Ray Wylie Hubbard

Halloween Reflections

In general it was a bust. The first group came by in broad daylight. Twelve parents, I counted them, with probably fifteen kids, toddlers through maybe eight years old.  I did not recognize any of them. They were not Oakwooders. I suspect they were either Gypsies or Irish Travelers. They must have gotten our names off of some Soft Touch website. I grudging gave each of the little creeps a small candy bar. They all responded with a practiced, "Thank you", but I wasn't fooled that easily. A little later a few scattered groups of the Oakwood kids came around. I gave them all too much candy and they took the chance to talk to their Buddy, the old pug. They were ALL ESCORTED BY PARENTS! Why do parents insist on stealing this little adventure from their children? For Christ's sake, they know everyone living in Oakwood. "Damn!", he said curmudgeonly. 

All was not lost. It was a beautiful evening, the sky and the lake mirroring each other. Which came first, the lake or the sky? Addy would have walked down to the lake beyond the oaks to take the picture and enhance the illusion even more. I just walked out on the deck and pulled the trigger because I was still manning the candy bowl.

Barb Wagner

Barb is a waitress at the Old Mill Restaurant. In between wine selections, taking orders, and bringing patrons food, she tells jokes and stories, often quite blue. She just sent me an email for an upcoming wine tasting and included this. This one is clean enough to post, but I would expect at least a couple of people to be offended. Tough.

So, the customer asked, "In what aisle could I find the Polish sausage?

"The clerk looks at him and says, "Are you Polish?"
The guy (clearly offended) says, "Well, yes I am. But let me ask you
something. If I had asked for Italian sausage, would you ask me if I was Italian?
Or if I had asked for German Bratwurst, would you ask me if I was German?
Or if I asked for a kosher hot dog would you ask me if I was Jewish?
Or if I had asked for a Taco, would you ask if I was Mexican?'
If I asked for some Irish whiskey, would you ask if I was Irish?"
The clerk says, "Well, no, I probably wouldn't!"
With deep self-righteous indignation, the guy says, "Well then, why did you
ask me if I'm Polish because I asked for Polish sausage?"
The clerk replied, "Because you're in Home Depot."

Frankenstein

Aldo Ross posted this along some other Frankenstein quotes on Facebook. This is for Margadant, Westrum, Hurst, Mary, Kurt, L.P. and all you others. You know who you are.

"The companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our infantine dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified, are never eradicated." (from Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley)

Oh, and by the way, Lorna and Linda were over to visit Aunt Dorothy this afternoon. I won't say how old Dorothy is, but she was born in '24. She still stays on top of things. Among other things, they discussed 1410 Oakwood, and dial-up versus high-speed hookup. Dorothy, get with the program. Get Jason over there as soon as you get home so you can listen to Beau Jocque sing Cornbread. You take care, sweetheart.

Dorothy Kaasa

Over the past 40 years I have adopted Lorna's family as my own, and I have mourned as the older and wiser inevitably slipped away. Lorna's mother and her aunt Edna, two of the finest women I have ever known, died shortly after we were married. The men, being the weaker sex, have long been gone. Aunt Dorothy is the last tree standing. Dorothy was possibly the first regular follower of this blog. When my language or subject material has drifted, I remind myself of the Dorothy Test. Now Dorothy is not a prude nor naive. Over the years she has seen or heard almost everything, but it's a good thing for all of us to have a litmus test, a what would Dorothy think benchmark? My benchmark is in Immanuel St. Joseph's, Room 3611 right now, fighting pneumonia. Here's to Aunt Dorothy getting back to her apartment.soon. Be well, Dodo.

Beau Jocque

...and the Zydeco Hi-Rollers. Born Andrus Espree, died 10 years ago. Real, meets or surpasses any soul litmus test. In the first video I love the implication that Gilton's is on the wrong side of the tracks. And the look in his eyes as he slowly reaches an emotional plane

Halloween Addendum

Growing up in Clarks Grove involved some traditions. Halloween was a time for hell-raising and even mild maliciousness. One of the things that was required was the burning of an outhouse in the center of the main intersection. For a couple of weeks before Halloween the rural farms were scouted and locations noted. By that time the biffies were not in use. The farmers were glad to get rid of them and they would put the word out. They saved them for us. Eventually it got tougher and tougher as every year there were fewer and fewer outhouses. Another problem was Gene Otterson, an overly aggressive town cop. He was a little man with a big badge. And for Christ's sake he wore a revolver on his hip. Who the hell was he going to shoot? We didn't even have speeders. Nevertheless, he took it as a personal offensive that anyone would burn an outhouse in HIS town.

