Day Off

sorbet tubular hangers

The Crankies experienced a regularly scheduled school holiday on Monday. Sadly, Meta Cranky's clutter meter simultaneously pegged into red zone.

MC's clutter meter is an unscheduled annoyance with an inconsistent trigger. Does it scream abuse at unattractive piles of work-related papers and mismatched socks? Frequently, no. Yet on this day, it howled like a air-raid siren at the sight of a few half-finished art projects lounging on the stair landing. The clutter meter lacks a breaker box; neither can you whack out its batteries with a broom handle as you can with the smoke alarm. There was no recourse for small Crankies except to perform compulsory acts of housework. Startled and unnerved by the meter's intensity, they peeled back layers of effluvia from flat surfaces until readings retreated to safe levels.

tubular hangers, primary colors

The Crankies' clutter meter functions a bit like a high colonic: after purging their collective toxins, the refreshed and clutter-diminished household sailed off to find amusing pursuits. Cranky #1 and her pal visited the local mega-plex for the latest installment of Goofy High School Comedy starring Talent-Challenged Cute Boy. Meanwhile, MC and Cranky #2 took a victory lap at OCD Gadget Store to get just one more clutter-fighting tool.

tubular hangers, ocean

C2 would happily acquire the store's entire obsessive inventory of keychains with light-up dolphins and pink magazine organizers with kitties on the top. Also the non-functional telephone and computer from the modular desk section. MC struck a compromise: pick six brightly colored tubular hangers from the Unnaturally Organized closet section. Don't sniff, skeptical readers: these are 52-gram plastic hangers, much sturdier and satisfying than the usual 34-gram numbers. While C2 made her color choices, a fellow organizer stopped to offer the benefit of his organizing experience. He gave high praise to the OCD tubular hangers, noting that he dedicates the orange sherbet-colored ones to his dress shirts.  MC nodded in admiration. But there was more. Hanger Guy had developed an entire closet system built around color-coded tubular hangers: royal blue hangers for jeans; yellow ones for t-shirts with paint splatters. MC was walking slowly backward and didn't catch what he does with the frosty greens or neon pinks

C2 has installed her cheerful hangers in a tidy yet casual way. C1 continues to enjoy seeing most of her bedroom floor. MC has seen household surfaces reappear, like the terrain left by a melting glacier. The household has been temporarily recalibrated.
--MC

No Satisfaction

Some months back, Meta Cranky learned that an ancient essay of hers had been plagiarized. More specifically, someone named Dr. Shyam Prasad Swain lifted her essay from Studies in the Novel, twiddled with some prepositions, and republished it under his own name in a collection of essays. MC's stony heart was warmed watching placid English major types turn apoplectic on the subject of plagiarism, and she was heartily gratified by the expressions of concern and outrage that came her way.

Apparently, friends' heart-warming concern is the only satisfaction that MC can hope to receive from this theft of her intellectual property. MC is informed that the statute of limitations for prosecuting copyright infringement is three years; that deadline expired back in the George W. Bush administration. So the legal team representing the journal where her essay appeared will send a letter to the fraudulent book's publisher requesting that it cease publishing this particular title. The salient verb would be request, since the journal concedes, "we have no legal recourse at this stage."

MC has sighed heavily. Then she recollected that she was in good company: Stanley Fish was ripped off, too, and his legal satisfaction was as thin as hers. Professor Fish, though, got to air his grievance in the New York Times and proclaim that "the two scholars who began their concluding chapter by reproducing two of my pages are professionally culpable. They took something from me without asking and without acknowledgment, and they profited — if only in the currency of academic reputation — from work that I had done and signed."

Here, here. But there's also a question of degree. Professor Fish's plagiarists are into him for two pages. Dr. Shyam Prasad Swain lifted MC's entire essay. So, short of naming the offender in the pages of the New York Times, what satisfaction can MC manufacture for herself? She recalls a successful campaign waged by her Youngest Older Brother that he called Feed the Bitch. A co-worker got the best of him in office politics; however, her sweet tooth left her utterly vulnerable to the two pounds of M&Ms (plain and peanut) that he purchased each day for office consumption. As Bitchy Co-worker's ass grew, so did Youngest Older Brother's satisfaction.

MC is confident that her friends and acquaintances possess the creative genius to effectively modify Feed the Bitch for her purposes. Let's work the problem, people.
--MC

The Shallow End

Years ago, a place called Atomic City sold MC the perfect t-shirt for Herr Cranky. On the front was a bare-chested man with the words "Victor Mature lives" written across his pecs and abs. The anguished dude's thought bubble read: "I wish I was deep instead of just macho." The Crankies were never quite sure why deep and macho were mutually exclusive, but ambiguity about Victor Mature's character didn't get in the way of their sartorial pleasure.

So now MC's enjoyment of contemporary memoirs has left her feeling that her own character is about an inch deep. David Sedaris and Rhoda Janzen's rip-roaring tales of substance abuse, emotional apocalypse,  and entertainingly wacko relatives didn't encourage self-doubt. Anne Lamott's essays, however, always leave MC scuffling her shoes in the dirt thinking, I could be a better person if I just meditated more. I should ask my neighbors to share their reflective personal insights. I should swim with seals more often.

Extra helpings of meditation could only improve MC's operating system, true enough. But her neighbors are already sufficiently sage. And on the whole, she doesn't see herself snorkeling with seals. Aquatic mammals can be plenty profound, but MC, sadly, is much too distracted to appreciate their offerings unless they come with English subtitles. Compared to Lamott's thoughtful spirituality, MC is decidedly swimming in the shallow end.

People who make their living writing sensitively about single motherhood really should have zen-master-type moments in the middle of traffic. The rest of us, however, show our breeding and character by not bringing firearms to the pediatrician's waiting room. Cranky 2 recently reactivated her strep throat, and MC repeated the familiar routine of doctor's office, pharmacy, and frozen fruit bars. In a waiting room of children dripping with viruses and bacteria, the selection of pregnant-mommy magazines and Fox News broadcasts creates an atmosphere that the CIA could productively use to extract information from suspected terrorists. And yet the parental units of these little petri dishes purposefully douse themselves with hand sanitizer and exit with scripts for Amoxicillin. MC thinks that germ-encrusted politeness is perhaps the height of civil discourse.

There's a time and a place for depth of character. The Richard Nixon impeachment hearings, for example. And happily, Barbara Jordan knew just what to say:

My faith in the Constitution is whole, it is complete, it is total. I am not going to sit here and be an idle spectator to the diminution, the subversion, the destruction of the Constitution.

