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Nostalgia July 2017

Musings of an Undefeated Matriarch

Fourth of July, 1953

By Sharon Kennedy

It sounded like a crazy story to me, but she said no, every word was true. She said the sheriff got a piece of rhubarb from Wisp’s garden and stuck it down his throat and kept it there until he threw up all the pills.

I remember as if yesterday the crowd gathered outside Wisp Smithers’ house one July 4th when I was young. Wisp was an old fellow who lived a few miles from our place. We were coming home from the fireworks in town when Dad slowed the car, attempting to weave through the traffic. I thought Wisp might be throwing a party because people were everywhere. Dad finally found a place to park and told us kids to stay in the car while he and Mom investigated.

We wanted to see what was going on, but being obedient souls, we stayed put. My sister, Jude, was 10 years old, I was 6, and my brother was two years younger. What I remember most about that night was the quiet. Nobody was talking or at least not talking loud enough for us to hear what they were saying. Jude said it couldn’t be much of a party since there was no music.

We waited a few minutes then Mom came back to the car and sat behind the wheel. She said Dad was going to stay for awhile, but we were going home. We asked why we couldn’t stay, too, but in those days parents didn’t answer questions from children, and we knew not to ask twice.

The next day Jude saw Wisp strolling down the road, heading in our direction. I ran behind her as she ran to meet him. She wanted the lowdown about last night. She yelled and motioned him to join us underneath our favorite spruce tree.

Wisp sat between us and told his story. He said he was having a hard time of it. We asked what “it” was and old Wisp put his head in his hands and moaned. Apparently “it” was the death of his dog, Bruno, who was like a son to him. Last night Bruno was snooping around the night stand and knocked down a bottle of pills. Wisp had arthritis in his wrists and ankles. Everybody knew he took pills to ease his pain. Everybody, that is, except Bruno.

While the dog was enjoying the medicine, Wisp was weeding his garden. Then a friend stopped by and the men sat on a bench and visited for an hour. Wisp finished weeding and then fixed fried potatoes and onions for supper and listened to the last overtime inning of the baseball game. It was after ten by the time he crawled into bed. Bruno’s head was on the pillow. Wisp gave him a shove, but he didn’t move. He tried shaking him awake, but it was no use. Bruno was a goner. When Wisp finished his story, he started to cry. I looked at Jude.

She thought quickly and said she heard Mom calling us and we had to go home. We ran down the road and didn’t stop until we jumped on our front porch. After a few minutes, Wisp walked down our lane and headed for the barn where Dad was doing the chores. I followed him, thinking I would stand by the open door and listen. I didn’t hear anything of interest, so I went back to the porch where Jude was.

She said Mom told her what happened. It wasn’t Bruno who ate the medicine. It was Wisp. She said he tried to “do” himself in but got scared and changed his mind. He stood in the middle of the road with a flashlight and flagged down every car that went by. Then someone called the sheriff. I asked if she was lying. It sounded like a crazy story to me, but she said no, every word was true. She said the sheriff got a piece of rhubarb from Wisp’s garden and stuck it down his throat and kept it there until he threw up all the pills.

I didn’t know whether to believe her, but then she pointed to our lane and there was Bruno, a big black blur running like there was no tomorrow. Running and yapping and having a good old time as he jumped on Wisp and knocked him to the ground.

Which only goes to show. If you’re going to tell a lie, make it a good one.

 

You know what I mean, don’t you?

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