Sven & Ula: Palmville Infirmary
“I t'ink I need to go to da infirmary, Ula. Yust look at dis ...,” Sven said, his voice trailing off as he examined his upper arms.
“Vy iss dat, Sven? You get ‘urt?” Ula said over the top of his newspaper, as he awaited Sven’s answer from the inside of the outhouse yonder. Ula was sitting on the porch where he was safely upwind.
“No, I dint get ‘urt, Ula. I yust noticed my arms yust now ...” Sven said, looking into the outhouse mirror.
“You yust noticed yer arms?” Ula said with some incredulity in his voice, his newspaper crushed against his lap. “How is a sixty-nine year old man, of your distinction, yust now noticing ‘is arms? Vat?”
“Vell, I’ve alvays known dey ver dere, Ula. It’s not like dere new to me, eh,” Sven said, his arms straight down to his side. Raising dem slowly, one at a time, he continued, “Dey yust don’t look da same anymore.”
“You say vat? Your arms don’t look da same anymore? Since ven? Breakfast?” Ula exclaimed, trying to smooth the newspaper pages out.
“Vell, I can’t remember ven it vas da last time I took notice of it,” Sven said, crossing his arms behind his head and flexing his biceps, first on the left, then on the right. “And it frightens me a little.”
“Frightens you?” Ula said, quite perplexed about Sven’s strange disclosure. “Vat in da verld frightens you ‘bout yer own arms?
“Vell, I’m frightened dat da elasticity of yout’ iss going from me skin,” Sven said seriously. “Look at dese little pock marks ‘ere, eh? I’m t’inkin’ diss ‘ere vill affect me spearin’ capability.”
Throwing his newspaper to the ceiling, Ula roared with laughter and stamped his feet, thinking to remove his spectacles before they crashed to the floor, the newspaper pages all wafting about him.
“YOUR SPEARIN’ CAPABILITY??” Ula wheezed. “Since ven ‘ave you star ted t’rowing spears? If dis ‘ere ain’t da craziest t’ing I ever ‘eard frum you--an’ it ain’t.”
“Vell, ever since da udder day ven Monique insisted I fish da dead skunk out of da crick below da shack,” Sven said, pulling the chain to the outhouse light and closing the door behind him. "She said it’d got to smellin’ sumt’in awful.”
“Can a skunk smell verse?” Ula asked, opening the door of the house to go inside. “I mean, uffdah, skunk smell stays vit you fer veeks. Howd da skunk get dere?” He held the door open for Sven to catch and follow him in.
“Vell, da udder day, I shot a big ol’ skunk vit da tirty-tirty as ‘e vas svimming ‘cross da crick straight at me, ‘member me tellin’ you dat story?” Sven began, opening a Cwikla beer and pouring it down the side of a frosted mug.
“Afraid for me life, I vas, an’ if’n not mine--vy Monique’s, da luf of me life. I drove it clean to da bottom of da Mikinaak vit a 170 grain square nosed lead bullet vit 1857 ft/lbs of energy behind it, ” Sven said, pausing for Ula’s confirmation.
“Uh huh, reason enuf. Go on Sven,“ Ula said, cutting some pieces of Dubliner cheese to put on the table. “I remember. Vud you care for some cheese?”
“Yah shure,” Sven said, using a napkin for a coaster. “Dis ‘ere vill go good vit Extra Stout, doncha know. Miigwech.”
“I can’t smell nuttin’ since I crashed me face into da frame of da tractor changin’ oil on it vun time,” Sven said, knowing Ula was familiar with the story of when he loosened the engine oil drain plug all at once and, being on the wrong side of the ratchet, he slammed his face directly into the frame of the tractor--when he knew better.
“Felt pretty stupid dat time. Don’ t’ink me nose verks dat gud anymore,” Sven added. “Monique confirms dat two or t’ree times a day, right to me face.”
“Yah, I remember dat, Sven,” Ula said, sawing away at a haunch of spekachut (dried meat) he had made in his smokehouse. “Strange you dint black bote yer eyes vit dat l’il number, eh? But back to da spearin’ part. ‘ow cum you cudint yust ‘ook ‘im?’”