MC wishes she could manufacture pithy, quotable verbage like that on demand. Delivering stirring oratory is probably not in the cards for MC; however, a recently installed statue of Representative Jordan at Big State University invites one to reflect on depth of character, statesmanship, and why flawless enunciation and a baritone register sounds so, well, deep. C2 demonstrates what you can do after all that thoughtful reflection.
--MC

Greenish

Locally famous for being green, Cranky Elementary School showcases shiny awards it has received for recycling. And composting. And installing a rainwater harvesting system in the backyard. Cranky Elementary has been recognized, repeatedly, for its environmental mojo. Last Tuesday, you could have seen Cranky Elementary sixth graders on a local television station demonstrating their classroom worm composting and the playground's vegetable gardens. Name a product produced in China, and Cranky kindergarteners are recycling it. Styrofoam? Check. Capri Sun pouches? They get paid for it. Sneakers? Well, doesn't everybody? Batteries, computer parts, used plastic gift cards. It's kind of a competitive green vibe they've got going on.

So it was completely not weird that Meta Cranky spent multiple e-mails and phone calls today discussing some serious Cranky Elementary business: the 2010 Halloween pumpkin composting situation. Halloween 2009's  composting was fabulous, if a little frightening. MC herself had never seen that many dead pumpkins in one place. But there they were, piled in front of Cranky Elementary. Approximately the mass of a VW. Meta Cranky was sustained by the confidence and enthusiasm of Our Al Gore, the resident composting guru, who could compost anything that had ever formed carbohydrates from CO2 and water. Our Al enthusiastically guided MC and Herr Cranky to whack up hundreds of pounds of pumpkins with axes and machetes. Then, he provided instruction as the Crankies helped layer Dead Pumpkins with bags of leaves, like a massive jello salad. Sprinkle with a little rainwater from your rainwater collection system, and presto! One ginormous mass of carbon and nitrogen. Our Al was an animal when it came to decomposition.

Meta Cranky will never be as talented, compost-wise, as Our Al, whose child has happily moved on to middle school. So Cranky Elementary is leaving Dead Pumpkin 2010 to the professionals. No, seriously. The professional compost company that services Cranky Elementary's lunches will send a special truck for its post- Halloween offerings. This landfill diversion is all as it should be, and Meta Cranky can't believe that any thinking person would let a pumpkin get oozy and smelly in his/her garbage can. Please. But she understands the folks in Cranky Home Town might be scratching their heads over Dead Pumpkin 2010 as part of somebody's business plan. That's because it's much simpler in Cranky Hometown. You start with a pumpkin, like the one pictured above. From Cranky Girls' Farm, 2008 vintage. Thanks for asking. Then you add a varmint. Raccoon. Possum. Skunk? Ok, that'll work.

After that, it's pretty much low impact. No signage. No organized collection system. No whacking with machetes. In Cranky Hometown, Compost Happens, just like the bumper sticker says. Cranky Hometown may be in a red state, but don't say it's not green.--MC

*photo credits to Oldest Older Brother

Urban Tranquility

Meta Cranky's unplanned hiatus from her blogging duties has left several of the Crankies' narrative threads awkwardly dangling. So, let's review, shall we?

The Crankies migrated back to their not-farm space and Crankies 1 and 2 have been begun receiving state-sponsored educations at their respective schools. C1 can now hold forth on the difference between specific heat and latent heat. C2 has helped make a city out of popsicle sticks, toilet paper tubes, and oatmeal boxes. Herr Cranky has attended a very great many committee meetings while retaining his good humor. Meta Cranky has begun a textbook project that requires rifling through reams of paper and seemingly limitless files from ftp sites. In the scrum of back-to-school hoo-haw, the Crankies have remained as serene and graceful as the Yellow Show, pictured at left, that is determined to bloom despite our city's ungodly heat. Pretty much, anyway.

Cranky Girls' Farm continues to put forth an exuberant crop of alfalfa and angus cattle in the Crankies' absence. Second Older Brother, the keeper of this alfalfa and livestock, has introduced a glitch by, uncharacteristically, requiring maintenance of his physical person. He has educated the entire Cranky extended family with his tales of the Medical Industrial Complex, which apparently demands $23,000 of people who are careless enough to develop kidney stones.

Second Brother's discomfort is not to be made light of, and the Crankies have every expectation that medical science will bring him relief. The Crankies have, however, watched with appreciation as the Medical Industrial Complex entered Second Brother's "I Can't Believe You're So Effing Stupid" Zone. Meta Cranky first learned of the Zone when Oldest Brother reported on Second Brother's hospital admission process: "I think the hospital is calling security to deal with Second Brother." The hospital that services Cranky Girls' Farm apparently requires full payment in advance of services rendered. Second Brother, who seriously wanted to say farewell to his kidney stones, habitually sees itemized invoices for his major purchases. Second Brother has never had a problem being billed by his tractor guy, his air conditioner guy, or his diesel mechanic, but Idiocracy General was unable to produce a document that told him what his first $11,000 payment was, um, paying for. Hence the specter for hospital security. The Crankies can't wait to see how he deals with his insurance company.

Long story short: The Crankies are city girls again. They appreciate the patience of their Cranky Readers and will be more timely in their updates. No need to call security.

--MC

High Functioning

For weeks, guests have entered Chez Cranky by stepping over a rivulet of water and asking, "Do you know your dishwasher leaks?" Then, usually, they serve themselves a glass of water and observe, "Ice maker not working yet, huh." Alright, already. The Crankies' appliances were put to rights today by Mr. Ice-T, a man with a tres exciting skill set. As he totted up his bill, Mr. Ice-T observed the quart of apple butter resting on the Crankies' counter. Turns out that Son of Mr. Ice-T just loves the stuff. "He's got Asperger's; he's high functioning, but he can't stand to waste food." Ice-T pere and fils have jammed, relished, and jellied their way through a bountiful summer, and father Ice-T proudly recited their production in quarts, pints, and pounds.

Meta Cranky sent fix-it savant out the door with a small offering of apple product. Only upon reflection did she observe that Son of Ice-T might not care about the Crankies' product; he would be more obsessed about preserving the food coming out of his own garden patch. Then it dawned on MC that Ice-T and his son might be the only people who could bring order to Cranky Farm in its present state.

There's the apple tree. The Crankies have been slogging through their apple inventory for days. Not complaining! Apple butter is infinitely more forgiving than those hellish peaches, and producing apple smoosh with the smoosh gadget sends C1 and C2 to their happy place. MC was strategizing about what to do with Gardening Friend's gift of some groovy Armenian cucumbers when she noticed the squash bed. Jesus Mary and Joseph. A girl takes a day off to file her nails and look what happens.

