Chapter 1

Aunt Merty we kept in a shed, out behind the ol’ barn, you know, the one up by Rockfish Creek. It weren’t that we didn’t want her around, oh no, but that it used to scare the daylights out of folks when she’d pop up out of nowheres. Not that many folks ever come to visit us, up there on the mountain, partly ‘cause of ol’ Merty, but probably mostly from fear of them cats.

You see, Uncle Ed raised them cats, all of ‘em, from kittens, an’ he weren’t goin’ to be told, no how, that they wasn’t no ordinary barn cats. Of course, Uncle Ed wasn’t no ordinary farmer, but then none of us was, up there on Mount Misty. That weren’t really the name of the place, but folks there abouts (that’s the same folks that wouldn’t pay us a social call, mind you) called it Mount Misty on account of the fog. It were foggy jest about ever’ single night up there, an’ not jest ‘cause of Granny. But Granny was a Pfister from the old country, an’ her sense of propriety demanded that certain things needed a good foggin’, an’ she was jest the gal to do it. So she used to go out, of an evenin’, with her tin bucket, an’ come back later trailin’ wisps of fog into the house with a self satisfied look on her face. I never knew, as a child, where she found the stuff, but she promised that when I was old enough she’d take me out with her one night. Uncle Ed wasn’t sure that was sech a good idea, but Mama overruled him. Which was odd, ‘cause Mama had married into the family (at least she always said she did, some of the kin from down by Madison County way said as how they weren’t never sure how she come by the name Pfister no how) but she looked more like Granny Pfister than Ed did. It may have been ‘cause he had inherited Grampaw Pfister’s unfortunate tendency to fade away in direct sunlight, or it may have been the beard (Granny’s, that is, Ed’s great shame was that he could never raise one) but poor ol’ Ed always reminded Granny of that Thornstem bunch out by Beaver’s Falls.

“Shoulda never let ‘em marry into the family,” she’d complain, an’ no amount of protestin’ how there hadn’t been a Thornstem-Pfister marriage since Great-Great Aunt Sissy had run off with Bubba Thornstem an’ founded the town of Lizard Junction off in the next state could calm Granny down.

Ed did redeem himself by marryin’ Merty, though, an’ their three kids, Maybell, Joe-Joe an’ Cousin Bert was the apples in Granny’s eye. Cousin Bert we always called Cousin Bert, even to his face, even Maybell an’ Joe-Joe did it, even though ever’body could plainly see he was a natural born Pfister, mostly from his stoplight eyes (one of ‘em was green an’ the other was red). When Grampaw Pfister was alive (an’ even after he died) he used to bounce Cousin Bert on his knee an’ remark on how much Cousin Bert reminded Grampaw of his own father. Which was funny, too, ‘cause I don’t recall him ever explainin’ why, or ever sayin’ anythin’ else about Great Grandfather Pfister. It wasn’t till years later that Mama tol’ me his shameful story, which I won’t repeat in mixed company, but suffice it to say I agree with Granny that the part about the fire engine was an out an’ out lie; when I was big enough I went down to Smith Corners an’ looked at it myself, so I know.

But I was tellin’ you about Aunt Merty. Aunt Merty always looked like a bush, but that were mostly ‘cause she didn’t want to be outdone by her sister Ermine who had writ her a letter years afore an’ had gone on about her “lavender hair rinse.” No amount of talkin’ could convince Merty that Ermine meant the color, not the plant, an’ as a result Merty went through most of her adult life (till she went completely bald, which was quite a relief fer ol’ Ed) with her hair dyed green an’ full of bits of twig. As a result she looked enough like a topiary that Cousin Bert took after her with the hedge clippers one day an’ he had to be knocked into the well afore we could convince him that it weren’t no man eatin’ shrub, it were his own mother. On second thought, I can sort of see the resemblance to Great Grandfather Pfister after all. That were when Granny decided that enough was enough, Cousin Bert needed some eyeglasses. Granny herself was the only other Pfister with eyeglasses (although personally we thought, after seein’ a picture of Bubba Thornstem, that Great Aunt Sissy could have used a pair) an’ she had got ‘em from Dr. Chisolm in Beaver’s Falls (Smith Corners bein’ too small fer an optometrist of its own) an’ she “wouldn’t trust them eyes to nobody else,” So a trip was planned fer the family to go to Beaver’s Falls.

