Grandfather Tales: Hank's Last Wish

I have told this story so often that I was surprised that I hadn't posted it on this blog.  A friend asked that I do so, so here it is:

One of my grandmothers had a long-term relationship with a man named Hank.  He was a good man, always kind to us kids, and I genuinely wished she would marry him so I could call him granddad.  However, for reasons of their own, he remained Hank until the day he died.

Hank was a dump truck driver for a local quarry.  Every weekday he would be driving on Route 18, back and forth with gravel, passing close to grandma's house with each trip.  When he died, grandma had him cremated and saved some of his ashes for his last wish after interring the rest in a corner of the garden.  (She's very "green" in the modern sense of the word, in her own way.)

Grandma decided to give Hank his last hurrah about a month after he died.  The weather had cleared (overcast and foggy- a good Spring day for Pennsylvania) and she had her sister Irene drive her to Erie, about 45 minutes north, for a large shopping trip.  Grandma had never learned to drive, you see, but she always pitched in with the gas.

So here we join these two ladies in their van driving toward the city of Erie at about 6:30 a.m.:

  'Millie, why'd you roll down the window,' asked Aunt Irene.
  'It's a beautiful day out,' replied Grandma.
  'It's okay, I guess.  I rather like the fog.'

  (Long pause)

  'Now what are you doing?'
  (Grandma is busy tipping the contents of a sandwich baggie out the window.)
  'Hank's last wish.'
  'What?  What have you got there?'
  'Hank's last wish.'
  (Grandma, finished with the empty sandwich bag, places it back in her purse.)

As they drove on, grandma told her sister how Hank had wished for his ashes to be spread on the highway where he had spent so much time. She explained that the bag had contained the last of his remains and she had purposefully waited until she next went shopping to give the road it's new coating.

Unfortunately for Hank, the wind and fog had the last laugh.  When they got to Erie the ladies found Hank spread all over the side of the van, plastered there by the mist.  He ended up being given a burial at sea, so to speak, by being washed off in a car wash.

Follow?

Just a reminder that you can also follow me at:

http://twitter.com/Evergreen_Man


http://www.facebook.com/bthroop1

 

Cow Embryo Incubation Chambers!

According to my Twitter feed I promised to tell this blog the story of the cow embryo incubation chambers.  Now for those of you who aren't aware, I grew up working a dairy farm in rural NW Pennsylvania while not in school.  Just about everyone in the church our family attended had some connection to farm life, which is why this story is so amusing to me.  I trust you will also find it so.

In the autumn of 1987, just around County Fair time where in that part of the country one is reasonably certain the days will be warm and rain-free, our church received a visitor.  This fellow was a traveling minister assigned to visit a circuit of congregations to review their needs and accounts once every six months for a period of two years.  His first full day with us was on a Saturday, so to get him and his wife acquainted with the area one of the elders took Barry with his family for a drive in the country and another elder took Barry's wife.

We had reached an area bordering on Amish territory and were viewing our first real farms when Barry asked a question about the large hay bales covered with tarps in the field.  As background you have to understand that this preacher had lived his entire life (he was 43 at the time I believe) in New Jersey near New York City.  Farm life was as alien to him as the Spaniards were to the Aztecs.  Here then is what our elder told Barry about life in the country:

Brother Morgan (picture James Earl Jones): 'Those hay bales there?  Those are cow embryo incubation chambers.  The farmer inserts the baby cow inside and it eats it's way out as it grows.  They put the plastic over top to keep it warm and to make sure it doesn't rot in the rain.'

This news took a moment to digest as our distinguished visitor started to realize that either his host was teasing or that farm life was a lot harder than any episode of Green Acres.  The rest of the ride was a litany of questions any country 10-year old could answer followed by the increasingly unbelievable answers which Brother Morgan seemed to make up on the spot.  To add verisimilitude the answers were sprinkled with truths such as how the Amish and Mennonites hung their curtains differently or to avoid wearing the color red around them to avoid giving unintended insult.  This lesson in farm life and biology continued for a couple hours- long enough to make our guest wary of staying too long in our primitive part of the world.

