The wipers squeaked and squalled as they slid across the damp windshield. There wasn’t enough rain in this summer shower to make them glide freely, yet there was just enough moisture and dust to obscure my vision.
Placing the gear lever in reverse, I glanced at the driver-side mirror making sure all was clear. The wipers uttered a loud stuttering noise and dull thump as the windshield cleared. Rolling backward, I pressed the gas petal and glanced forward. All too late, my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of a parked vehicle in the passenger mirror. It was a huge rusty old farm truck with a missing headlight. Panicking, I slammed on the brake and . . . BOOM!
Jolting, I sprang into a sitting position! “WOW!! What was that?” I spouted in a half dreaming stammer. The thunder clap rumbled off into the distance. Rolling over to her side of the bed, my wife groaned a gentle “Go back to sleep, it’s just a rainstorm.”
I looked around the bedroom. Lightning multi-flashed like paparazzi at a celebrity ball. A brilliant crackling lightning bolt hit close to the house. I counted the seconds to determine the storms distance. Finally the thunder resounded. Groggily I commented, “Seven seconds. That’s about seven miles to center.” The lightning was as intense as the reverberating thunder. Focusing, my eyes caught the red LED glow of the clock on the nightstand. I thought, “Oh man, 3:35 in the morning!”
Returning to a reclining position, what may have been seconds felt like hours before I fell asleep, but this time it was no dream. Rather, it was a recollection of my younger days. My older brother Ron had shipped out with the troops for their tour in Viet Nam. Dad was at work and Mom was house cleaning. I was a fifteen year old rummaging around the back porch cabinets looking for some illusive item.
Moving things around on the shelf, I spied a vaguely familiar pasteboard box in the very back of the cabinet. Rearranging a few items, I freed the container from its confines. To my surprise and pleasure I’d found the remains of a gross of Ron’s M-80’s he’d purchased for last years’ Fourth celebration. Of the two boxes only a half gross box survived.
As I gazed upon the find, I felt like a beggar who’d uncovered a king’s ransom. Yet, this newly discovered treasure trove presented a rather awkward moral dilemma; should I push them back on the shelf or “borrow” a few? I mean, who would know if a few went missing. And they ARE in the family, just not mine personally. Besides, he’d never miss them.
My adolescent mind rationalized with my reasoning side. “It’s almost the 4th of July. You should see if they are still good.” Suddenly, my shoulder devil protagonist butted in, “I bet they aren’t as loud as they were when he was still here. You should try one. Ron won’t care.” Then my right shoulder angel appeared. Without hesitation he firmly stated, “They aren’t yours. It would be stealing. Put them back.” I knew he was right but my weaker side gave in and I commandeered a half dozen.
With the select six in my greedy grasp, I still struggled. “What will Mom say if she finds out?” But like all shoulder devil protagonists, justification for acquiring the ill-gotten booty only needed a simple nudge to win its’ case. Miraculously, a couple left over firework punks materialized.
The hook was set as was my mind. Clutching them in my fist, I exited out the back door and headed for the barn about 60 feet from the house. I entered the workshop and found dad’s brass blow torch. He always kept a few matches with it so I was set.
Walking out to the gravel drive in front of the barn door, I laid out my arsenal; six M-80’s, two punks and the small book of matches. I stuffed five of the mini-dynamite sticks in my front jean pocket, slid the second punk to one side away from the remaining incendiary and, grasping the other punk, removed a match from the book.
With match in hand, I recalled seeing some actor in a movie position the match between the cover and the sandpaper striker pad. Then, with one hand, he pressed the flammable sandwich together and quickly jerked out the match with the other hand. With the elements of friction and combustible materials, Poof! The match head exploded into glowing flame, just like in the movie!
Pleased with my newly perfected technique in flameography, I lit the punk. Smoke ascended momentarily like a smudge pot but soon revealed the hot orange glowing embers of the punk tip. Now for the detonation.
Approaching cautiously, I crouched before the solitary stub. The green twisted fuse glistened in the mid-morning light as it filtered through the overhanging trees. The red casing with black printing “M-80” begged enticingly for attention. Slowly, methodically, I glanced over my shoulder to plan my escape route for viewing distance. Returning my vision to the sole candidate, I cautiously extended the glowing punk tip toward the fuse.
At first nothing happened, no smoke, no sizzle, no nothing! I moved it closer. Instantly sparks flew. The wick was lit! I jumped into running stance, turned on my heels and bolted for the clearing a few feet away.
Arriving at my pre-planned viewing spot I turned and stared. A little smoke, a few sparks, a small flame, and then nothing. Standing stock still while holding my breath I gazed on and . . . BBOOOOOOMMMM!!
Windows rattled on neighboring houses, birds scatted in every directions, leaves waved, and, as the smoke cleared, I noticed all the sand within five feet of the detonation spot had vanished. The war zone was now like a silent tomb. The concussion made my ears ring like tornado sirens.
I remained motionless as if in shock for an undetermined amount of time. Suddenly the silence was broken with voices coming from behind. The ringing in my ears obscured any reasonable attempts at voice recognition. I turned and looked. There stood a couple of our next-door-neighbor’s children, Sammy, age 10 and Ruth Ann, age 13.
