Oysters and Pearls

A grain of sand, upon entering an oyster, becomes so agitating to the creature that it will surround the sand with some sort of oyster saliva to ease the itch. This eventually hardens and in turn continues to aggravate the oyster, which angrily reacts the same way it does at the very first – that is to say that it spits upon its problem and makes it bigger. In this way, a pearl is formed.

Ideas can be placed in just the right circumstances to grow into something awe invoking. Today’s pearl began as most do – in a very small way a few hundred hours ago at a work Christmas party. The event was typical of such a gathering: it was a small group of employees, some with wives or dates, cracking jokes and receiving superficial awards. The food was excellent, consisting mainly of stake; chicken; salad; a variety of beverages; and something long, flat, and breaded that was offered to me as “[something inaudible] fries.” I asked for the name to be repeated and heard “bulf rinds.” Too proud to ask a second time, I made my wildest of guesses and decided on fried bullfrog. I’d heard that frogs are tasty when prepared correctly and so decided to try one, thinking that if I’d missed my guess whatever it was couldn’t be any more outlandish than what I’d already anticipated and that at the very worst I’d accumulate another experience for my cultural repertoire. (I mention here, that this unknown foodstuff became my proverbial grain of sand – a preparation for a gem of an experience.)

I sampled this new fare after dipping it in cocktail sauce and decided that it tasted almost like shrimp though a little beefy. The flavor, the chewy texture, and the appearance of this unknown delicacy all layered themselves rosily about its pestering animosity; as did the next layer of truth which was willingly placed at my feet by an obliging universe in the form of an overheard conversation:

“You’re not really going to eat that?” said a female coworker to the male one at my right.
“Why not?” said he.
“Don’t you know what that is?”
“Certainly.”

At this point I rudely interjected and asked, “What exactly are those?” I also quickly consumed my last morsel of the meat in question, fearing that I might not want to do so upon hearing an answer. This proved to be a very wise move. The man chuckled, turned to me with a knowing look and a twinkle in his eye, and leaned closer to me. Looking intently at me, like a vulture about to gobble up its prey (or more accurately, like a person about to immensely enjoy a beautiful moment at my expense), he replied in conspiring tones, “Well… you’ve heard of Rocky Mountain Oysters?”

I had.

For those of you who have not so heard, I will expound. You may be mystified to know that every bull owns two oysters which he carries with him always. When these are stolen from him he is considered a steer. I had just eaten a breaded and fried oyster, removed by force from a rightfully indignant bovine – tactfully dubbed “Bull Fry.” The puzzle solved, my pearl came into full view, and I gazed speechlessly upon it.

Our story, however, does not end here, for the next day at work (I work at a private school) the cafeteria was serving leftovers from the past few days, including from the party. One boy heard “fry” and loaded his plate despite the lunch lady asking repeatedly: “Are you sure? Do you know what that is?” (His reply each time was “Yeah. Bull Fries. You told me already.”) A little while later he gained view of his own pearl, and I will confide in you that while I’ve never actually seen an oyster spit at its pearl, I am nearly certain that one could never match the vigor with which this young man spat at his.

It is a rule at my school that students are to eat every mouthful of food that they take. My resulting pity for the boy got the best of me and so I offered moral support in the form of taking a second contemptible abomination. As I chewed my fare I thought heavily upon that age old adage “ignorance is bliss.”

-Schlange

In honor of this particular occasion I follow this experience with a favorite poem:

The Oyster by Baxter Black

The sign upon the café wall said OYSTERS: fifty cents.
"How quaint," the blue-eyed sweetheart said with some bewildermence,
"I didn't know they served such fare out here upon the plain.
"Oh, sure," her cowboy date replied, "We're really quite urbane."

"I would guess they're Chesapeake or Blue Point, don't you think?"
"No ma'am, they're mostly Hereford cross . . . and usually they're pink
But I've been cold, so cold myself, what you say could be true
And if a man looked close enough, their points could sure be blue!"

She said, "I gather them myself out on the bay alone.
I pluck them from the murky depths and smash them with a stone!"
The cowboy winced, imagining a calf with her beneath,
"Me, I use a pocket knife and yank ‘em with my teeth."

"Oh my," she said, "You're an animal! How crude and unrefined!
Your masculine assertiveness sends a shiver down my spine!
But I prefer a butcher knife too dull to really cut.
I wedge it in on either side and crack it like a nut!

I pry them out. If they resist, sometimes I use the pliers
Or even Grandpa's pruning shears if that's what it requires!"
The hair stood on the cowboy's neck. His stomach did a whirl.
He'd never heard such grisly talk, especially from a girl!

"I like them fresh," the sweetheart said and laid her menu down
Then ordered oysters for them both when the waiter came around.
The cowboy smiled gamely, though her words stuck in his craw
But he finally fainted dead away when she said, "I'll have mine raw!"

Old People are Cool

[Post 26]

Ok, so by "Old People are Cool" I mean my Grandparents are cool and that I can't wait to be old and just like them (making the assumption that I get married and have kids and grandkids - hey, it could happen.) Today I got a good reminder of just how cool they are.

So, My 14 year old brother and I go down to our grandparents' house today for various reasons and while we're there Grandma offers us a slice of her special chocolate cake fresh out of the oven. Now, I'm not usually a fan of chocolate cake, but I am a fan of Grandma's, so I'm pretty excited. We take a plate to grandpa first, then my brother runs over with his plate and I amble over with mine. By the time I get my dish back to the table my brother's large piece is a little more than half gone (the boy is like a piranha sometimes). Grandma notices and bellows, "Dear Boy! You ATE IT TOO FAST! NOW COOL-IT! "

(My grandmother is one of the only people that I know that can make me run out of ways to increase the emphasis in sentence; makes me wish that I could add a crescendo symbol from f to ff.)

