The Rhode House: Part 3
There were two old school buses with trailers behind parked at the Tin Man’s, both modified to carry many people and all their worldly goods. Several children explored the Tin Man’s old dilapidated house and out-buildings. Some teenagers stood in the shade of the school buses their faces downcast at their phones. Others threw Frisbes or footballs. A few took pictures with their cellphones, then stood looking at the landscapes around them, shielding their eyes from the sun. Tents of various designs stood about the vicinity as though set up in a country park.
A canvas cook camp had been erected, as had two lengthy latrines; each stretch of outhouses angling away from the other nestled amid the willow brush. Two large solar panels stood facing southeasterly east of the Tin Man’s house. The Rhodes were an organization of amazing efficiency; they had done this before in an earlier life.
Several adults gestured about in an area northeast of the campsite, some holding florescent-colored stakes. Near a surveying tool on a tripod, a compact track loader stood idling nearby its exhaust pale blue against the sky. As Sven and Ula drove up in the Trapper Truck, a few sunlit faces looked their way; one or two raised hands waved as in welcome.
Looking for the adults of the bunch, most of whom appeared to be at the new building site, the two men nodded and smiled at the small throng gravitating toward them to check out the relic they were driving -- and presumably the relics that were descending from its seats.
“Hey dere! Ya’ll must be da Rhodes! Velcome to Vannaska Township! I’m Ula. Dis ‘ere is Sven,” Ula said amiably, looking across all the faces of various ages and complexions. “Dere’s quite a lot of youse!”
“Look Narra,” one Rhode said to another, admiring the Trapper Truck. “This is a genuine 1918 Overland 85! Look how they’ve modified it to accept the capstan winch . . . Oo-rah!”
“I call dis me Trapper Truck,” said Ula, proudly. “She’s seen a few miles, dis vun. Ya knows yer trucks, eh?”
“Truck? This ain't no truck, old timer,” said a young man. “When this jalopy was new, this was a fantastic car with its L-head four-cylinder 170- cubic inch engine, three-speed transmission, electric start, electric lights, vacuum operated fuel system, and a rear mounted spare tire. I see you still have the spare back there.”
“Dat’s a number nine vire spare tire ‘anger, fer yer information,” spouted Sven authoritatively, sensing a spirit of arrogance from the younger man. “Uddervise, da Trapper Truck is in ‘er original factory condition.”
“Did you escape from the nursing home, Grampa?” retorted the Rhodes. “There isn’t a square inch of original paint on this thing much less the convertible top, interior upholstery, or any of its seats, doors, windshield glass, side mirrors, or running boards! Original condition? That’s rich!”
“Vell, yah, aside from dose t’ings shure,” Sven admitted, nodding his head and shoulders affirmatively. “But vat ever vas on it, except da vinch, eh, is da same ven Ula got it frum da ‘elmerson Velding & Blacksmit’ shop over t’irty-five years ago. Ain’t dat right, Ula?”
“And where do you guys come from? Talkin’ shit like ‘dis’ and ‘dat’,” said the guy who knew so much about old cars. “The old country? You guys from Sweden or Norway? Straight off the bo-at? Wasn’t it mandatory to learn English when you went to school? Or did you? Maybe you went to that little one-room school, down there!” And with that snide remark, he gestured easterly toward Wannaska District 44 West, four miles away
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Rhodes,” Ula replied, succinctly. “Mr. Guyson and myself graduated from secondary school well past the eighth grade; myself being schooled in Boston, Massachusetts, graduated from Boston College; and served four years in the U.S. Navy during the Vietnam War. Mr. Guyson, four years my junior, is Iowa born, to no fault of his own, holds a high school diploma, met two of his three wives in college; himself retired now, as am I. We employ these accents in a vein of fun, resorting to proper English only when riled by inconsiderate imbeciles like yourself. If we may be so honored, we would appreciate knowing you by your first name from here on in, so we can address you with the appropriate euphemism the next time we meet, instead of using the before-mentioned term from which we have drawn staid conclusion.”
