The Ash Creek Papers

You know… I’m still giggling over this.  It’s just a matter of time when they will have a day, week or month given over to celebrating every something or other known to mankind.  And then… as a natural extension, some wayward locale will hold a festival honoring the something or other like… like?  The Garlic Festival in Gilroy, CA!  Or the Marshmallow Festival in Ligonier, IN!  And maybe there will even be an associated Hall of Fame!  I just shake my head, can you imagine: The C.P.A. Hall of Fame and Gift Shop (I hope I can find a parking space… OK kids, I want everyone go to the bathroom now, then remember, we’re going thru the exhibits first, don’t touch anything, no shouting or pushing, then if you behave, we can go to the gift shop). 

What would intelligent life from another planet think about this? Do you see why I’m giggling?  Oh, no… not about the C.P.A Hall of Fame… I just made that up.  But about the Marshmallow Festival in Ligonier, Indiana which I am not making up!

Sure… if you have nothing planned on Labor Day Weekend, why not head over to Ligonier and take in the festivities honoring the greatness of the marshmallow.  Be forewarned, however, there is a prohibition against pets, roller blades, roller skates and skateboards in the festival areas! Significantly, there is no prohibition against 79 year old women wielding 8 litre galvanized Haws watering cans.  A detail that caught Etienne Lartigue off guard.

Let’s consider the central item of worship in Ligonier: the marshmallow.  It’s origin is not clear.  But they have been around since the mid 19th Century with commercial brands being made in the 1890s.  For the record… stems of the marsh mallow plant were peeled to their soft spongy pith.  The pith was then boiled in a sugar syrup and dried to produce a soft chewy confection that was then cut into sections, rolled in a combination of corn starch and confectioners sugar… voila: the marshmallow we know and love.

From its humble beginnings it moved on to mass production (gelatin replacing the plant) and its use in mallomars, Rice Krispie treats, s’mores, Marshmallow Fluff, and of course as that cookout and campfire staple — the toasted marshmallow.  Of the latter, there are two schools of preparation: the softly-toasted-to-a-light-golden-brown and the flame-and-burned-to-a-charred-crisp.

The joy of the marshmallow is not confined to the campgrounds and backyards of America.  It was already well established in County Shropshire, England by 1929 when Penelope Whistle-Smythe came into this world.  It would be seven years before Penelope would have what she described as “a defining moment in my life.”

On a warm July day in 1936, Penelope’s extended family went on an outing to the River Severn, not far from her Oswestry home.  The children of the family went off from their parents to enjoy independent fun and games.  Penelope, the youngest of the children, was given over to her teenaged cousin Richard, eldest of the children, and by all accounts, the ringleader of the troop.  It was he who came up with the idea of making a campfire in the protected glen close to the river.  It was he who produced a handsome bag of fresh marshmallows.  And it was he who sent all his younger charges out looking for appropriate sticks for use in roasting the marshmallows.  The kids, including Penelope, set out to the River with its stand of white birch trees, that area being deemed as an ideal location for sticks and twigs.

Why it took Penelope longer to find a stick, we can’t really say.  Maybe she kept rejecting candidates because they were not of acceptable length, or maybe one that was long enough didn’t have a proper bend?  Regardless, when she finally selected one she returned to the glen to find her cousins already deeply involved in scarfing down the sticky toasted marshmallows.

What transpired next would cast an imprint in the mind of young Penelope… it would remain with her for the rest of her life.  She began to complain bitterly to her cousins that they should have waited for her to return. She cried that there wouldn’t be any marshmallows left for her! She called them rude, selfish and ill-behaved.  The cousins did not take well to being dressed down by the youngest and smallest of their number!  If they wanted to be lectured about behavior they would have remained with their parents!

Richard would have none of it.  He took things into hand.  He looked at his cooking stick, racked with four marshmallows burned to a crisp.  Determined that they were sufficiently cooled, he slipped the blackened marshmallows from the stick, examined them for their consistency… satisfied, he took the mélange and rubbed them into Penelope’s hair.

