The July of Fourth

Hosea Husted, a somewhat overweight ten-year-old, loved the 4th of July. To this precocious Pennsylvanian, it was the most exciting day of the year ... a day full of cherry pie and cherry bombs, malted shakes and coiling snakes, Rocket salad and sky rockets, canards and petards, baked cod and punk rods, string beans and string salutes, Romano-cheese spaghetti and Roman candles, tomatoes and torpedoes, bottled pop and bottle rockets, soda crackers and firecrackers, M&M’s and M-80s, lady fingers and lady-finger salutes ... a day to indulge one’s passions to the fullest. And the devil take the forequarters.

Food and explosives were Hosea’s fixations. He was a budding cook and an accomplished chemist. “Hosey,” his mother’s nickname for him, loved to fiddle in the attic with his Mr. Science set, augmented with chemicals he had bought at the local drug store, cadged from the High School lab, and cajoled from the local farmer’s supply store. He had fulminate of mercury. He had lots of nitric acid, the starting point for most explosives. From this he could make gun cotton (nitric acid and cotton balls), TNT (nitric acid and toluene), nitroglycerin (nitric acid and soap). He had blasting caps (with which his cousin Harry had blown out an eye.) He had sulfur flowers ... from which he made stink bombs. He had aluminum, iron, and copper powders for his sparkling fountain displays. He had metallic sodium and potassium, kept airless by immersion in mineral oil. With either of these (and some water), he could burn a hole through a car hood.

While his grade-school buddies played with whistlers, grow worms and sparklers, Hosey liked to play with dynamite (nitroglycerin contained in diatominous sand for safety’s sake). He made, and often sold, a full range of fireworks, but his specialties were ash cans (a small amount of potassium nitrate and powdered charcoal in a silvery tube with a belly-button wick) and torpedoes (the same mixture but in a gold-painted ball without the wick ... exploded by the spark from two BB’s struck together when thrown against a hard surface.) From this commerce, he thus got the money he needed to buy more volatile chemicals and his favorite foodstuffs.

On this particular nation’s birthday, Hosey awoke early and spent the morning in the kitchen and the attic. He was making a special ice-cream cake for the Elk’s club outing at Centennial Park. This was a bring-and-share picnic where most of the town families came together to engage in minor competitive sports, ate themselves into a stupor, and, finally, lazily laid on their blankets watching the dusk’s fireworks (over half of which being constructed in Master Husted’s pyrotechnics lab). Hosey made this iced, icy, spheroid dessert with a thin smile on his face ... as he remembered how he and his father had been cheated out of the blue ribbon in last year’s three-legged race. This would have been the first award that the male Husted’s had ever won, but the antlered judges had decreed that their leg binding had come loose as they crossed the finish line. Both senior and junior Husted left last year’s festivities seething, ... well before the fruits of Hosea’s labor were hurled up and burned up in the evening sky.

Now, Hosey brought this concoction to the park packed in dry ice at the same time he delivered five wooden cases full of display rockets. He placed this cake in the middle of the primary picnic table among the potato salads, the apple-crumb cakes, the coleslaws, the fried chicken, the head cheeses, the baked hams and picnic shoulders, the herring salads, the green and orange Jell-o molds (with marshmallows), the chili and beans, the Shoo-fly pies, the Swedish meat balls, the miniature franks bathed with a mixture of catsup and grape jelly, and the pot roasts slo-baked in a melange of mushroom soup and powered onion soup. These were pretty much the limits of culinary creativity for the matrons of this Keystone hamlet, so Hosea’s contribution stuck out like a Mercurochromed thumb. When asked what it was, Hosey said that he had found the recipe in a French cook book and that it was called a bombe extraordinaire.

Now you, kind reader, have probably jumped to a conclusion as to what was buried inside this confection. To do so would be wrong. Except for the slightest taste of Cordite, everyone enjoyed this bombe to a fair-thee-well without consequence. However, when Hosey’s sky rockets were set off later that evening, instead of spectacular displays of multi-colored stars and echoing reports, the spectators were showered with Castor sugar, sifted flour, Dutch-processed cocoa, granulated yeast, and Calumet baking powder. You see, as I neglected to tell you earlier, Hosea Husted was also quite dyslectic.

© George W. Potts

The Easier Bunny

Reginald was a journeyman Easter Bunny. He had apprenticed for two years in western Tasmania and took a remedial skip-hopping course in Liverpool before landing this plum of an assignment in Banff, Alberta. Within 24 hours of unpacking his portmanteau in this pine-scented paradise, Reginald knew he was “home”
.
It was early September so Reggie had a full six months to prepare for the first Sunday after the first Friday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox. According to his “Lagomorph Day Timer,” Reggie was supposed to spend the rest of September making peeps, those yellow and pink marshmallow chicks with those little black-dot eyes. However, being a bit of a procrastinator, he squandered his first fortnight pub-crawling this rapidly-emptying tourist haven looking for “the wound that never heals.” (He was a rabbit you know.)

