Headed tomorrow for Columbia, California for my cousin's baby shower, which will be at my Grandparents' house.
I love Columbia. It's where my Dad was born, and grew up in the wild & unpopulated gold country foothills. He gets really quiet when we drive past the places he lived, the little house in Sonora, his old schools, and the small shack on three acres he set on fire when he was twelve, and where he had the bright idea to wash the wood floor with the hose.
I have heard of many an escapade.
My favorite is about the potato.
On Halloween, my dad & his three buddies were scampering as ghosts and vampires through the woods from farmhouse to farmhouse, acquiring numerous candybars and pennies and apples in pillowcases, and they happened past a bar just as a jeep was pulling into the gravel lot. The driver, already drunk, revved his engine and spun gravel at the boys, and then yelled at them, "Get out of here!" as he went into the bar.
Talford the troublemaker said, "You know, if you stick a potato in the tailpipe the engine won't start."
It was two miles back to Jim's house, & they ran fast as coyotes. There Jim & my Dad made up an elaborate story about why they needed a potato for a science experiment due in school the next day, sorry we forgot, but you know, the one where you put half the potato in blue dye etc etc & wheedled one from Jim's mom's pantry under her skeptical eye.
They raced back and the jeep was still parked in front of the bar. They snuck quietly as ghosts around to the back of the jeep, which was backed up to the building. Luckily it was close enough to the wall it cast long shadows and the four of them crouched low, talking under their breath, pushing the potato as far into the tailpipe as possible.
And then they ran, and hid on the dark side of the road and watched and waited.
They ate candy and waited until midnight.
The grizzled drunk barfly spilled out of the bar, stumbled to his jeep, cranked the keys in the ignition. The jeep made a valiant effort, sputtered, and died. He cranked the key again, "Rrrrrr-Rrrrrr-Rrrrrrr," and then it died. A pound on the dashboard and a string of expletives and he tried it a third time. This time the potato dislodged, and the force of the propulsion slammed it into the side of the building, where it instantly turned into mashed potatoes with an incredible BOOM! From the exhaust pipe emanated a tremendous cloud of black smoke which enveloped the jeep and its infuriated drunken inhabitant.
Dad and his friends tumbled and ran laughing down the hill into the forest as all the men in the bar came running outside to investigate the explosion and the smoke.
Not one piece of candy was dropped during their wild run home, when pacts were made and promises solemnly sworn.
My Dad had a Mark Twain childhood.
I love Columbia. It's where my Dad was born, and grew up in the wild & unpopulated gold country foothills. He gets really quiet when we drive past the places he lived, the little house in Sonora, his old schools, and the small shack on three acres he set on fire when he was twelve, and where he had the bright idea to wash the wood floor with the hose.
I have heard of many an escapade.
My favorite is about the potato.
On Halloween, my dad & his three buddies were scampering as ghosts and vampires through the woods from farmhouse to farmhouse, acquiring numerous candybars and pennies and apples in pillowcases, and they happened past a bar just as a jeep was pulling into the gravel lot. The driver, already drunk, revved his engine and spun gravel at the boys, and then yelled at them, "Get out of here!" as he went into the bar.
Talford the troublemaker said, "You know, if you stick a potato in the tailpipe the engine won't start."
It was two miles back to Jim's house, & they ran fast as coyotes. There Jim & my Dad made up an elaborate story about why they needed a potato for a science experiment due in school the next day, sorry we forgot, but you know, the one where you put half the potato in blue dye etc etc & wheedled one from Jim's mom's pantry under her skeptical eye.
They raced back and the jeep was still parked in front of the bar. They snuck quietly as ghosts around to the back of the jeep, which was backed up to the building. Luckily it was close enough to the wall it cast long shadows and the four of them crouched low, talking under their breath, pushing the potato as far into the tailpipe as possible.
And then they ran, and hid on the dark side of the road and watched and waited.
They ate candy and waited until midnight.
The grizzled drunk barfly spilled out of the bar, stumbled to his jeep, cranked the keys in the ignition. The jeep made a valiant effort, sputtered, and died. He cranked the key again, "Rrrrrr-Rrrrrr-Rrrrrrr," and then it died. A pound on the dashboard and a string of expletives and he tried it a third time. This time the potato dislodged, and the force of the propulsion slammed it into the side of the building, where it instantly turned into mashed potatoes with an incredible BOOM! From the exhaust pipe emanated a tremendous cloud of black smoke which enveloped the jeep and its infuriated drunken inhabitant.
Dad and his friends tumbled and ran laughing down the hill into the forest as all the men in the bar came running outside to investigate the explosion and the smoke.
Not one piece of candy was dropped during their wild run home, when pacts were made and promises solemnly sworn.
My Dad had a Mark Twain childhood.
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