The Ash Creek Papers

Even I know that the old stories can become stale… Winnie the Pooh, Wind in the Willows, Ann of Green Gables… And if I know it, then certainly my kids did…

“Did I ever tell you about the time that your Grandfather busted up an international ring that had infiltrated the School Lunch Program?  I know it sounds silly; but it’s true.  The Politburo had targeted the lunch program as the most effective way of undermining the strength of this country… and they gathered a highly committed elite group of saboteurs who were trained in Barbados.”

“My Father said to my Mother, ‘Eve’… he called my Mother Eve, although her real name was Frankie. Eve was just a name that was used inside the house; but one time Uncle Paul called her ‘Big Frankie’ and he was sent to a room in the attic for a week and was only given warm ginger ale and macaroons to eat.  I called my Mother ‘Mom” and I avoided punishment. Aunt Lynn only spoke French in the house, luckily for her Dad didn’t (although he was fluent in Tamal, Mandarin Chinese and English as spoken in London), so if she said ‘Grande Frankie’, he didn’t have a clue, so she didn’t have to go to the attic, although she still had to clean dog poop from the living room.

“So, Dad said, ‘Eve, we got to go to Barbados… pack the bags, don’t forget my distance slingshot, the reverse delta penalty stun gun, 2 or 3 claymore mines and extra boxer shorts..’

“Now most people thought that Dad was in the clothing business.  Even I thought he was in the clothing business.  But that was just his cover.  He worked for a very small covert cell known as Group Shtup… they made the C.I.A. look like the Cub Scouts.  Among other things, Group Shtup was credited for organizing the trade of Babe Ruth from the Red Sox to the Yankees… but that was before my Dad joined.  Dad was recruited out of Elementary School. He studied weapon technology, farming and golf.  He met my Mom at the Training Center.  She was a youth helicopter pilot and also the lead soprano in the Shtup Glee Club.  They fell in love and got married after they put down the plot to move the Dodgers out of Brooklyn.  Later the Dodgers moved anyway, and Dad’s replacement lost his job and had to become a Toll Collector on the Triboro Bridge.

“I’m not making this up…

“OK, well it turns out that Dad’s Superior… ‘the Big X’ knew that Dad knew Barbados like the back of his hand.  He and Mom would go there for vacations… Mom loved picking shells and Dad pursued his hobby of making rum, rum cake and rum hats… until he got caught by the authorities… but that’s a story for a different night.

“Dad understood how important this assignment was… he told the Big X that he wouldn’t make any rum hats, he was going with one purpose in mind… wiping out the dastardly plot to serve American School children unpopular and tasteless lunches.

“The Big X told him that the nerve center for this Organization was the dreaded Bagshot House.  It is the place where they experimented on making horrible food and teaching algebra.  If you are lucky you won’t have to take algebra and you can become a History Major like me.

“Are you following this?”

“Is that why Mom makes our lunches for school?”

“Absolutely… Group Shtup hasn’t given the ‘all clear’ yet… and Mom and I don’t want to take any chances.  Maybe when you’re in College and your protective inhibitors are fully developed it will be alright… we’ll have to see.

“Did Nana and Poppy kill anyone?”

“They didn’t have to kill anyone… they were neutralized… and Dad neutralized a ton of people.  He would give away oxford button-down shirts to the enemy.  The shirts were mis-sized by an inch and a half at the collar… and guys would get funny marks on their necks, their eyes would bug out, they would get cluster headaches, sweat like pigs and they would get an intolerable ache in their private parts and have to walk hunched over.  You can see a picture of a Village in the Urals, where the Soviets made bombs, with everyone walking hunched over!  Dad got the Legion of the Brave with two stars for that!

“They’re having mini-pizzas for school lunch on Friday.  Do you think that Group Shtup will give the ‘all clear’ by then?”

“Well… maybe. I am still on their mailing list, get their Monthly Newsletter and get invited to the Alumni Summer Picnic.”

“What’s an Alumni?”

“A retired agent… although I’m not an agent… just the son of one.  They don’t let children and grandchildren join… but there is a good shot one of your kids could get recruited!”

“Cool!  Dad?  Could you check tomorrow’s mail and see if it’s OK to have pizza on Friday?”