He eventually connected with an ash-blond groundhog, named Matilda, whose defenses were dulled due to the impending onset of her hibernation. Reginald then wasted the months of October (supposedly, jelly beans and cellophane-grass production time), November (decorated chocolate viewing-eggs with bucolic internal dioramas), and December (spangled straw Easter baskets with purple and yellow ribbons) taking this woodchickie’s internal temperature with his peniometer and popping tequilas con Seven Up.

By mid December, both Reggie and his perpetually-damp swiv-mate had fornicated themselves into a deep coma, augmented by extended hangovers and Nature’s own seasonal tropism. They awoke only once in early February when some gentlemen in top hats and tails removed Matilda from their den briefly to hold her up to a leaden winter sky in some homo-erectus shadow-seeing spring ritual.

Reggie awoke in a terror-sweat in late March to the thumping of the Grand Bunny on the stump outside this sex warren. Quickly realizing that Easter was only days off, he tried to tweedle-talk his way out of this very bad box. But the Grand Bunny wasn’t buying his patter and he demoted Reggie on the spot. He then hustled Reggie onto the next jumbo jet to Stuttgart with some papers indicating he was to report to the chief chef at a famous German culinary school called “Hass und Pfeiffer”.

© Copyright, George W. Potts

Evacuation Day

In the Commonwealth of Massachusetts they celebrate one obscure holiday which is conveniently concurrent with St. Patrick’s Day. It is called “Evacuation Day.” On this day, the state government closes down ... allowing its many pols and solons to gather at their favorite watering holes to celebrate the banishing of snakes from the ole sod. Once there, they donate a parcel of liquor taxes back to the treasury from which they draw their sustenance. Incidentally, the reason Massachusetts is called a “commonwealth” is that the Pilgrims believed “from each according to his ability and to each according to his need” ... a tradition that lives on in this state unto this day.

Evacuation Day was named to honor the purging that supposedly saved the life of Paul Revere’s mother when she had come down with the croup the night before her son’s famous ride. Her doctor, Elias DeBakey, gave her a double dose of ipecac and prune juice. Then he bled her with leaches; sweated her in a log-cabin sauna; gave her a soapy water enema; and finally, had her down a triple dose of bromide expectorant. She was “evacuated” so completely that she dropped nearly a third of her body weight. But, despite all this bad medicine, she survived ... and the people of the Bay State chose to honor this miracle by declaring this day an annual holiday.

The Irish, when they are not blowing each other up, spend a good deal of their time writing blue-ribbon prose; and, as already noted, have an affinity for amber liquids. On Evacuation Day this tropism becomes an obsession. Brass-railed bars with names like “Galway Bay” and “Glacamora” fill with corpulent-visaged Celts downing tuns of Harp lager and Guinness stout. And, at the tables, sit hoards of green-tie trenchermen devouring nitrided corned beef, bilious cabbage, boiled Bliss potatoes, and Irish soda bread. In the more radical of these establishments, Erse is spoken to cover the intrigues and cabals being planned, abetted by the bravado of booze.

These Sons of Erin, having sated and slaked themselves, finish the day with some sort of melee. On this day, a bloody nose or a broken tooth is a badge of honor. But the belligerents know it’s time to go home when they start seeing leprechauns prancing among the pots of shamrocks on the bar top. Then, after everyone has left, the leprechauns really do emerge, belt down the bar spitsies ... and, invariably, start their own brouhaha. But when in turn, these elves start seeing even littler people hidden among the mosses and detritus of the clover pots, even the leprechauns call it a day.

© Copyright, George W. Potts

The Way We Were

It was the best of times, it was the wurst of times -- kielbasa, breakfast links, abbruzesse, knockwurst, Genoa salami, corned beef mush, bockwurst, blood sausage, braunschweiger, minced meat, chirizo, chicken loaf, bratwurst, cocktail franks, Lebanon bologna, hot dogs, metwurst, andouille, bologna, weisswurst, summer sausage, linguizi, liverwurst, sweet Italian sausage, head cheese, smoked beef stick, saucisson, Slim Jims, mortidella, hard salami, olive loaf, braunschweiger, cotti salami, bangers, liver sausage, soprosate, bauenwurst, hot Italian sausage, kiczka, cervelat, pimento loaf, capicola, teawurst, red hots, Vienna sausage, scrapple, pepperoni, and Oscar Meyer wieners. All these delicious foodstuffs stuffed our Kelvinator when we were young. Now, its generally turkey loaf and low-fat mayonnaise.