MC is a little sketchy about what she planted back in June, but she's confident that her concept included pumpkins and three kinds of squash. But for all she knows, Jimmy Hoffa could be in the patch now. It's feral. The Shepherd's Seed envelope showed darling watercolors that made these squash look like epicurean dainties. Wrong-O. They're botanical sumo wrestlers. Shoppers never see these mega vegetables in the grocery store for a very good reason: they're freaking scary.

It's a small step from one zucchini-on-steroids to a full-blown food storage and distribution obsession. Why can't the Cranky Hometown gardeners bear to waste any of this bounty? Because if you anger the zucchini gods, next summer's garden might squeeze out only three worm-eaten tomatoes and two cups of shriveled okra. Meta Cranky's neighbors aren't going to risk it.
--MC

Unbidden

Perfect gifts come in different flavors. There's the gift that's perfect because the recipient laid in the specs to remove all doubt. Herr Cranky's gift of a phone with a map program fits this category; this phone gave the Crankies the logistical umph they needed to navigate unfamiliar cities on their recent roadtrip. In addition, it sent Crankies 1 and 2 into paroxysms of joy as they discovered apps, games, and wallpaper-selection opportunities. C2 found a notes function in which she writes diary entries such as, "I went to the plum patch. We picked a lot of good plums." In her euphoria, C2 raised up an encomium of praise for technology:

I just love this phone.
WHO KNEW that a phone could give you a map? 
WHO KNEW that a phone would let you write notes? 
WHO KNEW that a phone had games on it? 
WHO KNEW that a phone could still let you talk on the phone, like la, la, la.

Steve Jobs, want some PR to provide a diversion from that iPhone 4 kerfluffle? The Crankies are available.

The other perfect gift is the one you didn't know you needed. When friend Zia pressed a thumb drive upon the not-techie Meta Cranky, it was as if the angel choirs were singing. How long had this technological miracle been available to the rest of the planet? That long, really?

Comes now Mr. High Security, who not only studies antique hardware but also can identify individuals who are least likely to accomplish simple tasks on their own. As a result, the talented Mr. High Security not only fixed the beloved, broken, ancient hardware at Cranky Farm, he also installed it. Can we mention that he lives in another state? Sure, Meta Cranky put the repaired lock back in the door, but did she notice that door frame had no hole for the deadbolt? Um. Rather no. The Crankies now enjoy fully operational 90-year-old locks and more working keys than your average janitor--the impressive, skeleton-type keys you'd use to lock Mr. Rochester's crazy wife in the attic. And MC gets to savor the perfect gift of unforeseen, unbounded generosity.

MC's chi is running particularly strong this week, because she also received a unexpected gift for someone else's birthday. Paying her respects on the natal day of friend I'm Adorable, but Don't Piss Me Off, she received a perfectly pressed set of tea towels embroidered by I'm Adorable's mother. Meta Cranky remembers Mother of Adorable's house as cool island of domesticity in a dusty, sandburr-filled sea. Small MC would tumble out of Major Cranky's Chevy pickup, in which the day's only refreshment would have been a bag of Red Man chewing tobacco. Stopping to see Mother of Adorable, with her hospitality, air conditioning, and cold water, always gave MC hope that Major Cranky was going to evoke closure and eventually head home to lunch. I'm Adorable's perfect gift reminds MC that small gestures can bring moments of glad grace yea even into a hot Chevy. Why embroider seven tea towels with days of the week and amusing animal figures? Because looking at them might make you smile when you otherwise wouldn't. Perfect.
--MC

(Photo to come)

Travesty

Meta Cranky has perpetrated a crime against botany. She has transformed the peach, one of nature's most beautiful creations, into something resembling the color and consistency of Oliver Twist's gruel.

The problem arises from inventory control. The ridiculous windfall of native plums has transformed the celebration of Seasonal Fruit into something approaching a work-release sentence. After the fruits of the Crankies' plum excursion were processed, MC was ready for a respite, but Seasonal Fruit was only tuning up. Second Brother's peach tree needed attention, and a half-hour's picking produced enough for a perfectly lovely cobbler and several happy bowls of jewel-tone slices at the breakfast table. MC estimated that she would get her groove back while the apples ripened. Then, foolishly, she left the house. When she returned, there were five (5) gallons of peaches on her porch, lovingly picked by Second Brother.

D(elivery)-Day Plus One: Texas Friend arrives and peels for an hour, producing another bowl of peachy perfection. What remains, however, is approximately 4.5 gallons of Second Brother's peaches. This particular product is in all ways delicious, but also labor intensive; the fruit is small, and most of the little darlings contain a worm or two. The Crankies are no closer to containment than BP after its first lame attempt at capping the Deepwater Horizon.
D-Day Plus 2: MC manages to blanche a dishpan full of peaches during C2's playdate and produce an Incredibly Forgiving Peach Cake. Tres bon! And yet quel dommage!  because those peaches are getting surly. Their worms are growing. Their bruises are blooming. MC thinks that the balance of power has subtly shifted in her relationship with Seasonal Fruit. Second Brother stops by and asks, "Shouldn't you be grinding up those peaches or something?" MC offloads fruit to Mother of Playdate.
D-Day Plus 3: As Seasonal Fruit becomes increasingly demanding, MC no longer has time for that blanching business. She slices up what she's got, produces another Incredibly Forgiving Peach Cake, covers the remaining peaches with sugar, and slams them in the fridge. What could possibly go wrong? Two waves of visitors arrive and the conversation happily takes another turn.
D-Day Plus 4: C1 and C2 look quizzically at the browned mass their mother has placed on the breakfast table. "Did you get the wrong bowl?" asks C1, diplomatically.
Evening of D-Day Plus 4: MC attempts peach remediation. Surely some jamming action will revive those underperforming peaches, she thinks: Pectin, a few square yards of sugar, and presto! However, MC's relationship with these particular peaches had gone to a place where no food stylist can salvage it. C1 walks into the kitchen during the botched attempt and looks on with unfeigned admiration at the effort. "The peach smoosh!" she exclaims. Then, realistically, she asks, "Have you tried it?" No, MC admits, she's rather busy with the draconian Sure Jell instructions. C1 dubiously tries a spoonful of jam and offers this searing assessment: "It looks nasty, but it tastes OK."