The arriving itinerant chorus proclaimed, “What are you doing?”
Still stunned, I proudly retorted “I just set off one of Ronnie’s M-80’s!”
Ruth Ann, eyes wide and glistening with excitement, squealed “Do another one!”
“Yeah!” echoed Sammy.
“Sure.” I replied, embracing my newly acquired celebrity status. Expertly, I instructed my audience, “We’ll need to step back a lot further. I was standing way to close and my ears are still ringing.”
With bolder confidence we retreated another twenty feet away from my current observation post. “There, this should do it.” I explained. “Now, wait here and I’ll light the next one.”
Cooperatively, they replied “OK.”
I trotted back to the detonation location and set up my next firework. As before, I measured my escape route from over my shoulder, extended the lit punk to the fuse and watched till it sizzled. As a spark flew, so did I. But I had a surprise waiting. My young admirers had been overcome by curiosity and, with my attentions elsewhere, I stumbled into Sam and Ruth. Chaos ensued!
“RUN!” I screamed.
In a mad scramble we retreated to our new location. Just as we turned, “BBOOOOMMM!”
Again, the windows shook and leaves settled. The residual concussion swept our hair back. Then, once again, silence mastered the moment. I looked down at my protégés. Eyes were wide and mouths gaped as their jaws dropped. Even with our hands over our ears, the ringing continued.
Slowly, Sammy commented, “Wow! That was really loud.”
At this point, Ruth Ann turned to me with ebbing tears in her blue eyes and burbled a somber “Bye.” Then she scurried back to her house like a rat abandoning a sinking ship.
Wisdom shouted “That’s all folks!” but where two boys reside . . . there’s only half a brain and it proclaimed “Just one more!”
As if a telepathic connection had occurred, Sammy and my eyes met. “One more?” I asked.
Unhesitatingly, he responded “Oh, yea! You bet!”
“OK, but let’s do it different this time.” I studied the topography, and distance. With all the data in, I threw caution to the wind and confidently stated, “I’ll light it here facing that direction and throw it behind me over my shoulder. It will fly that way and we will run this way.”
It seemed logical to his 10 year old brain. And with my newly gained vast knowledge and experience base of such things as these, I proceeded. I grasped the lit punk, searched my pocket for one of the four remaining mini-bombs and positioned it in my hand. Then, lit the fuse, tossed it with a hearty backward “over –the-shoulder” lunge and headed away from the presumed not-so-distant target area with lightning speed.
Thinking we’d adequately distanced ourselves, we simultaneously stopped and turned. But no sparks or smoke was in sight.
“Where’d it go?” Sammy asked.
“I don’t know” I replied, quickly scanning the horizon. “It must have gone out.”
As the words drifted innocently from my lips, we heard a sizzle and thud just inches from our feet. The “boomer” I had presumably launched to the target zone was intercepted by a nearby over-hanging tree branch and was returned post haste. We had become the detonation zone!
With no time to run we stood our ground, braced ourselves and . . . “KKKAAAA-BBBOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!
The tornado siren effect on our ears had been morphed into intense Air Raid Sirens! As the smoke and dust clear a sullen silence fell over the terrain. Even the ants and earthworms had run for cover.
A gentle breeze carried small bits of leave and debris away as the red casing fragments of the M-80 twirled at our feet. Wordlessly, Sammy, covered in smoke, sand and disgrace, turned and retreated to his house.
As for my overzealous shoulder devil protagonist, the tumbling red paper fragments were all that remained of him. It would be a long time before I would hold counsel with his insights. As for my right shoulder angel, he remained the silent gentleman. The lesson would be forever etched in my memory. And as for Mom, she was probably hunkered down in the cellar armed with her Bible praying that Armageddon would soon pass.
Dutifully, and bearing a measure of chagrin, I quietly returned the remaining ordinances to their rightful half-gross box in the back of the cupboard. Nothing was ever mentioned of the incident again. At least, that is, until now.
And so I half dream . . . smiling.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © July 2017
Motherhood is not just the result of having a baby. It is a life commitment in nurturing and self-sacrifice. The most vivid illustration of this came from a conversation I overheard at age 13. It was there I learned the depth of my Mother’s faith and love for me. Tough love.
My Dad was a mechanical genius. One Sunday morning after the worship service, Pastor Curtis W. approached him seeking his mechanical prowess. They arranged an evening conflab later in the week with tools handy.
The 12 mile car ride to their house was a common bi-weekly journey. Every landmark was etched in my brain as I gazed out the window. But they didn’t seem to hold my interest that evening. My thoughts were elsewhere.
Upon arrival, Dad and Curtis retreated to the garage. Mom and the pastor’s wife wandered off to the kitchen to chat. I remained in the living room. Left to my own devices, I began wandering through the house fiddling with things on the coffee table and eventually working my way through all the knick-knacks in other rooms. I eventually returned to the living room and flopped down on the couch. “What to do next?” I sighed.
My thoughts were interrupted. I heard my name mentioned in the dialogue wafting in from the kitchen. It was my Mom’s voice. She was telling Edna, Mrs. W., a story I’d never heard. I stopped my fidgeting, leaned toward the kitchen and began eavesdropping on their conversation.