“Vell, ‘e vas out dere a vays, you see," answered Sven. “An’ you know da Mikinaak, ‘Too vide to yump an’ too deep to vade.’ I dint ‘ave a paddle fer me yon bote, so dere I vas . . .”
“Up da crick vid out a paddle, eh, you ol’ foo’? Dat’s a gud vun, Sven. Hoo yah,” Ula chuckled as he set a plate of sliced Irish soda bread on the table.
“So I vanted to t’row dat spear out dere vit a rope an’ treble ‘ook on ‘er, cuz I yuust to be really good at spearin’ back in da day, but vit out elasticity in me skin I doubt I kin do ‘er,” Sven lamented. “I might tear, if you know vat I’m sayin’, brittle as me skin is.”
“You’ve never been really good at spearin’ Sven,” Ula chortled, his Dubliner cheese slice crumbling onto the table top. “Da last time you t’rew a spear vas in a jealous rage ven you vere fourteen years old -- an' you even mist yer target an’ ‘it yer girlfriend instead! She ‘ad a big ol’ blue-green bruise on ‘er ‘ip to prove it, an' limpt to school fer two veeks after dat. I ‘member you ‘idin’ from ‘er dat 'ole year. Ha! Good at spear t’rowin’ my arse. Vat ever ‘appent to Debbie, den?
“ Vell, mebbe yer right, Ula. Mebbe yer right,” Sven admitted, finishing the bottle of Extra Stout. “Dat vas probably in anudder life. Ve’ll yust ‘ave to vait til dat ol’ skunk floats up from da bottom and ‘eads downstream t’ort da river past yer ‘ouse. ‘ow’s yer spearin’ Ula?”
ReplyDeleteSven needs to get out the harpoon cannon he bought at the rummage sale in Wannaska in 1999.
Yes, he had forgotten that one. It's still around here probably. Maybe up in the loft of the barn or someplace where he stashed it for a 'someday' when he'd need it. Done a lot of that in his lifetime so far. Yeah, yeah now that my thinker is working ( I haven't been awake very long) I remember him saying that finding that harpoon cannon was an unbelievably fortunate find, and in all places, Wannaska!
DeleteSven and Ula had begun team climbing The High Points of different states just before that, as I recall, an exciting phenomenon Ula had started on his own several years earlier in his home state of Massachusetts. Owing to the dozens of notches in the handle of his camping hatchet and the harrowing tales that accompanied each, Sven got caught up in the High Point climbing fervor.
Sven had read the epic tale in 1998 Winter edition of The Raven, titled,
"THE SOUTH SLOPE: Connecticut High Point Conquered," by Joe McDonnell, in which two men (hisself included; the other his brother Steve) and two lads (his sons Joey and Ned) stood triumphantly on the pinnacle of Mount Frissell, after an exhausting climb of 2.4 miles in 3 hours, with one minor casualty when young Ned, in his delirium, lost his balance and rolled, albeit slowly, down the mountainside before, fortunately, being stopped by a tree.
With the Iowa High Point climb looming in the near future, Sven decided to get prepared for anything they might encounter on their arduous journey, and buying a harpoon cannon was high on his list as he could imagine could come in handy should the necessity arise of having to establish an anchorage for a belaying station. He had asked at Lee's Store for one, but Leland said they were out. Finding that one at a rummage sale was serendipitous.
Sven and Ula 'ave anoder skunk advenchure vile on a 'igh climb trip in Arizona vit der guide, Clem.
ReplyDeleteYou speak of the “outhouse yonder” in your post. This is a coincidence. (The Chairman can tell you the details of one of the main characters in James Joyce’s Ulysses, Leopold Bloom, who found cogitation and inspiration in his own outdoor privy where he wipes his arse with other writers’ work – sub quality as it is (The magazine or his arse?). Bloom reflects on manure and on “his own rising smell.” Sven appears distracted and has no such ruminations, while Ula “smooth the newspaper,” the opposite of Bloom’s tearing the pages out to clean himself.
ReplyDeleteI also took note of Sven’s exit from the commode shelter, referring to “smellin’ sumt’in awful,” a nice juxtaposition with his own reek. Such are the observations that come to mind from one who has a functional outhouse in use several times a day.
OMG! Reading on, I see we have Dubliner cheese! You have been reading Ulysses!