Home

Retirement Talk for Boomers, Seniors, and Retirees

Frog Spit

Jackie Spinks

                                                     Chapter Four

           “We might have been a bunch of sodbusters when we first came to America, but we’re a pretty nifty bunch now,” Laura said.

“Hah!” said Selma. “Tell us another one?”

While outwardly to the world they had a Hallmark card unity, amongst themselves, within the confines of the house, they were either crabby and contentious, railing at each other for some minor infraction, or falling into narcoleptic apathy.

           Part of it might have been the boredom, as staring out the darkened windows at the muffled night with its cover of snow, rereading one of the family’s four books, or talking to each other, was about the extent of their entertainment when they weren’t working.  The books consisted of (1) the Bible, (2) an eighteenth century book on medicine, (3) a flattering book of biographies of famous Americans and (4) Alice in Wonderland and as a result of these readings and re-readings, future generations of the family were either inordinately religious, fanatically ambitious, practiced screwy medicine, or resembled the Mad Hatter.  They were frequently annoyed with the monotony of their lives and each other.

           “Will you please, for Gosh Darn sakes PLEASE pick up your stuff?” Selma ripped at her hair.

           “Do you have to cuss?”

           “I will if I please.”

           “You should be ashamed taking the Lord’s name in vain.’
           “Ah, shut up—and pick up your stuff. And I didn’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

           “Wait until I tell Ma.”  Granny Brita, at the moment was out of the room.

           They’d obtained their acreage of homesteading property and all the family had worked together twelve hours a day, females alongside of males, clearing the land.  They’d then built a barn, constructed a house, dug a root cellar and a well, (Selma took credit for finding the source of water) brought in harvests from fertile soil and purchased cows, pigs, chickens and a much- loved horse, they name Old Blue.

           Wil, who was working as a logger up in the woods, near their homestead, was becoming more and more disturbed at the attacks and counter-attacks, as he had to referee between his siblings when he came home on weekends.  During the week he lived in a logging camp with other loggers, who joked with each other to pass the time of day. So at first he told himself he was more aware of their peevish clashes because the camp’s residents, with whom he worked and lived, had so much rough, kindly camaraderie with each other, along with a raunchy humor, which was so at odds with his family.

           His family, so united against the vicissitudes of the New World had become dysfunctional.  Something had gone wrong, as now that the major work was done, instead of being happy, they spent most of their time bickering while Laura slumped on the horse hair day bed alongside the stove.

           “It was Friday night, time for Wil to come home.  They waited impatiently. Finally, Wil burst through the back door, stamping the snow off his feet.

           “Whew, it’s a cold one out there!”  Nobody answered.

           He hung up his coat and removed his boots, sat down at the kitchen table and lit a Chesterfield.  Brita frowned, but said nothing. 

           He studied them, while smoke swirled around his face and the more he watched their angry faces the more he came to the conclusion, “This isn’t right.  I have to do something.”

          After some deep reflection he decided the best move was to steer them in another direction with stories he’d heard up at camp, stories that had the ability to evoke laughter as the men sat around the campfire and with that laughter, generate a benevolent, good-humored connection between the loggers. Stories of Moose Malsey were favorites.

           He tried to bring that same feeling to his family by repeatedly telling various versions of the Moose Malsey stories that he thought would bring back the optimism and buoyancy of their early years in America.

          And after sundry complaints they’d heard that one before they’d let him tell the stories.

           Laura had been complaining of a cold she couldn’t shake.

           “Can’t anybody find anything new to complain about,” Adina said. Wil could see Laura was hurt and so he interjected: “When loggers get sick, they just take a big swig of whiskey and they’re all better.  Jim-dandy, rarin’ to go. This one guy, he shares my tent, nice guy, he drinks almost a fifth of gin every night until he perks up and is rarin’ to go.”
           “Maybe we should give some gin to Laura,” Selma said.  “She’s had that cold too long and she needs something to perk her up so she’s rarin’ to go.”
           “It probably not work with ladies.”

           “Why not?”

           “They got different stuff haywire than men.”

           “But gin maybe not so hot for men either.”  Wil ignored her and deliberated for a moment.

           Then he replied, “This guy takes doctor medicine when his kid dies of the coughing sickness and it doesn’t work.  When that doesn’t work he tried the gin medicine.  Night after night he takes the gin medicine and it doesn’t work.  He cried at night and is grumpy as an old grizzly in the day.  Pretty soon he loads up his gear and takes off.”
           “What did he do?” Agnes, the most innocent asks.

           “He come back to Everson and makes a big wind and fart gets lost in snow and doesn’t come out till spring and than comes back as big Northeaster that knocks down trees and barns.” Everybody laughs. 