On cue, the other cousins removed their cooked marshmallows… golden browns and burnt crisps… and mashed their gooey contents into the crying Penelope’s hair, face and arms.  It’s a cruel world.  Kids know how to take unfair advantage of a situation.  

Eight years later, Richard, Penelope’s protector, would make the supreme sacrifice during the Battle of the Falaise Pocket.  If Penelope had remorse for the loss of her cousin, she never showed it.  Who can blame her?  Although years later while addressing the Annual Meeting of the Shrewsbury Chapter of the Society For The Prevention Of Cruelty To Confections, she stated, “I owe my commitment and love, to this noble cause to my dearly departed cousin, Richard.”

Yes, Penelope Whistle-Smythe had found her calling.  If she caught wind that there was to be a taffy pull on the Isle of Wight she’d be there!  Placards and umbrella in hand… and she wouldn’t think twice about whacking a contestant on the noggin, and finishing it off with a “that will teach you… you perfect beast!”

And with the arrival of the internet and its “information highway”, Penelope was no longer bound to local news and events.  She could go global.  And she did.

While the “defining moment” in Penelope’s life is clear, the defining moment for Etienne Lartigue is less so.  I suppose you could say that it was May 2, 1980 — the day of his birth.  The day when the results of the unique joining of genetic matter of Claudine and Henri Lartigue produced a healthy baby boy who was destined to reach the mere height of 5’… although that might not have been evident on that Friday in 1980.

There are far worse things in life than being painfully short.  But tell that to a boy who was the shortest person, boy or girl, at every grade level in school.  Tell that to a boy who had no athletic skills.  No chance for him to be a demon of speed on the soccer pitch.  Nor was he academically gifted.  When Etienne came of age he narrowed the paths for self esteem to just two: become a high stakes jockey or join a circus.

He hated horses. 

One day, with little ceremony, he left his childhood home in Cherbourg and headed to the touring Cirque Medrano.  His first assignment was helping with the care of Camela… one of the famous Medrano Elephants.  This didn’t last long… Etienne liked elephants even less than horses.  And further, the owners feared that one of the elephants would eventually crush him.

The owners tried putting him into some of the other acts.  But he was too tall to be a clown midget, he couldn’t juggle worth a damn… but he began to have success with some of the aerial acts, and some of the stunt motorcycle routines… then a motor cycle on the high wire number.  And finally a stint as the human cannonball. 

The crowds loved him! Etienne Le Courageux!!

Etienne had found his calling.  It was the going for the thrill.  It was doing something, anything, that surpassed his diminutive height.  And he set his course to the pursuit of enterprises that would demonstrate his ability to overcome physical or emotional challenges.  And it wasn’t long before he left Cirque Medrano, its elephants and adoring crowds for the uncharted territory of the bizarre.

He would scale the imposing facade of the ADIA Tower in Abu Dhabi, bungee jump from a hovering helicopter over the Victoria Falls and shinny up the Gateway Arch in St. Louis.  Etienne Le Courageux!  The film crews followed him everywhere.  Oh, look!  There is Etienne swimming off the Barrier Reef… I hope a Great White doesn’t get him!

It is unclear whether the organizers of the Marshmallow Festival spawned the idea, or whether it was something that Etienne cooked up… but the Labor Day weekend of 2008 found the dare devil putting the final touches to his planned jump to take place on Sunday.

Lartigue had selected the First Bank Building on West Jefferson Blvd as the best location for his planned jump. He had constructed a platform block of marshmallows 10′ X 15′ to a depth of 8′ on the sidewalk next to the bank building… the idea being that the marshmallows would adequately cushion his fall from the four story precipice.  Or so the organizers and Etienne had hoped.

Etienne had actually looked for a taller building.  But this was Ligonier.

