Think Kit- Day 3-Time to get strange

Today's Think Kit topic: Share the strangest experience of your year. Did you do something new or unexpected, see something out of the ordinary, or have a unique experience? What was so strange about it?

In October I was in a city in the Hoosier state- population 40,000 approx. I was driving through the business/ retail district, along the by-pass, when I saw something funny sticking out the back of a car. I thought, "what is THAT?!?"  I kept trying to get close enough, because what I thought it was I was assuming it COULDN'T be! And then I figured out what it was! And I had to get a picture so someone would believe me. Really. In the trunk of the car. And not just any car but a Chevy Cavalier.

 Guess there's more than one way to skin a...deer.

Who needs a truck anyway?

This certainly falls into the category of weird and strange for me.
Maggie

Who needs a pick-up to haul stuff?

I was driving through a local CITY last Saturday and ended up following this vehicle. I couldn't stop laughing! Hilarious to me!!!!

A not so funny thing happened on the way to the cemetery

My dad has a cousin who died about a year ago. She was young, in her 40s, and she died of cancer. Daddy-O and I are "distant" cousins of sorts to this family. Apparently there was some bad blood between her and her immediate family, which her widower has sorta spilled over to ALL of us in the family.

So almost a year has passed and she's finally got a headstone and her ashes are buried. She buried where her mom is, and where a bunch of our family has been laid to rest. Daddy-O and I went to the cemetery to see, and since she's buried where my grandparents are at (Daddy-O's folks) we thought we could just do a check on the family.

We find her plot and she has a lovely headstone, and is buried just a few feet away from my grandparents and from her mom. BUT........ her mom's headstone was gone. Yup, gone. As in, no longer there, just the slab but no marker. Weird, right?

Daddy- O and I brainstormed possible ideas: vandalism, weather, new stone, more engraving, weird tombstone thief cum hoarder... various possibilities. But we didn't know the headstone would be missing so it was a little worrisome. We figured there was some logical explanation but we just weren't sure what that might be.

Daddy-O emailed some cousins to see if anyone had a clue. We didn't want to email the family and freak them completely out if they were clueless to the whereabouts of said stone.

I, often being of that Nancy Drew ilk, decided to just call the sexton and see if he/she knew anything. WELL! Did she ever! I just want to give advise to everyone- apparently there isn't any of family of the dead and sexton confidentiality rule, no dead person HIPPA stuff because she gave me an earful.

She said the headstone was removed by my dead aunt's husband and we to not be returned until the daughter was buried. The sexton gossip queen implied that it was because the new widower might do damage to his dead mother-in-law's grave marker because of all the ill family will. Holy beejeezus!

This is NOT some wacko group of rednecks. These are well educated, well moneied people who wouldn't stoop to such things. This isn't a Hatfields and McCoy's fight. Ugh, what a mess.

An interesting story, but certainly a sad mess, really. I bet everyone that this would matter too is rolling over in their collective graves, marked or not.

Mags

Rise up and celebrate the Dead

I was debating writing about my weekend, taking Princess and Mac to the orchard and picking their own pumpkins, which I've called "Adventure in the Pumpkin Patch." I was also thinking of kvetching about my new job which I HATE HATE HATE. But Mac gave me some fodder so the job bellyaching, and the weekend recap will have to wait. I want to talk about bread.

Last week, Mac's Spanish teacher explained the idea of the celebration of "The Day of the Dead." The class opted to have a celebration and the Day of the Dead is today, Nov. 2. Last week all the kids signed up to bring treats for which they would earn extra credit. Mac had a B+ at the quarter but he said it's getting harder so he signed up; he figured a little extra credit wouldn't hurt anyone, especially him.

Now Mac didn't sign up for a yummy dessert or a veggie tray or to even bring the stupid cups and plates. He signed up to bring "dead bread." That's right, he agreed to make something called dead bread. He told me of this last Thursday and I asked him if he had the recipe. He said it was in his locker. I repeat, LAST Thursday night, when at home, I asked to see it and he forgot- it was still in his locker. I reminded him at school on Friday to bring it home. When I asked him to see it again on Sunday, before I went to the market, he had still forgotten it. So now, I knew we had to make something called Dead Bread on Monday night for him to bring to school on Tuesday morning. In reality, I was thinking this was going to be some sort of sweet cake thing, or something like corn meal or a box cake mix. I was thinking I probably had all the ingredients at home and it would be a quick cake mix and go.

Boy was I freakin' wrong. Mac DID give me the recipe. On the way home from school yesterday. For me to read while I was driving. And it involved YEAST! Damn YEAST! Which means it would have to RISE! At least 1 HOUR or MORE. So, I was working at school until 5pm today when I saw it. Mac had play practice at 6pm so I was going to have to go to the market to buy some stupid YEAST and then make it my damn self since Mac was going to be gone all evening.

