Wednesday, October 12, 2005

ergophobia

Sometimes it seemed like grandad enjoyed visits from his grandsons mostly because he could get them to do lots of work. My brother Ross and I had the privilege of fertilizing, mowing and raking grandad's lawn, weeding his garden, washing his car, splitting and stacking his firewood and many other delightful tasks. Sometimes we would be assigned such a task and it would take us longer to complete the task than grandad thought it should and grandad might say something like, "It looks like you have a case of Plumbum Rectum. Do you know what that is?"
He would pause for a moment, but never long enough for us to answer, even though we knew the answer ever since the first time he made the observation and subsequent explanation. Then he would explain, "That's Latin for Lead Ass," and encourage us to pick up the pace.
Sometimes, instead of doing some assigned work too slowly, we would get distracted by something more amusing and not get around to beginning the work at all until grandad came outside to check our progress. Upon seeing us climbing the apple tree or swinging in the swing, he would ask us why we hadn't started raking the yard and say, "I think you suffer from ergophobia. Do you know what that is?"
Then the customary pause and, "That's fear of work," and we would have to begin working immediately, under supervision, to make sure we did not have a case of plumbum rectum.
Grandad's praise for a job well done was usually rather understated, so after mowing and raking the entire lawn, we might hear him say something like, "Good job. Looks nice."
Once our assignment was to split and stack a large pile of thick logs. We had a hatchet, an axe, a maul, some wedges and a sledge hammer. Ross got to do most of the splitting because he was older and stronger than I was. I resented that a little bit, because splitting the wood is more fun than bringing it over to the stump, then piling the split wood. I got to use the axe and hatchet to make kindling from some of the smaller logs, and I got to split a few of the larger logs, so he didn't get all the fun.
It often took all of our effort to split wood with the maul, and sometimes it would get stuck in the log and then we'd drive a wedge in, and that wedge would get stuck, and we'd have to drive the other wedge in to finally get the log split. So sometimes we would use the tools in a slightly inappropriate way, for example, driving the maul further into the log with the sledge hammer. One of the last large logs was particularly knotty, and the maul got stuck in it, so Ross was driving the maul further in with the sledge hammer and the handle of the maul was against part of the log. After a particularly hard blow from the sledge hammer, the maul's handle cracked, and it was still stuck in the log. Ross drove the wedges in next to the maul, and the log was still holding together. A final blow from the sledge hammer missed its mark and went over the edge of the log so instead of the head of the hammer hitting one of the wedges, the handle hit the log and broke.
We thought grandad would be pretty mad that we had broken two heavy tools while splitting wood. At least it had been Ross who had actually broken the handles (though I too had missed the wedges a few times) so it wouldn't be me getting in trouble.
Ross split a few more small logs with the axe, and we stacked the rest of the wood that was split or small enough not to need splitting. When grandad came out, he seemed quite pleased at the progress we had made, leaving only a few large logs unsplit. Maybe he had expected us to come down with a case of ergophobia, but by then perhaps we were developing an immunity to that particular affliction.
When we showed grandad the big knotty log with the broken maul and two wedges buried in it, and the broken sledge hammer next to it, I thought his appreciation might diminish somewhat.
I think I said something about how Ross had missed the wedge and broken the sledge hammer, hoping to deflect blame from myself. Grandad chuckled and said, "I guess he's too heavy for light work."
What I thought might get us in trouble became a point of honor for Ross.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

