Ep.2 Salad Days and the Gray Ebbing
We make our greetings, eyes darting and half smiling we relinquish
custody of the deviled eggs. The Turkey's skin is still pale and
dimpled. Garbage is overflowing in the kitchen, Carla empties an
ashtray. She, rail thin with feathered hair and sunglasses hanging on
to her scalp, looks to the side, lips pursed around a freshly lit
Capri, eye's squinting, breathes in her airiest rasp, "Hey, cum'on
in."
When the family was more intact we would gather at the farm in
Camargo. By 11 Uncle Luke has a good start in on his case of Budweiser
and there's a heaping pile of cigarette butts fanned out like a fried
onion, hovering over the checker floor, facing the big screen, the
sega, the nintendo and some guitars. Flood stains on the basement
walls push up towards the nicotene scum on the ceiling.
We are heading out to the prairie to hunt before the meal so we get
our over-alls on, shotguns unsheathed, loaded and cradled. We start
for the grounds. Having no trained dogs, just Uncle Luke's idiot
Boxer, Brutus, I dredge through the waist high grass out in front
scaring up pheasant. (right leg to chest, step and plant, pivot, left
leg to chest, step and plant).
Pheasant don't move unless you just about step on them, so it's a
BURST of wings flapping, blood hits the back of my face, my heart
thumps and swells into my brain. Choking on an inflated breath, I dive
forward so the gunmen can get a clear shot. I hope that they miss.
But, they usually don't and I run and find the pheasant, never
blinking, limp and warm in the tall grass, picking him up gently and
laying him in the back pouch of my hunting vest, I'm just glad I
didn't have to ring his neck. It's always a male. It's illegal to
shoot the hens.
After taking a few we hike to the old highway, dismantled in gigantic
slabs a 100 yards from the new Rt.130. Setting aside my vest I climb
up their inclines imagining the cars that used to speed by the
occasional buggy. They are ruins, not ancient but they are evidence of
a time that precludes me. Another inflated breath fills my chest, I'm
excited to be a part of its present and more emotive state. I hike on
a little further exploring the low lands of the farm where the river
rises and saturates the ground. Invisible frogs play and evade,
plurping into the waters. If it's been a wet fall, I might find a
beached catfish. There are none.
Exhausted from the hunt we head back in time for dinner at 2:30 or so.
A couple of tables have been butted together and the children's table
is set full with a bottle of sparkling grape juice. Most of the
cooking is done. We clean up and tide ourselves over with the
liberated olives, cheese, pickles and crackers. We head to the
basement where the pool table monitors the beer and cigarettes. Later
the men will separate and start a full game. Uncle Luke might break
out his guitar and sing some Guns n' Roses if we're lucky.
We have dinner, which is typically the least memorable part of the
holiday. Someone forgot the cool whip so I accompany my cousin to the
store while he drinks a beer in the car. He asks how things are going
with me. I'm kind of shy so I just say, "fine," and fight telling him
he shouldn't drink and drive 'cause for some reason I trust him and we
get back to the house. I play with my cousins.
The women are in the kitchen talking about their husbands or the
latest family drama. Or about grandma Milly's cooking and when Uncle
Harlon met the family for the first time at Thanksgiving. He rolled up
on a motorcycle wearing black leather, mostly geeked, missing teeth
and a full beard. It came time to eat dinner and Harlon sets into the
turkey. After a couple of bites Harlon looks up at Milly and says,
"Fuckin' fine turkey Milly, fuckin' fine turkey."
We make our greetings, eyes darting and half smiling we relinquish
custody of the deviled eggs. The Turkey's skin is still pale and
dimpled. Garbage is overflowing in the kitchen, Carla empties an
ashtray. She, rail thin with feathered hair and sunglasses hanging on
to her scalp, looks to the side, lips pursed around a freshly lit
Capri, eye's squinting, breathes in her airiest rasp, "Hey, cum'on
in."
When the family was more intact we would gather at the farm in
Camargo. By 11 Uncle Luke has a good start in on his case of Budweiser
and there's a heaping pile of cigarette butts fanned out like a fried
onion, hovering over the checker floor, facing the big screen, the
sega, the nintendo and some guitars. Flood stains on the basement
walls push up towards the nicotene scum on the ceiling.
We are heading out to the prairie to hunt before the meal so we get
our over-alls on, shotguns unsheathed, loaded and cradled. We start
for the grounds. Having no trained dogs, just Uncle Luke's idiot
Boxer, Brutus, I dredge through the waist high grass out in front
scaring up pheasant. (right leg to chest, step and plant, pivot, left
leg to chest, step and plant).
Pheasant don't move unless you just about step on them, so it's a
BURST of wings flapping, blood hits the back of my face, my heart
thumps and swells into my brain. Choking on an inflated breath, I dive
forward so the gunmen can get a clear shot. I hope that they miss.
But, they usually don't and I run and find the pheasant, never
blinking, limp and warm in the tall grass, picking him up gently and
laying him in the back pouch of my hunting vest, I'm just glad I
didn't have to ring his neck. It's always a male. It's illegal to
shoot the hens.
After taking a few we hike to the old highway, dismantled in gigantic
slabs a 100 yards from the new Rt.130. Setting aside my vest I climb
up their inclines imagining the cars that used to speed by the
occasional buggy. They are ruins, not ancient but they are evidence of
a time that precludes me. Another inflated breath fills my chest, I'm
excited to be a part of its present and more emotive state. I hike on
a little further exploring the low lands of the farm where the river
rises and saturates the ground. Invisible frogs play and evade,
plurping into the waters. If it's been a wet fall, I might find a
beached catfish. There are none.
Exhausted from the hunt we head back in time for dinner at 2:30 or so.
A couple of tables have been butted together and the children's table
is set full with a bottle of sparkling grape juice. Most of the
cooking is done. We clean up and tide ourselves over with the
liberated olives, cheese, pickles and crackers. We head to the
basement where the pool table monitors the beer and cigarettes. Later
the men will separate and start a full game. Uncle Luke might break
out his guitar and sing some Guns n' Roses if we're lucky.
We have dinner, which is typically the least memorable part of the
holiday. Someone forgot the cool whip so I accompany my cousin to the
store while he drinks a beer in the car. He asks how things are going
with me. I'm kind of shy so I just say, "fine," and fight telling him
he shouldn't drink and drive 'cause for some reason I trust him and we
get back to the house. I play with my cousins.
The women are in the kitchen talking about their husbands or the
latest family drama. Or about grandma Milly's cooking and when Uncle
Harlon met the family for the first time at Thanksgiving. He rolled up
on a motorcycle wearing black leather, mostly geeked, missing teeth
and a full beard. It came time to eat dinner and Harlon sets into the
turkey. After a couple of bites Harlon looks up at Milly and says,
"Fuckin' fine turkey Milly, fuckin' fine turkey."