Lacking a building of greater height, Etienne decided to add interest to the fall by holding on to an anvil to speed his descent.  As far as the anvil was concerned, it wasn’t a matter of strength… Etienne was as strong as an ox, albeit a small one.  Still, one could question whether is was necessary to take on the added risk.

At the appointed hour of 3:00PM on Sunday, before a crowd of five hundred or so interested citizens (and a film crew), Etienne took his leap into the awaiting bed of marshmallows.  Later he admitted that he should have let go of the anvil in midflight. As it developed, clutching on to the heavy weight caused some collateral damage to his private parts when he crashed into the marshmallow block.  And when he emerged from the marshmallow encasement, in pain, gasping for air, chunks of marshmallow clinging to his face he was met by Penelope Whistle-Smythe.

Penelope was being escorted from the festival grounds.  She was asked to leave after she barged her way thru to the Cub Scout Pavilion… the scouts were busy toasting marshmallows over an open campfire for the benefit of the hungry throng.  Penelope, armed with her favorite Haws watering can, had taken it upon herself to put an end to this dastardly rite (as she referred to it), and she calmly, but firmly, doused the flame to its death.  Satisfied that she had taken care of the fire, she glared at the boys, “Be off with you… you nasty beasts!“

Civil disobedient, maybe.  But Penelope was not one to give undue problems to the authorities.  She felt that she had made her point, “marshmallows will be forever identified as the Joan of Arc of confections!”.  Time to leave.  But when she caught sight of the spectacle that was attending to the dare devil’s plunge into a bed of marshmallows, she had to pause.

Aghast at the hoopla and fanfare, she could not contain her displeasure and anger.  And when Etienne staggered from the marshmallow heap, obviously in distress, clutching at his pride and joy, Penelope thought not twice as she approached him and purposefully slammed her Haws watering can into the side of his head, knocking the Frenchman unconscious to the ground.  She looked defiantly at the fallen Lartigue, “Serves him right!”

Etienne recovered… eventually.  Penelope Whistle-Smythe was sent to the hoosegow for an overnight.  “I go willingly to your gaol… a small inconvenience for publicizing the brutality of this ungodly Festival!”

(September 1) The peaceful activities of the Marshmallow Festival in Ligonier were disrupted on Sunday when an elderly woman from Shropshire, England beat the renowned French Dare Devil Etienne Lartigue on the head with a galvanized watering can. Mr. Lartigue is not pressing charges.  Ms. Whistle-Smythe, as she was taken from the festival grounds, was heard to claim, “that man was a perfect beast.”  After spending a day in jail on the charges of disorderly conduct, Ms. Whistle-Smythe was released on her own recognizance and her pledge to appear before the County Judge on September 17. — The Elkhart Truth

OK… call me cruel.  I’m still giggling over all this.  I had penciled in the Marshmallow Festival for this Labor Day Weekend… sounds too good to miss.  But alas, my nephew is getting married over the weekend.  Maybe I’ll bring some marshmallows…

To call the scene the aftermath hardly did it justice.  I would say that it was somewhere between the shaken focus of the Rolling Stones album cover of that name… something that might have been attributed to a mild hallucinogenic used to create its distorted image of Mick & crew; and a photograph of Dresden after the Allies had fire bombed it.  If pressed, it was a lot closer to the utterly destroyed and gutted Dresden.

It had probably been a simple tasteless room.  A meeting place that could serve as a lunch room for a warehouse facility?  Linoleum floors, suspended fluorescent fixtures… the kind with the long tubes that forecast their demise by “humming”, bare walls… or walls that would have had bad art, or dumb and dated photos.

The two six foot tables that had been put together were now separated by a good yard and half.  Only two of the cheap folding chairs that had surrounded the tables were left in an upright position. The paper tablecloth that had served as decoration and protection for the tables lay in a twisted mass.  A side table was on its side. The table lamp totally busted.  Spiral notebooks everywhere.  Pens, markers. Two smashed, very expensive film cameras.  A boom mike and a camera tripod standing like gothic spires. Shattered lighting tubes, their glass slivers covering every part of the room. 

