've gone from a half-acre barrier down to three feet. I only hope I'm worthy of the trust.

I'm goin' in!

This week, on the advice of a friend, I decided to immerse myself in my novel for four days -- focus only on the writing and let other stuff go -- which hasn't been easy because there are dead bugs all over my floor!!! I don't have complete clarity yet, but I can see it on the horizon. I thought I'd share one of my favorite characters: Julie Quinn.

There was a tin-pressed ceiling overhead and heavy wooden planking on the floor. Rosso crunched peanut hulls underfoot. The noise was startling in the quiet. It suddenly felt as if he were trespassing, and Rosso trod carefully. A huge bear suddenly materialized in the corner of the room, its features fixed into a permanent growl and claw. Rosso stumbled back, sliding in the hulls.

"He hasn't bitten anyone in a long time." It was a woman's voice off to his left. "Not since last Saturday night anyway." She came forward, but didn't offer her hand. "I'm Julie Quinn, proprietress," she said. She was pretty and blonde with generous proportions. She was wearing a cardigan, belted tightly, and wide-legged brown pants and no shoes. Her toenails were a bright red. "The peanut hulls are good for the floors. It’s the oil."

He nodded. She was observant, and she'd actually used the word proprietress.

"I'm looking for a room," he said.

She nodded. "Most people use the side entrance. Only Jehovah Witnesses and city folk use the front." She sized him up. He knew he didn't look religious. She beckoned with her head for him to follow her back to the bar -- twelve foot long and polished to a gleam.

He was a bit taken aback by all the taxidermy -- besides the bear, there was a bobcat caught in mid-leap, and a snapping turtle mounted over a doorway. They'd been captured in such action that he expected them to move. Even the head of a fish, prepared with mouth gaping wide and popping eyeballs roosting on top, swam out of a wall. He stopped and circled, trying to acclimate himself.

"A bit much, I'll admit," said Julie. "But they lend atmosphere. I named them all so I wouldn't feel so intimidated. It's hard to be frightened by something you've named."

She had a point.

"They were collected by our own personal madam," she said. Had he heard her right? "Shot them all herself. She was marvelous," she continued. "No pretense, no bullshit. Or at least that's how the stories go. She said it was her mission in life to give comfort, but she couldn’t be a nurse because blood and vomit made her faint. I've heard from some of my really old regulars that she was a hell of a dancer. Called herself Coco de Mer. That's French for coconut of the ocean or something."

"The sea," murmured Rosso.

She glanced at him. "Just passing through?"

Here it was. "Something like that," he said. "I may stay a few days." He gauged her reaction, but all he read was skepticism.

"You don't look the type to spend time poking around little towns."

"I noticed the hotel on the bluff," he said. “I’m interested in architecture.”

She nodded, but he felt her powers of observation kick up a notch. She pulled out a ragged-looking ledger and flipped through the pages until she found a blank page. "How many days are you planning to be fascinated by our architecture?"

"Can we leave it open-ended?" he asked.

She shrugged and scribbled the date. "Name?"

"Lee Rosso," he said.

"Address?"

"Ann Arbor, Michigan." He lied to see how observant she really was. Did she know about Norah Finn’s good fortune?

"You heard about this all the way out in Michigan?" Her skepticism was growing.

"Sure." He had the sudden uneasy feeling he was missing something.

"Then why does your pickup have Iowa plates?"

"How do you know which pickup is mine?"

"Because it's the only truck in the parking lot that I don't recognize," she said. “Unless you walked from Michigan?”

He lifted one shoulder -- a noncommittal shrug. She could draw her own conclusions. Sometimes a disguise was more convincing if you let people fill in their own blanks.

“A man of mystery, I see,” she said. “What do I care? As long as you’re paying.” She eyed him suspiciously. “You are paying?”

He reached for his wallet. “I’ll pay in advance.” He piled twenties on the counter until she punctuated the end of the deal with her index finger on the money. “That’s a start,” she said. “Breakfast comes with the room. I do other meals, but they’re extra. Reasonable, but extra. As is the booze. If you get sick of my cooking, Sully’s Cafe is on Main Street. The sale barn does lunch and there are a couple of places out near the highway.”

He was hoping she would fold his money and stash in her cleavage, but she disappointed him. “What’s in the tin building across the street?” The girl with cinnamon hair still lingered in his mind.

