As I Lay Frying

by Fay Jacobs

  As for my own reprieve from Lawn Maintenance 101, our house was the scene of an intervention two weeks ago. A hearty band of women with tool belts and men with hamburger rolls and condiments, descended on a Friday evening and got down to business.

  The girls put the finishing touches on Bonnie’s deck, pulled nine weeks’ worth of weeds, mowed, mulched and weed-whacked themselves into a frenzy. Meanwhile a small but creative band of royalty (that would be the queens and princesses) took kitchen refuge and whipped up a feast. By the time we were all outside working and feasting it looked like a scene from an Amish barnraising (minus Kelly McGillis, drat) or Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (or would that be seven brides and seven brothers?).

  Meanwhile, Bonnie reclined on a chaise on the deck, field marshalling the troops and being very, very grateful for the work party. We both feel way beyond grateful and blessed by the help and all manner of assistance by our friends and their friends during our summer of adversity. If our quest for a CAMP Rehoboth community center (with or without walls) is true to its vision as the heart of the community, then my backyard ncluded the left ventricle on Friday night. Sorry for such sincerity, I’ve been addled by generosity.

  So with yard work and grabbing a few days at the beach between monsoons, we’re catching up with a summer we almost missed. On some days, while I’m at work, friends have been accompanying our convalescent to the beach. Those handicapped-

  accessible beach wheel chairs have been great. And after several days in the sun, people are telling Bonnie how happy they are to see her looking so great. Then they look at me and say, “Of course you’re looking pretty haggard.” Nice.

  Perhaps it was the time I spent in front of the TV checking out the bait-and-switch fest that was the Republican Convention. I wouldn’t say that their party is talking out of both sides of Dubya’s mouth, but there they were, spotlighting a speech by an openly gay Republican congressman and half of Dubya’s own Texas delegation was down on their knees praying for his sodomizing soul.

  Meanwhile, the Republican-backing American Family Council, was calling for Rep. Kolbe’s arrest for that same sodomy thing. Huh? And there was lesbian daughter Mary Cheney bravely grinning and applauding her Dad’s nomination for Veep. Does she know what the party platform says about gays?

  And where was her long-time girlfriend stashed? It’s going to be interesting to watch how the party deals with the Cheney daughter that Jerry Falwell just called “errant.” Let’s see if blood really is thicker than orientation.

  And now, on the cusp of the Democratic Convention, there’s even more remarkable news. In a historic first, Senator Lieberman is on the ticket. I’m surprised and curious to see the electorate’s reaction.

  Personally, if a member of the tribe can be on the national ticket, I feel compelled to take a stand locally. I’m going fishing tomorrow—not a typically Jewish hobby. But then it’s been a week of historic firsts. And my girl and I are determined to make up for the summer days we missed. I’ll let you know if I catch anything besides hell for letting you all know about that speeding ticket.

  September 2000

  SLOWER MOWER DELAWARE

  It was inevitable. Like day following night, Black and Decker attracting lesbians, bears pooping in the woods, Bonnie got herself a big, shiny riding lawnmower.

  The thing is asleep in the garage as I write, and I’m trying to reconstruct the series of events that led to my capitulation in the mower wars. I’d held out as long as I could, but in the final analysis my futile argument for not having one of those things was mowed and mulched asunder. I blinked first.

  The final chapter in my tractorless life dawned last Saturday, after a month of monsoons. I don’t know if this is the wettest summer on record, but we’re starting to mildew and my leaky car is a terrarium on wheels. Weather.com has said, “Scattered thunderstorms, some severe, appear likely across the mid-Atlantic today….” continuously since July. And exactly what is a 50 percent chance of rain? It might and it might not? Or it’s definitely going to rain half the day? But I digress….

  The grass was as high as an elephant’s eye and clearly something had to be done. Renting a goat squad was not an option, nor was, as Blanche DuBois would say, relying on the kindness of strangers. Ever since Bonnie’s been sporting that big fancy knee brace, our friends, relatives and houseguests have been pitching in to mow our half-acre field of dreams. As grateful as we’ve been, I began to feel we were teetering over the abyss into taking advantage. But trust me, when I told Bonnie it might be time for us to shift for ourselves, I did not mean on a riding mower.