Finally we arrived at McDonalds to join up with the preacher's wife's car.  Over snacks we related anecdotes from our respective tours.  Brother Morgan was cajoled into admitting that most of what he had related was true in essence but that he may have exaggerated for comic effect a few of the more unbelievable "facts"- all except for the part about the cow embryo incubation chambers, of course.

I happened to see Barry again in 1994.  After a speech in Greensboro I rushed down to the stage to say hello.  Turning around from other well-wishers he saw me and immediately recognized the young adult I'd grown up to be.  "Throop!" he said loudly and affectionately.  We spent a couple of minutes gossiping about old times and he remarked that of all the places he had been our congregation of 'country bumpkins' had been the sharpest group of parishioners with which he had ever been associated.  He also said that he told this story on himself to his friends and colleagues as a cautionary tale: never assume you know it all- especially about how calves are raised.

Sandwiches

Okay, this may seem a trivial topic for discussion, but here goes:

My grandfather had definite ideas about what food he wanted to eat.  He hated rice, once screaming in a KFC restaurant with curse words when he found rice on the side of one of his chicken pieces.  He never told me why he hated rice and I've often wondered if it had something to do with World War II.  He never ate anything except white bread and yeast rolls for bread so far as I know.  One of his regular meal ideas was to put a slice of white bread on a plate and douse it in milk.  (Something I'd never try as I am not a fish and like my bread solid, not soggy.)  Lastly, he had a fondness for pickle & cheese sandwiches.

I will admit to trying this idea.  I'm not vegetarian, but the novelty of the sandwich attracted me as a kid and I still eat them a couple of times annually.  Just two slices of bread with swiss cheese and sliced dill pickles in between.  American cheese is too soft in texture and taste for this application and sweet pickles taste gross.

Do you have any strange dishes that friends or relatives have taught you to like?

On a similar note I did try the milk and Pepsi drink that was shown on the Lavern & Shirley show when I was a kid.  I think I'll stick to just milk, skim at that, and leave the Pepsi for people who like sweet drinks.  I would say I drink Coke, but that is very occasional and usually when I have a headache or just need caffeine.

As I said, this isn't the biggest topic to discuss, but at this very moment it needed to be said.  Grandad is in the nursing home and I'll likely never see him again.  I doubt anyone has made him a decent sandwich in years... and that kinda irks me.  I must remember to note that in my living will- drip feed my comatose body with a decent sandwich from time to time.  If nothing else I believe pureed pickles and cheese will wake me up...

I am not a Buddhist

Okay, strange topic for today based upon a web comic I like which got sorta deep today:

http://happletea.com/2010/10/26/in-accordance-with-scripture/

As a man raised in a very strict Christian faith, the kind where even handling a book about pagan beliefs was considered a sin*, I have come a looong way toward reasonableness.  I didn't recognize until my late 20's that, even from my youngest memories, I have always hated know-it-alls, pomposity, and holier-than-thou types.  To give an example: the tv show Archie Bunker.  I never could understand why people watched a show so full of hate and bad manners.  Archie was a regular Wesley Crusher (Star Trek: The Next Generation) when it came to knowing exactly what to say or do about the social/political situations in which he found himself, such as: his wife and daughter explaining about the ERA and the women's liberation movement.  He'd say something like "stifle it, Edith."  How could anyone watch that?  How was that a comedy?

So, in reference to the linked comic, it has been my displeasure to experience real people with close-minded worldviews.  Generally those people were either very religous or very political-minded.  This is not to say they were the ministers or politicians- those folks were generally above the idiocy while at the same time encouraging it by tacit consent in their adherents.  I could receive the sanest and wisest advice from people who, if asked similar questions by their followers or constituents, would spout double-talk and hate of unbelievable tenor.  Maybe you should try it as a test sometime with someone you suspect of having a double standard.  Ask progressively harder questions on such topics as marraige and pre-marital sex or the equality of a certain gender or class of people.  I used to get answers from people I respected at a young age which now make no sense to me at all.

So the question I have to continually ask myself is: would I say [ insert idea ] in front of my mother, grandmother, best friend or boss?

