Lost Marbles
Dear Cuz,
My identical third cousin Arthur, 'Don't Call Me Art' Dekko, called in his markers yesterday as I had promised to take him to town for some shopping. He was running low on canned pickled beets and also needed to replenish his ammo supply. Now I don't much care for beets myself as I must have eaten several tons during my childhood year (I grew up fast.) I wouldn’t mind so much if they tasted less like beets. Way back when, beets were the one crop we could count on to grow prolifically, the only better producer was turnips. I love them equally. Why goobers and watermelons wouldn't cooperate like beets remains, even today, a mystery unsolved.
As far as I am concerned you can take all the beets in the world and pile them up on those exploding Firestone tires and have a bonfire from Hell. Arthur claims however that canned beet juice has magical healing qualities and rubs it on his knee and arm joints to prevent them from "seizing up on him."
We jumped in the truck and made our first stop at the H.E.B. over there in New Monia, Tx. at the AAA Monia Shopping Center. It's claimed by those in the know, Arthur, that they have the freshest canned beets available in the modern world, and the Hill Country brand contains the most potent healing juices.
I don't know where everyone was headed, but when we got to the parking lot there was a humongous traffic jam made up almost entirely of those big 6-wheel diesel pick-up trucks; New Monia’s soccer moms answer to the SUV. I rarely see them hauling anything in the bed larger than the week's grocery supply, their muddy ATV's or their little pea-headed offspring. Come to think of it if you consider the proportions of some of those soccer moms, the long, wide bed seems to be a practical choice.
Pretty much everything we have to haul out here at the Stonebroke Non-Profit Fireant and Rodent Ranch is the garden tractor and it fits in the little Nissan just fine with a few minor adjustments and some twine. Anyway, this near gridlock condition reminded us of that time we went over to Houston to that Galleria area where they play bumper cars every day. The biggest difference that I could see was that we have older and crappier cars. Also instead of touting Westside Tennis Club the bumper stickers have stuff like, My wife is a strate A student at New Monia High School, or I (heart) Possum.
We cruised the tarmac past the 99 ¢entavo Store (new name, by the way), a left near the Bargain Disposal Barn and the Dollaramamama (which Princess Penny won’t even go near as...”How dumb can a New Moniar be?, You save a penny on every item at Dollaramamama.”
We cruised around for a time until we found a close-in parking spot and people-watched for a spell while Arthur finished off his big orange drink. I don't know if you have noticed the expansive number of our useless spawn ( future of America?) sporting large, sometimes colorful prison quality tattoos. While Arthur and I languished there in the miracleness of climatically enhanced conditioned air, we observated a good large many young girls with ankles the size of corner fence posts emblazoned with dainty blue butterflies. I'll admit I don't know much about skin art; I assume that it is supposed to be comely. Does it draw attention away from another part of their body? Like their face? My suggestion would be, if you just have to want to fit in with your peers, at least make the art size proportionate. Like maybe a Buzzard Hawk or a murder of crows circling the calf.
I also noticed most of the teens wore that 'thousand yard stare' you used to see on shell shocked soldiers coming back from WWII and my old Viet-Nam buddies. About the only thing these kids have been shocked about is that mommy won't spring for those $200. Nikes until they clean their room. One kid who that had 'look' wore a torn (artistically) black tee shirt printed with " I Skate For Jesus " across the front. While I’m skeptical whether Jesus cares if Freaky Frank skates for him, I’m betting there would probably be a few commandments he would need to adhere to. Like "Thou shalt not skate on the sidewalk in front of the grocery store where old ladies are trying to get in the door for some cat food lest ye become unaccidentally stricken with a food cart driven by an old bald-headed guy what don’t see so good sometimes.”
Mostly though, he didn't really skate much. He just slouched around practicing looking at people but not focusing his eyes. In a little while, what could have been his mother (she had 'MOM' tattooed on her left bicep) drove up in one of those big diesel 6-wheeled pickup trucks and honked. He walked over to the truck, threw his skateboard in the bed with the groceries and in a choke of black smoke they disappeared. Literally.
Finally Arthur finished his orange drink, went in the store and came out with a case of pickled beets. That will probably hold him till next payday. We headed on over to the Super Cost-Mor and parked near the garden shop entrance. There's lots of parking on that side with blue rocking chairs painted in them and signs reading van assessable. Next vehicle I get will be a van because of that up close parking favoritism, and I would be sure to make the thing accessible. We also use the garden supplies entrance so Arthur can stop and smell the roses and the fertilizer.
Arthur went to the toy department and picked up two bags of ammo for his handmade folding slingshot. Some people call them marbles, but to Arthur they're ammo. Arthur loves to hunt but just doesn't care all that much for the killing part. He told me he once knocked down an 8 point buck with a JaboVitro custom marble and he still has the marble and the buck might still have some antlers, though not the same ones. I've seen some of his work with a slingshot so I can't not believe he's done it.
Arthur is now full of beets and prone on his cot sleeping comfortably with his possum-headed dog George out in the Fline Skwirls Motorbike Club Clubhouse. Beet breath and dog breath create a combination of odors you don't want to remember when it's time to eat. Hope to see you soon.