“It’s a deal!  Let’s get some sleep now… there’s busy day ahead, a terrific sandwich, a small bag of chips, carrot sticks, a clementine and a juice box!  And we can finish this story tomorrow night.”

“It’s the name of a song, no?” she asked.

He smiled, “Song?” and shook his head and continued to look toward the horse farm on the other side of the split rail fence.  They loved to sit on their deck in the late afternoon… and unless it was a hurricane or a blizzard they would find time to enjoy the quiet of their backyard.  Enjoy the setting sun… if it was that time of the year.  Crank up the wood fire pit… if it was that time of the year.  Sip a Sancerre or maybe something from the Rhone… each to their own thoughts… each together.  It was their tradition.

“Lucy Eating Watermelon… or Strawberries… In the Sky… or something like that?”

Now his reverie ground to a halt.  Wherever his mind had taken him, he now had to stop and pivot to her line of thought.

He chuckled in disbelief.  “I don’t know how you do it… you’ve just managed to murder two different Beatles’ tunes: Strawberry Fields Forever and Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds.  Congratulations!  Few human beings could accomplish that.  My Mom could, so can you… maybe 15 other people, past or present.  No, it’s not a song.”  And he smiled warmly.

The horse in the nearest paddock approached the fence, pawed at the ground with its hooves and whinnied.  It was difficult to know who had trained whom.  Had he trained the horse to come to the fence for the price of two crisp apples?  Or had the horse trained him to always have two apples at hand during their “deck time?”  Regardless, it was understood by both he and she (and the horse) that at some point, sooner rather than later once whinnying began, the apple situation would have to be addressed.  This, too, was part of their tradition.

The horse had a stately bearing, a glossy black coat that shined in the lowering sun, a small flash of white between its eyes and muscles that rippled when it moved.  It always surprised him how big they were.  He loved large animals.  Horses, buffalo, moose, rhinos… he loved them all.  When he shared this with her when they visited the Bronx Zoo one day, she laughed “It’s the little boy in you.  If you could, you would bring back the dinosaurs.” 

She was right about the dinosaurs.  But she was wrong about the song.  “I said, ‘Wielopolski’, maybe it sounded like ‘watermelonski’… watermelon sky.  And besides, I should have pronounced it correctly: Vee-lo-pol-ski.“

“Wee-lo-polski, Vee-lo-polski… so?  And where did this come from?”  Although she was well used to his verbal fragments, unconnected to anything apparent, that would break a quiet.

“Count Anton Wieloposki was a Polish Nobleman and a Colonel, in the 18th Uhlans Regiment.”

“A relative?”

He had a good laugh at that thought. “That’s good… no, my family came from more humble origins.”  Her family had come from Bocki and his from Warshava Gubernia… neither could be mistaken as rising from Nobility. 

He eased into his story… “We have lost our connection to the Age of Chivalry… to the days when Mounted Knights took an oath to serve his Liege… and went into battle in plate armor and chain mail, on horses laden with armor of their own… can you imagine what it must have sounded like?  Horses, huffing and puffing, the clump of their heavy hooves, the crash of steel sword and iron mace on shield.  It must have been a frightful din.”

She knew she had lost him to his dreams… every bit as much as if he imagined a stegosaur locked in battle against an allosaur.

He knew that Cavalry had traced its beginnings to well before the Mounted Knights of the Middle Ages, and well before Alexander the Great, and even before the chariots of Pharaoh.  Over the years the type of armament used, and the tactics had changed; but whether it was a heavy sword and lance, or a sabre and a side arm, the mode of transport was always the horse.

“Today armored Cavalry’ uses Hummers and tracked vehicles mounted with heavy machine guns… it’s not the same.”

He looked at the black horse nibbling at the grass and beginning to get edgy for its apple treat.  “In the 18th & 19th Centuries, the Officer of Corps of the Cavalry invariably came from men of landed wealth… men who owned horses, men who knew horses, men who could ride and hunt.  Any idiot can be given a gun and told to march over there and shoot… but someone who was in the Cavalry had to know how to ride.  He was in the elite… and further, horses weren’t cheap… a Noble background was practically a requirement.”

