Miss Laura Mae’s House Part 13

woman on motorcycle

A gigantic red motorcycle claimed a place of prominence front of ol’ lady Duck’s house for a day or two, till it moved over to the long-abandoned shot-gun house next door.  Now I’d had my eye on that shotgun house and its environs since I’d it admired many times on the way to Miss Laura Mae’s house.  It had everything to recommend it.  Unpainted, its broken windows, door hanging by one hinge, a huge tree with a ragged tire swing in the front yard, a caved in storm-cellar in the side yard, and several plum trees called to me.  It everything a kid could dream off.  Best of all, there was a ramshackle car up on blocks. 

Mother never let me out of the yard.  Only her eagle eye and short leash had kept me away so far.  Mother constantly warned me of danger.  I could fall out of a tree and break my neck, drown if I played in the creek, burn up if I played in the fire.  So far, I had fallen out of trees many times, played in the creek as often as I could manage, and even been caught playing with matches.  None of these had killed me yet, though playing with matches did result in damage to my bottom when Mother caught me. 

My cousins hinted at ghosts and maybe a devil in the ruined storm cellar.  Always concerned about nightmares, Mother had assured me there was no such thing as ghosts, and the devil wasn’t interested in children.  Is it any wonder I was wild to explore, having always yearned to see a ghost or a devil? I probably would have been a lot better kid if she hadn’t disposed of the ghosts and devil so handily.

The motorcycle in front of the house was a good omen.  Maybe a family with children had moved in. I chattered about the motorcycle while Miss Laura Mae buttered my biscuit.  I was lucky enough she had already made a batch of mayhaw jelly this morning and she slathered the steaming stuff on my biscuit.  She hadn’t even had time to “jar” it yet.  “I need to tell me if this tastes good.  Don’t burn your tongue.  It’s still hot. ” she told me.  Boy, did it ever.  I closed my eyes as I carefully licked the cooking syrup from the sides of the biscuit.  It was tangy and sweet, almost making my teeth ache.

As happy as I was with my biscuit and jelly, the word motorcycle caught my attention.  “Did you see that motorcycle outside ol’lady Duck’s house?”  Miss Laura Mae asked. 

“I sure did.”  Mother said.  “I figured it must be her boy Rudy’s.”

“Nooooo!  It’s his wife’s.  He got him a mail order bride out o’ one a’them lonely hearts magazines.  She come down from Nebraska with a big ole young’un on back to marry him!”  Miss Laura didn’t bother to whisper.

“Really?”  asked Mother.  “How did you find out?”

“You know Gertha Nelson in my quiltin’ group?  Well, she’s his sister.  She told me.  She said ol’ lady Duck is furious.  She don’t want him marryin’ no motorcycle woman.  But she tol’ her mama, it ain’t like anybody around here is breakin’ down the door to marry Rudy.  Beggars cain’t be choosers.  Anyhow, he moved her an’ her boy into that ol’ shotgun house next door.  He aims to fix it up some.”

“I saw the motorcycle moved over there, and thought I saw some work going on,” Mother said.  “Well, maybe they’ll make a go of it.  Rudy’s always been a loner.”

“Not if his mama’s got anything to do with it.  He’s always lived at home an’ took care of her.  Anyway, listen to this.  That boy’s mama is callin’ that big ol’ boy o’hearn “Little Rudy” after Rudy.  That’s crazy.  You cain’t call a kid “Charley”  all his life, then up an’ change his name to “Little Rudy” after a man you just married.  She thinks it’ll make him and Rudy git along better.” Miss Laura Mae said.

 

About three weeks later, I was lucky enough to get an update.  “Well, the honeymoon’s over down at Rudy’s.  His wife done left in his truck. “ Miss Laura opened the conversation.

“Well, that didn’t last long.”  What happened?”  I was at least as curious as Mother.  Why would anybody take a truck if they had a motorcycle?

“Oh, they done had a big bust up.  Rudy come home one evenin’ with a big load o’watermelons an’ peaches he was gonna peddle the next day.  He had a taste for some ham an’ went out to his smokehouse an’ found one’a his hams whittled almost clean to the bone.  He was mad as hops.  He’d been piecing that ham along, just cuttin’ off a slice fer his breakfast oncet in a while.  When he found it sliced clean down to the bone, he went roaring in the house and lit into ‘em.  Turns out that boy had been workin’ on that ham off an’ on an’ had just about et it up.  Rudy took a whack at the boy with the bone an’ his wife wrestled it away from ‘im and whooped him good.  Her boy jumped in an’ they ‘bout beat Rudy half to death.  While Rudy was laying up, her an’ that boy took Rudy’s ol’ truck, peaches, watermelons an’ all.  They even took Rudy’s ol’ huntin’ dog and the last two hams. Now ain’t that pitiful?