Darn, I've just run out of things to talk about...

*For the record: that book I bought for $1 at Barnes & Noble about mythological creatures such as the Hydra is NOT a work of the Devil you pin-headed, idiocy-expounding, moral bigot...

Kittens and Children

Just a short note on a subject in front of my mind these past few days: how kittens are like children.  I know you're going to think me dense, especially as having had many different kinds of pets growing up, but I really thought I could handle the new rescue kitten in my life.  I've never been shy around children, and I enjoy their energy, so I figured the kitten would be fun in much the same way.  A few weeks later I can tell you my whole position on the subject has altered.  I now feel it is well I do not have children of my own- unless I also had stock in Yale or another lock-making company.

His name is Nemo (after the Jules Verne captain, not the film fish) and he is a spelunker.  Where I didn't have doors I had to put them up.  Where I had doors I have had to install child-proof locks.  Counters aren't safe- I've moved all my knick-knacks to cupboards.  Scratches, claw marks and paw prints decorate my formerly shiny, waxed surfaces.  I am only relieved that he hasn't discovered the joys of curtain climbing.

So as I write this I have him locked into the office with me.  You try concentrating while locked in a room with a hyper kitten, a space heater and a litterbox...

Bullying

As you no doubt have done in recent weeks, I have read many accounts in the media on bullying and gay youth suicide.  Upon reflection it might be a good time to recount similar experiences I have had.

I was raised in a very strict Christian household.  Due to parental and religious proscriptions I was not allowed to make "worldly" friends.  I was raised to be intolerant of my neighbors, my teachers and my classmates.  Holidays they celebrated I viewed with disdain, actively giving voice to relevant "Bible truths" concerning each which caused discomfort to those unfortunate enough to have tried to approach me on those subjects.  Under those circumstances it was likely that I come in for teasing in school, and inevitable that this would eventually lead to bullying.

I recall one freezing day in winter that I was waiting for the bus in second grade where, due to my inability to get along with the neighbor children, the older kids forbade me to use the bus shelter.  (And I never was allowed to use the bus shelter again.)  At first it was fun being alone in the snow, to imagine the ice-covered trash bins as forts and the bus as the dragon we eagerly awaited to ride upon.  Soon though my boots were soggy from slush and my mittens were dark with melted water from making snowballs.  The bus came and by unspoken (in my presence, at least) agreement I was forced to stand in the front of the bus because no one would give me a third of a seat.  The nearly deaf old fellow who drove bus #79 never looked back and we drove down the mountain to school.

Later that day I noticed a measure of stand-offishness gather around me and, in my then-current contrary frame of mind, I reveled in the elbow room.  Soon though I heard whispers I was obviously meant to hear of my having "cooties" and my name actually being pronounced "throw-up".  My family name was a thing of inflated pride, being the only valuable thing we owned in life at the mobile home park, and I quickly was angered by this unwarranted attack upon something I felt those children had little room to speak against.  It wasn't too long that I found out what cooties were, supposedly, and that I had thus joined the "retard kids"* in the opinion of my peers.

     *"Retard" was a common name for the mentally and physically challenged when I was growing up.  It isn't a very nice thing to say, but I mention it to illustrate precisely where I was in the social order.  In high school I enjoyed the freedom this state gave me as it allowed me to read with those kids and the teachers at a special table in the lunchroom.

     **Oh, and I'd better apologize now to anyone who shared a table with me in those years.  Yes, I was ignoring you, but only because the book I was reading was more interesting to me than whatever topic upon which you were attempting to gauge my opinion.

As before, I took pride in my being unjustly denounced, having in mind the Biblical passage which exhorts the reader to reflect 'woe upon you when men speak well of you' and further to believe it was well when they 'speak ill of you, for that is the way they spoke of the prophets'.  I figured that I was in good company if, like Old Testament prophets, I was being spoken ill of in the company of my peers.  Of course, I now know that this is an undesirable outcome or, to put it in modern lingo, I was full of crap.  After all, weren't those same prophets executed by strangling and fire?  In hindsight I can see that bullying is hazardous to your health.

