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This quote reminds me of the time Lily saved the face she ripped off a panda in Canada.
(pause)
That is a joke, it wasn't really a panda face. That said, The Canada Panda would be a good title for a children's show.
(pause)
But only if the panda had a face. Otherwise, it would be too terrifying for the children and me.
~Marcus Tullius Cicero
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A year ago, we were driving down from Max Patch. We had attempted to hike to the top but encountered rain. We started the hike, but when it began to pour and lightning and thunder, we turned back. As we drove the winding road back down the mountain Leslie said, “If there is anything you want to stop and take photos of on the way, go ahead.”
There were a few things, but not much of a chance to pull off without blocking the road which was narrow. The gravel stretch was filled with potholes (though it wasn’t as bad as we had been warned it would be). Once we got back onto the paved road, it was much better – despite having seemed daunting on the way up. But that is the way of daunting things. They seem that way at first, but once you’ve done them they’re less so if you do them again.
I made a curve on one of the switchbacks and saw an old barn. The side was covered in old, mostly rusty license plates AND there was a drive next to it. I pulled it, scraping the bottom of the car a bit, and got some photos. I was snapping one last shot when a pickup truck pulled over on the road, blocking the driveway.
Before the driver could say anything, I said, “Is this your barn? I was just getting some photos. It is amazing.” The old man – he was probably in his mid-70s – smiled and said, “Yes. I was afraid you were taking some of the plates. We have people steal them all the time. If they’d just ask, I’d probably give them to ‘em.”
He asked where we were from and while Lily hunted a GINORMOUS fly that flew into the car. We told him we were from near Clemson. “I know Clemson,” he said. “I used to work for the railroad. I know Clemson and Greenville. We used to be based in Greenville.” He paused and said, “I’m retired now.”
He said that this was the place he had grown up. It had been his family home for at least a few generations. The barn and the plates were the work of his grandfather. “Before he died,” the man said, “My grandfather told us he had plates from every state.”
He said, “This was my mama’s house before she died. I rent it out now.” He paused for a moment and said, “I have a bunch of old tools in the barn, do you have a minute?” I said yes before Leslie could say no and asked, “Is it okay to bring the pup?” He said, “Sure. You know this is the first time I haven’t had a hunting dog in a long time. I suppose you all don’t like to kill things, but we had to or we’d starve when I was growing up.” I didn’t argue. I don’t really like to kill things. I suspect I would also not like to starve.
He opened the barn and turned on the lights. It was filled with old farm implements. He told us what most of them were. He had some old calendars – a few with trains. “I don’t have much train stuff. I worked for the railroad, but I’m retired now." He smiled, "I’ve seen enough train stuff.”
Above the door we had come in there was a framed newspaper front page. “I found that in my mama’s house after she died,” he said pointing it out. “It’s the newspaper from the day after Kennedy died. You can’t see it, but in her handwriting in the upper right corner it says, “'President Kennedy died yesterday at' – I can’t remember the exact time, but she wrote it down.”
He pointed out old plows he had. There were saws and axes and hand tools and a variety of implements on the wall. There was a tobacco basket. “This whole place used to be a tobacco farm,” he said. “That is hard work.” He had mounted and framed a hand-twisted piece of tobacco. “That’s how we used to put it up.” He smiled. “You know tobacco farming probably killed more people than smoking it ever has.”
He pointed to a rusty push mower. Despite the rust, it looked like you could still use it if you needed to. “That was my first mower, he said.” When I suggested that farming might be hard work but mowing with that mower had to also be hard work, he smiled. He didn’t say anything but stared at the push mower a bit longer.
There was a bear skin mounted on the wall. He said, “I kilt that bear—” I really wanted him to say, “When I was only three!” but he didn’t. “I must have been about 18. My daughter had it and then her kids had it and played with it. They were going to throw it out, but I kept it and hung it in here.” I saw some bear paws mounted on the wall too. They were either from a different bear or the bear he killed had eight paws. I suspect the former or he’d probably have told us about an eight-pawed bear.
After a quick overview of the farm tools, hunting trophies, and railroad calendars, he moved on to the kitchen tools. He had more stories about them than anything else in the barn.
He had a butter churn and a stamp of a four-leaf clover for the top of a slab of butter. “That was my grandma’s. She used to make butter – it was almost white. And then she’d use that stamp to make it all pretty.” He paused. “I don’t know if I could even eat cow’s butter anymore. I’m so used to margarine.”
He pointed out a sausage grinder and a cornbread pan. He had several pieces of cast iron on the walls. He talked about each of them – usually referencing his mama. It was clear he was proud of these things. It was clear he loved the women who had used them. It was clear he treasured those memories.
He pointed out a pump tube with a can screwed to it. He said, “That’s a hot shot. We used to have to use that to spray for hornets and wasps (he had at least four mounted hornets’ nests, as well). He added, “Then they decided it kills you so you can’t buy it now.”
We thanked him for showing us everything. He locked up the barn and walked us back to our car. He pointed out a few of the plates left on the side of the barn. “You can see where people have taken some,” he pointed at the blank spaces. “There used to be another barn over there, but it burned. It had plates from the 20’s.” I actually have a plate from the 20’s on my car right now, but I figured that wasn’t what he meant, so I said nothing.
He paused again, looking at the plates on the barn. “There it is –“ he pointed to plate about half way up the side of the barn – “That one is from New York and it says ‘World’s Fair’ on it. I guess the World’s Fair was there in 1964.” You could make out “New York World’s Fair” across the bottom of the plate and “64” in the corner. “That’s a good one,” he smiled. “Probably worth some money.”
“Well,” he sighed, walking toward his truck, “I better let you girls go about your evening. What was your last name?” he asked.
“Boettcher,” I said.
“Never heard of it,” he said and not missing a beat, “And yours?”
“Lewis,” Leslie said.
“I used to work with a Lewis on the railroad. John Lewis.” He paused as if expecting Leslie to have known John Lewis. She smiled, nodded, but said nothing.
“You know my name,” he added with a slight pause for dramatic effect. “It’s Frisbee – like the toy?” He made a gesture as if he was throwing a frisbee.
“I DO know that name.” He nodded and opened the door to his truck.
“Have a good evening,” I said.
“I always do, nowadays.” He grinned as he settled into the seat behind the steering wheel. “I’m retired.”
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Overheard on a recent trip to Pittsburgh...
Ezra: You're a hundred million years old
Aurora: That's not a child's age. That's a dead person's age.
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GoGo loves her grandchildren and is always excited to spend time with them. Which is good. If she was mean and didn't enjoy time with her gradnchildren, she would likely get stories written about her in which she would be the sort of bitter, angry, hostile oldster who criticizes everyone. The kind of old woman who yells at people randomly for minor offenses like walking on her grass or playing their music too loudly.
Wait. Aurora! What are you writing? Are you writing about GoGo? It better be nice things.
What do you mean you're writing about me?! Stop it! Stop it RIGHT NOW! And turn down that music!!
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Dear Online Personal Characteristics Evaluator Robot,
I am not sure what data you use for your analysis. I also won't say whether you are right about me or not. However, I will say that your caption does not go with this photo of my dog and is not an accurate analysis of her.
Love,
Michelle.
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Lily is very much a lady. As you can see, even when she is at rest, she carefully crosses her legs at the ankle.
(pause)
We're still working on the "Don't lick your butthole in public" part of etiquette, though.