  Unfortunately, her crafty mind made the leap. Then she was able to illustrate the amount of money we’d actually save over the next decade by not paying a lawn service. You gotta give the girl credit. She’d borrowed a page from my own Bloomingdales playbook.

  While our houseguests watched, Bonnie headed out the door. My friend Kathy consoled me, but then her husband Ross, who’d secretly love a riding mower of his own, headed off to join Bonnie in our family truck. They were on a quest for a previously owned yard machine.

  They returned with a large ugly mower in the truck bed and a rent-a-ramp to get the thing down onto our lawn. It was repulsive, with a ripped seat and rusty gears, not to mention the remnants of somebody else’s lawn hanging all over its bottom.

  “But it was cheap,” said Bonnie.

  Off she went for a test drive. She and Ross got it started, but sparks immediately spit from the side, followed by a black cloud of smoke from the engine.

  “What’s black smoke mean?” I asked Kathy.

  “We haven’t elected a Pope.”

  After a few more explosions and gear-stripping audibles, Bonnie and Ross pushed the offending conveyance back up the rent-a-ramp into the truck and out of our lives. Actually, in a case of impressive timing, the guys across the street saw the mower exiting stage left and announced they’d just bought a riding mower themselves, which we were welcome to borrow. In fact, in an effort to practice their skills, they offered to mow our lawn while we returned the used heap of junk. Fabu. Life was good again.

  We came back to find our half-acre mowed magnificently, leaving us only two tasks: trimming and raking up grass shards. I chose raking over weed whacking since last time I traveled the north forty to the tune of “buzz, buzz OW…buzz, buzz OW…buzz, buzz OW….

  Instead, I volunteered to bend over and stuff clippings into plastic bags. I became a living tableau of that nasty lawn ornament of the old lady bending over, butt in the air, hosiery around the ankles. The Maltese Hiney. Don’t bend over in the garden granny, you know them taters got eyes. It was not a pretty picture.

  But I was happy. We had a neighborhood lawn mowing coalition and I wouldn’t have to own my own farm equipment.

  I should be so lucky. Bonnie tapped me on the shoulder, pointed at our neighbor and his mower and said “Look.” He sat spit-shining and buffing the thing like it was a ‘39 Studebaker. I half expected him to lead it into the garage, give it a bag of oats and kiss it goodnight.

  “I can’t borrow his mower,” Bonnie moaned, “I’ll get it dirty.”

  She was right. The pressure to support his mower in the style to which it would become accustomed would be way too much to bear. By breakfast the next morning, figuring I was doomed anyway, I made my pitch. “If we’re going to get a mower, it should be a mulching mower so nobody (mainly me) would have to bend over and pick up grassy schmutz.” That was all Bonnie needed. She grabbed my hand and dragged me off to Lowe’s.

  Procrastinating has its rewards. If we’d bought a riding mower at the beginning of the season when Bonnie first started campaigning, it would have cost us more. By late August we found a reconditioned machine with a two-year warranty and a nice price tag. Huzzah.

  Back at home, Bonnie and Ross spent the rest of the afternoon playing like giddy kids at a Go-Kart park. I’ve never seen two adults have more fun with something with a motor (don’t go there.) The
y were in lawn-care heaven.

  Meanwhile, Kathy and I sat on the deck drinking margaritas, noting the absolute parity between gay and straight unions, and wondering why on earth riding mowers need headlights.

  So Bonnie got her mulching dream machine, I don’t have to rake clippings, and Old Landing Road traffic has been spared the distraction of my butt waving in the air.

  Is that the end of the story? I don’t think so. I’m certain Bonnie will want accessories and I don’t mean pearls and purses. We’re talking baggers and snow plow blades.

  So now I own a truck and a tractor. They are going to revoke my princess card. Not only that, but it’s 8:30 at night and riding mower headlights are shining in the window at me from across the street. I went to tell Bonnie about it and found her in the garage visiting our new family member.

  Mow quickly into the good night.