The props that had been added to lend a “homey” atmosphere to the otherwise stark room: a globe, a glass cocktail table, incidental ceramic figurines, two faux flower arrangements — all broken and/or mangled.  A bookcase, upturned… its weathered volumes scattered.

Then a few personal items… two pair of eye glasses, one reading, one all purpose, a pack of cigarettes, a cell phone, car keys and a plastic comb. 

A mish-mosh heap of pie crust and its fruit contents… All giving evidence of the worst food fight of your life. 

And blood. Much of it. Human, not simian… that’s what happens when you try and break up a fight between a Western Red Colobus and a Capuchin. The smell?  The underlying rich sweetness was unmistakable… but it was the gamey scent and smell of blood that pervaded the scene of carnage.

I was told that it all happened in less than 20 minutes.  Talk to other folks, and that’s all it takes in a good bar fight.  You can imagine it.  Two guys fueled by Guinness, arguing about who was the better QB, Joe Montana or Steve Young… the next thing you know it’s bar stools being thrown and the gendarmes are being called in.

Mrs. Alston was there because she made pies.  Not that she expected fame from baking her pies in Shelburne, VT.  But you never know how your life will turn when Steven Spielberg takes a shine to your strawberry-rhubarb pie.  That was her good luck, or bad, depending on how you look at it.  What’s a little blood?

Anyway, Mr. Spielberg was paying.  How could Mrs. Alston say no?  Before sun up one Thursday, she packed up her Volvo station wagon with the 15 pies she had baked on Tuesday and Wednesday, and headed south to a location in Westchester County.  Two each… strawberry-rhubarb, cherry, blueberry, Dutch apple, peach, lemon meringue, Boston cream and a single gooseberry pie.  She hadn’t been given too many details… “bring your wonderful pies Mrs. A, we’re shooting a trailer for a new film and we’d love for you to be part of it.  You will be well paid.”  Sure.  Mrs. Alston even made an extra strawberry-rhubarb for Steven.

The subject of the film was about apes or monkeys.  Not exactly a remake of Planet of the Apes, she was told.  Tim Burton had already done that in 2001.  Mrs. Alston hadn’t seen the original film that was released in 1968… and she didn’t know who this Tim Burton fellah was either.  She didn’t even know what a film trailer was (“isn’t it someplace to live?”).  Mrs. A knew pies.  Pies and children… she raised seven kids.

I think you know where this is going.  Even if Mrs. A didn’t.

Call it her Yankee trait.  Be punctual… meaning, get there before you were expected.  Be neat… meaning a dark ankle length skirt, a subdued buttoned blouse with a high collar, a protective smock (she was serving pies after all), rimless glasses, grey hair in a tight bun kept in place by two steadfast pins and sensible shoes with a thick heel.  Be polite… meaning say “good morning”, “please” and “thank you.”  Mrs. Alston was certainly all that.

Steven Spielberg greeted her with a smile, he raised his ball cap, “Nice to see you again Mrs. Alston!”  He had to shake his head in disbelief, how good is this?  She looks like she answered the casting call for one of the Brewster Sisters in Arsenic and Old Lace or Mrs. Wilberforce in The Lady Killers!

“Good morning, Steven.”  And without pause, Mrs. Alston and her pies were escorted into the decorated room where she set up on the side table and began to slice her pieces into perfectly portioned wedges.  There was a lot of activity going on, camera people, sound people, lighting people, folks setting the table with plates, folks putting the finishing touches to the background props.  The room when empty was probably large… but with all the goings on, the room became quite small.  Not that Mrs. Alston minded, she was used to working in a kitchen with seven kids rousting about.