“. . . well, we really liked Dr. Gill,” she commented “so we just decided to drive up here for Mike’s medical needs. Less traffic and all, you know.”
“I can imagine!” Edna was obviously absorbed by something.
That peaked my curiosity. I squirmed a bit and wondered, “What medical needs is she talking about?”
Mom continued “So we brought him here but with the seizures increasing they didn’t give us much hope. Based on his research, Dr. Gill didn’t think he would live past age twelve!”
“Oh, my!” Edna responded. “So, was it the headaches?”
My mind raced, “Headaches? What headaches?” I recalled headaches off and on in my younger years but I didn’t remember any seizures. I wasn’t even sure what a seizure was. I’d told Dad I had a bad headache once but he turned it into an excuse to get my hair cut. He stated, “We should get that hair of yours trimmed. It might make your headaches go away.” Then, it was off to the barber shop.
I listened more intently now not wanting to miss a word.
Edna pressed Mom for more information. “What was causing the seizures? Did they say?”
“Yes, they explained it. You see, after Mike was born, the three skull portions began growing. In normal conditions they are supposed to grow toward the top of the head filling in the soft spot. But his didn’t for some reason. The sides were growing toward the top of the head faster than the back one so they began pushing it down. Basically, it was cutting into his spinal cord at the base of his skull.”
Edna seemed spellbound. Mom continued. “The pain caused him to go into spasms. He’d throw his arms above his head, then, arch his back and begin screaming. It was horrifying!” Her voice cracked. “I felt totally helpless.” She paused.
With focused concern, Edna probed, “So, did you bring him in for more testing?”
“We did.”
“And . . .?”
“They called it improper cranial sacral alignment.”
Edna wasn’t familiar with the term. Her voice grew more earnest. “And is it treatable?”
Regaining her composure Mom said, “No, not really. But let me back up. When I was carrying Mike I somehow contracted hepatitis. So the week he was due I came in for his final checkup with that complaint. They admitted me to the hospital for treatment of the hepatitis. Whether that had anything to do with his condition, I don’t know. They didn’t say. Anyway, he was born that same week. It was after he was home a few months when the convulsions started.”
“Sooo . . . he’s how old now?” The clatter of dishes, spoons and cups rattled from the kitchen as the aroma of fresh brewed coffee filled the house.
“He turned thirteen last October. He seldom complains of headaches.” Mom continued, “And he hasn’t had a seizure in years!”
Edna interjected, “Well, that’s a blessing but what now? I mean, he’s thirteen!” She sensed there was more to the story.
“Honestly, it’s in the Lord’s hands. But, here’s what happened. That first year we’d been praying but nothing seemed to be happening. I was attending a ladies Bible study at our previous church. Near the end of one of the studies Mike had one of his seizures so I took him outside. When the study was over, one of my friends approached me. She’d never witnessed one of his seizures before so she began asking specific questions about it. I explained his condition to her and what the doctors had said.”
“Well, go on.” Edna prodded.
“She was with the Salvation Army. But what I didn’t know was that she also knew Swedish massage. She convinced me to bring him over to her house once a week to work with him. So I began the following week.”
Edna was all ears. So was I.
Mom hesitated and then spoke. “The first visit was a traumatic one. She told me to create a shopping list and then deliver Mike to her. I was to go shopping for at least an hour while she worked on him. So, I handed him off, returned to the car and rolled down the window while I reviewed my shopping list. Then I heard his screams coming from the house. The pain for him must have been terrible. I couldn’t stand it! I drove away in tears.”
Her voice faltered momentarily. Then she continued, “This went on for weeks. It must have worked. The seizures seemed to decrease. They finally disappeared. My friend told me later that while she manipulated the bones she would call out to God and sing hymns. She was the answer to our prayers! We’ve taken him in for regular checkups since then. They no longer seem to be as concerned. Dr. Gill said there isn’t anything more they can do for him. I think it’s a miracle!”
The room went silent. Obviously, Edna was as stunned as I was. My adolescent boredom had been transformed to resolve. It now seemed I had a greater purpose in life.
My mother, her prayers, her sacrifice of tears, and her Savior have become a monument in my life. Her investment has given me 50 plus years to serve and glorify Him. And I seldom get headaches. Thanks, Mom. Thanks for caring friends. And thank you, Jesus.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © May 2017
The warm mid-day breeze moved the curtains above the kitchen sink. Spring was finally here. Mom opened the front door to create a draw through the house. The sweet fragrances of a budding springtime mingled with the aromas of her baking.
Returning to the kitchen, Mom turned toward the oven. Wrapping her hands with the edge of her apron, she gripped the handle, opened the door a smidgen, and bent over to peek. Daylight revealed the fresh loaf of bread inside. It still needed that golden glow on the crust. Closing the door, she thought “Just a few more minutes and I can call the boys in for lunch.”
But her thoughts were interrupted. Sounds of distant screams reverberated off the walls, lots of them. The commotion seemed to be coming from the front of the house and getting louder. It was too manic for playfulness. Hurrying to the door to investigate, she peered through the screen.
The High School baseball field was in clear view just a hundred yards or so from the porch. Earlier, this Saturday morning, some of the neighbor boys had arrived in hopes of burning off some pent-up baseball fever with her oldest son, Ron. She’d sent them out to play.