           And there’s a big release of tension.  They look around at each other and catch Brita laughing, too. Brita, who’s about as frolicsome as someone waiting for the Apocalypse, laughed along with the rest!  Wow! Wil sat back delighted with his success.

           “Did it smell?” Signe, the latest edition to the family, born in America, inquired, not to be undone.

           “Oh, yeah.  Smell real bad, makes eyes water—but trees and flowers, they like it and grow big.”

           “It worked better’n manure?”  Everyone was smiling now.

           “Yah.”  And the feeling that he had his audience, he tried to top that one with a Moose Malsey story.  “Moose Malsey, big tough logger, who was so big and strong he was equal to twenty clodhoppers,” Will continued.

           “Ma, make Signe pick up her stuff,” Selma interjected.

                      “Kids behave.  I don’t have the energy for all this fighting,” Brita said.

“Signe, you’re such a slob.” Selma ignored Brita.

“Look who’s taking?  You’re such a slob I wouldn’t dare eat off a plate you washed.”

           Will was losing his audience.  “Not that one about Moose Malsey, again, Wil!” Walter said, “How about a new one.”

“Let him tell that one.  I like it,” Adina said.

           “I’m sick of that one!” Selma said.

           “You got a better one then?” Adina said.

           “Uh…well, no.”

“Well, then shut up.’
”I’m not going to tell it if no one wants to hear it,” Will said, aggrieved.

“We all want to hear it.” Voices from around the kitchen table clamored reassurances.

                      “Tell the story, Wil.’
                      “Nah,” Wil his feelings hurt, needed to be coaxed.

                      “Please Willy, pretty please, don’t pay attention to her.  Selma’s a crank.  She crabs about everything.’
                      “I do not.”
                      “Please, pretty please,” they gave the offended Selma the cold shoulder, “Tel us what you heard up at camp.”

                      “You’re sure.”

           “We’re sure.”
           “Okay.  Moose was so big that when his axe gets dull and he cusses the cuss words echo back, but they get so tired, they decide to park their butts for a while on Mt. Baker.”

           “What cuss words?”

           “Cuss works like “Darn, heck and golly,” Willy said.

           “Those aren’t cuss words,’ Adina said.

           “Sure, ‘nuff, they are.”  Wil was anxious to get away from this drift of the conversation, which could go on and on and bog down for hours, as they argued about which words were, and weren’t, cuss worlds.

           “Was Moose Malsey at your camp?”

           “Nah.”

           “Where, then?”
           “In a camp up higher than ours.  Anyhow, all the men in this camp higher up were big and strong, maybe more then strong.  Such a man--Hercules was a shrimp besides him.  Muscles like galvanized iron.”

“Did you know him Wil?” Signe asked, having heard the story before, but hoping if she asked one more time, the answer would come back differently, and she’d be further impressed by his proximity to greatness.

“Well, hmmm.’  They all waited, while Wil warred inside.  They all, excepting Brita, wanted Wil to lie and impress them and he knew they did, but he was also aware of the perils this course would involve. 

He stood firm, “No. Not me, exactly.  I never seen him.  But many other loggers, they’ve seen him and they told plenty stories about him.”

“Are they true, do you think?”

“Those guys wouldn’t lie and end up roasting down below, now would they?”
A murmured agreement around the table, as everyone had a thought flash through their heads of God’s wrath if they lied, and felt a slight shiver of panic.  They might be Jack Mormons, but nonetheless were reluctant to take a chance by breaking one of the Ten Commandments. Their inconsistencies, about wanting Wil to lie to them, was a different matter.

“Well, Big Malsey,” Wil had begun  his story again, “he had arms as big as  stove pipes and his chest was bigger’n a wood box.  But such a nice guy he wouldn’t even swat a mosquito. “That’s pretty darn nice.  I sure couldn’t be that nice,” Signe interrupted.  Mosquitoes love some people and not other.  Signe was someone mosquitoes loved. Then forgetting her earlier self, Selma said, “’Darn’ is a bad word isn’t it Ma?”

              “Don’t be such an every-lasting, tattle-tale, Selma,” Brita said, “Go on Wil.”

              “This guy could chop down trees with one blow.  And he had an ox you wouldn’t believe (oxen were used to ferry logs in the woods during the twenties and into part of the thirties). His ox had horns out to here,” and Wil spread his arms.  “He dragged trees as big as houses out of woods.  What a worker.  And as gentle as a pussy-cat.  But oh, how he loved his ox.  After his wife, he loved his ox more than anything in this world.

        He found ox when ox  was a baby, almost frozen solid in the snow.  The ox was a bitty thing, just out of Mama and Big Mama probably had to flee and left baby behind.  Big Malsey carried baby home to his tent and nurse him until he came around and he named the oxen Snow because he had almost been frozen in the snow when he found him.  All the fellows in camp, told him even if he thawed him out, the ox would be dead.  But he lived and Big Malsey carefully nursed him until ox was ninety-six ax handles wide.