One year there was a large number of young hooligans (including myself) milling around the area of the intersection. Gene was in his car keeping an eye on us and generally guarding the intersection. A red '55 Chevy pickup came slowly up the street from the east. It was Everett Jensen, and he had an outhouse tied upright in the box. He slowly drove to the crossroad, hesitated, then signaled and turned left. He slowly drove north out of town, followed by Gene. Then quickly joined by a caravan of cars full of teenagers. It was a slow motion chase. It had to be, because going around the section and back to town was only four miles, and those of us left in town had work to do. We had to get the other outhouse unloaded, set up and soaked with gasoline.  The caravan finally crested the hill, coming into town from the west. Ev pulled over to the side to let Gene pass and really appreciate his view of the pending bonfire. When he got close they touched it off. That sucker was so soaked with gasoline it half exploded as it lit up the intersection. Malicious mischief.

Ras and Halloween

I read about how Halloween is a big party time and how adults spend a bazillion dollars every year on costumes. Maybe, but out here in the backwaters, it's just for kids. I think I posted something like this a couple of years ago, but it's a pain to try to dredge it up, so I'll just recall it again.

There was a lot of squealing and yelling in Oakwood, coming from the vicinity of Rasmussen's house. Even though it was Halloween and there were clusters of little goblins, ghosts and ghouls moving about, it still seemed to be an unusual amount of activity and noise. Eventually curiosity got the better of  Lorna and she left me in charge of the Snicker Bar shake down for a while. After ten or fifteen minutes she came back and said, "Go over to Dean and Jesse's. You gotta see this." So I ambled over toward Rasmussen's. Along the I met a little group of neighborhood kids stumbling up the street, half blind by their ever shifting masks. "What's going on over there?" "It's really, really scary. There's a scarecrow. And he's alive!"  Huh?  When I arrived there were two kids standing at the end of the sidewalk in front of Rasmussen's. Jesse was beneath the porch light, standing over a scarecrow sprawled akimbo along with the jack-o'-lanterns on the steps. Beckoning them, "It's alright, you can come up. He won't hurt you. I promise." The kids shook her heads and mumbled a mask muffled "Trick or Treat". The word was out. No way were they going up on Rasmussen's steps. They were firmly planted on the safety of the curb. Eventually Jess gave in and brought the candy out to them.

Dean was dressed in the greatest padded scarecrow getup I've ever seen. He laid there, unmoving. The kids, assuming it was a dummy, would walk up and "Trick or Tre-eat!" the door. Jess would wait a while. Wait for Dean to grab an unsuspecting tricker by the ankles and yell 'Boo!'. Just scare the bejesus out of them. He said the best was an old man, waiting for a carload of his young goblins to make their rounds. He walked up to look the scarecrow over closer. It was chilly and the old guy had his hands in his pockets. Grandpa walked up and leaned over the dummy to get a better look. Whereupon Dean shouted and grabbed him by the shoulders. He said the old boy let out whoop and leaped back, jump dancing in circles. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!"           Never took his hands out of his pockets.

Skin Games

I have really gross brown lumpy blotches on my face the size of nickels, paying the price for 100s of hours on a old Massey Harris tractor without a wearing hat I guess. They are a bitch to shave over and around. It does slow down my shaving. Family members pressured me to have them examined. I was certain they would have to remove half my face. Of course at this point in my life I don't really care; all vanity is long gone. I had a cute petite young Mayo doctor, who could have been my granddaughter. She treated me with proper respect - particularly after seeing my blood pressure. It was 124 / 64., good for 65. Fat though I may be, all that selective eating, beer drinking and bike riding has not been wasted. The ugly brown blotches on my face turned out to be actinic keratoses, glorified extreme liver spots, not cancer. They can freeze, scrap and laser my face and make it less repulsive. I remember seeing the old farmers in the church in Clarks Grove when I was growing up and pitying them for their beat up, weathered faces. phhuuwett! As a porcelain faced punk what did I know?! My spots continue to slowly expand and maybe at some point I'll have to deal with them. Unsightly though they may be, at least for now I'm wearing them as badges, awards , even rewards for living a full life. I'm good to go for another year.