As she scanned the horizon, she observed a half dozen boys running in all direction. Two were hers. Fourteen-year-old Ron was scurrying toward the ball field as the neighbor boys scattered across the cityscape. Her youngest, Mike, was running straight for the house waving his arms frantically above his head. Growing more concerned, she wondered, “What are they doing?”
Her memory raced back to the boys gathering equipment. Being short several players for a true game, they’d settled for fielding practice. Grabbing a couple “Louisville Slugger” bats, some gloves and a ball, they set off to the ball field to “hit a few.”
Watching as they ambled into the distance, lighthearted chatter filled the air. Smiling, she returned to the kitchen to prepare for a hungry mob, later. All seemed normal.
And all was normal . . . for a while. As they walked across the school lawn, positions were assigned. Ron could hit about anything that crossed the plate. Next-door-neighbor Andy threw a mean curve ball. His younger brother Danny could play rover, being quick and agile anywhere on the field. Dwight volunteered to be catcher. The two youngest, little Sam and ten-year-old Mike (Ron’s brother) would be outfielders. Entering through the make-shift dugout, everyone took their places.
Andy warmed his arm up as Ron tested the bats. Then, standing in the batter’s box, he walloped a good set of Andy’s sizzling pitches. Dwight retrieved the occasional fouls and stray throws while Danny, Mike and Sam fielded flies.
Finally, Andy decided to try his hottest curve ball. As the breeze fluffed his blonde hair, he took his position, straightened his stance, signaled Dwight, wound up for the throw, and then fired the spherical missile at the batter. Calculating the speed, Ron tightened his grip on the stick. His senses shouted “NOW, HIT IT!”
Mind and muscles prompted reflexes. Taking a mighty swing, wood and leather collided with a “Smack” sending the ball soaring . . . but only to foul out over the left field backstop. All eyes were fixed on the ball as it disappeared into the adjoining neighbor’s backyard.
Ron called to the fielders, “I’ll go get it. Just stay put.” He made his way out through the dugout to the neighbor’s picket fence. Entering a side gate, he walked to where the ball had vanished behind an old tool shed. They searched around trees, through flowerbeds and under various obstacles, yet the lone ball was nowhere in sight. Finally, the other boys dropped their gloves and joined him.
Out of courtesy Danny knocked on the front door of the house, but apparently no one was home. Returning to the rest of the search squad, he began wandering through the cluttered yard. Dodging empty flower pots and lawn furniture, he began kicking through the tall grass in hopes of striking the lost ball.
Suddenly, Ron shouted, “Hey, I found it.” Relieved, the boys ran to him at the door of the old shed.
Seeing Ron’s empty hands, Andy scowled. “So, where is it?”
“It must have bounced off something and flew in here,” he replied. Pointing toward the floor just a few feet inside, he continued, “It’s over there on that pile of old rags.” With one foot inside, he leaned forward and grabbed the ball. Stepping out again, he began inspecting it for damage.
“Well, come on, let’s play ball,” called Danny.
Studying the darkened interior of the shed, Ron continued, “I wonder what’s under all those rags.” The noonday sun seemed to spotlight the pile, while the remaining contents sat shrouded in the darkness.
“Oh, who cares? Come on. Let’s go,” said Andy.
But no one budged. With curiosities peaked, they gathered around the darkened opening to see the pile and any other potential mysteries. Then Ron erupted, “Look! That rag moved . . . and I hear something.” The boys were all eyes and ears. Slowly, Ron reached for the top bundle.
Uneasy shivers crawled up Danny’s back. With hair raising on his neck he called, “Hey, let’s get out of here!”
Ron hesitated. Then, confidently, he continued reaching into the inner sanctum. “No, come on. Let’s see what it is,” he retorted.
Touching the top of the stack, he pulled out a rag. With their attentions drawn to the new found treasure, they hadn’t notice the increased rumble, buzz and hums emanating from the pile. Suddenly, a few large bees took flight. It was a nest of bumble bees!
Still unaware, Andy impatiently confirmed, “Ok. It’s just a rag. Can we go now?”
But before anyone could respond, the air filled with angry bees. Chaos ensued. The gang of boys ran yelling in all directions. In an effort to escape, one of the older boys knocked Sam down to the ground and shot out of the yard. Scrambling, Mike tripped over Sam. Jumping up, he pushed past Danny, attempting to evade the fierce denizens.
As if mesmerized, the bumble bees chased after Mike, in hot pursuit. Swinging his arms and hands furiously, he clambered past the other boys heading straight for home. No matter which way he zigged, zagged, or swatted, the bees remained locked on target.
Intense pain radiated through his neck and head as his attackers initiated their assault. Tears flowed as he screamed in desperation! One by one the black and yellow striped demons buried their stingers and pulled away.
As he sped closer to the house, Mom quickly appraised the situation. She rushed out the door, jumped off the porch and, using her apron as a whip, chased off the remaining attackers. Falling to her knees, she embraced her son, cradled his shaking body in her arms and carried him to the safety of home.
Offering consoling words, she wiped his tears while examining his injuries. Rapidly, she mixing a baking soda paste and applied it to the welts to draw out the venomous poisons. Then she applied towel-wrapped ice to reduce the swelling.