siren

One of the first years I went hunting with grandad, there were a bunch of other hunters at the cabin, so it seemed kind of crowded. It was fun in a way because it was a boisterous, macho, competitive atmosphere, but I also felt some pressure to act in a social and manly kind of way. Sometimes the other hunters would tease me because I was young and an inexperienced hunter. Or worse, they would be completely dismissive. Also, since I was lowest on the totem pole, I had the privilege of bringing the firewood in, getting water from the lake, spreading ashes on the ice in front of the cabin, taking out and burning the trash and other undesirable or menial tasks.
One of the things that was a consolation to me when I crawled into my sleeping bag after a day of hunting and menial chores was that I had a girlfriend back home. Those guys might give me a hard time and I might have to do a bunch of extra work, but when I got back home, I would be welcomed by my lovely girlfriend, and they couldn't take that away from me, especially since they didn't know about her. I figured they'd probably just tease me if they found out, so I didn't tell anyone about my girl.
She had given me a copy of her school photo, and I kept it in a little shaving bag which I always left near the pillow on my bunk. She had put some of her perfume on the picture, so not only did it remind me of how she looked, but also how she smelled. If I didn't fall asleep right away when the lights were blown out, sometimes I would quietly unzip the shaving bag and take her picture out. I didn't even need to look at it, I could just smell it in the dark and I would think of her. But sometimes I would want to look at it, so I would get the flashlight from under my pillow and pull the sleeping bag over my head and have a private viewing by the light of the little flashlight. Then, even if my legs ached from hiking too far, and my back ached from picking up too much firewood, I'd turn off the flashlight, put her picture back in the shaving bag, quietly zip it up again, and fall asleep happy, thinking of her.
The thought of her, and her picture, provided a form of respite from the rough world of the cabin. There might be sweaty boots hanging from the ceiling to dry, the smell of kerosene and wood smoke permeating the air, wood chips, dirt and little puddles of melted snow on the floor, but the sight and smell of the my girlfriend's picture could transport me to a much more genteel frame of mind.
Phillips water tower One evening I went into town with grandad to pick up some food and some newspapers, and while grandad was shopping, I went to a pay phone with a bunch of quarters to try to call my girlfriend. The pay phone was not too far from the Phillips water tower and there was an old steam tractor set up as an exhibit near it. It was dark by then, and very cold. The snow that had fallen a few days earlier had been trampled into mush, then frozen into ice. When I got to the phone, a light snow started to fall and I could see it swirling around in the wind under the streetlight. I had taken the quarters out and put them on the little shelf next to the phone, but I was having a hard time picking them up and putting them in the slot with my gloves on, so I took the glove off my quarter slinging hand. I made much quicker progress, but my hand started to get numb from the cold. I thought I'd have a while to talk to my girlfriend, but the phone call was going to be a lot more expensive than I thought. I had to put about half my quarters in just to get the call started. I put my hand in my pocket and waited for the ringing to start, and as I waited for someone to pick up, I looked up into the dark at the water tower looming over me and the sparse flakes of snow falling down.
Her father answered and I said hello to him, and asked to talk to his daughter. He said he'd get her, and he put the phone down and then there was silence. I could feel my quarters ticking away as I waited, and finally, after what seemed like minutes (but couldn't have been, or I would have had to put more quarters in) she picked up the phone and said hello. We were used to local calls during which we could talk at our leisure, so it seemed odd to be trying to hurry through the conversation. I was stamping my feet and moving around trying to keep from getting even colder than I already was, so I must have seemed a little distracted. After a short while, I had to put most of my remaining quarters in.
As I put my cold hand back in my pocket and we resumed our stilted conversation, I was startled by an extremely loud siren that started wailing from the roof of a nearby building. I don't know if it was a test blast of the siren, or a call to the volunteer firemen or what, but it was so loud that I could no longer hear my girlfriend. I tried to yell into the phone what was happening, but I couldn't tell if she could hear me, or if she had already hung up. The siren seemed to go on and on as my quarters melted away. Maybe it was only twenty seconds, but that seems like a very long time when one is standing in the cold windy darkness paying for a phone call which has been temporarily rendered useless. When the siren stopped, my ears were ringing, but I was glad to find my girlfriend had not hung up. We resumed our conversation, and as I got colder, the conversation seemed to get warmer. Just as I was feeling closer to her, the voice came back on the line demanding more money. I started putting the last of my quarters in the phone, but my hand was cold and the quarters were colder, and I ended up dropping my last quarter. I was relieved to find it and pick it up without too much delay, and I put it in the slot, but I heard only silence. I said hello a few times, but there was no response. I realized I must not have had enough money, so I started searching my pockets to see if I had any other change. Before I was finished checking, the pay phone must have given up on me. There was a clicking noise, and I was disconnected as my last batch of quarters fell into the coin return.
I was disappointed that my call had ended prematurely and I hadn't even gotten to say goodbye to my girlfriend. But I was also happy to dig my rejected quarters out of the coin return, put my quarter hand glove back on, and head across the street and down a ways towards the warm looking store where I was supposed to meet grandad.