“Now, I’ll grant you… the concept of Nobility maybe open to some interpretation… the Hetman of the Don Cossacks on first appearance may not be on the same social level perhaps as the Earl of Cardigan who led the Charge of the Light Brigade into the Russian guns at Balaclava.  But look closer, it’s really the leading of men on horse that confers nobility regardless of specific station.”

“And this has something to do with Count Watermelonski?”  she asked.

“I’m getting there.  You see, by the 20th Century… the Horse Cavalry was well on the way into story and legend.  The development of machine guns, motor vehicles and the air arm made the Horse Cavalry obsolete by WWI.  Yet somehow, Poland escaped complete modernization.  As WWII dawned, Poland still retained an active Horse Cavalry.  The other major combatants used some horse transport for supplies… the Russians, the Germans, the French and all.  But Poland still deployed Cavalry Regiments in their Order of Battle.  Cavalry Regiments not with tracked vehicles; but with horse.  Cavalry Regiments not composed of Dragoons who rode to position and then fought on foot; but Cavalry Regiments armed with lance, sabre and pistol.  And the Officer Corps still reflected its aristocratic bearing and pedigree… traditions that would have made Alexander the Great, Lord Cardigan and Stonewall Jackson proud.”

“Should I be tasking notes?”  she asked sheepishly. 

“Yes.  And I am going to give you the first question on the quiz: ‘Who doesn’t belong… Lord Cardigan, Stonewall Jackson, Count Wielpoloski and Heinz Guderian?”

“If I get this right, you have to make dinner tomorrow night… Guderian.”

“Good guess… do you want grilled rib-eye or grilled flank steak?  And while we’re talking about food, I think it’s time for me to bring ‘Bucephalus’ his two apples.”

He quartered them and stuffed them into both pockets.  By the time he reached the stone wall some twenty yards from the deck, the black horse, who watched him approach, nodded its big black head.  He crossed the stone wall, ignoring her warnings about the poison ivy and perched himself by the tree that stood just this side of the split rail fence.  He reached for the first apple quarter; but could barely get his hand out of the pocket before the horse, its head well extended to his side of the fence, raised its upper lip in preparation to getting his snack.

“Ask nicely!” he said; but it was of no use, the horse snapped it away from him in a blink.  He liked the way the horse chewed the apple carefully, taking his time, lowering his head to snatch some fresh blades of grass before returning for a second apple quarter.

The size of the animal still amazed him.  And the thought of a man sitting on top of this beast, towering over him with a sword or lance, charging him at full gallop… “yeah, I think I would be scared…”   He must have been 7 or 8 when his Aunt took him to the Museum of Natural History… or was it the Met?  There was an exhibit of Knights in Armor, their weapons and the like.  In the center of the hall there was a Knight, in full armored regalia, mounted on a horse, also properly attired… in a position of a charge… with the Knight’s lance lowered in a menacing fashion.  It both fascinated and scared him.  The Knight, horse and lance had to be the size of a dinosaur!

And then he turned his thoughts to Count Wielopolski leading the 18^th Uhlans in a charge against a German Infantry Unit in a wooded area near the Village of Krojanty.  It was September 1, 1939… the first day of WWII.  Armed with a sense of courage and honor, Wielopolsky led the Uhlans into the position using the same shock tactic that Alexander would have used in 326BC, and dispersed the Germans into the woods.  It was later reported that the charge had been against tanks… which was inaccurate.  That Wielopolski’s ultimate cause was hopeless is not to be debated… Cavalry units with great esprit de corps are no match for Stuka Dive Bombers and Tiger Tanks; but the exhibition of bravery and action in the face of superior elements had to be admired.

He patted the soft nose of the horse, his supply of apples now exhausted, and said his good-bye.  He crossed the stonewall and thought that he may have overdone the “history lesson.”  It was hardly a topic that would have interested her, he knew that she disapproved of war and violence.  He was against war, too… but he loved military history… loved military history even more than he loved dinosaurs.  Against war, loving military history –a type of mental gymnastics.