      And ox loved Big Malsey as much as Big Malsey loved him, and the ox did everything Big Malsey wanted.  And boy, was it a smart ox.  Ask it a question and it would thump its paw, once for yes, twice for no.  And the ox was always right.  Like you know, that algebra stuff, Snow would figure it out.  He was a fortune teller, too.

        “Goona rain tomorrow, Snow?” Malsey would ask him.

          Thump. Thump.  And sure enough, the weather was bright as copper the next day.

         With Snow, Big Malsey made big bucks.  His camp wasn’t any chintzy camp, either.  Good eats.  Lots of Cream of Wheat, no oats, fried chicken on Wednesday, venison stew on Monday, and apple and berry pies as big as this table.”  (Because they expended so much energy during the day, loggers, farm hands, road builders, etc., consumed 3,000 to 4,000 calories a day and maintained a steady slender weight.)

        Getting enough to eat, in order to put in a twelve-hour day, at heavy labor, was one of the first priorities.  Food was discussed endlessly and it was the good cooks who were praised and sought after endlessly.  In fact, only the search for a bride superseded the search for a good camp cook.

         Almost as equally appreciated was sharp, clean tools.

      “And Malsey had sharp saws,” Wil continued.  “So sharp they slide through the trees like razors.”  Everyone thought of the saws, used at that time and the time it took to push a saw through a tree four feet in diameter.

        “These guys were wild men, but held their liquor and kept their money in their pockets and gave it to wives and kids,” Wil said, while maybe unconsciously realizing that wasn’t wholly true.

        “Big Malsey had a nice wife.  She cook sometimes at camp and her eats were like being in Heaven.”  Wil never lost his place when he was telling a story.  “Wife was the apple of Malsey’s eye.  When she die, he cry so much, his tears fall and make Lake Whatcom.  He even gets sick.”  Wil wipes his nose on his sleeve thinking of his girlfriend who had died from the coughing disease.

        “What a man Malsey was.  Never even sweat.  Works sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, chops down whole woods in a day.  Lifts up logs easy that weighed five hundred pounds, saved lives of hundreds of guys.  What a guy!” 

        “I want to marry him,” Selma said.

        “Nobody is going to marry you,” Adina said.

        “Selma, she smart little pitepalt, (Swedish for potato dumpling) to marry a logger, huh, Pa?”

        “Sometimes, very dumb.” Brita felt compelled to keep her kids from getting big heads.  Thrilled with Malsey and Wil’s exaggerations, nevertheless, having heard it all before, they went back to their quarrelsome mode.

         During the early years in Whatcom County, when physical strength, exacted admiration from every neighborhood, the tales of Moose Malsey gave loggers a hero and a source of raunchy stories.  Did Wil believe a Moose Malsey, a superman of sorts, actually existed in a camp above him? Did anyone in the family?

         Probably not.  But the family, an odd mixture of simple innocence and sophistication loved the stories that became more and more embellished as time went on.  And they wanted to believe Moose Malsey had existed, if not now, at some previous time, and the legends might have some particle of truth, but perhaps Moose Malsey was merely a figment of the combined imaginations of many loggers.

          It didn’t matter.  My family was never one to quibble over facts.  And as with most beloved allegories it represented the values that were important to them in their struggle for survival.  Physical strength.  Good tools. Marriage. Food. Humor. And above all-- hard work. 

         So if Wil said that Malsey was a reality then by golly, that was good enough for them.  They were good stories (and the only commercial interruptions were the sibling arguments.) The Moose Malsey stories were about as lurid as things got on the farm.

        “So what ever happened to Big Malsey?” Signe inquired.

        “He took off with Snow.  He said Snow told him logging was leaving the mountains a mess, clear-cutting and all, and he should go work in a factory.  So I guess that’s what he did.”

        “Sure would have liked to have met that guy.”

        “Me. too.” In unison. The family had come together.

        And then they began to tease each other.  The big news at the moment was Walter’s crush on the school teacher.  They all had the same teacher in a one room school house. 

        “Such a big nose on a woman.”

        “But she’s smart.”

        “She is that.  If you marry her you might have smart kids that go to college and make money.”

        “If she and Walter marry, their marriage would average out all our family’s intelligence.”

        “Hey!”  Walter smiled and pretended to be insulted.

        “Walter, anyone who stands on a rake and hits himself in the head isn’t the smartest dude around.”

         “She and Walter would have kids with big noses.”  Adina said.  “We don’t want anyone in the family with big noses.”

         “But it would be nice to have someone who knows long division.”

         And for a while the bickering was gentle.  And soon they would be faced with a challenge that brought the family together again against a common enemy.  And it would unite them as nothing else ever had.
        

           “

           “