Monday, October 10, 2005

sentence

If a grandson's performance at some assigned task was not up to par, grandad might say something like, "You know what you are? You're a drismal!"
"You know what a drismal is?"
Without waiting for a reply, grandad would explain, "A drismal is a combination of a drip and a dismal." Then he would chuckle.
If a grandson did something that didn't seem very intelligent to grandad, he might say something like, "You're a card carrying member of the N A B C W club."
"Do you know what that is?"
Without waiting for a reply, grandad would explain, "It's the Not A Brain Cell Working Club," followed by a chuckle.
If a grandson stopped doing some assigned task, like splitting wood for kindling, and started doing some useless activity like trying to drop the hatchet so it would stick in a stump, grandad might say, "Stop fiddle farting around and get that wood split."
If there was a greater sense of urgency and the task was important, like getting the car loaded before dark, and a grandson was neglecting the task due to some especially useless activity, like throwing rocks at a tree, grandad might say, "Stop that fiddle fucking around and get the car loaded."
If grandad thought a grandson's hair was too long or not combed or otherwise unpresentable, he might say, "You look like a portable brush heap."
Once, when I had long hair, he said, "You look like a fruit." I tried to explain that fruits don't really have long hair that much any more, if they ever did, and besides, I didn't care if I looked like a fruit. I also talked about how long hair was fashionable in the seventeen and eighteen hundreds, so maybe I was paying tribute to the founding fathers. My arguments seemed to make no impression on him.
Another time, when I had longer hair, he said, "Why would anyone want to purposely make themselves look like an asshole?" I chuckled. What can you say to that?
Grandad liked to take me to an old barber shop in Racine to get me a haircut that would look presentable. I think he had been going there for years. It was a prototypical old barber shop with ancient magazines on a table next to the chairs on the side, and someone who seemed to be perpetually waiting for something, or someone. There were old barber chairs and an old white haired barber with a flat top haircut. The old barber would talk about fishing or hunting or sports while he gave me a very conservative haircut.
Grandad told me a story about a small town barber somewhere, it might have been Phillips. I don't remember if he said it happened to him, or someone else. Whoever the story was about took their kid to this small town barber. After the barber was done, he said, "That'll be two dollars."
The subject of the story looked at the kid's new haircut, paid and said, "You know what they get for a haircut like that in Chicago?"
The small town barber beamed and said with obvious pride, "No, how much do they get in Chicago?"
"Five to ten months."

Sunday, October 09, 2005

unclutter

The table in the main room of the shack had a hinge in the middle, so it could be folded up onto itself, but I don't recall if I ever saw it folded up like that. Usually it had a lot of stuff on it, and was dusty and dirty when we would arrive. It was my job to throw away anything useless, and move the rest to the far end, then wipe off the clear space so we'd have some place to put things when we got there. It was the only surface in the main room to put things on, other than the floor, the wood stove and the bunks, so it would quickly get more cluttered as time passed.
Table with many items One day I took a picture of the table with its clutter, which included, among other things: a box of crackers, a kerosene lamp, a bottle of vermouth, a mug, a flashlight, a box of strike anywhere kitchen matches, two sets of cardboard salt and pepper shakers, a jar of grape jelly, a jar of strawberry jam, a jar of Taster's Choice instant coffee, a pot with water, a small jar of olives, a battery powered radio (with useless power cord attached), a couple of shotgun shells, a box of plastic utensils, a couple of cans of beer, a compass, two packages of polska kielbasa, a few napkins, miscellaneous plastic utensils and the shack's "log book."
The far end of the table would often not get wiped, because of the various items accumulated there, so it would remain dusty and might harbor some dried rodent feces. I would occasionally decide to really clean the table. I'd take all food stuffs into the kitchen and distribute them on the shelves where they seemed to belong. I'd put any books that weren't currently being used on the shelf above the door. Documents, maps and the log book would be stacked in a neat pile. Personal items would be put on their owner's bunk. I'd put all the things which were to remain on the table temporarily on the chairs, so the table would be completely clear. Then I'd thoroughly clean the whole table, sometimes taking off years worth of grime.
I'd feel a real sense of accomplishment when I was done, and had moved the few items from the chairs back to the far end of the table. In the dull and dirty world of the north woods cabin, there would be one shiny civilized area in the middle, clean enough to eat off of. Grandad at clean table with newspaper One night, shortly after clearing and cleaning the table, I took a picture of grandad sitting at the spotless table reading a Milwaukee Sentinel which he'd gotten in town that day.