Where did the good times go? Back then we could drink till dawn, shower, and then put in a full, productive day. Now we yawn if we have one drink, and feel productive if we get to work when it showers. In days of yore, we could spew our dew ten times a week; now you’re dazed and weak if you do it at all. Back then we could do fifty push-ups and five hundred sit-ups. Now we’re pushed to up and take a Sitz bath after five. In our salad days we were gassed to conquer the world. Now, we are happy to conquer our gastritis after a salad. As callowed youths we drove ourselves, smoked varied cigarettes, and even inhaled our pot. Now, we allow ourselves to go to pot and hale a cab whose driver invariably smokes. Where did those good times go, pray thee tell?

Marv Levy, the former coach of the Buffalo Bills, once said that when we become cynical, we lose our youth. What I ponder is: when we sense we are losing our youth, do we not then have the right to become cynical? And if the unidirectional nature of time fills us with bile, why then are we so constipated? But what is most depressing is that, in the course of one insomniacal television session, one can channel-surf past Bette Davis as a young, buxom and alluring Jezebel, to her as a middle-aged maniacal matron in “Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte,” and finally as a screw-faced crone being interviewed by Dick Cavette ... months before her demise. This electronic foreshortening of time jerks us into the reality of our own fleeting existence on this firmament, clears away the cobwebs of our own hubris ... and, for one, generally makes me extremely hungry for sausages.

© Copyright, George W. Potts

Guy Stuff

Guy Lombardo, being from Canada, grew up pronouncing his name as though it was “gee,” a command used to turn a horse to the right (as opposed to “haw” ... what Canucks call a lady of the evening.) But, after many years dealing with the boobs south of the 49th parallel, the baton of the “Royal Canadians” orchestra eventually relented and started answering to “Guy” (rhymes with “pie.”) Early in his career, Mr. New Years and his fellow music makers dressed as Mounties in Smoky-the-Bear hats, gray jodhpurs, red riding jackets, high black saddle boots, cross-chest leather straps, and brass-buckled belts. However, as their midriffs drifted east and west, they switched to a double-breasted tuxedos with white carnations.

Actually, Guy Lombardo hated New Years and everything that went with it. His audience was generally loud and boorish. His band members would often get sloshed and pee themselves. Champagne gave him a crotch itch and caviar, the runs. He hated wall-to-wall football throughout New Year’s day since he invariably had a rip-roaring headache from all the ambient cigarette smoke of the previous night. But his wife was a gridiron junkie so he was forced to endure every last tackle. And he was still brushing confetti out of his dinner jacket in July. But since 1954, the Royal Canadians were getting enormous fees to usher in New Years on national television. They had become a holiday icon much like the lighted ball dropping above Times Square. So Guy always put on his game face and smiled his way through this annual ordeal. In fact he claimed that when he died he was going to take New Years with him.

In 1992, the Lombardo orchestra was to play out the old year at The Rainbow Room in Rockefeller Center. He had assembled most of his best players from times past and augmented them with a string section from the New York Philharmonic. The festivities started at 7:30 with a eight-course dinner including roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and black-eyed peas (for the superstitious). The meal ended with Lindy’s cheesecake and a token haggis for those with “Mac” prefixing their last name. Guy and his guys played light vespers throughout dinner and moved to show tunes after the coffee was served. Then he brought on vocalists for the more romantic golden oldies which were punctuated, about ever fifth melody, with a rumba, a samba, or a polka. The evening went swimmingly until sometime after 10:30 when things started getting a little strange.

It all began when a slide trombone player hit three sour notes in a row during a “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” solo. This was unusual in and of itself, but when the first violinists broke his G-string during “Some Enchanted Evening”, Guy started to show some concern under his facial patina of teeth. Then the drummer put his stick right through the skin of his tom-tom ... and four reeds of the saxophone section all broke simultaneously during “Midnight Sleigh Ride.” By 11:15, Guy’s world was rapidly coming apart. Up till then the TV networks had been able to cover most of these faux pas’ by cutting to commercials. But at this point, things were unraveling so fast that the networks were forced to broadcast any new errata to the entire nation ... like when the guitar player fell off his stool during “Spanish Eyes” right into the horn of the tuba. Or when the piano lid collapsed during “Kitten on the Keys” ... taking a portion of the pianist’s scalp with it.