The teasing I encountered was mostly convenient, active only if I should approach the other children or be forced into a work group with popular kids (or kids who wanted to be thought popular).  Then the whispered 'get away, cootie-breath" or similar hurtful expressions would begin.  As has always been my policy, I did not want to give purposeful offense so I kept my distance.  I still recall making the book "An Apple Ran" all by myself because no one else wanted to handle construction paper or crayons I had touched. 

In fact, the same teacher who taught that class was also our math and homeroom teacher.  I'll not speak her name for it adds nothing to her reputation when I say that she was very against my religion and, perforce, personally against me as the living embodiment of that sect in her classroom.  She always gave me bad marks.  One day in particular stands in my mind as reflective of her antipathy for me:  when asked by me to help understand her coursework on the giant abacus she loudly declared to the class that I was being lazy and disruptive by not doing the coursework.  She remarked that I could also be coloring and having fun as the other children were if I would only accept her authority and do my classwork.  Now you have to understand my combative nature when you read what I did next because it overrides my usual decorum and interferes with my love of rules and respect for authority: I stood up and told her to her face that she was a bad teacher who didn't care to help someone who needed help.

I got paddled twice that day.  The first time she took me into the hallway and closed the classroom door she made a show of raising her voice so the class could hear her instruct me to be civil to grown-ups, respectful of authority and to do my homework and classwork without complaint.  I'll admit I cried from that punishment, but manfully kept it to a minimum when she took me back into the room and sat me back down at the abacus.  After seeing that I hadn't made any headway on my assignment a few minutes later she asked if I was going to do my work.  I sat there and told her something like 'no. Not until you teach me how to do it.'  That was the second time I got paddled.  Let me tell you- it hurt!  I cried to rattle the windows then and, seeing that she'd gotten a larger reaction than perhaps anticipated, she sent me to the guidance counselor's office to await my father's arrival to take me home early.

Dare I mention that fellow, so gentle to other children, belonged to her church and disliked me with the same passion she exhibited?  It was not a happy day for me...

Later that same school year, in the Spring when the weather permitted outdoor recess, my pariah state finally brought me to the attention of two of our class' bullies.  One chased me around the playground frequently because my asking of protection from the teacher overseeing the recess was ignored.  The assigned teacher was a chain smoker and she was unwilling to get involved unless someone actually got hurt and then she would only send the injured to the nurse's office.  Losing toys thrown over the fence after being wrenched from my hands, trousers being ruined in the knee by the gravel, etc. were my daily experience.  It was from second grade onward that the name "Ben Gay" got attached to me permanently.  As my name is Ben it isn't such a far stretch to be named after the popular analgesic cream, but it was annoying once I learned from my father just what that name meant.  He never looked at me the same after I asked that question.  I got very little sympathy from my father, in fact, for when I told him of the bullying he reflected that the fathers of my bullies were the fathers of the bullies which had tormented him in his school years.  (Yes, we lived in a small community.)

As for me I became almost immune to the indignities to which I was subjected from then on in public school.  I can only suppose that people who commit suicide from such "gay" bullying and assaults do not have good emotional support at home and, possibly, do not become accustomed to the frustrations their tormentors use.  Of course, I cannot speak to the violent assaults some of these kids have endured.  If they did not report the crimes to the proper authority they have only themselves to blame.  If their friends didn't report the crimes- they share in that crime and were poor friends.  Finally, if the authorities did nothing to investigate or punish the attackers, they shall have to answer to their consciences.  I have had occasion to react as a responsible citizen when I saw others in danger from stronger opponents, so I have little respect for people who allow such attacks to happen to their knowledge.  I've never been one to let peer pressure dissuade me from a course of action I know to be right.

So, in review, what adults may view as harmless teasing and jockeying for social position may be precursors to more harmful behaviors.  I believe it should be below the dignity of one who calls themself a teacher to ignore such behavior.  Action- immediate action- is preferable to the old wait-and-see philosophy of the past.  It is a sorry thing if a thinking being allows a perceived wrong to go unreported or uncorrected when it is within their power to act.