But wait, it gets better!

Daddy-O went to Bro and SisIL's for dinner and Mac took my car to play practice and I hadn't gone to the store to buy yeast so I couldn't even start on it while he was gone. DOH! I thought I would be smart and I sent Daddy-O a message, begging him to get yeast on his way home. He forgot. So at 8pm I went to the store to get yeast.

When I came home Mac had started blending the dry ingredients and melting and boiling the others. We dumped it all in a bowl to blend and I see that I bought... rapid rise yeast. Well fuck. Also, Mac was acting like a child (or since he's almost an adult, I could call him a pompous ass) demanding HE was going to do it, but then he asked me a million questions and then half of the time he didn't listen to what I had to say, anyway. I was trying to teach him something since I love to bake bread and have done it on many occasions, but he was just like a bull in a china shop. There was flour everywhere.

So the dough was ready to come out of the mixing bowl and onto the board for kneading. I told him to flour his hands and tip the dough out and use his floured hands to get the rest of the sticky dough out of the bowl. It didn't go like that. He had dough ALL OVER THE PLACE- the counter, the board, the bowl, still on the beater... for Pete's sake, in his hair!! I kept giving him more flour and I have no idea what he did but it was one huge sticky mess. Come to find out he didn't add the last cup of flour because he didn't read the rest of the recipe. Well no damn wonder it was a sticky mess!!!!

I floured up and we finally got the dough on the board. There was flour now ALL OVER THE PLACE- hair (his and mine), counter, floor, our persons and not nearly enough on the dough. Watching him knead was hysterical. He was pushing it with his finger and then just wiggled it around. He sort of poked it and the whole time said it was gross. He pat it, too. I told him to quit complaining and that making bread could be sort of sensual.

Yes, I said that to my 17 year old son. I have no idea what I was thinking. It just popped right out. I showed him how to knead the dough and he continued telling me there was nothing sensual about it and he was going to school to tell people I thought making bread was sexy. I don't think I'm ever going to live it down. So I left him to the 8-10 minutes of kneading and I started cleaning the whole kitchen. Then I put some oil a bowl and told him to dump the dough in. He swirled the dough around the bowl and asked if that was sensual part since it was like lubing up.

Yeah...............

Oh by the way, dead bread is a slightly sweet yeast bread, baked in the shape of a dead body and then covered with an orange glaze.

After it double its size in just 45 minutes (thank GODDESS for rapid rise yeast!) he was to shape it into something. He wanted to make it into skull and crossbones. So he shaped it. Then we had to let it rise for about hour and bake for 40 minutes. Then brush warm bread with a warm orange glaze that he boiled. He kept saying "OMG, it's HUGE! WOW, it's huge! Is this why bread is sexy, because it's huge?"- then he cackled with giggles. Finally, last night a midnight, the bread was done and glazed. It doesn't look like a skull and crossbones, more like a cemetery with tombstones, I think?


When I was just a kid, I know I came home and told my mom I needed something for school the very next day, for a treat of some kind, but I never, in all my years, had her in a bread baking project that went into the wee hours of the morning and involved shaping said treat into the shape of dead bodies!

And I'm pretty proud of ol' fearless Mac. Other than the cleaning, providing supplies and a brief lesson of kneading, he did it all himself. He got himself into the idea so he took care of it. That kid will try anything once and has nerve. I'm proud of him.

And you might be wondering how we got this monstrosity to school since I don't happen to own Tupperware this large... well, if I told you that secret, I'd have to kill ya. Let's leave something to the imagination, alrighty?

God Bless extra credit,
Maggie

By the way, I didn't bother to proofread and I apologize. I wrote this at 1 am- post breadmaking...

Planting the Shrew's

Though I guess technically the title of this post is a lie since we didn't stick them in the ground so they're 'planted'; they're interred in a mausoleum.

But I'm starting at the end of the story, rather than the beginning.

About a month or so ago Grandmother Shrew had a heart attack and went in the hospital and then she went into a nursing home, the same one where Grandfather Shrew was at.

She was there about a month and since they were all about saving money, she went home with a home health care nurse. Then 48 hours later she died in her sleep. There's some medical stuff that happened post-mortem (like a helicopter ride to a big hospital in Northern Civilization and sticking her accidentally on life support until all her paperwork was gathered and the DNR was found. But no one is mad at the hospital [that I know of] because she was at 4 or 5 medical facilities in the last six weeks, so who can blame 'em? And who really cares?)