When Mrs. A had nearly completely her preparations, a door opened and the monkeys were brought into the room… the New World Monkeys: a Marmoset, a Capuchin and a Tamarin. The Old World Monkeys: a Baboon, a Mandrill, a Japanese Macaque and a Western Red Colobus.  And each monkey had his or her own handler.

The room got smaller still.

Mrs. Alston looked on and smiled.  She counted them out and her eyes lit up!  The crew watched her expression in awe.  A sound guy whispered to Spielberg’s Assistant, “I bet she thinks they’re little kids in monkey costumes!”

She clasped her hands to her breast, “My oh my, aren’t they precious!”  And then she began to pick out each one with an identifying name, “Francine, Robert, Milton, Virginia, Mandrake, Felicity and Featherstone.” This, of course, without knowing the names that had already been given to these monkeys.  Presumably, these were the names of her children.  It was also presumed that her name placement was arbitrary… or was there something in the Macaque that reminded her of Virginia?  Or why Mandrake for the Mandrill?

Spielberg’s camera men didn’t need to be told “Action!” or “Roll ’em!”. They began filming as soon as Mrs. A had entered with her pies.  The cost of running extra film is not an over riding concern for a Spielberg Production.  Making a great film is the concern.  You do whatever it takes. Besides, Spielberg could approach a big studio with an idea of making a film about Silly Putty and he would have a budget of 75 million dollars the next day.  Such is Spielberg’s reputation in Hollywood.

The handlers got the monkeys in their seats, and Mrs. Alston began serving each a piece of pie.  While the monkeys appeared nervous and fidgety, the same could not be said for Mrs. Alston.  She hummed to herself in a happy and contented way, “Robert, some Dutch apple for you… your favorite. Milton stop fussing and don’t fool me! I know you love gooseberry.”  And she hummed her way thru the table, always bestowing a comment to each monkey, “Virginia you look so cute this morning, I love what you have done with your hair… and Mandrake!  Do you think that I would forget how much you love Boston cream pie?”

It can also be presumed that this was not the first time these monkeys had met.  Undoubtedly other scenes had already been filmed. Pecking orders, alliances and rivalries were probably already established.  Although on this morning you could sense that both the monkeys and their handlers would rather have been someplace else.  Mandrake looked at his Boston cream and then stared over at Milton at the other end of the table.

With each monkey served some pie, and without direction or prompting from anybody, Mrs. Alston folded her hands, dropped her head and said firmly, “Felicity, will you please lead us in prayers.”

The crew looked on it amazement.  Who planned on this?

Mandrake did not wait for prayers to finish.  He looked at his Boston cream… he looked at Milton… he jumped on the table, standing up in all his glory… largest of the monkeys, blue and red highlights on his muzzle, a red penis, a lilac coloured scrotum and a blue tush (and here you thought that Ozzy Osbourne was original)… looking quite agitated.

Mrs. Alston wasted no time, “Mandrake!  Get down from the table right now, thank you very much!  And for goodness sakes, put on a pair of pants!”  And she punctuated her chastisement by whacking him on the arm with her Tiffany pie server.

Tina, the Mandrill’s handler, now stepped into intercede.  Too slow.

Mandrake’s multi-coloured appearance now intensified (later it was learned that a dominant male Mandrill’s heightened colour was the result of sexual arousal — Virginia, Francine, Felicity… Tina or Mrs. Alston? threat to territory, pie selection or just being pissed at Milton).

Mandrake, objecting to being struck with the pie server, snatched it from the stunned Mrs. Alston and turned on the diminutive handler, hitting her repeatedly in the head with the Tiffany heirloom, opening a serious gash in the young lady’s head.

Milton, second in size to the Mandrill, was intent on defending his turf, pounded on the table and jumped up and down on his chair, screeched loudly, opened his mouth revealing a set of sharp and angry looking canine teeth.  Mandrake would take none of it.  Matching Milton’s gestures one for one… he then stomped his feet, first squishing his Boston cream and then flattening Featherstone’s peach pie.

