{“Interesting. The only person who thought the name rang a bell was the 31 year old from New York City. Either he was confused or just trying to be polite.” Mr. Bill thinking out loud, again.}
But, true to form, Maggie was dauntless: get in the car, point it in the general direction, watch for landmarks . . .
{“It’s worked in the past.” Mr. Bill}
With everyone ready and willing to set out on the trip regardless of its outcome, Maggie felt encouraged. She’d gotten the car checked the day before—air in the tires, water in the radiator, sufficient oil. Whatever could be inexpensively checked was—and Mr. Weidner was always so good about providing such services free of charge.
As so often before, he was heard to say, “If my wife and daughters were in need, I hope somebody would do the same for them.” Good men think like that, you know. Pay it forward.
So, Meggie felt their conveyance was safe and capable of getting them there and back. With all kinds of crackers, several different cream cheese spreads, little sausages, chips, cookies, the chest filled with an abundance of ice and assorted sodas, chocolate milk, pimento cheese, turkey and ham, olive loaf and liverwurst sandwiches, sweet and dill pickles . . . that was just the O’Casey’s contribution. The boys had helped build the sandwiches.
Virgie brought a super large thermos of coffee with necessary creamers and sweeteners . . . she knew Margaret used only the real stuff—no pink, green or blue . . . and a scrumptious 2-layer white cake filled with custard, covered in white icing and glazed with sweet, red cherries. All, quite festive. And, little American flags to poke in the ground setting off the picnic area. The boys brought some firecrackers, of course, just in case there was an open area. They didn’t do anything special like throw off sparks for yards out or a mile high. Nothing that might go into the woods and start a fire or chase a
pudgy, little person down the road.
“I’m in no mood to take out at a fast run to save you, me or Virgie.”
So, they just snapped, crackled and popped on the spot.
“It would be so nice to have Clarence’s ebullience on the trip.”
Maggie agreed with Virgie 100%.
{As did Mr. Bill. “. . . just in case a fire cracker goes awry.”}
She would have been perfectly content to leave the driving to her husband, to sit back and watch the scenery go by. Clarence never seemed to tire of being the person in charge: the one to see that all’s taken care of, to do his part and then some, knowing he’d be the one to change out the flat tire, figure out why the radiator blew or the engine wouldn’t turn over, to run for water should a cracker go hay-wire, to tote things back and forth from car to camp and back, again . . . the person to take the heat if things went wrong . . . the person to take a hike to the nearest house and call for a tow, to dodge the yard dogs and disengage them from his trouser legs without so offending the owners that they’d not let him use their phone.
Meggie didn’t have that kind of finesse. And, Meggie wasn’t all that good in a crisis. She tended to need a minute or two to explode, to get her mind wrapped
around her fears and alarms, to get a grip on adversity. Clarence learned a long time ago such things must be taken in stride. Time spent exploding . . .
{“. . . or imploding, as is often the case with Meggie. You can never be sure which way she’ll jump. Just be ready for all contingencies,” Mr. Bill chimed}
. . . was time wasted, time that could be better spent handling the situation. And, too, not particularly to her credit, Meggie laid blame. And, usually, it was at Clarence’s feet or on his broad shoulders.
Clarence still had a bit of bravado left over from his youth. You know—the kind of attitude young men have—the reason older men need younger men for their wars. It’s the old Yankee ingenuity, the “I Can” spirit, and, sometimes it’s false, quite often, it’s false, but, either way, it gives young men the courage to do what they must, that which so often looks utterly impossible. They sit around in their barracks, the trenches, wading through rice paddies, treating feet overcome with fungi, slapping mosquitoes, peeling off leaches and they “compare cocks” . . . who can come up with the greatest and bravest daring and do. If it’s false bravado, companions can usually recognize it. And, still, it serves to bolster moral. It’s good for a laugh.