Julie Quinn looked at him with renewed suspicion, and he understood. Why would he be randomly interested in a building with no discernible signage unless he was up to no good -- which he was -- just not what she was probably imagining.

“It’s the county historical museum,” she said. “If you’re truly interested in our architecture,” she said the word wryly, “you’ll need to pay a visit. The woman who runs it is especially interested in the Grand.”

He decided to move on quickly. “So this place was around at the same time as the Grand Hotel?”

“We had everything the Grand had,” she said, using the “we” as if she’d been part of the era, “gambling, good food and gossip, just without the fancy gowns and snooty attitudes.”

“It’s a little startling to see such a huge structure in the middle of the prairie. Who built it?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What is this? A test for the yokels? You’ve obviously heard about Declan McCleary so don’t tell me you don’t know about Eamon.” His money was still in her hand, and he thought for a moment she was going to hand it back to him and throw him out. Julie Quinn was no yokel. He’d underestimated her as, Armand would remind him over and over, he did most women.

He raised both hands in surrender and retreated a step. “I just wanted to get a local angle. I didn’t mean any harm.”

“If you are a newspaper reporter, Vivian Westby will love you.”

“Vivian Westby?” The name sounded familiar.

“She owns the newspaper. And writes most of the articles, if truth be told.”

Of course, some Westby had started the newspaper in the 1800s, and it was another Westby who seemed to have it in for Declan McCleary in the early 1900s. “Tough, is she?”

“I don’t know that tough is the word I’d use -- more like ruthless.” Julie folded her arms and kinked her body as if she were mentally stepping back to size him up, deciding whether or not he could take Vivian Westby in a fair fight.

“You think she’s not going to like outside competition?”

She laughed then, and he liked the sound of it. “She’s going to fucking hate it.”

He was a little taken aback by her word choice, and by the look on her face, that’s exactly the reaction she wanted. It was a reminder that he’d better not underestimate her again.

“Is it too early for a beer?” he asked, settling onto a bar stool. He needed information about what he’d really come to town for, but he’d have to work his way around to it with this one.

She answered by pulling one from the cooler and snapping off the cap at an opener fastened to the bar. It was a smooth, practiced move. “What do you want to know now?” she asked, settling her forearms along the top of the bar. “And before you ask, take notice of the bullet holes in the bar. Not all of those are from the wild west days.”

He grinned. He couldn’t help himself. He liked her. “What kind of a guy was this Declan McCleary? This whole hotel on the prairie things seems pretty bizarre.”

“I didn’t know him personally,” she said. “I was only a teenager when he died.” She glared when she caught him sizing up her age. “And what the man chose to do with his money is none of my business.” She grabbed a white cloth and began polishing the bar top, taking rather aggressive swipes at his resting arm. Her phrasing startled him. Did she know about the connection to Norah Finn? If she did, then possibly everyone did, and it wouldn’t be information he could use. But then Julie prattled on about what she called too much gingerbread and foolishness on the “beast of a place”, and he realized she was just talking about the money McCleary had spent on the hotel. The phone rang then, and she disappeared into an alcove off the back of the bar to answer it.

Her voice grew strident in her phone conversation and the volume rose. She was talking to someone named Jimmy whose attributes apparently included thieving, lying and giving other sonsabitches bad names. He tipped back his head and drained the beer. His eyes landed on a framed certificate hanging above the bar -- right between a pheasant in flight and a wood duck -- could Jimmy on the phone be the same Jimmy whose name accompanied hers on the license?

She slammed the receiver down so hard in its cradle that the phone jangled. The polishing cloth was twisted so tightly in her hand Rosso hoped she never tried to strangle him. No wonder his charm wasn’t working.

“Another beer?” she asked, but she didn’t wait for his reply, just scooped, de-capped and slid it down to him. She didn’t even look up.

“Thanks.” He took a swig. Should he acknowledge what he’d heard or just feign ignorance? He decided quickly that ignorance would be better for his health. “So you’ve lived here all your life?”

The look she shot him made him want to put up his hands and retreat again. But she must have decided it was just a question because her face softened and she answered him, “I went away to college for awhile, lived on the west coast for awhile.”

“What made you come back?” Were those tears in her eyes? Couldn’t be. Must be a weird reflection of the florescent lighting.