He’d received a dozen stings on the back of his head and neck. Strangely, the other boys escaped without injury. Rocking him on her lap, she offered him the first slice of freshly baked bread, now spread with butter and sugar. What had begun as a bumbling spring day was once again a tranquil, budding one.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © April 2017
There stood Maggie in the doorway. Hesitant, she flashed those big brown beautiful cow-eyes my way. Their liquid warmth sparkled with hungry anticipation. As our eyes met an unsettled foreboding came over me. I detected a hint of hellish fiery discontent in those sanguine dark pools.
Earlier in the fall my boss had introduced several young calving heifers into the existing one hundred head Holstein herd. The purpose: acclimate them to the milking process once they had calved. They were all pretty skittish at first but adjusted, all but Maggie. She took skittish to a new level. She was always the last one into the holding pen and always last into the milking stalls. Yet the taste of grain from the feeder seemed to quell her ambivalence.
The routine was simple: get them into the milking stalls, begin feeding, drop the back-out bar behind them if necessary, and raise the stainless steel milking cluster under their udder. This allowed them to adjust to the rhythmic sucking sounds of the milkers. That was it. All the heifers had become accustom to that routine during their pregnancy, except Maggie. And now she had delivered.
On this particular day, as was her custom, she entered the doorway, looked around the barn, eyed the empty stall in front of her and waited or backed out again. Then, a few minutes before the mature cows had finished milking, she slowly walked up to the feeder. Her black and white spotted figure barely cleared the short doorway header. She placed her head in the feeder box and began eating with one eye fixed on me. As I approached, her head bolted. Hurriedly, she back out of the stall as if a bee stung her nose.
Since she had calved, she had to be milked! My teenage mind conceived a plan. As she backed out the one door, I hopped the rail on the opposite side of the barn, ducked my head to miss the header, ran up from behind and chased her back in. Once there, she began feeding peacefully. Then, as the other cows finished their milking, I returned to remove their milkers. With stealth, I dropped the back-out bar behind her as I passed. She noticed but didn’t seem to mind. I thought I was home free but I was wrong. She had a plan too.
Not wishing to startle her, I walked up beside her and gently lifted the cluster under her. As she spied me she raised her hind left leg and, with lightning speed, kicked my arm sending the cluster flying. Thankfully the vacuum pump lines saved them from hitting the floor. They hung suspended in air. But the pain in my forearm fueled my anger. She tried to back from the stall again but the back-out bar her caught her rump. Surprised, she pressed forward into the feeder box and, feeling trapped, kicked out toward me again with greater angst! This called for drastic measures.
Earlier that spring, my boss showed me how to use “the Kickers” for stubborn cantankerous bovines. By now I had become well versed in the practice. With equal speed and a boiling temper, I grabbed the vise-like tool off the wall, scooted the step-stool to the railing, climbed the steps and forced them down over her hips. The side bars fit loosely in front of her young thighs. Gripping the swivel handle, I cranked them down as tight as I could. Unfortunately, there was still free play left in them giving my adversary some unintended freedom of movement.
I climbed down and retrieved the cluster still swinging from the lines. With a flurry, I placed them on her, then whisked my arms back as she attempted to kick me again. Having an under-developed smallish udder, the teat-cups lost air and slipped down as if to fall off. Reluctantly, I reached in and lifted them back into position. All seemed to be working as she let down her milk.
As the milk flow tapered off, I reached in to remove the cups and cluster. But as I leaned in, she kicked with all her might knocking the cluster and pump out of my hands and down into the accumulated manure below. They hit with a splash sending fecal matter everywhere. Then, shifting her weight, she knocked the back-out bar out of position. Shoving herself in reverse, she slammed the back-out bar up allowing a free retreat. She retreated through the entry chute and made her escape into the holding pen.
I was exasperated! Angry, I jumped the rail, ducked my head and flew through the low doorway. In my rage I misjudged its elevation. My capped head hit the door header with full force. Golden stars appeared in a sea of black. My last vision was the wooden fence post and railing not six feet away. Losing consciousness, I lunged forward catching the top of the post. Wrapping my arms around it, I clung tight as if my life depended on it.
I remained motionless with my head throbbing in pain and my ears ringing. I hung suspended above the barn floor for who knows how long. Slowly, my vision returned while the stars continued swirling in my pounding head.
Maggie had won this round. I would survive to fight another day. As a comforting thought, I imagined she would probably make good steaks.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © March, 2017
The short drive from work to his brother’s home had been a bit treacherous. As the evening sun glared across the blanket of snow the late afternoon temperatures began to drop, creating a lumpy glaze over the brick side-street.
Stopping in front of the house, the tires slid against the curb sending a small wave of refreezing ice over the snow covered lawn and onto the cleared sidewalk. As Mike stepped out of the car his foot slipped and banged his shin against the door frame. Letting out a groan, he slammed the door closed. Wincing in pain, the nineteen-year-old gingerly limped around the front of the car to the sidewalk.
As he reached for the front door he heard a voice behind him call out, “Hey, Mike!” Turning to see who addressed him, his vision was immediately obscured by the frigid smack of a slush ball in his face. It was the neighbor’s nine-year-old kid, Lance. His laugh was unmistakable, but not infectious. All that could be seen of him was his backside as he gleefully leaped over the drifts toward his house.