In her final review, C1 couldn't decide if whether the peach jam looked more like haggis or head cheese. Either one is so far removed from the original blushing globules as to be almost a different species of flora or fauna. A generous person might call the product a golden brown. But residents of the reality-based community could never call it peachy.
--MC

A Good Year for Plums

How can the Crankies tell that the local sandplums are maybe over-performing? Could it be the hordes of people they've never seen before standing across the fence from Uncle Michael's cattle, plinking globular fruit into plastic buckets? Maybe because there's no Sure-Jell to be found in two counties. Sorry, but if you want it, you've got to be on site when the One Thing Needful comes off the truck at Walmart. Consider this phenomenon: even  the Crankies' friend I'm Adorable, But Don't Piss Me Off was drawn out of jam retirement when her offspring gifted her with produce she couldn't ignore. The Crankies know this because her jam jars had been in their basement for two years, and she needed to borrow some back. This is a legendary epoch in the annals of Cranky Homeland sandplums.

And none too soon. Prunus angustifolia has taken on the chin for the last two seasons. Alternating drought, flood, and late frost effectively obliterated them from the landscape. Sure, the thickets were still there, thorny and full of chiggers, just like normal. But they were completely naked, like the shelves of a Soviet-era grocery store. The sandplums of Cranky Homeland are now redeeming themselves and, in appreciation, the locals are submitting to all measure of discomfort (heat, bugs, dirt, dangerously friendly Angus cows)  to gather them up. People who live where streets are paved may be muttering, oh jeez, how hard could it be? It's just fruit, for the love of Mike. Tell that to the Crankies' Cousin Winogene. When presented with a pint of plum jam as a hostess gift years ago, Winogene began manifesting PTSD symptoms, twitching slightly as she flashed back to the hot, itchy thickets of her youth. Meta Cranky palmed the jar, and Winogene's heart rate returned to normal.

With family, friends, and liberal application of insecticide, the Crankies revelled in a Hallmark-card-quality fruit-gathering expedition. They attribute the success of their grand day out to the local knowledge and strong chi of their fellow fruit-gatherers, who not only identified the perfect spot, but thoughtfully laid in the correct degree of cloud cover. The Crankies' expedition had more plums and fewer mosquitoes per square foot than any plum-related outing in Meta Cranky's plumming career. Did anyone crawl over a fence and rip her pants? Nope. Fall off the back of the truck into sandburrs? Again, nope. Step in cow plop and subject the party to reeking automobile all the way home? Not this time. Cranky 2 photographed the cow product to remind her friends not to step in it; write this technique into the protocols, because apparently, it works.

Friends and neighbors are busily inserting plum smoosh into little jars and storing the product in the back of their pantries, a huge additional outlay of time and energy. Why all this industry for jam? How much toast can they eat in Cranky Hometown, anyway? Meta Cranky thinks that it's not just about the toast; it's about being in the presence of generosity and bounty. With nothing to work with but sand, sun, and water, Prunus angustifolia has produced an extravagant crop. Confidently, it put out its inventory in the face of searing temperatures, a nasty Gulf oil spill, and an underperforming economy. In a rather mean summer, the sandplums are doing something confident and impressive. Who doesn't want a piece of that action?
--MC

Inbound

Dateline: EFFINGHAM, IL    
The Crankies are returning to Cranky Girl Farm from their glorious trip to the nation's capitol. They easily could have stopped in Terre Haute, Indiana, but they're getting a cheap thrill from saying "Effingham" at the slightest provocation.  C1 smiled immoderately at the sight of the Effingham water tower, which bore the city's name, proudly writ large. Uncle Michael obliged Meta Cranky by asking whether she was going to the Effing swimming pool. Effingham may become the Cs' expletive of choice; they certainly will get their money's worth out of this stop on Interstate 70.

Almost heaven, I-70. Roads are flat there, flatter than the Walmart parking lots. Meta Cranky will take it any day over I-68. Who knew that Maryland had mountains? Meta Cranky never saw a single one at Camden Yards. Not that it isn't heartwarming to see a billboard for God's Anchor of Safety church on a hill with a 6-degree grade. Still, the Crankies would again slog over mountains, or even across the Tappen Zee Bridge (no small feat for the gephyrophobic Meta Cranky) to see their dear DC pals, let's call them Lillian and Dashiell. Wherever they are posted, be it Lodge Pole, Nebraska, or the Federal Territory of Kuala Lumpur, the Cs will follow the Hellman/Hammetts (and their lovely thespian daughter) for their extensive board game collection, their exemplary grilling skills, and their fathomless knowledge of things historical, architectural, or simply fun. They had C2 at "hello," but their understanding of the Sponge Bob oeuvre deepened an already vigorous relationship.


The Crankies' DC tour is the longest road trip of their collective career, and the experience has left them pondering the mysteries of enduring friendships and sisterhood in confined spaces. In addition, the Crankies will be processing the random information they have gleaned along the highway. For example, Indiana appears to be the high fructose corn syrup capital of the planet. Mile after mile of corn, taller than your minivan. Drive a few miles further, and Indiana's roadside advertising features an individual who successfully lost 200 pounds via surgery and, apparently, wants to help you do the same. Hmmm. Corn. Morbid obesity. Could there be a connection? Corn probably is not an issue in another Indiana observation: Signage indicates that Eastern Indiana citizens want desperately to see you in church. Any church. In the western part of the state? Bleh. Western Indiana appears not give a damn about your immortal soul. The Crankies are curious about why Indiana is running hot and cold on this one.


MC suspects that children of a certain age may not remember the lovely reflection of the Washington Monument on a glassy smooth Potomac, or the uplifting words of FDR carved in stone. They will, however, remember playing pickup-sticks at a certain national park and seeing a sleeping panda. MC herself will remember the Air and Space Museum for its space shuttle-shaped gummies, which C1 thoughtfully selected for  C2; C1's satisfaction in conquering the Metro on her second trip is also a keeper. The complete Cranky party will remember C2's appreciation of Walmart's advertising in Wheeling, West Virginia: Reading the phrase in the store's parking lot, she began vigorously chanting, "We sell for less!" Her interpretative recitation wasn't completely squelched until the group reached the produce section. 


MC recognized many years ago that final results excited her more than a discussion of their means of production. However, life with C1 and C2 on I-70 (and I-68!) reminds her that it's not just the destination; it's the journey. Now that she has evoked closure with a metaphor, she can get back on the highway.
--MC  


**Regarding photo, which features a favored koala and a doll named Isabel that plays "Send in the Clowns" when you wind up her bottom: C2 requests that readers observe how neatly she has arranged her friends in the back seat.