He looked to the western sky as he resumed his seat on the deck.  “I was just kidding…”  He looked at the sky again, “I really said, ‘watermelon sky’… just look at the clouds to the west, a soft taupe on top… and their underbellies?  Hmmm, more ‘cotton candy’ pink than watermelon?  Yeah, ‘cotton candy sky’ would have been better…”

She looked to the clouds, and smiled, too “does this mean I have to cook tomorrow?”

The only invention as perfect as the English Sonnet… he knew little of sonnets.  “Shakespeare wrote them,” he thought.  “But I know a fair amount about Martinis”.  And that is to what the great American writer of letters, H.L. Mencken was referring, when drawing a comparison to that form of literature… The Dry Martini, as perfect as an English Sonnet.

It was a September afternoon to cherish… blue sky, dry air, beautiful sun charting its path to the far hills.  He loved this time of the year best… still pleasant enough to enjoy the warmth of outdoors, the beauty of the change in color just around the corner… the stiff cold just beyond that.  Maybe it was a bit early in the day to be mixing a Martini… this wouldn’t be the first time that he began the cocktail hour well before the sun set over the yard arm.

“I enjoy the decadence of beginning the evening earlier in the day,” he thought to as he poured a healthy amount of Tanqueray Gin into his pitcher.  Plenty of ice to chill the Gin to a piercing cold.  A dollop of Noilly Pratt Dry Vermouth to complete the liquid portion of the recipe.  A rapid stir, that increased to a vigorous stir (his Ex would have said that it was a transfer in aggression, while he maintained that it was a display of exuberance).  When condensation developed on the pitcher, he knew that preparations were nearly complete.  He retrieved an “up” glass from the freezer (one of four placed there, a memory of the day when four Martinis seemed to be an appropriate number). 

He strained the icy liquid into his frozen glass, and added 3 tomolives… he had a ceremonial first sip to confirm its excellence, and to reduce the chance of spillage.. and then he repaired to the deck.  He positioned himself in the far corner to take full advantage of the sun and closed his eyes.  He heard the wind rushing thru the trees, opened his eyes and took a second sip.

Tomolives… that was courtesy of his Mother.  In the Winter, she would set up “shop” in Sanibel, Florida.  A tiny house where she retreated to “re-coup” away from everyone.  She loved the sun, she picked shells… and of course, she wrote.  She would say that her best writing took place there.  Dierdre of Timmy’s Nook, would take her out in a boat to the small Inn at the Cabbage Key for lunch.  The signature garnish of the Inn was a tomolive… a tiny green tomato, the size of an olive, and then pickled.  Tomolives made their appearance on every sandwich plate… and, and of course in every Dry Martini.  Eve Fleischner (nom de plume, Eve Porterhouse) who never sipped a Martini in her life… still, knew a good thing when she saw it.

It was like that… his Mother always took note of the small details.  Maybe that is why she was such a good writer.  And it didn’t take much for her to connect this “insignificant” garnish to her middle child.  Once that connection was made there was no stopping her.  Above the objection of Dierdre, she insisted on being introduced to the Owner of the Inn… and then, so introduced, pleasantries aside, she asked for a favor… she wanted to buy a jar of tomolives to give to her son.

The owner, gracious, said that it would be his pleasure to give her a jar.  And that was the way she acquired her first jar of tomolives.

This little scenario repeated each Winter.  Dierde and his Mother would take the 15 minute boat ride to the Cabbage Key for lunch… and his Mother would always return to Sanibel with a jar of tomolives for its eventual use in his piercingly cold Dry Martinis.  The scenario repeated, that is, ’til the day that the owner of the Inn gave her the name of his distributor in Ft. Meyers… and that suited his Mother just fine.  She loved wholesalers.  Now, when she returned to Connecticut… she had not a jar of tomolives; but a case.

He would tell his Ex that they had just “landed in the shit.”  He would have to tell her that it was just an expression… landing in the shit was a good thing.

He loved listening to the wind.  Wind pressing against the panes in a blizzard… or wind moving thru the leaves as it did this day.  Although he didn’t sail, he could imagine the sound that it would make filling the canvas… and that thought made him smile, too.  Smile, as he bit into his first tomolive.  He loved the snap of the first bite, its sour flavor complemented the botanicals of the Gin.  “You had to love Mom”, he said out loud, although no one was there to hear his words.