So she died and my brother took care of all the funeral stuff. There wasn't much really since she and Grandfather Shrew had preplanned it and pre-paid it all. He only had to take care of some basics. My Grandmother Shrew had a cousin she was VERY close to and my Grandmother's best friend is the estate executor so those 2 ladies and my brother did it all. Which is fine with me, all things considered about how I felt.

Her viewing was last Sunday and I didn't go, which I'm sure comes as no surprise. I also made sure it was okay with my brother; the last thing in the world I want is a rift with him (he carries a grudge FOREVER). He was fine with it. Then, during the viewing, Grandfather Shrew died.

So, my brother (and the cousin and the executor) and the funeral home jumped through some hoops and got him ready. On Monday there was a brief viewing for him and then a double funeral for them both. I went to the funeral. That was it. I didn't do the viewings, the graveside service nor the church dinner.

They are dead.

After shooting off my mouth about them here in blog-land and well, everywhere else, I'm not sure of the appropriate way to say anything now. I certainly don't regret what I've said at all. My problem with how far to go it this: Sometimes my brother, and sister-in-law read this, so I don't want to just "hang it all out there" and upset them. But...

Let me think on what I want to say.

I did, however, want to give ya'll the details of their demises, since I put you all through their living-ness, which sometimes shouldn't be foisted on anyone. Sorry about that.

Alrighty then, more on this later, okay?

Maggie Mae

The first time I saw a dead body

One could argue that the story I'm about to tell is really about the second time I saw a dead body. Apparently, family lore goes that the first time I saw a dead body was when I was about about 2 years old. My great-grandmother on my mom's side had died. My parents went to the viewing and no one thought I should be brought up by the casket at my age so in their infinite wisdom, all the fam-damily adults thought it would be best if I stayed in the back of the funeral home and be held by my Daddy-O. So I was 2 years old and being carried around at adult height and I could see over everyone, all the way to the front of the funeral parlor, and right into the casket. And according to legend, I said in a loud clear 2 year old voice "Why's that lady taking a bath with her clothes on?" And of course it was a moment when it was dead silent. And then everyone laughed and thought I was the cutest thing in the world.

But see, I don't think that counts as the first time I saw a dead body (even though that's a damn adorable Maggie Mae story). It doesn't count because:

1. I don't remember it
2. I saw a dead body the way we expect to see them: after the mortician had done all the funeral homey things to it and got it all dressed up and made to look like sleeping (though I don't care what anyone says, a dead person looks dead, no matter how good a job the funeral dudes do). You know, I saw it in a casket at the funeral home, with soft lighting, crying families, organ music- you know, a dead person in their natural habitat. They way dead people were intended to be stared at.

The story I'm about to tell you is about the first time I saw a dead body. And try as I might, it's unfortunately not really funny......

Do you remember I told you I had a paper route and I was the youngest kid in my town to ever have one at age 10? Well, I did. I loved my paper route. And the people were very nice to me- well, most of them were, except for Mr. James Gardner. I would always park my bike at Mrs. Greenbean's house, the first one I delivered and then walk the rest of my route, which ended back her at house. It was easier for me to walk my route because there were lots of elderly folks who wanted me to place their papers in a 'just so' spot.

I had a good relationship with most of my customers. They were pretty protective of me and worried if I was late. And not late like past the delivery deadline, but late if I didn't come past their house as my usual time; remember, this was around the time of the first big child abduction of Adam Walsh that was famous so people were always looking out for me. They left me presents all the time and nice tips. Mrs. Greenbean, as I said, let me park my bike at her house and on Saturday mornings (the only day of the week it was a morning, Monday thru Friday it was an afternoon paper and there was none on Sunday) she would fix me breakfast. There was a guy, Sam, who owned a gas station and he would give me a glass bottle of Pepsi a few times a week and he was the first person who showed me the trick of putting peanuts in the soda bottle. So, people were nice and kind. They watched out for me and in turn, I watched out for them, I guess.

One customer was an old lady named Mrs. R. The first time I met Mrs. R I was scared out of my ever-loving mind. First, she lived in a big, creepy, creaky, old house on a corner at the bottom of a hill. It was a huge scary monstrosity, painted black and it was peeling. One shutter hung askew. There was a fence around the front yard and the gate squeaked when the wind blew it, or when I had to push it open to walk up the front sidewalk to leave her paper in the mailbox hooks next to the front door. There were no flowers. The kids all said a witch lived there and the house was haunted- okay, we all saw that coming, right?