Travel is Broadening

The Crankies are taking their mid-America tour, a trip ripe with opportunities for cultural enrichment and self-exploration. However, Meta Cranky is proving the theory opined in Repo Man: "The more you drive, the less intelligent you are." She thinks that  chicken products sold along interstate highways must suck IQ points out of your gray matter and leave them in the detritus on the minivan floorboard. Even C2 has noticed something going on and asked, "Please can we not go to Wendy's any more?" She offered this devastating review of The Ultimate Chicken Grill: "Not Yummy."

In one alarming vignette in downstate Illinois, the Crankies wandered into a McDonald's full of the patrons who looked like the rotund, sedentary humanoids in WALL-E. It was perhaps the palest, plumpest, chain restaurant in the Crankies' experience, and they know every Braum's ice cream store in I-35. The U.S. President seems to be a notable exception to the Illinois' paradigm of pinkness and chub.

In Indiana, the Crankies explored the hometown of the famed Hoosier poet James Whitcomb Riley. Never heard of him? That's because you're not from Indiana, loser. The Crankies' Quaker ancestor recited Riley from memory, passing down certain euphonious phrases about grandpappies and punkins to his heirs. Riley's hometown of Greenfield, with its meticulously restored courthouse, appears to be auditioning for the role in a The Music Man; all it needs is Robert Preston skipping past the adorable gazebo on the courthouse lawn. Greenfield residents seem oblivious to all the ambient Victorian cuteness and are undistracted by acres of polished brass and burnished grillwork. The museum guide clearly had dealt with crankier customers than The Crankies and effortlessly reduced C2 to compliant, raised-hand docility. Don't even think about playing with those historical dollies.  All that rapt attention assured that the Crankies were ringers at their  next Indiana museum, a house on the Underground Railroad. Anybody know what this t-shaped wooden gizmo does? Yes sir, said C1 politely; it tightens the rope supports under the bed. After the guide demonstrated and replaced the gizmo on the bedspread, C2 observed that the other museum kept it on acid-free paper so the wood wouldn't stain the cloth. Just a suggestion.

C1 observes that the midwest is full of corn, and she requests stops to photograph vistas and native flora. C2 has made the acquaintance of midwestern small people, sharing her Skittles with random children of America's heartland. Meta Cranky is thrilled to find clean towels and liberal hours for motel pools, and she highly recommends the produce department at the Zanesville, Ohio, Pick-N-Pay. The Crankies expect to recover from recent infusions of Interstate Highway Dreck and subsequently report on their arrival Inside the Beltway.
--MC
*flora photo credits go to C1

Blood Will Tell

The Crankies' Girl Cousins came to visit this weekend, leaving Meta Cranky slack-jawed at the  brains, talent, and chutzpah packed into her maternal line's DNA. Griot-quality historical memories. Swear vocabularies eloquent enough to make the Big Lebowski weep. Plus, they speak math, giving rise to conversations rarely heard in Chez Cranky: "I told her, it's the Pythagorean theorem, for god's sake. You just plug in the numbers!" 


In their wee days, Girl Cousins spent untold hours at the farm of maternal grandmother, whom we'll call Molly Bloom. In barns with sheer drops of 20 feet from hay mow to floor. In pickup trucks with minimal safety features, driven by 12-year-olds. In watering tanks surrounded by cow plop and covered in mossy ooze. Girl Cousins brought along archival pictures, including one of small children entertaining themselves in dirt road in front of the grandmother's home. Those children might have been sitting there for five hours, since Molly Bloom's house was not about childhood enrichment; small children were not provided with craft activities to help them with summer reading lists or foreign language acquisition. Instead, they were locked outside until mealtime. The hours that yawned between lunch and dinner provided Girl Cousins life lessons in patience and tenacity: Smart girls can go to school and buy their own houses, and they go in any time they want.

Girl Cousins all bear a family resemblance to Meta Cranky's mother, sharing either Cranky Sergeant's  features, height-challenged stature, or no-nonsense attitude. Watching in appreciation, MC thinks she identified the Crankies' Maternal Line Organizing Principle (MLOP), and it has something to do with resiliency. All the Girl Cousins have coped with a grief or disappointment not with navel-gazing, but with a particularly vigorous grace and lack of self-pity. As Cranky #2 learned, their focus on action and results creates a No Whining Zone in which even the youngest are expected to plumb their depths and to figure out what they're made of. And guess what? Pouring your own milk can be a thrill. What the MLOP seems to favor is patience to teach those who can learn, gratitude for those who have taught them, and an utter ferocity with assholes.

Molly Bloom, for all her failings, may be the fountainhead of the MLOP. In her heyday, she was enormous, domineering, and profane, and yet the neighborhood beat a path to her door because she was so much fun. She was all about yes I said yes I will Yes and not so much about maternal support or unmitigated love. Girl Cousins have taken her best, improving ribaldry with kindness, and made it even better.
--MC
*MC thinks the photo credits go to Girl Engineer Cousin and Cranky Cousin.

Normalcy

The inevitable round of summer farmhouse fix-its has begun, and it's not pretty. A trip through the basement revealed that the submersible pump could no longer be coaxed into removing air conditioner condensation from the property. Take a look: clearly, this sump pump has lost its will to live. Our new best friend, Service Call Ed, did some forensics on this former pump to determine the cause of death. "These look like mineral deposits. Do you drain the hot water heater into this pump?" he asked skeptically. Um. Well. Meta Cranky shuffled her feet. "How often do you do this?" Really, Ed. Isn't that a little personal? "About three times a year," Meta Cranky admitted, unable to make eye contact. Ed certified that the Crankies' hot water heater had killed their sump pump, and he swathed the new pump in protective mesh to prevent further carnage.

In light of this basement drama, MC reflected that residents of most households don't drain their hot water heater more often than they change the oil in their car or have their teeth cleaned. Yet the yuck-factor of the Crankies' water well means that it's completely normal to drain the heater, repeatedly; otherwise, the water smells disgusting. What passes for Normal Maintenance at Cranky Girls Farm would be Inexplicably Revolting for the people of the metroplex.

Want more examples? Cranky #2 points out a hole in the circa-1924 concrete watering tank. It's been drained to reveal the source of its leaks, and Second Brother mucked out most of the whiffy, primordial goo on its bottom.  Two fiberglass patches later, and we're good to go. Wading up to your knees in La Brea tar pit-quality goo? Again, completely normal. Just hope you don't slip and fall in the ick. That's a gross-out even for the locals.

Some fix-it projects are heroic and deeply satisfying. A paint job, for example, is eye candy. Maybe some new landscaping? Cute! Love what you've done with those bedding plants! Sump pumps and patched tanks, however, are nearly so not sexy. MC will not be inviting friends over for high balls and a tour of CGF's new fiberglass installations. Sadly, this is the manner of most of the CG farm fix-its.