Aside: You know how you see the old guys who quit getting haircuts and shaving? Moi'. Except I shave. But I do it for me, 'cause it itches, not for you! I tell myself the hair, the mustache and goatee, look European and sophisticated. But I know it doesn't. It looks like a homeless shag mullet. And it pleases me just a little every morning when I look in the mirror.

Breezy? It's Banshees I Tell You, Banshees!

The National Weather Service online describes the current conditions as "Light Snow and Breezy". Breezy? I checked definitions: "Breeze: a light current of air; a gentle wind."  Of course the NWS also confess that their breezy is "W 25 G 43 MPH".  Well, I'm glad it's only breezy, not windy. Their forecast goes on:

"This Afternoon: A 40 percent chance of showers. Cloudy, with a high near 42. Windy, with a west wind around 34 mph, with gusts as high as 55 mph."

55 mph! If I wanted 55 mph winds I'd move to Fargo! The projections go on pretty much the same for the next few days. At some point the wind becomes oppressive, like someone leaning on you continuously. I'm about at that point. The point where I snap. Snap like a old bur in the wind. Or breeze rather.

We're getting deep into day three of the Great Midwest Windstorm, with at least two more to go. Our house sits on the crest of a hill facing west toward the lake. When the leaves abandon the trees in autumn it leaves us a little naked and exposed to the elements. There is nothing between here and the Dakotas to slow the wind down. Normally a little breeze is nice. It moves the air and plays our windchime trio. The windchimes are three different sizes to give us a full range of tones. The largest are bass gongers, approximately three foot tubes about 2 1/2" in diameter. With the winds at 30 or 40 mph they were really cranked up. It's was a little intense, almost the very definition of cacophony. The night-before-last I finally got up in the middle of the night, put on my bunny slippers, and ventured out into the teeth of the witch wind to disable the sonofabitches. 

Enough about the *f;&$#@g weather for a while. Could be worse, Duluth got 7" of snow with it too. And I'm guessing Doug rode his bike to work anyway.

Mexican Lovesongs

One more from the recently deceased Linda Hargrove and then we'll let her rest in peace. It's tough to narrow it down because she wrote so many songs that were hits for others, for instance George Jones - Tennessee Whiskey ,and probably my favorite I Never Loved Anyone More by Lynn Anderson, but I like Linda's version better. She could sing circles around Lynn Anderson, but she probably didn't package as well at the time. Linda Hargrove was not some obscure, lost artist. She was a singer, songwriter, record producer, made commercials, even played session guitar for people like ol' Waylon. She could really play. Later she also recorded gospel as Linda Bartholomew, her married name. I like this one because you just know she wrote this whole song around the phrase "they could hear him snorin' in Sonora".

Barton Sutter

A quick bio: Barton Sutter lives in Duluth. He has won the Minnesota Book Award in three different categories: Poetry, Fiction, and Creative Non-fiction. It's guys like this that keep me from trying to be a writer. From
My Father’s War: Stories of Midwestern Men

My Granddad Hackbart was a big old bastard, six feet tall and heavyset, with a chest like an overstuffed suitcase. He was fat, but he didn’t look fat. His hair was thick, and he brushed it back in a silver pompadour. His forehead was high, his cheeks were pink, and his eyes were a scary blue. He was a handsome man, but it didn’t do him any good, because everybody in Bessemer knew he was cranky and drank like a large-mouthed bass. When my Grandma Hackbart died, there wasn’t a widow in town who would even consider him. He couldn’t take care of himself, he wasn’t ready for the nursing home, and he only had a small pension, so the son of a bitch moved in with us. He took my room. I was eight years old when Granddad came to live with us, and he was still in the house when I left for college. I grew up with him. Granddad was family, and I hated his guts.

--from “Very Truly Ours"