Duly exasperated, Mike flicked off the wet icy shards from his coat and, without knocking, walked through the entry door into the safe confines of the cozy living room. His sister-in-law Donna was in the adjoining dining room busily setting the table for the evening meal. She hadn’t noticed him enter the house. “Hi,” he sighed.
Startled, she looked up. “Oh my word, what happened to you?” she asked, laughing.
“Oh, your little next door nuisance gave me a late Christmas present,” Mike retorted.
“Well, it looks like he got you pretty good. What did you do to provoke him?”
“Nothing! I just turned and, smack, there it was.” He slipped off his coat and laid it over the arm of the couch. Wanting to change the subject, he continued apologetically, “Expecting anyone over for supper?” He hoped they had no plans for more than the family; Donna, his older brother Ron, the 4 year old Lisa, and Brent who was just a babe in arms. Mike often invited himself over for a meal when funds were low. Donna always offered good natured hospitality with a forgiving spirit.
With her knowing smile she replied, “I’ll set another plate. We’re having pot roast with potatoes and carrots.”
“Mmmm. Anything for dessert?” he inquired.
Calling from the kitchen, she said, “I made Ron’s favorite, my apple cake. I somehow missed making it over the holidays so it’s by special request.”
“I don’t recall ever having it.”
“Oh, you’ll love it since you like whipped cream.”
Whipped cream! He loved just about anything with whipped cream. His eyes brightened and his mouth began to salivate. The pain of the shin slam and the wrath of the slush ball incident diminished rapidly. Images of sweet delights buried in a blizzard of the creamy confection began to dance through his head. He scurried into the kitchen to assist her in the final meal preparations. Perhaps he could sneak a peek at the cake.
Time passed quickly as small talk was exchanged. Lisa was now up from her nap while Brent continued resting in his crib. Then Ron arrived home.
Entering the kitchen from the back, he gave Donna a kiss. Then he spied Mike and, with a knowing smirk on his face, said “Well, hello. Wasn’t expecting you. I suppose you’re here for supper.” Mike nodded sheepishly. Ron offered a jovial nod and went off to change clothes for the evening.
The meal was excellent with the usual table talk of the day’s workplace activities. Mike spoke of a difficult print job he’d wrestled with at the bindery as well as the ice ball incident. Ron shared the rigors of the current office politics. During the exchange, Mike pushed away his plate anticipating the upcoming dessert.
Donna interrupted the conversation, “I’m sorry but you’ll have to serve yourselves dessert. I need to lie down. I have a headache.” (She was prone to migraines.) Turning to make her retreat to the dark quiet confines of the bedroom, she continued, “The cake is on the counter and the Cool Whip is in the fridge. It’s running a bit low but should be fine for the three of you. Help yourselves.” As she left, she snatched up baby Brent for his evening feeding.
“Are you ready for dessert?” Mike asked eager to sink his teeth into that cake. “I’ll get it if you like.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Ron replied, clearing Lisa’s highchair tray. “The Cool Whip is in the door in an accordion shaped container.”
Mike entered the kitchen. Donna had already cut the cake into squares and served them up on saucers. They just needed topping. He grabbed the saucers and placed a nice helping at his unoccupied spot as guest at the far end of the table nearest the kitchen. A small serving was placed on Lisa’s high chair tray at the side of the table. The final piece was set at the opposite end of the table nearest the living room, Ron’s place. Then he hurried back to the kitchen to retrieve the Cool Whip.
A cursory search of the refrigerator’s interior unearthed nothing. Then he remembered Ron’s description. Suddenly he spied it! It was the new packaging that had thrown him off. What a fascinating design concept. It was about 6” high and 4” around, a white round accordion style plastic container topped with a blue snap-on cap. Just pop the top and squeeze. It would squirt out a fluted shape similar to a soft-serve ice cream cone or of piped icing on a cake.
Beaming, he returned to the dining room clutching the culinary delight and handed it to his brother. Ron covered his and Lisa’s portions, then handed it back to Mike who returned to his place. Hopefully there’d be enough for his piece.
Mike removed the lid, aimed the container downward and began piping the fluffy cream over the moist cake. Then came the inevitable sound, “Ppptttttthhh!” In his mind that seemed to indicate more air than topping in the bellows of the container. It barely covered his piece, more like a spattering than a smothering. Looking up, he saw Ron enjoying his portion while attending to Lisa. Mike conceded any further attempts at milking the container and finished off the tasty tidbit. All had contented, happy tummies.
The shop talk resumed but Mike was distracted. Picking up the bellows-shaped container, he began a closer examination of the construction. Tumbling it around in his hands below the table he thought, I wonder how strong that blue cap is. What would it take to pop it off? He turned and squeezed the bulges on the ribs and seams. Would they hold more applied pressure? Would the cap sail off into the living room? The possibilities seemed endless.
As Ron continued his "monolog," Mike’s attentions continued to drift. He leaned back in his chair aiming the lid toward the distant room applying even more pressure. The lid still gave no hint of budging. He positioned his thumbs firmly on the bottom as his remaining fingers encompassed the top and neck of the container. Just one hard push should do it, he concluded, and gave it a vise-like squeeze. Suddenly,“Phhooopppfffttt!” Like a bullet over the heads of all, the lid shot above the table, ricocheted off the ceiling and disappeared behind the coach. What a feat! Blast off was successful.