  October 2000

  PORK SNOUTS IN SUSSEX

  While you know how thrilled we were to move to cosmopolitan Rehoboth Beach, it took us a while to realize that we’d actually moved to the state of Delaware. Things I’d never even imagined in my other life go on here.

  We just went to the Annual Bridgeville Apple Scrapple Festival. Apples I’ve had, but scrapple is a horse of another color. In fact, I hope it’s not horse.

  I’m sure it surprises no one that prior to Saturday I was a scrapple virgin. Yes, I’ve heard Bonnie’s tales of farmer Granny frying scrapple, but thus far I’d avoided having to sample any myself. Frankly, you know something’s up when you ask normally glib people what scrapple is and they stutter. “Um, I can’t really say. Pig mush, maybe?”

  So there I was, along with the 40,000 people descending on little Bridgeville, Delaware, standing in line for a scrapple sandwich. Well, it wasn’t the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted.

  Bonnie insisted it should have been crispier. I was negotiating it nicely until I looked up and saw the 40-foot scrapple company sign listing the ingredients as pig’s snouts and lard.

  At about the same time, the Hog Calling Contest began and grown men and women started wailing Suuu-eeeee, Suuueeeee, which was roughly the same sound I was making trying to spit out my pig snout sandwich. Wisely, Bonnie grabbed my arm and steered me toward a vendor hawking kosher hot dogs (which, if dissected, are probably the Hebrew National version of snouts and lard).

  In between the hog calling and scrapple scarfing there was the scrapple carving contest. Scrapple sculptors had fashioned everything from a three little pigs tableau to a lovely woman’s torso. Actually, raw scrapple is a pretty good carving medium— although as the day got warmer, the stuff started to droop and that torso aged twenty years. I think the winners should have been honored not so much for what they carved, but that they were willing to put their hands in that stuff.

  Sadly, we were due at our next Delaware event by early evening, so we had to cut short the Bridgeville adventure to get ready for the chicken and dumpling dinner at the Lewes Grange.

  Once again, I was in virgin territory. The Grange has something to do with farmers, and I don’t. Unless you count Bonnie, who is descended from farmers.

  “Haven’t you ever had slippery dumplings?” asked a member of our party. No, can’t say as I have.

  Six of us converged on the Lewes Grange building at 6 p.m., paid our seven dollars each and got right down to piling our plates with slippery dumplings, thick white gravy, potatoes, green beans and chicken.

  For the record, what I thought was going to be exotic foreign food was essentially the same noodles my grandmother served with beef brisket. We were stuffed to the dumplings in just under twenty minutes and back out on the street again before anyone could lobby us to change our political or sexual orientation.

  But my favorite Delaware tradition so far is the yard sale. We hosted a three-family rummage event recently. When a friend told me to put the words “Early birds will be shot!” in my ad, I was clueless and failed to heed her advice. I learned.

  The night before the sale, we started stickering the merchandise. Frighteningly, at K-Mart I’d found an actual product called “Garage Sale Dots” and it occurred to me that we were amateurs in a professional sport.

  Two hours into putting twenty-five cent stickers on stuff that cost a week’s salary in 1978, I wanted to quit. I mean how do you put a price tag on old Steve & Edie albums? The first gift my ex-lover gave me? The amazing Ginzu knife??

  For a fleeting moment our crew started coveting each other’s trash but then got a grip and banned swapping. By 6 a.m. our crew re-assembled to sip caffeine. We lounged over donuts and then, by 7 a.m. leisurely walked into the garage and pushed the button to raise the door.

  Then, we saw them—a throng of glassy-eyed beings, inching toward our driveway like a scene from Night of the Living Dead. “We’re not open until 8,” I hollered, waving them off. While most of the creatures waited in their cars, a few angrily peeled away, shouting, “We won’t be back!” I did not see this as a negative.

  As we frantically set up shop, the crowd at the foot of our driveway grew larger and scarier. Shoppers snorted and jockeyed for position, preparing to break from the gate.

  By 7:45 I understood the need for weapons. In fact, unarmed and incredulous, we couldn’t hold them off and our position was overrun 15 minutes early. “Um…Okay!” I shouted to the advancing army.

  “You’ve never done this before, have you?” croaked a woman leading the charge.