His Mother had taught him long ago to notice things… to be aware of the details.  Appreciating the details would lead to a greater understanding of the larger things in life, she told him.  Maybe that is why Eve Porterhouse was such a terrific writer of mysteries.  He mulled this over as he reached the halfway mark in his Martini… meaning it was time for tomolive #2.

She would say to him that you can pass something, or someone, several times without taking note… it could be a farm stand, the person who delivers the mail, a new friend, anything… So the first time you recognize the special qualities of something it doesn’t really count… it’s simply the newness of the idea that creates the impression.  It’s the second recognition that’s important.  Now you take on the understanding of what makes that something special.

She would take him down the driveway to their garage.  It was a place that he knew well.  He practiced layups by the hour on the hoop that was mounted on the garage.  She pointed out the lilac tree in the Gordon’s yard that overhung our drive.  By agreement, Mom was entitled to clip any lilac flowering on our side of the fence.  He had barely taken notice of the tree.  Now they approached.  She asked him to close his eyes, which he did.  Now she directed him to smell the lilac in the air.  Now you will remember it she said… whenever you smell lilac you will be returned to this place.

It was some 15 years ago when he, along with his older Sister & younger Sister had to sell the house on Alston Avenue after their Mother’s passing.  His Sister, 11 years his Senior had remembered living on Orange St., and Beer St. before that.  But to his younger Sister and himself… the house on Alston Avenue would be home.  The one home they knew.

Yes, there was an emotional tug as they divided the artifacts of the old house between the families.  Their Father had long since passed, and their Mother had turned the home into a quasi-museum… items collected over a lifetime.  She continued to write to her very end in the small studio in the rear of the home… chain smoking as she typed on a Smith-Corona.  His Father had encouraged her to smoke… smoking seen as a sophisticated activity in the 1920s.

As they turned the keys over to the Realtor, he looked at the basketball hoop above the garage, thinking of the solitary hours he would engage in imaginary games of basketball… one would think he would have been better at basketball than he was… He wondered whether he would ever be able to come back to this street again.

He neared the completion of his Martini… took a look at the horses grazing easily in the farm on the far side of the stone wall and considered the possibility of building a second Martini; but thought the better of it.  The days of multi-Martinis had long passed.

His thoughts returned to the home on Alston Avenue.  He and his older Sister had just visited it the day before.  Or, technically, what was left of it.  She had received a call from an old neighbor that the house had burned “to the ground”.  And he knew that he had to return to the street one more time for a visit… a visit his younger Sister couldn’t bear to make.

When he joined his older Sister there, the ruins lay mostly still.  The houses on either side were left totally untouched by the conflagration.  A charred and burned hulk was all that remained of the structure that had been his “only” childhood home.  He looked down the drive, the garage was untouched as well; but the hoop had been taken down by one of the previous owners.

They had looked at the wreck thru some tears that smeared their faces, and she finally cut the silence, “it probably started in Mom’s office, the cigarette smoke imbedded in the walls… it just took 15 years to ignite…”  And they shared a small laugh… a laugh that opened the door to other recollections.

The time he fell asleep in the third floor closet and everyone panicked when he couldn’t be found, the time their little Sister found their Dad’s saxophone in the basement and thought it was a monster… the stories rolled on, each nook and crevice seemed home to a specific tale.

If he thought that the treasures of the home had been the only thing that mattered, he now knew that he had been mistaken.

The Martini, now finished… only the last tomolive remained in the base of the glass.  Tomolives that he now purchased on a direct basis from the manufacturer in Arkansas.  He closed his eyes yet again to feel the combination of sun and breeze on his face.  The artwork, the figurines, furnishings, the knick-knacks that were spread to three homes… and would be spread further still in succeeding generations had special value… but it was the “nooks and crevices” of the home that vouchsafed special memories.  If he didn’t recognize it well enough 15 years ago when they turned the keys over to the new owners, he recognized and understood it now.  He had wrongly assumed a permanence to those nooks and crevices.

He gazed at tomolive #3, then closed his eyes and tried to summon the memory of the lilac tree in the afternoon breeze.