That was the summer of ‘38, an’ a wet summer is was, too. Merty’s shed had been flooded a couple of times when Rockfish Creek had overflowed its banks an’ we had lost half of our zinnia crop when a storm dropped about four tons of hail in early July. Mama were purty upset, ‘cause zinnia juice was the main ingredient in her “World Famous Pfister All Purpose Tonic, Horse Liniment An’ Silver Polish” which she used to ship down to Smith Corners in exchange fer pistachio nuts, which she purely loved but Uncle Ed jest couldn’t git to grow up there on Mount Misty. Not but what he tried, an’ with some purty strange results. Granny made a pie with some of them nuts, an’ much to all our relief, it seemed to have gotten up an’ walked off by itself afore we finished dinner. ‘Course Joe-Joe still thinks his sister Maybell fed it to them cats, which may be true, except I ain’t never seen them cats eat anythin’ that they didn’t catch their selves, which is what we think happened to the mailman. Mama was so mad about them zinnias that she decided it was time to do somethin’.
Now when Mama decided to do somethin’, you knew it was time to git outta the way. Several years afore that, Mama had decided to “do somethin’” about the barn which Uncle Ed was promisin’ to paint, an’ to this day ducks still won’t fly over Mount Misty. Even geese are wary, although Joe-Joe swears he heared somewhere that geese don’t have no sense of smell. Uncle Ed maintains that Joe-Joe jest don’t have no sense period, but that there’s another story. So Mama decided to do somethin’ about all that water.
But first she needed The Book. This weren’t no ordinary book, no how. This was The Book. The Book had been handed down from generation to generation of Pfister an’ had jest about ever’thin’ in it. Granny was always tellin’ me how one day The Book would be mine. The Book was our biggest family treasure, an’ as sech, it was kept buried in the back yard.

Now you might think that puttin’ a book underground durin’ a summer as wet as ‘38 was is a foolish idea, but you’d be wrong, cause Grampaw Pfister’s Great-Great-Great-Great Uncle Pernod Pfister had built fer The Book a special box, out of the wood of the ol’ peach tree. This irritated his mother, Googy Pfister, who was a Pfister of the North Swamp Pfisters, ‘cause she always used to use peach switches on Pernod’s backside when he misbehaved (which wasn’t much, as Googy stood six foot six inches high an’ had put the fear of the devil into Pernod (who never grew an inch above four foot three) at an early age) but she got along usin’ willow switches once she saw the box. Not purty, in fact it was downright ugly, with splinters an’ uneven corners, an’ the lid didn’t fit right, not to mention the fact that the only paint Pernod could lay his hands on were a sort of a greenish pink. But he had checked in The Book about how to make a box waterproof, an’ that box was dry. Googy knew ‘xactly how dry ‘cause the thing scared her so much that afore Pernod could git a word in, she let out sech a shriek that the mule fainted, then Googy grabbed that there ugly ol’ box an’ threw it right down the well, where, unlike anythin’ she’d ever seen afore, it sank straight to the bottom. Pernod was real upset till he looked down that well an’ noticed that the water level in the well was fallin’ mighty quick. Purty soon there was no water in the well at all, jest that ugly ol’ box sittin’ high an dry, so to speak. As a matter of fact, even after Pernod climbed down an’ got that box out, the well stayed dry fer five or six weeks, durin’ which time Googy made good use of them willow switches, chasin’ Pernod to the creek an’ back with buckets of water. Pernod later went on to become the inventor of the jelly donut, which endeared him to millions, but we Pfisters still agree that the best thing he ever did was to make that box. Even Googy, once she got over her fright, allowed as how that were a mighty fine, if mighty repulsive lookin’, box. She used to dry whole sides of beef in it whenever they dug it up to consult The Book. Rumor has it that she even dried ol’ Sheriff Walters in it when he come to collect the back taxes. Least ways nobody never seen him agin, an’ that was the year that the skeleton first appeared in our family closet. The good part of all that was that the Pfisters ain’t never since been bothered fer taxes, an’ we is all set fer Halloween decorations.

