Author: J. Thorp

Summer Vacation, Day 28: The One Joke Told at the Polo All-School Reunion

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One of the speakers at the Polo All-School Reunion on Saturday was supposedly handed this joke on the way to the stage, so he told it. In mixed South Dakota Catholic company, it went over pretty well – which should give you a feel for where we’ve been, and where we come from. It went something like this:

Seems there was this little town in South Dakota with a thriving Catholic church. In fact, everyone in the little town was Catholic, until a Lutheran moved in from Minnesota (a Norwegian bachelor farmer, Garrison Keillor might say). Every Friday evening, this fellow fired up the grill out back and grilled a venison steak for supper – which was all well and good until Lent rolled around, and the rest of the town couldn’t eat meat. Friday after Friday the aroma wafted through the neighborhood, making the Catholic mouths water, until finally the community called upon the priest to do something.

Their priest paid the young man a friendly visit and introduced him to the Catholic faith. Over the course of several visits, the priest convinced the young man to convert, then quickly tutored him, one-on-one, in the faith. When it was at last time for the man’s initiation, the priest sprinkled him with holy water, saying, “You were born Lutheran and you were raised Lutheran, but from this moment forward, you are Catholic.”

The whole town was greatly relieved – until Friday rolled around, and the aroma of grilled venison drifted through the town. Immediately, the priest rushed to his new convert’s house – then stopped short to watch as the young man drew from his pocket a vial of holy water. He removed the cap, sprinkled the water on the steak, and said, “You were born a deer, and you were raised a deer, but from this day forward … you’re a walleye!”

Summer Vacation, Day 27: Where the Heck is Gabe’s Watch, and What the Heck is a Slushie?

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We left Cowboy Bob’s mid-morning and made our way to Wall. Drove past Hubba’s House in downtown Elm Springs, snaked down through the Cheyenne River brakes north of Wasta – ever since my first trip to the Dennis Ranch, that’s among my favorite stretches of South Dakota – and rolled into Wall, where we collected roughly 20 new states’ license plates (and a couple of provinces) in the Wall Drug parking lot.

We bummed around the world-famous drug store long enough for Gabe to realize he left his nice wristwatch in the restroom an hour or more earlier. I was guessing he left it at the sink, and reminded him that it’s water-resistant, so he can leave it on when he washes.

Nope, he took it off and set it on top of the toilet paper dispenser while he was in the stall. “Why?” I asked.

He thought a moment or three. “I don’t know,” he said.

The watch wasn’t at the lost-and-found, and Gabe was fighting off tears admirably. We were about to leave when I thought, If I were an honest tourist and found that watch, I wouldn’t know where the lost-and-found was. I’d turn it in at the closest counter.

We went to the Western art shop and told the cashier what we were looking for. She said she thought they had it across the hall in the Country Store. Sure enough, there it sat behind the fudge counter. Gabe was so excited he snatched it from the hand of the young Polish gal at the cash register and nearly forgot his thank you – she was teasing him a bit, as though she had a watch but perhaps not his watch. Anyway, to remind him of his manners, I pointed out that her nametag said she was from Poland, and asked him how she he thank her. He was beaming at his watch and couldn’t remember.

“Dziekuje,” I told her.*

“Oh! Prosze!” she said.**

It was 98 degrees when we crossed the Badlands. We ate supper at a drive-in burger joint in Rapid City, and tried to explain to Trevor what a slushie is. We compared it to ice and juice, snowcones, whatever we could think of, but nothing was clicking. Finally Trevvy hit upon something that showed he hadn’t heard a word we had said. “Ooooooh!” he said. “Just like when you flush a toilet!”

Yes, my son. We are having Flushies for dessert. On second thought, let’s have floats.***

Now we’re at Grandma and Grandpa Venjohns’ place. It’s late. Sweet dreams!

* * * * *

* Pronouced “jeen-KOO-ya” – Polish for Thank you.
** Pronounced “PRO-sha” – Polish for both Please and You’re welcome.
*** Come to think of it, in this context, floats sound disgusting, too.

Summer Vacation, Day 26: Good Friends and Beer (Belated)

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For Sunday: Spent yesterday and this morning (including right now) at Cowboy Bob’s, aka Jinglebob’s or a Dennis Ranch. Guitars, dobro, harmonica, and many (many) good beers – Bass, Blue Moon, Guinness, Moose Drool, Sam Adams Summer Ale. Got to meet Hubba, visit with Deacon Tyler, and meet a number of other friends and good people from the blogosphere.

Sure was a good time, and I loved meeting all of you folks. Kids are hunting frogs and turtles with Deacon Tyler. Gotta get packed up now – headed to Wall Drug (where Jode and I met) and the Badlands.

Summer Vacation, Day 25: Old Friends and Books (Belated)

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From Saturday:The Polo All-School Reunion was great fun – 85 years of folks coming up through St. Liborius; big German Catholic families; good people all around. For a guy like me, who didn’t grow up there and doesn’t know folks, the great surprise was that the Polo school library was giving away it books – go ahead; take ’em!

We emerged with a stack of children’s and young-adult books Jodi remembered from her childhood, including one of her favorites, A Wrinkle In Time – as well as a number of hardcover classics, including David Copperfield, The Grapes of Wrath, Frankenstein and Animal Farm.

Free books – can’t do better than that!

Summer Vacation, Day 24: Dog on the Lamb

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Blogger’s Note: Since we’re packing, I’m cheating a little. This was the beginning of a collective fiction exercise I tried to get rolling at my last job. Basically, a colleague submitted a photo of a little terrier on a pile of household junk in the back of a pickup. Another colleague suggested the opening line, “It was either Barney or me.” This is what I wrote next.

* * * * *

It was either Barney or me.

Oh, I saw it coming. I was born in the doghouse and grew up on the streets, so when Luka picked me out of that line-up at the shelter, I had no illusions. The chew toys, the futon, the treats flavored with real bacon — I had it too good. Free and easy never lasts, and usually it’s some dame that derails it.

Sure enough, six months in I’m asleep on my end of the futon when Luka shows up with kung pao chicken and a Meg Ryan flick. Tells me to go lay down — as though I wasn’t already. Then she walks in, and hell if my ears didn’t perk up. Dark hair, dark eyes and long, lovely stems that belonged in a vase. An organic chemist, by the smell; beauty and brains so enthralling that I cocked my head despite myself, then scampered to the bedroom, embarrassed.

Wouldn’t you know it? Two hours later they ran me out of there, too, and a couple weeks ago, she moved in. Riley, Luka calls her, and her fat eunuch of a calico, Barney. He — and I use that pronoun loosely — pranced around the apartment like he owned the place, shedding like damn Sheltie, rubbing up against everything, crapping in a box in the corner instead of outside like a civilized animal, and generally suffering from delusions of grandeur.

When he went tomcat one night and curled up on my end of the futon, I hit the end of my leash. No declawed she-male was going alpha in my house. It was him or me, and that night, it was him.