“Uh, I-I-," stammered the Rhodes in surprise.
His siblings crowded around to goad him into further foolishness, when a brother about this same age introduced himself growling loud enough for everyone to hear,
"My name is Narra Rhodes. This one doesn't always act like this, just most of the time ... Great first impression, smart ass. Tell him, tell him your name, go on!”
“My name is Bad,” said the man, soberly, without a hint of sarcasm. “Bad Rhodes. My name is Bad Rhodes.”
“Bad Rhodes? Hmmmm, right,” answered Ula, not convinced.
“Imbecile it is then. Are your folks somewhere around here? Anyone?”
Ula shifted his gaze from the young man, and looked across the crowd of faces thinking someone would point their parental units out, when Narra said, pointing north,
“Mom and Dad are over there by the skid-steer. They’re the ones doing all the waving and talking the loudest. . . and hey, Ula? Bad is really this imbecile’s name. He just sometimes lives up to it.”
Ula looked at Narra, then Bad, and gesturing to Sven, the two of them started walking toward the skid-steer still idling in the distance.
Arriving just as the older man climbed into the skid-steer, and waved to them, they stood aside and watched him begin his preliminary cuts through the thin topsoil, soon revealing its sub-layer of sand and rock, something of no surprise to the two of them as the Tin Man's homestead sat atop the glacial sand ridge bordering The Hovorka Swamp, a low, swampy land of white cedar, tamarack, jackpine, black spruce, poplar and birch groves that stretched from north to south for four miles through the township.
A long gray-haired woman of some obvious charismatic character, slender in body, average in height, walked with the aid of a stout walking stick across the now-roughed ground, smiling, to where Sven and Ula stood.
“I see you’ve met some of the family,” she said, extending her hand in greeting, “Our sons, Narra and Bad. I hope Bad didn’t play out his namesake, but heaven knows he has a penchant for it. My name is Country Rhodes. My husband’s name is Grav-Ell."
And with that Sven burst out laughing. (Ula shot him such a look.)
“C’mon!!” Sven guffawed and wheezed, barely able to catch his breath. “Gravel and Country Rhodes? Dis is da phoniest t’ing I ‘ave ever ‘eard! Are ye a bunch of musicians on tour or vat? Da Rhodes on DA ROAD? Oh yeah, now I get it! And da boys? Narra . . 'Narrow!' and Bad Rhodes?? VAT??”
Ula wasn’t amused, thinking Sven was being mean-spirited.
“That’s just plain rude, Sven,” he said, without his brogue. “We’ve just met these fine people and are welcoming them to our community. Show ‘em some respect. Apologize.”
Country interrupted, smiling, looking at Sven, then at Ula,
“Hell nooooo! It's an everyday occurrence. We’d think you were phony if you didn’t react somehow. Grav-Ell is an unusual name, being a combination name of the French word, ‘gravois*’ and his mother’s name of Ellen; a phenomenon of some real curiosity to everyone that learns it. Everyone laughs -- or wants to.
“You can imagine what happened when Grav-Ell and I met at Harbor Freight over fifty years ago. Both of us grabbed for the last three-dollar headlamp on the hook, then both of us backed off, insisting the other take it.
“There was just something about the old cuss that I liked right off, and obviously something about me, he liked too. Smiling coyly she said “‘Maybe it was my tight jeans and halter top, I’ve never been sure.’”
“But when he told me his name -- and I told him mine . . . Why our fookin’ laughter put yours to shame. Sven, wasn’t it? I think we both laughed right into the grinding wheel/abrasive disk aisle. We were married six weeks later. No sir, no apology needed. We’re the Rhodes, of various length and condition, all twenty-four of us including the dog, Shortcut.”