The first time I had to collect from Mrs. R I thought I was going to have a heart attack at age 10. She answered the door and was the most frightening old person I had ever seen in my life. Her hair was snow white and looked like she had been caught in a wind tunnel or like Medusa but without the snakes. She was hunched over with a slight hump. She always wore house coats and slippers and shuffled as she walked so slowly. She was the most wrinkled person I'd ever seen, with more lines on her face than a London tube map. She was old and since everyone said she was a witch and with the looks of the house, I was terrified. And it must've shown on my face because she asked me if I was scared of her and I actually blurted out why and she laughed and laughed and thought it was the funniest thing in the world. She told me she wasn't a witch, just an old lady. And to let the kids keep thinking she was a witch because they stayed off her lawn. And from that day on, Mrs. R. was one of my favorite people.

A few times a week she would be at the door waiting for me and have me come in for a snack, usually a few stale vanilla wafers and some warm flat soda but that was okay. Her house was old and dusty and dark. Her tv was new but she had an old Victrola in the corner and her phone was an ancient black rotary thing. But she liked to talk. Even then I knew she was lonely. And her voice was low and raspy like she'd had a 4 pack a day habit for 60 years, and she whispered with a Katherine Hepburn shake to it. Her voice matched her scary appearance but she was a nice and kind lady with sparkling blue eyes.

We had developed a routine. I would leave her paper in the hooks of her mail box, right outside the door and then I would ring the bell. I could go on my way then, and she would come get her paper. Since she was at the bottom of the hill, and I had to go up it, I would turn around and check to see if she had come to the door yet and most days, we would wave at each other. Sometimes, but very rarely, she didn't get the paper before I got to the top of the hill, but as a kid, I always thought it was because she might be on the phone, watching one of her 'stories' or in the bathroom.

One Thursday, Mrs. R met me at the door and told me she had a cold but gave me a quarter to get a candy bar (and yeah, that actually covered the price of a candy bar at Sam's gas station in 1980). The next day, a Friday, I left Mrs. R's paper and went up the hill, turning around to check like always but she didn't get the paper by the time I got to the top. Even now, 28 years I later I still remember wondering if I should go back down the hill and knock on the door to check on her since she said she was sick yesterday. But I didn't because I was going to stay overnight at my friend Misty's house and she was one of 7 kids so I wanted to hurry so I wouldn't miss any of the chaos that was her house.

Saturday morning rolled around and I was doing my morning delivery. I had left my bike at Mrs. Greenbean's house as usual and went on my way. I wasn't a morning person even then and I usually didn't visit with anyone on Saturday morning because papers had to be deliver by 8am and I always waited until the last possible second, so I know it was around 7:30am.

I got to Mrs. Rs house and I knew right away something was wrong because her Friday paper was still. in.the.mailbox. I stood stock still, holding the Saturday paper. I went to the front door and knocked. No answer. I rang the bell and beat on the door and still no answer. And then I did something I was taught to never do- I snooped. I pressed my face to the glass and peered inside. And that was the first time I saw a dead body, the details forever seared into my brain.

Mrs. R was sprawled on her kitchen floor, on her stomach, arms and legs akimbo, jutting out at all odd angles. A chair was knocked over and there was a yellow Melmac coffee cup on the floor. Her hair was spread out and I couldn't see her entire face, just her mouth, open and slack. And here's what I remember happening next: I ran next door to the Hoffman's and beat on the door but no one answer so I ran 3 blocks to Sam at the gas station. I was crying and surely spewing gibberish but I finally got him to understand what I was saying. I remember sitting on a stool there, holding peanuts and a cold bottle of Pepsi but not eating or drinking, while Same called 911 and he left, probably to go check himself.

I'm sure Sam's wife called my parents who came and got me and I'm sure either they finished my route or the news paper office did. I don't remember.

I do know that I would check the paper for the next few days to find out when the funeral was. Then on the day of viewing, I figured out it was at the funeral home that was half way between my house and my paper route. So on the day of the viewing, I did my paper route, when to Mrs. Greenbean's house and changed clothes (I had stuffed school clothes in my paper delivery bag) in her bathroom and rode my bike to the funeral home. I went inside and paid my respects and then went home. I never told my folks I was gonna do it or did it. I think at that time it was because I wasn't sure if I wanted to go and was afraid they would make me if I said something about it. But when I got home that night, it was like they knew. Mrs. Greenbean had probably called and told them what I was up to. Or they figured it out on their own. Either way...

For a long time I wondered if I could've saved her. I wondered if I should've broken in the front door glass and called 911 on her black phone and then done CPR that we learned from the "BAT Man" (Basic Aid Training policeman) in fourth grade, if it would've saved her. I wondered if I could've saved her if I would've went back down the hill on Friday. Now, as an adult all these years later, I know that she was dead when I saw her on Saturday morning and no amount of CPR could change that. And as for Friday.... well, who knows, right?

That was the first time I saw a dead body.
Maggie