“It’s home,” she said simply.

He had no idea what she meant. There was the place his parents lived but he only visited them there. There was no one place where he’d gone to school with the same kids from kindergarten onward, or even played ball with the same team two years running. He’d traveled the world, but that had only been from army base to army base and that didn’t really count. When your father was a three-star general, and you were expected to best him when you grew up, the world was a very small place.

“I can show you your room any time,” she said. Whether it was the phone call or the silent reminiscing she’d been doing, she was very subdued.

“Do a lot of kids go away to college?” She’d given him his opening; he wasn’t going to let it pass by.

“Some,” she said. “A lot of kids go to Northwest Missouri State in Maryville. It’s not too far from here. Some get the hell out and are never seen again.”

“Any of them ever get as far as Ann Arbor? We’ve got a pretty big college there, you know.”

She eyed him again. Would she ever trust him? Of course, if he was honest, he’d have to admit that he’d given her very little reason to. “One did.”

“Did she like it? I’d be interested to know how Ann Arbor compares to a small town. We think we’re hot shit, but perhaps we’re wrong.”

“You’d have to ask her,” said Julie.

Trying to be funny wasn’t working with her either. “Did she come home too?”

“Ran home more like,” said Julie in a surprising bit of candor.

“Ran from what?”

“Nosy bastards like you would be my guess,” she snapped. She immediately softened. “I’m sorry. I’m not doing a very good job as hostess.” Her eyes drifted back to the telephone alcove.

“Was that your husband?” He decided to chance it.

Wrong decision. Her eyes flashed. “My husband is dead.” And then he thought he heard her mutter, “or soon will be.” She waved him toward the stairway. “This way.” She walked ahead of him, her bright red toenails winking as her long wide pants swirled around her legs as she went.

Drivin' with my Arm Out the Window

I usually take the pickup, using the excuse that it's already sitting out, but the truth is I just like driving it. I like climbing into it; I like being high up while I drive; I like all the possibilities of hauling stuff -- dirt, straw bales, furniture. But mostly I like driving it because it reminds me of my dad.

I loved riding with Dad in the pickup -- bumping out across the pasture to check cows, or really bumping out across the picked corn rows to chase cows. I'd ride with him to the Matthews place to check on the hogs or into Frank's store to pick out pop.

I vividly remember the detritus of Dad's pickup -- those flat, yellow carpenter's pencils or the advertising pencils that came with a cap; a variety of booklets where Dad jotted down cow/calf number combinations or notations about the weather. (I know without a doubt where I get my penchant for notebooks and pens.) There was usually a nearly-spent spool of twine and tools behind the seat and a bull whip jammed in somewhere just in case. (i.e. the grass is always greener.) You might even find a banana peel, although he usually tossed those out the window. (When I came home from college on weekends, I learned to track him by the freshness of the banana peel in the driveway.)

The best part, though, was riding in the back of the pickup. I couldn't wait for it to be warm enough in the spring to climb back there and ride into Maloy or to the field or back into the pasture where the ponds were. It was windy and cool and too loud to hear my sisters. To a pre-teen living in rural Iowa it was the closest I'd come to flying.

It's not the most gas-efficient decision, but every chance I get, I'm going drive the dirt roads with my arm out the window, and in my head, I'll hear Dad say, "You know, the pickup drives just as well on the top half of the gas tank as it does the bottom."

Dave steals the show

About a month ago Dave and I started plotting our Halloween costumes for an annual event at my friend Brenda's house, who loves Halloween more than I do, if that's possible. The standards are high at this venue. Past highlights include Juan Valdes complete with burro, Colonel Sanders, Idi Amin and Amos Moses with attached alligator. It's not a party where you can show up in a sheet and expect accolades.

Since Dave is a huge fan of Charles Darwin, it was a natural shift to portray a Darwin Award winner. People who win the Darwin Award have spectacularly annihilated themselves in some awesomely ignorant way. Standards for winning this award are also high. In fact, Brenda's husband Pat tried to nominate someone from St. Joe, posthumously, of course, for welding a gas tank without emptying it first and was told that his example was too blase. "You'd be amazed how many people kill themselves that way," they said. They need outstanding stupidity.

Hence Dave's costume, which I believe meets all standards of excellence.