By this time the audience had stopped dancing and just stood there, mouths agape, watching this scene out of a Keystone Kops movie. Guy tried to dispel the spell by calling an extended break during which the networks panned over the revelers in Times Square or switched to “A Horn Blows at Midnight,” starring Jack Benny. During this time out, Guy assembled his band members and forbade them to have anything more to drink. He also summarily dismissed two woodwind players who already had stained the knickers’ fronts ... and forced steaming hot coffee into his only flautist, since she was needed for “Auld Lang Syne.”

When they returned, it soon became clear that it wasn’t just the booze at work ruining this “first night.” Next acoustical tiles began dropping from the ceiling. Then the fountain in the middle of the dance floor went berserk and sprayed many patrons with cheap champagne ... while, at the same time, its multi-colored lights began shorting out, sending sparks leaping across the wet floor to the dancers. Five were electrocuted on the spot ... quivering like they were enraptured with ecstasy. Then the spinning mirrored ball came crashing to the floor, killing the bass player and badly injuring five spectators. And as the witching hour approached, things became even more bizarre. Tables began levitating. Forks and knives came alive and embedding themselves in peoples’ posteriors.

Through the glass ceiling above the dance floor, one could see incredibly bright lighting flashes under gray, ominous clouds. Then thunder came rolling into the restaurant, almost drowning out the orchestra which, by now, was almost completely out of syncopation due to its lack of a drum beat or bass notes. But they played on ... like the band on the sinking Titanic. At the first stroke of midnight those guests not already dead or injured were looking for a rapid escape route. Right then, Guy noticed a unfamiliar face in the brass section. This player was clearly not an ASCAP member. He had a flowing silver beard and was dressed in a long white robe. As he raised his trumpet to his lips, Guy noticed a name badge pinned to the breast of his cassock. It clearly spelled out, in diamond-inlayed lettering, “ARCHANGEL GABRIEL.”

Those of you reading this are obviously living in a parallel universe.

© Copyright, George W. Potts

A PC Christmas

“T’was the night before Christmas ...” The NAACP has complained to the Civil Rights Commission arguing that this line should be updated to read “T’was the night before Kwanzaa ...”

“Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” The Friends of Animals takes umbrage at the term “creature” and is insisting that it be changed to “lovable, furry thing that should not be trapped.”

“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care” The Cross-Dressers of America want it noted here that this means taupe silk hose with oh-so-cute lacy stuff around the top ... and that only Woolite should be used to wash such dainties.

“The children were nestled all snug in their beds” The North American Man-Boy Love Association wants this changed to “nestled all snug in our beds”.

“... while visions of sugar plums danced in their heads” Michelle Obama has insisted that this phrase be changed to “thoughts of low-fat Greek yogurt” and is threatening to go on The View if she is ignored.

“Mama in her kerchief and I in my cap” The Queer Nation is objecting to the use of such stereotypical male/female bonding units as representing an idealized family.

“The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow” Yoko Ono insists that such sexists comments show that we still live in a male-dominated, piggish society. She wants this word changed to “chest.”
“As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.” The Environmental Protection Agency has issued a complaint stating that leaves left unraked into the winter represents a violation of Sections 125.92: J and 9734.2: D-G of the Omnibus Environmental Protection Law of 1993.

“... with a little old driver” AARP has sought an immediate court injunction to estop such pejorative comments about senior citizens.

“... jolly old elf and I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself” The Little People’s Society has also insisted that the term “elf” and its associated derision be immediately expunged from this narrative.

“On Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer and Vixen” The ASPCA has issued a formal complaint against St. Nicholas, citing his verbal and physical abuse of these eight tiny reindeer.

“He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot ...” The Animal Liberation Front has threatened to throw cow’s blood on anyone who dares to dress up in such insensitive costumes.

“... little round belly that shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly” The Surgeon General has demanded that a printed warning be put on this page saying that being obese to this degree could be hazardous to your health.

“The smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath” Henry Waxman, a congressman from California, has threatened to hold hearings unless this line is stricken in its entirety.

“He filled all the stockings and turned with a jerk” Steve Martin has gone to court suing for 10% royalties for the use of the term “jerk”.

“... up the chimney he rose” The Trial Lawyers of America has stated that forcing Santa Claus to enter and exit a premises via the fireplace is demeaning and likely to cause bodily harm. They are assembling a massive class action suit against all those parents who allowed Santa to visit in this manner.

“He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle” The AFL/CIO is demanding to know if St. Nick is a member of their North Pole Teamsters’ local. If he can’t produce proof that he is, they are going to picket New Years.

“Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!” The National Education Association has objected that this line, and all the rest of this story ... saying that they contain words that are spelled correctly. This is obviously intended to stifle the creativity of our children.