  “No, “ I admitted. “Be gentle.”

  Shoppers broke from the pack and raced to pick though our mountains of crap; prospectors rifled the debris like a crab picking contest.

  “Does this vacuum suck?” squawked a wizened old woman.

  All this stuff sucks, that’s why we’re getting rid of it, I thought, but assured her that the old Hoover sucked great. The frenzy continued, with people driving by, pointing and shouting, “How much??” I didn’t know if they meant the merchandise or me.

  Dollars, dimes and quarters flew as people scarfed up our junk. I sold a bent chandelier for $7 and some goofball came along and bid $9 to the guy who’d just bought it. Of course, the stylish stuff had to be marked down. The really ugly, useless stuff sold full price. We could have sold ice cubes to Eskimos. In fact, the guy who bought the rusty freezer looked vaguely Alaskan-American to me.

  After the initial rush ebbed, the six of us looked at each other, exhaled and were stunned to discover it was only 8:17. We thought we’d been on the sales floor at Macy’s for hours. Medic!

  All morning, cars clogged our local transportation grid. I couldn’t believe the wad of bills accumulating in my pocket. Junk dwindled so fast that at one point I ran back into the house to restock. Heck, I never liked that toaster anyway.

  One by one the excess lawn chairs, rocking chairs and footstools disappeared, leaving us to play musical chair with the lone remaining seat—an exercise bike. After that went, we just shuffled around, pockets so weighty with quarters, we couldn’t have bent to sit anyway.

  Incredulously, at the crack of noon, the hordes retreated and there was nothing left but a small rubble pile.

  “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore,” said one of our merchants. No, we’re in Delaware and I love it. But hold the pork snouts.

  November 2000

  TOO CLOSE TO CALL

  It must have been tough. One minute you’re declared the winner and then, horrors, in a stunning reversal, you’re not. I can just imagine how the contenders felt, both sides having snatched possible defeat from the jaws of victory.

  Everyone’s in an uproar over it, legal challenges have been filed, and there’s no telling how it will all come out. It’s enough to give you gas. Actually, it’s all about gas.

  Naturally, you suspect I’m jabbering about the Bush/Gore election here, but despite television’s proliferation of gaseous commentators and the national waiting game to find out who’s the leader of the free world, I’m actually talking about the gas controversy at the Punkin
’ Chunkin’ Festival.

  If you’re not familiar with the event, it’s Delaware’s answer to…hmm…I can’t think of a festival quite as déclassé as this one. Suffice it to say that the Chunkin’ contest, where teams compete to see how far they can shoot a pumpkin, makes County Fair crowds seem positively sophisticated.

  But the fact that just two days before November 7, the folks at Chunkin’ gave us a peek at the way we’d be undeciding our presidential race seems a little spooky.

  It’s been reported that one pumpkin artillery team was hailed the winner and then the decision was reversed and another team of pumpkin punchers was crowned victorious. Apparently a New Jersey team shot their gourd with helium gas, instead of standard issue air. And a dispute rages on.

  So too, does our national arithmetic test. How ‘bout that new word in our lexicon. Chad. It’s that little paper fleck that gets punched out of a paper ballot. And here’s a somber-faced Peter Jennings, explaining that the judges are debating the eligibility of swinging chads (partially attached), pregnant chads (sounds like an oxymoron, but it’s a ballot with a bulging chad) and other funky chads. Frankly, I think the judges who were ducking helium propelled pumpkins had it easier.

  Staying glued to TV for the endless ballot counting and legal maneuvering is sickening. It’s a good thing Edward R. Morrow is dead because five minutes of contemporary TV news would kill him. Tabloid journalism is alive and well on the network news.

  First it was “Two die in highway crash, film at eleven.” At least the first sentence was news. Presumably the second part was to attract viewers who were sorry they couldn’t actually enjoy the highway carnage in person.

  When the lure of mere film paled in the ratings, promotion managers tried questions. “Judge rules in murder case. Will accused go free? Verdict at 11.” They know the news, but won’t tell us. That’s vicious. If they have enough information to put together a teaser, they know enough to tell us the story right then and there. Period.