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Retirement Talk for Boomers, Seniors, and Retirees

Frog Spit

Jackie Spinks

                                                             Chapter Seven

“Boxing is just a game, Ma.” Selma said. “For fun.”

“Hah!  Such foolishness!  Fighting.  And for money!  People fighting for fun.  As if there wasn’t enough fighting in this world-- without doing it for fun?  And you want to marry a man who does that kind of thing?”

              Selma was hell-bent determined to marry a boxer she’d met at a grange dance and Brita was hell-bent determined that she wouldn’t.  Selma wiped the dishes as Brita washed and they argued.

              “But Ma.  He has a car!  A really nice one, too. And that’s pretty good for a guy that’s in his twenties.  It shows he has ambition.  Or something.”

              Oh, pish!  I come to this country for this?  For a car.”  Granny Brita refused to be swayed by the wonder of this achievement, nor be side-tracked by her daughter’s marketing of Jimmy.  She stood at the new kitchen sink with an indoor pump and shook her finger.  “For my daughter to choose a man like that—a bantam-weight boxer!  What’s this bantam business anyway?  He’s a little rooster?”

              “They have different classes in boxing, based on what the guy weighs.  They only fight guys who weigh about the same.  But look, Ma!  He’s written up in the newspapers.  See, Fistic Action to Blaze at Legion, Jimmy Donald, fastest in his class.  Or see this one Ma! Reville Herald Building,, Jimmy Donald vs. Battling Hurley.  Or this, Ma—Jimmy Donald, the game sprout, who is popular with local fistic fans, wants another crack at…

              “Ha. Ha.  To get his brains cracked out of his head, so you end up with a halfwit.”

              “Not only does he have a car, but he’s famous, Ma.”

              “And so’s Jack the Ripper.”

              Well, if you aren’t impressed, I’m impressed.  We’re all a bunch of nobodies.  I mean all we are is dumb Swede hillbillies, frog spit, and you act like I’m too high and mighty for a boxer.  His family is better than ours.  Everyone in his family have graduated from high school, none of us have.”

              “I am saying that somebody who does that kind of thing is bad husband material.”

              “Well, Pa admires him.”

              “Your Pa would admire the devil if he drove up in one of those auto contraptions.  I don’t know what it is about all these new-fangled things that excite your Pa.  He’s talking about a tractor now.  Well, all I can say is—you’re not going to marry someone like that.  Over my dead body.”

              “Ma…”

              “No, Ma me, about it.  I won’t have it.”

              Jimmy, like Selma, was an immigrant.  And boxing, in the twenties, as it is today, was a quick way for immigrant boys to make a buck.  And although an amateur boxer, someone who wasn’t supposed to take money for a fight, he averaged about an under-the-table $10.00 a fight.

              But Granny, secretly, and not so secretly, had hoped Selma would marry a successful merchant, banker or lawyer and was disappointed with Jimmy, another immigrant, who, she claimed, let himself get smashed up for a few dollars.  Part of the promise of coming to America was for her girls to marry well, and now this.

              He has brown eyes, Ma, just like Rudolph Valentino and the missionaries,” Selma pointed out, thinking this might seal her argument.  Coming from Sweden, our family’s infatuation with brown eyes and the most positive accolade the family could confer, at least regarding appearances was “He/she has the most beautiful big, brown eyes.”

              “Fat lot of good brown eyes will do him, with hash meat for brains,” Granny replied.

              “Well, I don’t care what you say.  I’m going to marry him.”

              “You are not.  I won’t have it.  You’ll be changing bed pans for your husband in your old age.”

              “How are you going to stop me.”  Women had recently been given the vote and Selma considered herself a flapper with a mind of her own, although most of it was practiced on Granny, who rose to the challenge and gave back tit for tat.  But Selma was single-mindedly determined.  She was in love.  Blindly.  Madly.

              Love at first sight.  It had happened that night they met at a grange dance, an old boyfriend of Selma’s had insulted her and Jimmy had quickly knocked him down and from then on Jimmy was her champion, her protector, fulfilling all her requirement of a knight errant.  Plus it didn’t diminish his stature (which was only about 5’6”) that his quickness, power, Model A, and high school graduation, with honors, was much admired by her brothers and father.