When the Almost 100-Year-Old Homes Tour swings by and asks what the Crankies have done to maintain their historic home, they can report improvements such as:
1)Notice how the house hasn't burned down from an electrical fire? When one too many white-faced electricians asked, "Lady, do you know you've got knob and tube wiring in your attic?" the Crankies came across with an upgrade.
2)Notice how the air conditioning works, even when it's really hot? Not so long ago, the AC tripped itself off when cooling the house was just too much trouble. Commonly, on a 100-degree-plus day, Meta Cranky would notice that, as the afternoon stretched out, she'd become even more irritable than usual. Then it would dawn on her that it's freaking hot in here.  At this point, she'd walk out into the blazing heat to flip her breaker. An observant maintenance person asked, "Lady, do you know your air conditioner is 40 years old?" Really? You mean they aren't collectible, like a '67 Belvedere? Again, the Crankies dipped into their Deferred Maintenance account.

An old house sincerely wants to fall down. Making it stand upright, with working plumbing, sewerage, and electricity is the unnatural act. The long-ago person who poured our ancient concrete tank took the time to scratch the date into the top. Fiberglass is a tricky medium, and the Crankies can't make an addendum to note our own fix-it. They'll just observe: Repaired 2010.
--MC

Glee

Fox's Glee has shown audiences how to find self-expression through old Journey and Madonna standards. Those passionate, emotional choir students do a fab job with  top-of-the-lung Queen covers. But imagine them in your kitchen, belting out "Don't Stop Believin'," before you've had your first cup of coffee. Still charmed?

In the Cranky household, there's no mute button for the household soundtrack.  Cranky #2 has a song in her heart, and she almost never keeps it to herself. She's got songs that tell you how to spell "and," "me," and "is." Songs that tell you the days of the week and months of the year. Most of Dolly Parton's greatest hits. Partisan songs that are inappropriate in particular venues: for example, "The Eyes of Texas" in the Oklahoma City Stockyards. Now-sophisticated Cranky #1 at times weeps in frustration at the background music in Chez Cranky; however, MC remembers C1 vocalizing the theme from Oklahoma, amplified by the excellent restroom acoustics in the Bob Bullock Museum in the capital of Texas.

Cranky Methodist Church only encourages this tunefest. MC thought that that only a few people could hear C1 singing along with the choir's anthem on Sunday. She thought wrong since, even without a microphone, C1 has excellent diaphragm support and projects for the farthest balcony. Truth be told, there's historical precedent for inappropriate Cranky family singing at Cranky Methodist. A twisted nursery worker named Pam taught wee Meta Cranky all the verses to a schoolyard ditty called "Gang Bang Lulu," which MC lustily repeated to all within earshot. Hey, life is a cabaret, old chum.

The Music Man's Harold Hill says that "singing is sustained talking." Sustained talking is one thing: C2 appears to be channeling Ethel Merman. 

The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the clerk

Are secretly unhappy men because

The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the clerk

Get paid for what they do but no applause.

They'd gladly bid their dreary jobs goodbye for anything theatrical and why?

There's no people like show people, they smile when they are low

Angels come from everywhere with lots of jack, and when you lose it, there's no attack

Where could you get money that you don't give back? Let's go on with the show!

--MC

The Crankies' Red State Tour

The Crankies have been treated to some impressive sights while in the country. A hip-high stand of Tripsacum dactyloides (eastern gamma grass) with those dramatic red tassels. Ruminants love the delectable Tripsacum dactyloides; the Crankies respect the venerable genealogy of this early ancestor of corn. 


The gamma grass was in the same pasture as Mrs. W.'s rose installation. Is it too much, really? The Crankies might fill out one of those "how are we doing" cards to let the management know that all these roses are really over the top. Kind of like '80s big hair and shoulder pads. And what variety of cattle would you stock in this pasture to avoid clashing with that shade of pink? Luckily, Angus goes with everything. 


Finally, a whimsical neighbor is doing his own interpretation of Cadillac Ranch; he has buried three fire engines in his field, leaving the front ends to point merrily to the sky. Second Brother has pointed out that the fire engines were working when they were planted in the dirt and sacrificed for art. Pictures are forthcoming. 

Living and working amidst all this rural charm gives Meta Cranky some insight into Tea Party politics. Her understanding is that Tea Partiers (Tea Baggers? Tea Steepers? Lapsang Souchangers?) is that they want smaller government, and they are very irritated about government interference in their daily lives. MC thinks that she is ready to pull down some major political consultant money, because she has identified the source of this irritation: Tea Partiers are crabby as hell because their Internet service sucks. 

Connect these dots, if you will: Tea Partiers live in Red States. Red States are predominantly rural. Rural states have sucky Internet. Think about it. Tea Partiers listen to Rush Limbaugh because he's on the freaking radio. Every Dodge pickup in every Red State driveway can access a radio station that carries Rush Limbaugh! If Tea Parties wanted to read The Huffington Post, they would have to drive 30 miles to use the Internet service at Starbucks! MC can hardly believe that she is the first to identify this phenomenon.  

In her time at Cranky Girls' Farm, MC has acquired an intimate knowledge of the DSL help line of her local telephone/Internet co-op. All the DSL troubleshooters are drop-dead adorable, but MC suspects that they are working with some limited resources.  MC is casting a rather jaded eye on those people who complain that Time Warner is rather too casual about their Road Runner cable. Casual, to MC, is 22 instances (by actual count at the telephone co-op) of dropped service in one day. MC lights the lucky candle and hopes that a new modem does the trick; otherwise, she'll be even more in evidence at Cranky Hometown library. Their air conditioning and WiFi are an unbeatable combination.


MC hasn't yet devised her new political consulting career, but she would advise candidates to exploit these two facts: 1) Red Staters would consider voting for the dead corpse of Ted Kennedy if he replaced their dial-up service with DSL and 2) Red Staters are soothed and sustained by the satisfaction they get from mowing their lawns. The immediate gratification of seeing a lawn mowed provides some chemical rush that must be comparable to methamphetamines, which also are tres popular in rural environments. Construct a campaign that combines Internet service with a 60-inch, 25 hp zero-turn lawnmower, and you could get some attention. We're just saying.
--MC

Accentuate the Positive

The Crankies know that you can seriously mess up your karma by gloating about a successful (or not awful) farming endeavor. Casually mention at the coffee shop that you sold your wheat at $5, and you've won the instant loathing of the folks at the other table who sold at $2.45 and paid major storage fees. Acknowledging the need for tact and delicacy, Meta Cranky will casually mention, then, that the wheat harvest at Cranky Girls' Farm was completed yesterday. That small miracle was followed by another: the hay baler fairy worked all night to turn rows of swathed hay into tidy bales of alfalfa. Wait for it: and then it rained this morning.