Grandpa looks over at Bro.'s plate and says slowly in his deep rumbling voice, "Well… maybe he'll need another one." The boy looks up happily and says cheerfully. "Yes. Maybe I'll need another one."

"NO!" Grandma pronounces as she stomps one foot. "I have to take this cake to my relatives in Bluebell," she finishes much more softly but with an air of annoyance. We all look at her quizzically. She answers, "It's for a Christmas party."

"A Christmas party?" I ask (note that I'm writing this in June).

"Yes, a Christmas Party. My brother is having a June Christmas party."

"??" say the eyes and slightly tilted heads of my brother and I.

"It's so they can get in two," chuckles Grandpa holding up the peace sign.

"Is this a yearly thing?" I ask.

"I don't know, but I think so," says Grandpa.

"Do they put up a tree?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out," says Grandma, inflicting the consonant with the vigor of a first grade teacher (this isn't suprising because she was a first grade teacher.) "The oven was hot, and I just had to think of an excuse to go down and spy on their party, so I made this cake." We all chuckle as Grandma turns and leaves the room to finish getting ready for Christmas in June.

After a moment my brother gets up and steps slyly over to the cake, making small movements so as to emphasize his "sneakiness." "Better leave it alone," says I, "that's Grandma's ticket to the party."

Grandpa's eyes sparkle as he leans over and says in a conspiring tone, "Perhaps if we cut a long thin slice off the end it won't be noticed." As he finishes speaking he's already standing up and shuffling over to the cake pan. In the time it would take to say "slick" he's already trimmed off the most exact cake sliver you've ever seen, and divided it into two long pieces and one short one. "I'm going to need somewhere to put these," he mutters with a shifty wide-eyed look that says – "hurry, or I'm going to be in trouble."

Plop, plop, plop. Two long pieces on the grandkids' plates, and one short one on Grandpa's plate. Grandpa shuffles back to the table and everybody sits down and takes a bite. Enter Grandma, bright as the sunshine. "Well, I s'pose I'd better be off."

"We'd better be off too," I say. "We've got stuff to do at the house." I reach over and give my smiling angel Grandma a hug. "Thanks for the cake." In the same motion I look over her shoulder squarely at my grandpa (who happens to be grinning from ear to ear and silently laughing so that his belly is bouncing up and down). "Yes," I say, "thank you for the cake."

Mother's Day

Today, I take off my hat for mothers around the globe and particularly for my own sweet mother. We've got some kind of a connection, she and I. She knows the state of my inner self without asking from a tested distance of 144 miles - I'm not sure what her actual range is, and I'm not sure that I'm willing to move to the other side of the world to find out. She can therefore support me emotionally in a way that no one else can. I'm grateful for that - it's been a huge blessing to me on top of the many other needs she has met for me at the expense of her own personal goals.

Of course there are also several other fine ladies, my grandmothers and aunts, that have always been there for me. I have a close knit family, so I've really been raised by most of my relations. Good things to have, relations. They give life extra zest! My heritage is one of the most important things I've got. I know where and who I come from. That's important to me.

I've got a series of books that my Grandfather and some Aunts put together - the Merrell Books. It's got the biographies and autobiographies of a big chunck of my extended family for a few generations back. I'm even in short paragraph of it.

Today I was reading an account written by my Great-Great Uncle Porter. He was born on Jan. 15, 1900 and died on Dec. 25, 1999. Needless to say, he had a lot of good stories. Besides that, he had a glass eye and he liked to play games that ended with me holding fistful of coins. The man was my hero. Following is something that he wrote about his mother. He wrote a good deal more regarding her communities and church duties, but because we're talking about motherhood, I edited them out for brevity (Keep int mind that Porter was one of 12 children):

"Another interesting side light on Mother..she always breast-fed her babies. This of course, took time and she was not about to just sit there, that would be wasting time. She always had a book or magazine where she could pick it up. In this way she was always well read. She could discuss most issues intelligently. She had a very good understanding of the scriptures. Another trait i admired in Mother was her clean mind.[...] I have never heard her suggest covering up or being deceitful in the smallest degree. Everything had to be honest, even if it hurt.

"My mother worked more than anyone I have known. With this large family, just the food preparation was staggering. It took eight large loaves of bread each and every day; more than fifty pounds of flour per week and everything else in proportion. She kept any rag or piece of clothing, cut them into strips one inch wide, sewed them together and wound them into balls. When she had enough she would set up the loom and weave it into a carpet. Our home, except the kitchen, was covered with Mother's carpet. Straw was put on the floor, then covered with carpet. Each spring the carpet would be taken up and cleaned, the old straw taken out and new straw put in, and the cleaned carpet replaced on the floor. mother made dresses for all her girls. She washed, carded and spun sheep wool into yarn then knit socks, mittens, caps and sweaters for most of the family.

"Many times snow was melted to wash clothes each week. Washing was done with a tub, washboard and soap Mother had made. Washing machines came much later.[...] She did a lot of crocheting, tatting or making flowers. She patched our clothing and darned our stockings. She was up early and retired late.[...] She was and is a wonderful mother."

I'm going to close this post with two toasts found in the book "Toasts - the complete book of the best toasts, sentiments, blessings, curses, and graces" compiled by Paul Dickson:

"Here's to the happiest hours of my life-
Spent in the arms of another man's wife:
My mother!"

"We have toasted our sweethearts,
Our friends and our wives,
We have toasted each other
Wishing all merry lives;
Don't frown when I tell you
This toast beats all others
But drink one more toast, boys-
A toast to - Our Mothers."

God bless mother's - past, present and future (and especially mine!)

-S. A. Taube