              Brita put her foot down.  Selma wasn’t to see him anymore.  So Selma alternated between pining, weeping and giving Brita dirty looks and ignoring her if she could.  She’d sit in sullen silence at the dinner table picking at her food and losing weight.  And as her eyes sunk into dark hollows on her cheeks and her wrists became bone thin, Brita started worrying about TB and wondering how long she could keep to her guns.

              Worried, she talked it over with Lars, who almost always agreed with her—he put a high premium on peace-- and as Brita aged, peace became a slippery slope, but this time Lars decided to put his oar in.  Peace or no peace.

              “I like Jimmy,” Lars said.  “He’s a nice kid.  Doesn’t think he’s a big shot, like some of the fellows Selma’s brought home.  And he’s a good worker.”

              “Selma could do better.”

              “But she’s twenty-one now, Brita.”

               Finally, Granny caved, but first she had her say.

              “You’re making a big mistake.  You’ll end up with a rutabaga, with a broken nose, rheumatism in every joint and worst of all-mush for brains.”

              “No I won’t! Oh, Ma, thank you!  You won’t be sorry.”

              “Oh, yes I will.”  But she knew when she’d lost; and she also knew her duty, when she saw it.  Selma had a nice wedding.  Brita was polite to Jimmy, but cool.  Always expecting the worse, testing him every time he came around for any loss of brain power.

              “So Jimmy, what do you think?  Are these auto things her to stay?”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Larson.  They’re definitely here to stay.”

“Well, we’ll see what we shall see.  But I have my doubts.”  Or. “Jimmy, you’re supposed to be good at arithmetic, how much do you think Pa can make if he gets (?) for a bushel to an acre?”

              Jimmy would do a quick mental calculation and answer.

              “Hmmm.”  Not much with math, Brita wasn’t sure he was right, but would have jumped down the well before she’d admit she didn’t know, but Selma knew and saved the day.

“Isn’t he smart, Ma.  I could never have figured that out that quick.”
But other than testing him, Brita remained aloof, while Jimmy, who was afraid of her, called her, Mrs. Larson, and tried to get on her good side.  At smorgasbords, he’d say, “Nice spread, Mrs. Larson.  Everything’s delicious.”

“We should eat good, if we’re to keep our brains about us,” was Brita’s only response.  She gave digs where appropriate.

              Other than boxing, another “no, no,” about Jimmy was that he spent money.  Now, Brita disapproved of people spending money. It alerted the angels to your good fortune.  No use pushing your luck.  Best to save your money for a rainy day and grumble about your hard life.

              To offset the angels, Brita would point out her bad luck.  If someone told her she had pretty daughters, she’d reply, “It’s what’s inside that counts.”  If someone said, “Nice farm,” she’d answer, “’Well, let’s hope it lasts. She never wanted to jinx things, by being too proud.

              So Jimmy’s spendthrift ways courted further disapproval. It signaled the fates.  Finally, bowing to Brita’s and mostly Selma’s fears of getting his brains knocked loose, Jimmy landed a job in a machine shop and only boxed part time.  They moved from Ferndale to Bellingham and Granny had new concerns.

              She though Selma had degenerated into a sloth—in-door plumbing, electricity, and heaven forbid—a wringer washing machine.

              “A wringer washer will never get the clothes as clean as a scrub board and good old elbow grease,” she’d scold Selma. And after impressing Selma with the importance of elbow grease she’d hoof it over to the nearest relative and brag about Selma living so well. 

              It’s too easy for this younger generation,” she’d complain.  “We were born to work.  A little suffering is good for us.  People baby themselves too much.  To think, my daughter uses a wringer washing machine.  What will they think up next?”

              Jimmy tried hard to please Granny Brita, but always maintained a wary distance from her.  And although Grandpa, and the uncles were crazy about Jimmy and he DID get out of boxing with his brains intact, Granny Brita only relented a little, although at the end of her life, she said, “Nobody can beat Jimmy (my sweet Daddy).  He was the best of them all.” 

And he had brown eyes.