One might wonder, as did Margaret often enough, what made Clarence’s life with his wife worth living. One biggie—she was very generous with her body. She loved being intimate with him. She loved knowing that he drifted off into peaceful slumber when he put his head on her bosom and she held him there close. She adored taking care of him, their house, their children. She greatly enjoyed cooking for her family and did so quite well. She was a great encourager in whatever he chose to undertake. She was good to his parents, as well as her own. She did not require things that were out of reach. She stayed within their budget.
“On my honor, I will do my best,
To do my duty to God and my country
and obey the Scout Law;
To help other people at all times;
To keep myself physically strong,
Mentally awake, and morally straight.”
Clarence secretly considered her to be the female equivalent of the Boy Scout living by his creed. She held onto her Den Mother’s uniform from years back when their boys were in Cubs, kept it in the cedar chest. She was every bit as beguiling in her uniform as Virgie in her calico and petticoats. And, as well, Clarence found her delightful and funny, inspiring, loyal. He could see through her faults and decided they weren’t all that bad, nor all that many. In fact, it was her faults that quite often sent him into the next room reeling lest she see just how hilarious he was finding her. And, when he’d been up in the stifling attic for hours on a hugely hot day attaching insulation, it was Margaret who came to the stairs and called,
“Just made some fresh iced tea, Hon. Want some?”
“Yup. She earns her keep.” Mr. Bill heard him
mumble to himself.
There were things Meggie didn’t know about her husband. He never told her that it was her body that made driving well into the night to get home achievable—a body she freely gave over to him . . . most of the time; that he knew she found great peace in filling his needs as her man . . . most of the time, that this was among the top on most men’s wish lists . . . all the time, that he really wanted so much more . . . the whole enchilada, the whole banana split but would never have asked for it as he knew there were certain things on which she could not compromise . . . that he never looked elsewhere.
Meggie took that last item for granted, as was typical of Margaret. She had no need to wander and saw no reason for him to need to do so. It was one of her blind spots, so to speak. But, Clarence was a good person, a good man, a dedicated Christian. He would not have hurt Maggie or embarrassed his sons for all the tea in China. He would not do anything that would compromise his example as a follower of Christ, an active member of their church. He fully supported the higher-tension faith: the sacrifice was great but so, too, were its benefits.
And, he never told her that he never gave a moments’ previous thought to such eventualities as a misfiring firecracker.
“Take it as it comes. Yup. Just take it as it comes.”
If Meggie had known that was his approach to
life, she’d never have left home with him.
{“That all comes with his mighty, manly engine package . . . going out into the world with some balsam wood, a wad of gum and building an air plane hanger. It’s included in the deal, along with bravado.” And, Mr. Bill should know.}
Like the time he let slip a slightly risqué joke in front of the little woman. He got carried away and lived to regret it. Before he knew, he was laughing hearty when nobody else was hardly laughing and, soon, back-paddling as fast as he could . .
.
“. . . Seems there was this topless shoeshine
shop. When the men sat down for their shine,
the gal’s lungs swung back and forth with
each pop. The gents referred to her as the
‘Banger Sisters’.”
Maggie was inconsolable. Clarence spent many hours trying to make amends and dig himself out of his hole when the little lady threatened to banish him, his bedroll and flashlight to the backyard patio. But, he made up in part for his big boner by taking the remaining contents from an old whisky bottle, lighting it with a match and proclaiming to their young sons with the flair of a circus ring master that,
“That’s what it does to your stomach, boys.” as the liquor vaporized on the skirt of a blue flame.
Maggie never quite caught the parallel, nor did Mr. Bill, but they both appreciated his mighty engine.
