Sunday, March 28, 2010


posted Sat, 26 Aug 2006

It must be something in the water. I would say it’s the genes, but I got it from cousins from both sides of the family. My best cousin Angie, when she met SH, asked if he was my fiancé. My cousin Mitch, asked straight out when I was going to marry him. Good grief. Will these people never let me be? I’m glad my sister is arriving today with her boyfriend so there will be someone else to be hassled.

SH and I were driving to Dorchester (the town where my mom and dad grew up) for breakfast yesterday. We were going to eat at the new café in town – a restaurant! in Dorchester! (there is not even a stop light in Dorchester and there has not been an eating establishment there ever as long as I can remember) – but when we passed the corner where my Granma Sylvia used to live and had her gas station, we saw the Liberty 4-H club having a bake sale and bratwurst roast. We decided we can get café food anytime, but we can’t get brats all the time, so with a screech of the tires, we turned around and promptly got us some brats, rice krispie treats, peanut butter special K bars, oatmeal bars, two kinds of brownies, and chocolate cookies.

After breakfast, we drove past my other grandparents’ farm. It’s been 30 years since they sold the farm and the new owners should be ashamed of themselves. The barn has fallen down. It’s not a natural process. If the barn is used, it won’t fall down. The moisture from cows and hay actually preserves the wood. These people are lazy, good for nothings, no-good-doers , barn let fall downers, jerks.

I don’t like them

We went to my uncle’s sausage plant. My aunt and two of my cousins were there making side dishes for the big fish fry today. SH got to taste The Best Summer Sausage in the World. Then we sampled the cucumber salad. The coleslaw. The Snicker salad. (Yes, it’s called “salad” even though it’s made with Snickers and whipped cream. Calling it “salad” puts it in the vegetable and not the dessert section of the cookbook and lets you think you’re eating something healthful. Kind of like calling muffins breakfast food instead of cake.)

Bobbie Jo reminded me that I had promised her son that I would go to his football game and that he was playing that evening. Trapped! I was trapped! “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I did promise that. Last year!”

But what where we to do? Besides, it’s not like we had any other plans.

First, we visited my uncle (my dad’s brother) and some other cousins at the garage they own. I showed my uncle the photos I had taken of his childhood home in Milwaukee, which got him to reminiscing. “One time, my brother Hank and I were fighting and we got to spitting. My dad was getting ready to go to work. He grabbed Hank and me and hauled us into the bathroom with him. ‘You wanna spit?’ he said. ‘Then spit!’ He pointed to the toilet. He made us spit into that toilet until we couldn’t spit any more. Everytime I thought my mouth was too dry to spit any more, he made me keep spitting. He was shaving to go to work and he just took his time while we spit. We didn’t spit much after that.”

After a hearty supper at the Harvest Café in Medford (SH had potato pancakes, applesauce and ham, I had scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes, and we shared Grampa Mike’s fried dough with frosting. This is going to be an eating weekend.), we went to the stadium. We found Angie and Bobbie Jo. Medford was kicking the other team’s butt. It was 20-0 three minutes before the half, then Superior finally scored. Then the Medford band walked onto the field. Angie turned to me in disgust. “Can you believe this band? They don’t even march. This used to be an award-winning band. When I was in band, we used to get first at competition. Watch them. This is pathetic.”

I watched. They played their first song. While standing completely still. Then they started their second song. While still standing still. Angie glared. “We played for Packer games!” she hissed. “Pregame and halftime! Do you think this band could play at a Packer game?”

SH and I left in protest.

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