*Gravois French: topographic name for someone who lived in an area of coarse gravel, from Old French grave (of Celtic origin). ancestry.com
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| Tin Man Solar |
There were two old school buses with trailers behind parked at the Tin Man’s, both modified to carry many people and all their worldly goods. Several children explored the Tin Man’s old dilapidated house and out-buildings. Some teenagers stood in the shade of the school buses their faces downcast at their phones. Others threw Frisbes or footballs. A few took pictures with their cellphones, then stood looking at the landscapes around them, shielding their eyes from the sun. Tents of various designs stood about the vicinity as though set up in a country park.
Several adults gestured about in an area northeast of the campsite, some holding florescent-colored stakes. Near a surveying tool on a tripod, a compact track loader stood idling nearby its exhaust pale blue against the sky. As Sven and Ula drove up in the Trapper Truck, a few sunlit faces looked their way; one or two raised hands waved as in welcome.
Looking for the adults of the bunch, most of whom appeared to be at the new building site, the two men nodded and smiled at the small throng gravitating toward them to check out the relic they were driving -- and presumably the relics that were descending from its seats.
“Hey dere! Ya’ll must be da Rhodes! Velcome to Vannaska Township! I’m Ula. Dis ‘ere is Sven,” Ula said amiably, looking across all the faces of various ages and complexions. “Dere’s quite a lot of youse!”
“Look Narra,” one Rhode said to another, admiring the Trapper Truck. “This is a genuine 1918 Overland 85! Look how they’ve modified it to accept the capstan winch . . . Oo-rah!”
“I call dis me Trapper Truck,” said Ula, proudly. “She’s seen a few miles, dis vun. Ya knows yer trucks, eh?”
“Truck? This ain't no truck, old timer,” said a young man. “When this jalopy was new, this was a fantastic car with its L-head four-cylinder 170- cubic inch engine, three-speed transmission, electric start, electric lights, vacuum operated fuel system, and a rear mounted spare tire. I see you still have the spare back there.”
“Dat’s a number nine vire spare tire ‘anger, fer yer information,” spouted Sven authoritatively, sensing a spirit of arrogance from the younger man. “Uddervise, da Trapper Truck is in ‘er original factory condition.”
“Did you escape from the nursing home, Grampa?” retorted the Rhodes. “There isn’t a square inch of original paint on this thing much less the convertible top, interior upholstery, or any of its seats, doors, windshield glass, side mirrors, or running boards! Original condition? That’s rich!”
“Vell, yah, aside from dose t’ings shure,” Sven admitted, nodding his head and shoulders affirmatively. “But vat ever vas on it, except da vinch, eh, is da same ven Ula got it frum da ‘elmerson Velding & Blacksmit’ shop over t’irty-five years ago. Ain’t dat right, Ula?”
“And where do you guys come from? Talkin’ shit like ‘dis’ and ‘dat’,” said the guy who knew so much about old cars. “The old country? You guys from Sweden or Norway? Straight off the bo-at? Wasn’t it mandatory to learn English when you went to school? Or did you? Maybe you went to that little one-room school, down there!” And with that snide remark, he gestured easterly toward Wannaska District 44 West, four miles away
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Rhodes,” Ula replied, succinctly. “Mr. Guyson and myself graduated from secondary school well past the eighth grade; myself being schooled in Boston, Massachusetts, graduated from Boston College; and served four years in the U.S. Navy during the Vietnam War. Mr. Guyson, four years my junior, is Iowa born, to no fault of his own, holds a high school diploma, met two of his three wives in college; himself retired now, as am I. We employ these accents in a vein of fun, resorting to proper English only when riled by inconsiderate imbeciles like yourself. If we may be so honored, we would appreciate knowing you by your first name from here on in, so we can address you with the appropriate euphemism the next time we meet, instead of using the before-mentioned term from which we have drawn staid conclusion.”
“Uh, I-I-," stammered the Rhodes in surprise.
His siblings crowded around to goad him into further foolishness, when a brother about this same age introduced himself growling loud enough for everyone to hear,
"My name is Narra Rhodes. This one doesn't always act like this, just most of the time ... Great first impression, smart ass. Tell him, tell him your name, go on!”