There's plenty more grain to cut at Uncle Sid's and Uncle Michael's. But still, it's satisfying to have one item marked off the list without an asterisk that means a field of grain has been  *flooded, *set on fire by welding torch, *damaged by late frost so the yield is cut in half, or *pounded into the ground by hail. Think these are hypothetical examples? Think again. 


So, before the inevitable screwup happens, MC chooses to accentuate the positive. Let's talk about roses, shall we? These roses came from Mrs. Wymore's house, which is in the general neighborhood of Hazel's place. MC never saw Mrs. Wymore's house when it wasn't a ruin, but it was a destination in the mid-1930s. Hot, hot. People went there to dance and to buy drink-ables that were friendly and not especially legal. Mrs. W. seems to have been a very busy woman. Friend Marvin,  Major Cranky's friend, recalls having Mrs. W. flag him down as he walked home from school to call out, "Tell your mother I weaned Baby W. today!" Mrs. W. was not slowed down by lactation.

But the roses. One spring about a dozen years ago, MC and Uncle M came upon the remains of Mrs. W's house and found it surrounded by rose bush. This was not just exuberant growth. We're talking an acre or two of prickly pink shrubbery. It doesn't get more heritage rose than Mrs. W.'s forgotten roses, which had been making a living all by themselves for 60 years or so. MC dug up a sample, took it home, and planted it in the wrong spot. Mrs. W.'s roses had put up with drought, flood, grasshoppers, and straying cattle, but they had no experience with shade. Year after year, they languished by the fence under an oak tree, until Uncle Sid decided to replace the corral. MC had to move the rose bush, and about damn time. That's all they were waiting for. 


 William Wordsworth came upon a field of daffodils and described them as such: "Ten thousand saw I at a glance / Tossing their heads in sprightly dance." The sandhills are much less forgiving than the Lake Country; if that Romantic poet had wandered upon Mrs. W.'s rosebush, he would have had to pick stickers out of his shoelaces. Still, the Romantics understood prickly charm, and the Poet Laureate certainly would have appreciated Mrs. W's illegal intoxicants. MC's heart with pleasure fills.
--MC

Re-entry @ Cranky Girls' Farm

Meta Cranky and C2 have landed. MC got the distinct impression that fingers were drumming impatiently as the Crankies drove up the driveway: Combine and two grain trucks parked in the driveway. Field of dead-ripe wheat on the left side of the road. Rows of swathed alfalfa, ready to bale, on the right. A turkey added to the sense of frantic activity, flapping and squawking over the car and into the walnut tree. There was a general impression of where have you been already? In the time it took C2 to get on her hat and sunscreen, Uncles Sid and Michael cut a wheat sample and took it to the elevator (57 pounds/bushel; that's grade 2; not bad). The Crankies were good to go.

It was a perfect day to cut wheat: a steadily blowing wind and a temp of 102. Miserable for anything except drying grain and getting it into a bin. C2 rode on the combine until its bin filled for the first time and it stopped to empty into a truck. Then she took a Fancy Nancy approach to wheat harvest, setting herself a schedule of bath, nap, and tea party for the rest of the afternoon. C2 figured the combine would still be going when the sun went down, and she was right. She got a second trip around the field in the cool of the evening, wearing a tea party dress never before seen in an Allis Chambers Gleaner. Tres fancy!

Uncles Sidney and Michael were decidedly less fancy, since they had to crawl under combines when wheat straw got stuck,  and shlep the wheat to the elevator in the large, reliable, but not-air conditioned truck. At the end of the day, though, their Significant Others had a lovely dinner waiting for them; we think the combination of successfully cut wheat, air conditioning, and grilled meat products  was a satisfying one.

MC's Ancient O'Hern great-grandfather famously went berserk at harvest time; apparently the variables of machinery, weather, and human error were too much for him to synthesize as he watched his grain (read: money) being gathered into piles. One of his 10 sons apparently threatened to hit him with a shovel during a grain harvest if he didn't back off. MC is a little fuzzy on this story. She's not sure 1)which of the 10 sons made this threat or 2)If the shovel actually connected with the Ancient O'Hern. Contrast this with the Crankies' harvest experience, where Gardening Friend makes margaritas in fancy glasses, which Significant Others sip as they watch a combine move in smooth circles around a field. MC is thinking that estrogen improves the wheat harvest experience. Not that she can set the header on a combine, operate the dumping mechanism on a truck, or perform any useful labor. But as C2 slathered the assembled females with her Mary Kay perfume samples,  MC couldn't help but observe that a Fancy Nancy wheat harvest has a certain je ne sais quoi.
--MC

No Place for the Squeamish

Meta Cranky has been in stricken with a GI ailment. Two days of the usual misery, interrupted only by Cranky #2's recitations from Fancy Nancy Tea Party. Just when MC was lulled to sleep by directions for making Raspberry Swirls, she'd be elbowed in the ribs to decipher some of Nancy's fancier creations ("How do you say "s-i-l-v-o-u-s-p-l-a-i-t?" "What does a-l-f-r-e-s-c-o spell?"). Take it from the Crankies: Fancy Nancy is a regular Florence Nightingale.

Enforced bedrest gives MC the opportunity to reflect on similar visitations, some self-inflicted, some not. A vicious bacteria in Cranky Sergeant's kitchen once took MC down for a solid three days. The unkindest hangovers, MC realized, pale in comparison to food poisoning served to you by your own mother. After days of being able to communicate only by blinking her eyelids, MC heard Second Older Brother enter Cranky Sergeant's house. "I came to view the body," he boomed, sympathetically.  MC, busy battling with toxins, was unmoved. Then older brother weighed in with a diagnosis: "This might be morning sickness--maybe she's pregnant!" Brother's hilarity was lost on the Sergeant, who could tell the diff between preggers and Staphylococcus. Before she lost consciousness, MC heard the Sergeant giving the orders: "OUT! Get OUT of the house." Second Brother, and his very sincere interest in MC's welfare, was summarily removed from the sickroom.

All GI dramas have their own narrative arc and particular plot complications. C2 had a five-day flu when she was still in diapers. Small Cranky's illness would have been worrisome since she was so small; it was amplified by her disinterest in the water substitute that would reliably stay on her stomach. Consequently, she pleaded for water like one of the dusty minions in Lawrence of Arabia. MC, lying in bed with small C2, watched these events unfold one thirsty morning like one of those rolling marble games where the ball gains momentum and, with increasing speed and precision, drops through holes and traps to reach its destination. The chronology was approximately this:

1) MC, in bed with C2,  hears the phone ring and Herr Cranky answer it.