The room went silent. You could have heard a pin drop. Everyone must have been in awe of that marvelous in-home launch. Then, Lisa burst into laughter. As Mike looked up from the container, there, at the opposite end of the table sat a whipped cream covered brother, and his daughter. A look of total sheer disbelief etched Ron’s cream-coated countenance. Then slowly, like an erupting volcano, he thundered, “I can’t believe you did that!”
Awakened by the commotion of contagious laughter, with baby in one arm and the other hand pressed to her forehead to deflect the light, Donna reentered the dining room. With eyes squinting and jaw dropping, she groggily spoke, “What’s going on? . . . Oh my word!”
Her eyes widened as her gaze traced the entire area. The former dining and living rooms had turned into a make-shift launch zone from table level to ceiling. Whipped cream had spattered everything in sight. On the one end, Ron and Lisa, two ghost-like figures seated at the table, were dappled in the white cream. On the other end, the homey comforts and furnishings had been transformed to resemble a poorly blown popcorn ceiling. Soberly, she turned and, shuffling back to the bedroom, said, “You can clean it up!”
By Michael Alumbaugh, © February, 2017
As the steam dissipated, his mirrored image grew clearer and the shaving less treacherous. With a final drag of the blade, he pulled the drain plug. The water gurgled and swirled as it flowed out through the pipe. He rinsed the lather from his face and toweled it dry.
Stepping from the bathroom, he grabbed his shirt and headed for the kitchen. The light over the dining room table gave renewed illumination as he tucked in his shirt tail and adjusted the belt in his slacks. He was ready for the day, save gulping down his breakfast and hitting the street for work.
As he entered the cramped simple dining area he spied her; the love of his life, his fair skinned auburn haired beauty, his Bride of over 4 years. She stood near the stove stirring something over a burner. A warm smile crept to his face as he seated himself at the table. She was always up mornings to see him off. He adored watching her moving around the duplex, whether it was straightening up, cleaning, reading a book, or cooking. And for meals, well, he anxiously anticipated her next culinary creation.
He pondered, “What will breakfast be this time? Maybe she’ll have pancakes, or waffles, or even bacon and eggs?” but there were no frying smells emanating from the stove. “Must be something in the oven.” he thought, but the small confinement of the preparation area wasn’t stuffy. With her back toward him, her robe clad slender physique hid what was being prepared, but no matter. Whatever it was, it would be worth the wait, as long as he wasn’t late for work!
She was a great cook. She had faithfully served meals since their engagement. Once at her parents’ home before the wedding, he recalled, she’d asked him if he liked potato cakes. Star-struck and clueless, he ignorantly responded, “I guess so.”
She followed up with, “What do you like with them?”
Continuing in blissful ignorance, he replied, “With maple syrup I guess, if you have it.”
Without another word, and a questioning glance over her shoulder, she returned to the kitchen. He found out as the dishes were passed around the table that potato cakes were butter fried mashed potato patties.
His daydream was suddenly interrupted. “Are you ready for breakfast?” she asked in her lilting voice.
“Sure! Always.” he remarked with a big grin.
His eyes looked over the table. His Bible lay a short distance from him. Perhaps he could get in a quick read for inspiration before heading for the door.
“Toast is coming too,” she added.
As he reached for the book, she walked to where he was seated, quickly placed a bowl in front of him, and hurriedly returned to the toaster. She made the best homemade bread he’d ever tasted. His mouth began to water. He watched as she cut the slices from the loaf and placed them in the slots. His gaze returned to the bowl and book as he heard her press the handle down and the spring catch.
His eager eyes set on the coveted prize as his tummy shouted, “Breakfast at last!” But it wasn’t what he had anticipated; not even close. As he studied the contents of the bowl, conciliatory thoughts raced through his mind. “She sacrifices so much for me. She could sleep in and make me fix my own breakfast, but she doesn’t. And she’s made my sack lunches every day since our honeymoon, always with a little note hidden somewhere inside announcing the number of days we’ve been married. What a wonderful wife! But . . .”
Time seemed to stand still as his suspicions solidified. Yep, it was the same thing in the bowl; oatmeal. She had fixed oatmeal so many times before and he never said a word. He just dutifully ate it and thanked her. He recalled his Mom fixing a big pot of oatmeal on cold winter days for her five hungry children. It was quick, easy, and economical for a family with a limited income. He had never liked it. Even then the slimy gelatinous mass was hard to swallow, but if he loaded it with raisins and sugar he could survive.
As she put the finishing touches to his lunch, he knew he had to tell her, but how? His thoughts turned to dread. With a dish towel in one hand, she turned and placed the mid-day meal in the usual spot at the end of the counter. He could easily spot and grab it as he ran out the door. Now might just be a good time.
She casually looked over at him. She noticed he hadn’t touched his spoon, not to mention the offering she’d placed before him. The steam from the old fashioned cooked oats was now barely visible as it continued to cool. Growing concerned, she asked, “Honey, are you alright?”