© Copyright, George W. Potts

Over the River ...

The five of us arrived at Grandmother’s house after a long, chilly drive in Uncle Bill’s old Packard. His over-sized gray sedan smelled of damp mohair and the allspice, mace, and cinnamon that infused the steam seeping in from the pie basket in the trunk. In this hamper were three plump pumpkin pies, a cardamom-mince pie, and two zesty lemon pies with their alpine-high meringues dotted with caramelized sugar drops, all packed in among four dozen yeasty, poppy-seed dinner rolls. We also carried bouquets of the last of the brilliant fall asters and multi-colored maple leaves. Greeting us at the door were most of rest of Grandma’s and Grandpa’s issue and a few neighbors; 22 in all, beaming and chatting with growling stomachs.

We doffed of scarves and greatcoats and were given hot mulled wine or a Bourbon Old Fashion, according to our taste. Scattered around the den and kitchen were the hors d’oeuvres: butter-tender Schmaltz herring in a sweet-sour-cream sauce sprinkled with lots of chopped fresh dill; oysters Rockefeller (saucer-sized and nestling a bed of chopped spinach and a drop of Pernod with a bubbling crust of bread crumbs and grated Parmesan cheese); mounds and mounds of tender Jumbo shrimp with a sharp horseradish and chili-sauce dressing, crisp celery and carrot sticks with a dip made from butter and blue cheese mashed together and thinned with a vintage port wine; colossal Pimento-stuffed olives; miniature sweet Gherkins; and an assortment of odoriferous cheeses (a runny Brie, a ripe Gorgonzola, a well-aged Gouda, a nutty Emmenthaler, and a creamy Double Gloucester) with lots of crusty French country bread.

After over-sampling this largess and re-acquainting ourselves with each other, we were led into the candle-lit dining room for a family prayer and the object of our sojourn. There on the groaning board were ten chilled bottles of this year’s best Nouveau Beaujolais (fruity almost to the point of a fine Spanish Sangria); a huge cob-smoked ham with a orange-honey-clove glaze over a copious coat of toasty fat; two boned legs of grilled baby lamb basted with its garlic, rosemary, and lemon au jus; a 32-pound roasted capon turkey, cooked to a juicy perfection with its chestnut and sage dressing; and three gravy boats filled with a glistening minced-giblet gravy (made with the turkey pan drippings, arrowroot, and the water in which the giblets had simmered all morning along with celery tops, some carrots and crushed shallots).

Filling in the voids on this massive table were the poppy-seed rolls, a large chaffing dish of whole cranberry sauce augmented with toothpick-thin candied orange-rind strips and Grand Marnier; Greek string beans (made from haricots vert, an oregano-laced marinara sauce topped with bread crumbs and grated Romano cheese and baked to a nutty crust); golden carrots Vichey (dime sized carrot slices and tiny pearl onions blanched into tenderness and then sauced with a roux made with flour, grated onion, a soupcon of nutmeg, and fresh cream); two casseroles filled with steaming sauerkraut, laced with caraway seeds and nestling fresh baked kielbasa; a watercress, Belgian endive, and avocado salad with its mustardy vinaigrette in a yeoman-sized wooden bowl; and a surfeit of fluffy, butter-and-parsley-topped garlic mashed potatoes.

For dessert, out came all the pies we had brought; a chocolate and vanilla-iced Daffodil cake, a browned and steaming rice pudding studded with currents, candied citron, and dried cherries; a rainbow fruit compote (cantaloupe, watermelon, and honeydew balls with strawberries, blueberries, Valencia orange slices, and soused with Marsalla and champagne); and steaming pots of Costa Rican coffee and Earl Gray tea. For dessert’s dessert we had pitted prunes that had soaked to a divine softness in Armagnac; the remainder of the pre-dinner cheeses, now surrounded with ripe Anjou pears, Macoun apples, and fresh figs; and, finally, minted chocolate twigs.

We all sleepily threw ourselves into the washing up and, when it was over and done with all the crockery dried and put away; we settled around the roaring fire in the living room with a glass of hard cider or warming cognac. After many war stories, seasonal songs, and familial antidotes, we pulled on our weather clothes and re-entered the old Packard. Following lots of thank-you’s and echoed good-byes, Uncle Bill pulled from the curb with a short toot of the oogle horn. On the way home we all fell into a deep, high-blood-sugar and L-tryptophan induced sleep. Unfortunately, this also included Uncle Bill ... who consequently drove off of the road at over 60 MPH ... directly into a bridge abutment. Contented ... and with full bellies of Butterball ... we all instantly perished in a Thanksgiving fireball.

© Copyright, George W. Potts