2) C2 wakes up and begs for a drink of water.

3) Sympathetic C1 fills a glass for C2.

4) Herr Cranky, unaware of other events, hands MC the phone.

5) C1 gives her sister a glass of water.

6) C2 throws up on MC.

7) MC looks at the wreckage and speaks her first words of the day: "I'll have to call you back."

 There are a surprising number of similarities between having a two-day intestinal bug and going to a weekend spa. There's the whole cleansing purge thing. There's the "Mommy's Day Out" element: by being in bed for two days: no housework! no laundry! On the whole, then, it was like a Stay-cation, except for the being miserable part.

--MC

Locavores

For the past few weeks, people entering the Cranky front door have stepped inside and looked quizzically at the bottoms of their shoes. It's not dog poo, but something equally disgusting: a plum that's seen better days. Squirrels in the Cranky neighborhood have been working overtime for a month to frantically gnaw on the fruits of the Crankies' plum tree and then hurl the remainders down to the sidewalk. Where the ants and flies take over. House Beautiful, this is not.

Back in March, this tree gave little evidence that it would create oozing, buzzing Superfund-type sludge. But that blossoming harbinger of spring has been transformed into a source of fruity, fermenting plum smoosh.

Meta Cranky imagines a perfect world in which tender plum trees would sport warning labels that say: "Hey dummy! Don't plant this by your sidewalk! Only a complete moron would make the mailman walk through plum goo for month and still expect to get the New Yorker on time." Call it a failure of imagination, but she never envisioned that the wee sapling in the back of her car could block the front of the house and create what Herr Cranky now calls "a jungle vibe."

Since this tree is all about fecundity, a fraction of its seed-bearing fruits remain in the tree, where Cranky #2 and her BFF tirelessly arrange ladders to remove as many as possible. Cranky #1 led a party of teenagers into the tree, where even more were secured. Since a truly ripe, mouth-ready plum would either have been 1)gummed by a squirrel or 2)pulverized upon impact with sidewalk, the Crankies are picking their plums al dente, letting them ripen, and then turning them into jam.

Meta Cranky's compulsion to preserve fruity bits in teeny jars is a product of her Red State upbringing. The thickets of ripening sand plums near Cranky Girls' Farm move the locals to stand in sandburrs, among throngs of snakes and clouds of mosquitoes, to fill feed sacks with very small, very local, produce. The locals take these sacks to granny ladies who then make a tart, red jam. People in Philadelphia eat scrapple, which MC can tell you is big mistake. Those crazy Canadians eat cheese curds and gravy, which might be OK if you're trying to pack on blubber like a penguin. In the whole universe of local cuisine, you could do a lot worse than plum jam. It's rather a point of local pride: since this product is not available in stores or on QVC, you're not going to get any unless you make it yourself. Or someone likes you.

The Crankies' very urban plum tree stands in for a thicket of Red State sand plums. What we lack in snakes and sandburrs, we make up for with plummy spots on our living room carpet. Cranky #1 declares that the act of jamming satisfies her itch to hoard food. Apparently, children exposed to the Little House books at an early age will expect to hang onions from their rafters and cram their cellars full of potatoes. If they have neither rafters or cellars, they'll settle for putting plums into mismatched mayo jars.

In 1957, the Cimarron River flooded at Hazel's house, marooning a few dozen aunts, uncles, and babies for several days. Meta Cranky asked Friendly Cousin about this years afterward, wondering what all those people found to eat. Food wasn't a problem, Friendly Cousin reported. Before the cellar filled with water, they brought up all Hazel's canning jars, full of local produce.
--MC

Who Do You Think You Are: The Quaker

The Crankies are taking a road trip this summer and will stop to view their ancestral homeland. Major Cranky's Quaker family hailed from eastern Indiana, where Quakers still abound and will let you go to their fabulous liberal arts college for $44,000/year. Just because they're pacifists doesn't mean they're not capitalists.

DAR Matron and Cranky Oil Baron, Meta Cranky's genealogic-obsessive relatives, have mapped
The Quaker's DNA, so there's very little new ground to be covered in the who-begat-whom department. But smaller Crankies might be interested in info that isn't included in the Indiana Dead Quaker People records.

In every picture MC has seen of The Quaker, he looks like he's already been dead for three days. We recognize that he might be shown to better advantage in pictures prior to 1949. However, the photo of him with his son, grandson, and great-grandson indicates that they're all working from the same basic pattern; he might very well have been Quaker eye candy in the 19th century.

The Quaker left Indiana when his widowed father remarried; his difficult new stepmother helped him light out for the territories to score free real estate in the Oklahoma land run. Late in his life, he spent a weekdays at his son's ranch. His daughter-in-law Hazel recalled him fondly and respectfully, but her details never offered much personality. The most revealing nugget Hazel shared was his habit of reciting the Indiana poet James Whitcomb Riley. Riley delighted in homey country rhymes with lots of dropped g's. She heard The Quaker's rendition of  "How Did You Rest, Last Night?" each morning before breakfast. If she harbored homicidal thoughts about the Hoosier Poet or her father-in-law, she kept them to herself:

"How did you rest, last night?"--
I've heard my gran'pap say
Them words a thousand times--that's right--
Jes them words thataway!

Riley is credited with establishing the Midwest's cultural identity; he's got a lot to answer for.

Major Cranky's stories about his grandfather had more narrative arc. For example, good guys caught some bank robbers in the Kansas flint hills while The Quaker was waiting for the land run to start. The good guys applied frontier justice, and the bank robbers were quickly dispatched, with one exception: the 13-year-old robber. The women of the group, including Mrs. Quaker, demanded that the boy be released, and eventually, he was. When Major Cranky first heard this story, he was horrified: "Grandad, I'm only 13. Would you have wanted to hang me?" His grandfather, whose Quaker theology opposed war, slavery, and capital punishment, told him: "Don't. Rob. A bank."

The Quaker adopted new folkways, and even a new religion, in his new venue. He sang in the choir with the Methodists, and even prayed in public when he was asked to say grace over meals. In the 21st century, his notable feature seems to be his even, balanced sensibility: for fun, he and Mrs. Quaker read the Congressional Record of an evening. Sometimes, maybe, No Drama can be a good thing. Sure, Grace Kelly shoots the bad guy to save Gary Cooper. But she only played a Quaker in the movies.
--MC