Still deep in thought, he continued to stare down at the bowl. The mass occupying the vessel seemed to have taken on a life of its own. It appeared to be staring back at him in bold defiance as if daring him to take a bite.
Fighting to maintain some semblance of composure, he opened his mouth, but instead of words, his gag reflex took over. A strained gulp erupted! “Hhuupp . . . I’m fine.” he burbled sheepishly.
“Is there something wrong? Do you need something else?” she queried. With a perplexed look, she stepped closer to the table. Generously, she offered, “I can put on a bit more honey if you want some.”
Those four years of hypocrisy had caught up with him. Desiring only to be a loving, considerate husband, he NEVER complained when she served him anything, even oatmeal. He truly loved the birthday oatmeal cakes with the creamy coconut-pecan frosting she made and her chewy pecan-raisin oatmeal cookies were a delight. In fact, he enjoyed almost anything else made with oats, but NOT cooked oatmeal. She desired only to please her husband. She continually sacrificed her desires for his, and he knew it.
The culinary confrontation between those dreaded oats and his knotting stomach climaxed. With all the compassion and courage he could muster, he exclaimed, “Darling, I know how much you love me and love cooking for me, and I appreciate ALL you do. And I know how much you love oatmeal.” Hesitating, he confessed, “But I HATE oatmeal!”
She froze in place. Her tender hands clasped the dish towel and slowly began wringing it. Then, she kindly but firmly spoke, “I love oatmeal? I don’t even like oatmeal, but YOU do! You always eat oatmeal.”
He now felt pangs of guilt for never communicating his dislike. In a penitent tone he spoke, “Well, I ate it because you fixed it, not because I liked it,” and then added, “and because I love you.”
With an understanding smile, she turned toward the stove once more, and with some resignation in her voice, offered an alternative, “I’ll fry you an egg to go with your toast and I’ll eat the oatmeal.”
Humbled, he looked down at his formidable foe, grabbed the spoon and attacked the gelatinous glob, as he conceded “No, honey, I’ll eat it.” . . . and so he did.
By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2017 January
It was early autumn and things had slowed down on the farm. To keep our young hands out of mischief, the boss got creative and improvised chores. On this particular morning, Tony, the owners’ son, and I were saddled with painting the loafing barn. Being an almost all metal building, the only paintable surfaces were the wooden eves projecting from under the roof about twelve feet up. Enjoying pleasant temperatures with the sun occasionally peeking through the clouds, we laid out our plan of attack: each of us would take opposite ends of one side of the barn and work toward the middle. So, with a spring in our step, we got started.
With reckless abandon, our young arms slung paint onto the eves as our shirttails flapped in the breeze. Perched at the top of the ladders like birds on a weather vane, we gained a whole new perspective of the cattle pen. Our new outlook stimulated thoughtful conversation at first, but soon deteriorated into mindless chatter. We talked of cows, cars, classes, teachers, and probably girls. Inevitably, corny jokes emerged, making for a chirpy devil-may-care atmosphere.
An hour later we were about twenty feet away from each other and close to finishing the first side. We moved our ladders and began our assent to the next summit. As I dipped my brush into the bucket I heard Tony laugh and call out “Shoot! I left my brush down there.” He propped his bucket between the top rung of the ladder and the roof line and began climbing down. I shouted “Wait! I’ll get it and hand it up to you.” - I needed to reposition my ladder anyway. - But my words fell on deaf ears as he continued his descent.
I glanced over at his bucket and then down to him. As he reached the bottom rung, he bent over to grab the deserted brush. With one foot on the lowest rung and the other on the ground, I noticed his ladder wiggle slightly. But before I could utter a sound it happened.
Haphazardly placed, his paint bucket slipped from its perch and began its short free fall toward the ground. As it came down Tony rose to a standing position and turned his gaze in my direction (apparently responding to my unconscious gasp). The now upside-down bucket landed squarely on his head! As if by design, it positioned itself snugly about his ears like a crown. It couldn’t have fit better if he’d searched every hatter’s haberdashery in the county! He stood there stunned. I was speechless.
To my amazement, not one drop of paint was lost. But that soon changed. Reacting to the bucket’s loving embrace, he dropped the brush and, with both hands, grabbed the sides of the inverted container. I shouted “Don’t . . . !” but it was too late. In sheer panic, he launched the pail straight up and all the paint gushed out. From head to heels, he was coated!
Disgusted, he quietly turned and sauntered off across the road in the direction of the house. I watched as he wandered out of sight, and then returned to the project. But I was perplexed. Considering the various elements of the whole incident, “How did that bucket ever fit so conveniently on his head? I mean, what are the odds?” and “What does it take to remove that enamel paint?”
About an hour or so later I found out . . . sort of. As I finished up the last side of the barn, a humbled and slightly blanched-looking Tony wandered around the corner. What little I did wheedle out of him comprised of a can of gasoline, a scrub brush, an outdoor bath in a makeshift tub, and the consoling words of a loving mother.
After all these years, I’ve never forgotten that look on his face with the paint bucket firmly lodged on his head. Nor have I ever mentioned the incident to him or his Dad. Still, the recollection brings an impish grin to my face like a guilty pleasure.
By Michael L. Alumbaugh © November 2016