29 thoughts on “Miss Laura Mae’s House Part 13”

  1. Oh, Linda ~ you already know your books are absolutely perfect for this moment for me! Oh, LOL!! “Invited to Sunday dinner”! 😊🤭😂🤣😆🤧

    I think you are still nursing, my dear ~ only at a little more distance. Happiest of New Years to you 🎉

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          • Yes! I don’t even have to deal with a guilty conscience for “wasting time” enjoying myself, because the cultural insights are just exactly what I look for in my researches… Couldn’t BE more perfect!

            Hey, while I’ve got you, speaking of cultural insights, can I ask a question? Of course, you are saying “yes”! So ~ why did the family buy cornmeal instead of grinding it from their own? Too much needed?

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            • They only had a couple of rented acres to farm. They used most of that for food they could can or dry:
              beans, squash, carrots, beets, peas, onions, turnips, mustard, potatoes, sweet potatoes, and sweet corn. Those crops are much more productive than field corn. It takes a lot of acreage to get a decent amount of corn to grind for into meal,

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              • Ah, gotcha.

                When I lived in backwoods Minnesota the soil there grew two things: soy beans (we hand-weeded these fields) and field corn.

                The field corn was so far and happy it grew over twelve feet and was impossible to harvest unless you bought special hybridized shorter corn 🤭

                So, when you say field corn, are you meaning field corn, or sweet corn in a field? Is meal made from the feed corn??

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                • They are different. Sweet corn is moist and tender. Eat fresh, can, or freeze. Field corn is hard, dry kernels. Can be ground for meal, made into hominy, or ground for animal feed. Will never cook to tender.

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                  • Well, I learned something ~ I had no idea humans ate field corn…

                    ‘Minds me of the two pigs we kept when I was sixteen. Behind a low budget homemade fence (first mistake), not far from the garden (second mistake) and in the mist of acres and acres of Minnesota-high field corn (definitely, definitely third mistake).

                    Well, when those pigs got out of the homemade fence, they’d head for that garden ~ by way of the corn fields, in which (being the planet’s third most intelligent animal) they already knew that at their height they could see perfectly and navigate with total neatness, while we batted away a thousand corn leaves and wreaked general havoc in that poor farmer’s corn trying to catch them.

                    Eventually, we learned to sneak around the back way to the garden, and catch ’em by surprise when they got there 🤣

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                    • Pigs are smart. Mother is 96. She is probably one of the last people who grew up living a sustainable lifestyle. They had almost no trash. They saved every bit of paper. She sketched on it. Any scraps were used as tinder. The rare tin can was used for storage or repairs. Some people tacked magazpages or newspaper on walls to keep out wind. My grandmother used newspaper to cut out dress patterns. My grandfather was a water witch. He used a forked stick to find water. It would bend down at best place to dig well.

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                    • I actually lived that way, around people who lived that way too, for a few months, in backwoods Arkansas. My then-husband tried to blow me up with the pressure cooker, but before that I met some of the most amazing people, living in the most beautiful hand-built cabins you can imagine ~ every piece of stunning polished wood mosaic placed individually by every member of the family right down to the six year old. I’ve never felt more warmly welcomed, nor been better entertained. Playing cards and homemade mead. Best I have ever tasted. True nectar of the Gods.

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            • Sometimes he traded for some field corn fatten a hog and enough to make into hominy and grits. My grandparents bartered a lot. Grandma sewed for the public, did the landlady’s laundry instead of paying $3.00 rent. My grandpa was an unlicensed barber and did any odd job he could get. The only meat they regularly had was drysalt. They each got one piece for breakfast for a treat. The rest was used to boil with vegetables. They usually killed a hog in n the fall. It was salted or smoked.. Grandma raised a flock of chickens when hens were broody. She might kill off the young roosters and fry them up fresh or can them. The hens were saved for layers and slaughtered when they quit. They never had beef unless Grandpa helped slaughter a beef and got a share. They had fish only if they caught them. There were no deer. Rarely, Grandpa killed a rabbit, squirrel, or raccoon. Meat was a rarity. The protien was peas and beans. Of course, they had a milk cow and sometimes a goat.

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  2. Good grief! I don’t blame him for being mad about the ham. But when you go beatin’ on the kid, Mama Bear’s coming out. What a story! Do you know if Rudy ever recovered and fixed the house up? Did you ever get inside? Maybe those stories are yet to come. :)

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