The Colubus eluded his handler and jumped over to the side table that had the extra pies and indiscriminately began heaving slices of Mrs. A’s best in every which direction.  Sensing that the situation was rapidly deteriorating, Spielberg’s handler decided that it was best to get the Master Director out of harm’s way… and took him out of the room… Spielberg suffering nothing worse than being hit with pie shrapnel.

The Tamarin and the Marmoset leaped from their seats to the overhead fixtures.  Climbing the wires, dodging pie slices being thrown by Robert, jumping from one fixture to the next, over to the boom mike, back to the fixtures, the fluorescent tubes began popping, glass raining down on the table, the handlers, the crew… even on Mrs. Alston.  That’s when Mrs. A picked up a glass ashtray, “Featherstone! Get down here this instant!” and heaved it upward, missing the Marmoset, missing the overhead fixtures, but catching Maheesh, one of the handlers, on the ashtray’s downward path, square in the snoot.  More blood.

The handlers, it can be presumed, had their own pecking order, alliances and rivalries. And this had an effect in how they tried to restore order in the room.  Angry words led to shoves… and the inevitable punches being thrown and blood being drawn.

Meanwhile, the main event was clearly Mandrake and Milton… no longer satisfied with standing on the table, stepping on pieces of pie and glaring at each other, the Mandrill and the Baboon got busy chasing around the room, oblivious to any of the humans present.  Screeching, showing their teeth, stopping only long enough to throw a book, a table lamp… or anything else they could pick up.  By this time most of the crew had fled to the safety of other rooms… leaving their expensive equipment in peril.  For the big Baboon and Mandrill, just more ammunition at their disposal!

It should also be noted that din was considerable… the breaking and crashing, the humans yelling, the monkeys screeching.  And the room, with the heavy lighting in the fairly close quarters, and with all the physical activity, was getting exceedingly hot. 

Given the confines of the space, you would think that it wouldn’t take long for the handlers to bring their charges to heel.  But you try and bring a Tamarin down from ceiling fixtures when it doesn’t want to come down… and that’s exactly what Maheesh was trying to do.  Standing on the table, fighting thru the pain of a bloodied and busted nose, he tried coaxing

Francine down, only to slip on some cherry pie, lose his balance and fall first to the table, and then to the floor.  In no time, Milton jumped on him and began to pummel the crap out of him.  Mandrake joined the scrum… and that didn’t make Milton happy.

Mrs. Alston also wasn’t happy, “I don’t like this behavior!” She set her eyebrows to a scowl and removed the pins from her bun and tried to stab Milton or Mandrake; but only succeeded in stabbing Maheesh, who didn’t need an additional adversary or loss of more blood at that time.

Maybe it was just a matter of time before the monkeys tired of their fun.  Or maybe they were just tired… tired or bored.  But eventually the humans were able to gain control of the room… just about the time the paramedics arrived on the scene.

The medics surveyed the damages. “I think I’ll call this a victory for the other team.”

A camera man was heard muttering, “Never again.  This made filming the Omaha Beach scene in Saving Private Ryan look like a stroll in the park.”

When asked what started it all, a sound guy just shook his head, “The one with the funny coloured face didn’t like his pie… it just went down hill from there.”

Mrs. Alston had no interest in a curtain call.  She scanned the room with a well-I-never expression, she re-situated her hair pins, took off her smock (ignoring fragments of crust, fruit and blood), she straightened her blouse, made sure that her skirt was falling properly and proceeded to the door.

Before reaching the exit, one of Spielberg’s assistants hurried to her, “Ma’am, I think this is yours.” and handed her the Tiffany pie server.

Mrs. Alston looked at it. Glared at the assistant. Took it with a well-I-never expression and said, “Thank you.”

The defining observation for the morning went to the battered Maheesh.  As the medic made the necessary repairs, Francine’s handler simply said, “The monkeys were nothing.  But that pie lady nearly killed me!”