“My name is Bad,” said the man, soberly, without a hint of sarcasm. “Bad Rhodes. My name is Bad Rhodes.”
“Bad Rhodes? Hmmmm, right,” answered Ula, not convinced.
“Imbecile it is then. Are your folks somewhere around here? Anyone?”
Ula shifted his gaze from the young man, and looked across the crowd of faces thinking someone would point their parental units out, when Narra said, pointing north,
“Mom and Dad are over there by the skid-steer. They’re the ones doing all the waving and talking the loudest. . . and hey, Ula? Bad is really this imbecile’s name. He just sometimes lives up to it.”
Ula looked at Narra, then Bad, and gesturing to Sven, the two of them started walking toward the skid-steer still idling in the distance.
Arriving just as the older man climbed into the skid-steer, and waved to them, they stood aside and watched him begin his preliminary cuts through the thin topsoil, soon revealing its sub-layer of sand and rock, something of no surprise to the two of them as the Tin Man's homestead sat atop the glacial sand ridge bordering The Hovorka Swamp, a low, swampy land of white cedar, tamarack, jackpine, black spruce, poplar and birch groves that stretched from north to south for four miles through the township.
A long gray-haired woman of some obvious charismatic character, slender in body, average in height, walked with the aid of a stout walking stick across the now-roughed ground, smiling, to where Sven and Ula stood.
“I see you’ve met some of the family,” she said, extending her hand in greeting, “Our sons, Narra and Bad. I hope Bad didn’t play out his namesake, but heaven knows he has a penchant for it. My name is Country Rhodes. My husband’s name is Grav-Ell."
And with that Sven burst out laughing. (Ula shot him such a look.)
“C’mon!!” Sven guffawed and wheezed, barely able to catch his breath. “Gravel and Country Rhodes? Dis is da phoniest t’ing I ‘ave ever ‘eard! Are ye a bunch of musicians on tour or vat? Da Rhodes on DA ROAD? Oh yeah, now I get it! And da boys? Narra . . 'Narrow!' and Bad Rhodes?? VAT??”
Ula wasn’t amused, thinking Sven was being mean-spirited.
“That’s just plain rude, Sven,” he said, without his brogue. “We’ve just met these fine people and are welcoming them to our community. Show ‘em some respect. Apologize.”
Country interrupted, smiling, looking at Sven, then at Ula,
“Hell nooooo! It's an everyday occurrence. We’d think you were phony if you didn’t react somehow. Grav-Ell is an unusual name, being a combination name of the French word, ‘gravois*’ and his mother’s name of Ellen; a phenomenon of some real curiosity to everyone that learns it. Everyone laughs -- or wants to.
“You can imagine what happened when Grav-Ell and I met at Harbor Freight over fifty years ago. Both of us grabbed for the last three-dollar headlamp on the hook, then both of us backed off, insisting the other take it.
“There was just something about the old cuss that I liked right off, and obviously something about me, he liked too. Smiling coyly she said “‘Maybe it was my tight jeans and halter top, I’ve never been sure.’”
“But when he told me his name -- and I told him mine . . . Why our fookin’ laughter put yours to shame. Sven, wasn’t it? I think we both laughed right into the grinding wheel/abrasive disk aisle. We were married six weeks later. No sir, no apology needed. We’re the Rhodes, of various length and condition, all twenty-four of us including the dog, Shortcut.”
*Gravois French: topographic name for someone who lived in an area of coarse gravel, from Old French grave (of Celtic origin). ancestry.com
I tink ve shud kvick sign Country up as a WA contributor!
ReplyDeleteHey Sven. Did you check out da plates on dere rigs? Rhode Island Pioneer Plates.
ReplyDeleteReminds me of when I describe my Harleys, their admirers, and the many adventures with same. -- Happy Trapper! JP Savage
ReplyDelete