Song of Camp Matigua:
Lost and Forgotten Boy Scout Camp
I can guarantee you one thing: the “Big Crunch” is real. It really happened. I was there. It was awesome to behold. The whole universe sqwoz down on itself . . . sqwoz down, sqwoz down, sqwoz down . . . sqwoz down on me. I’m lucky to be alive. But my momma thinks I’ll keep goin’ forever ’cuz I have “escape velocity.” I’m Redi Kilowatt. I’m a red, live wire. I’m her little neutron. And I’m thinkin’ I’ll give it a kick-start some day and away I’ll go. I’ll swim into a positive cosmological constant—that’s what Albert and I call it—and my world will expand. I’ll be outta here like a jet-propelled bowlin’ ball with fuzz and feet.
If the universe’s density is more than the critical value, its expansion will, eventually, stop, even reverse. The big boys say that. They say that, when that happens, the universe will begin an irresistible collapse ending in the “Big Crunch”. The opposite of the big bang. I can’t say much about the big bang, except to say—it’s no theory. It’s real—a
real happ’nin’ and I know this ’cuz I’ve lived the result. You know . . . like I know the all-powerful God exists when I look up into His heavens from my pool. When I watch the beauty and configuration of His constellations movin’ across the depths of space with mathematical precision and predictable order, when I watch my little fishies darting, turning like this and like that, like they were one—one mind, one body, one focus, one goal.
But unlike the big boys, I don’t ’spect there’ll be another “Big Crunch”. Oh, yeh. They say this ole universe could bounce like a ball—expanding, collapsing, expanding, collapsing. Up and down like a yo-yo. But from what I’ve seen of the world, there’s just one chance. All it can take is one crunch. Then, you’d better hope you’ve got “escape velocity”, like me. If we’re partners, I can teach you. You’ll be ready. You’ll have “escape velocity” ’cuz you’ll be Redi Kilowatt.
I’m right up there with the best—the mostest with the bestest. That ole boy Einstein . . . he agrees with me. He’s figured it out—says the universe can’t bounce. If it
can’t bounce, then we only get one “Big Crunch.” Now, see? That’s always made sense to me. Me and Einstein—we think alike.
The big boys say there’s only one way the universe could bounce: If close to the “Big Crunch’s” occurring—like within 10-43 seconds (10 to the negative 43rd power) of it happening (And you know how close that is!)—quantums come onto the scene and soften the mathematical singularity. Now, what’re the chances of that happening?! One in a million . . . one in a mi-i-i-i-llion.
Now, that’s how I figure it. You prob’bly have your own way . . . and, it could be right, too. There’s probably half a dozen ways and we’d all come to the same conclusion.
But you can’t forget entropy. Entropy is just hugely disruptive. It’ll take everything you thought you knew and . . . whack-o . . . total disruption. Well, what can we expect if the big boys are right and there’s no more matter being made in the place. A hurricane comes along—not, usually ’round my pool, though. Usually, ’round my pool it’s tornadoes, but either one will do for our purpose. A hurricane comes along, tears down your place and . . . whack-o . . . there you go. There it goes: your matter’s lyin’ in a heap and some of it’s flyin’ off to New Orleans or Elberta, Alabama, layin’ off in the Gulf somewhere. That ole entropy—you can’t ascape it. Takes us all down sooner or later. Matter . . . see? Entropy. All that matters.
Fact of the matter is, you’d better hope this universe doesn’t bounce ’cuz the big boys? . . . they think with each bounce, entropy gets worse. Whew! I just don’t want to be around when that happens. With each bounce, this ole world starts lookin’ more and more like a old woman, like a Dorian Gray portrait . . . ’cuz bouncin’ takes a lot out of a person.
Well, that’s how I figure it. You prob’bly have your own way . . . and it could be just as right as mine.
13
Rosie’s daddy warned her a number of times not to even peek into the garage. It was explicitly off limits for her and she accepted his reasons for the mandate. However, the man was diligently, joyfully working on a project for his child’s room—a surprise for her side of the tiny room and wanted to finish it in time to let the gift air out a week or two, for the paint and materials to release any harmful, bothersome fumes. He’d had an old wooden kitchen table, long since retired, resting idle in the back of the garage, tucked behind remnants of lumber, metal, old clothing, bits and pieces of a discarded wheel barrow, garden tools, hand tools, broken floor lamp, blades and motor of an old attic fan wrapped in an oil cloth. It wasn’t that he was a pack-rat. Rather, the thought hovered that he might some day need whatever the items could render up for other projects. So, he hung onto them. That was what garages were for, anyway: to store stuff so’s they wouldn’t be cluttering up the house. He kept the front of the garage neat and tidy with plenty of room for projects.
After relieving the table top of all nails, the man took a couple of inches off each leg, sawed the top into
kidney-bean shape a little over three feet long, two feet wide on the ends, reattached legs to top. He fashioned a shelf and attached it to the legs four inches off the floor. It would be a good and convenient resting place for the scrapbook residents at the nursing home were giving Rosie for the baby. A nurse’s aide was cutting out the white, quilted plastic to be stapled down as cover to the vanity top. One of the residents who had brought her sewing machine along when she moved in many years earlier volunteered to sew the skirt, choosing a lovely white dotted Swiss, gathering it into a cloud of abundant fluff. Another lady worked religiously, in spite of the arthritis in her hands and fingers, to crochet an equally abundant three-inch white trim to be gathered in with the skirt. Rosie’s daddy painted all the wood a matte white thinking his girl could add her own colors with comb and brush, lamp, lampshade, keepsakes . . . whatever little girls like to keep around.
He dusted off an old rectangle of a mirror that had for too long leaned against one of the back garage studs. The ladies at the home gathered more white Swiss to go around the edge of the mirror and, as a separate gift, they wove a garland of vines from a nearby grape arbor, intertwining white satin ribbon for sheen and texture. This they hoped Rosie would use to decorate her mirror when her daddy hung it on the wall behind the vanity. Another client had long since dried and flattened flowers in her press. It was a hobby of hers. She had accumulated more pressed flowers than she could ever use and was arranging some under frames for the girl to hang around her vanity, to mount off the floor for the baby’s perusal. It would all be presented to the child at the baby shower the residents, aides, nurses and staff were planning to give Rosie.
Oh, yes! Almost forgot the stool, another of her daddy’s metamorphic adaptations. An old wooden chair hanging from a garage rafter that went with the old kitchen table quickly lost its back rungs. Holes were filled with putty . . . the entire thing painted matte white to match the vanity. Ladies from the home cu
t quilt batting, several thicknesses deep, to cover in the same quilted plastic as the vanity top. This was stapled onto the stool seat along with another skirt similar to the one on the vanity, both not quite touching the floor, both with white satin ribbon streamers hanging down.
When it was all complete, the home set the items on their sun porch, tucked back in a shady spot against the wall. The room had never been used much—the reason for it being requisitioned—since residents preferred to stay in their rooms and watch TV, but they so adored these communal projects. The women went out to sit and appreciate their handiwork, to enjoy how well everything had come together. They rehearsed over and over their party preparations and how surprised the little girl would be on her and her baby’s special day.
The male residents went out more often than before to play cards, dominoes, drink their coffee and chat, read the newspaper. Everybody stayed well away from the pieces, however, satisfied to view them from a distance. They wanted them to be perfect for the upcoming perfect day. And, the men went outside for their smokes without a single word of complaint. Secretly, in the backs of their minds, they all hoped Rosie and her baby would come for visits. Secretly, in the backs of their minds, they had already designated the room expressly for “the children”, were already planning what toys to get next time they were in town.
Little did Rosie’s daddy realize how much work was being cut out for him—making certain everybody got their proper rest, got meals on time along with large glasses of cold milk. But, he was up to the task. He would rise to the occasion. And, since the church was giving him carpenter work, since he’d become skillful at setting tile, a roughly-hewn, self-taught artisan at design layout, employment kept him at home in the neighborhood with a flexible schedule.
Camp Matigua: The Lost And Forgotten Page 6