But this were afore Halloween, when Mama got her back up about the zinnias. It couldn’t have been much past mid-August. Now you may ask, if the hail storm killed the zinnias in early July, why didn’t Mama git mad till mid-August? Well, of course, it was ‘cause we’d gone down to Beaver’s Falls back in May to git Cousin Bert his eyeglasses an’ we was jest gittin’ back. A long trip, you might say, jest to go cross the valley an’ all, but Granny’s idea of a family outin’ was usually more like the invasion of a small to mid-sized country. I recall like it were yesterday all of us Pfisters sittin’ down to dinner, Cousin Bert still drippin’ wet an’ Aunt Merty missin’ most of the hair (an’ a little of the ear) from the left side of her head.

“Pass the greens.” said Grampaw Pfister, but we mostly ignored him ‘cause he’d been dead fer six or seven years.

“I found a snake today,” said Maybell “so I fed it to them cats.”

Joe-Joe snickered, it were a thing he’d been practicin’.

I jest picked up the bowl of stew an’ passed it to Aunt Merty. We usually let Merty taste Granny’s recipes first ‘cause Granny had a heavy hand with the spices an’ Merty, though a swell ol’ gal, was not so good on short term memory an’ was the only one we could fool into bein’ the taste tester. She served herself a big helpin’ an’ took a bite, then proceeded to spend the next three minutes hoppin’ up an’ down on one foot, after which she calmed down so we figgered it must be fairly safe an’ dug in.

“Salt!” said Grampaw, so Granny threw a bread roll at him. Her aim, as usual, was purty lousy an’ the roll knocked over the gravy boat on its way to the floor. A very large paw snaked out an’ grabbed it; one of them cats who probably thought it were alive after seein’ it move. Them cats was always attackin’ anythin’ that moved, much to the dismay of Granny who liked to play horseshoes, ‘cause after she threw one an’ them cats got it, that horseshoe weren’t much good fer nothin’. On second thought, maybe them cats needed glasses too. Gravy dripped all over the table cloth, not the good one with the rose embroidery, but the ever’day one that Granny’d made fer her hope chest afore she were married. I don’t know what ‘xactly she was hopin’ fer, but what she got was Grampaw an’ that seemed to have worked out okay ‘cause while she tried to kill him eight or ten times a week, she didn’t actually succeed till he was ninety-five, an’ even then we wasn’t sure if it were her or them cats what did it.

Mama poured herself a glass of lemonade an’ used a roll to soak up some gravy off the table (she always was the most practical Pfister) an’ said “Merty, how’s yer ear?”
Now Merty, as I said, was a swell ol’ gal, but in addition to a profound lack of short term memory an’ the tendency to dress like shrubbery, she also had a slight hearin’ loss which amused us kids to no end, ‘specially when you’d ask her stuff like what time is it an’ she’d go out an’ bake you a cookie. Well, when Mama asked about her ear, Merty shot back with “Cain’t say that I seen one in a while.”

“Seen one what?” asked Granny.

“Vacuum cleaner.”

“Oh,” said Granny. “I don’t hold with new fangled stuff like that. Woulda been tough to beat Ed with a vacuum cleaner. Always preferred my ol’ rug beater fer that.”

“Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Aunt Googy used to use a willow switch, Ma” chimed in Ed.

“An’ that’s why the willow tree ain’t go no branches.” cackled Grampaw.

“Now Percevil Owen Pfister, you keep out’n this,” said Granny. “Anyhoo, yer dead, so we don’t have to listen to you, no how.”

Grampaw humphed an’ sat back down. I felt sorry fer him so I scooped some gravy off the table an’ poured it on his plate.

“Thanks,” he said. “At least someone in this family still cares.”

“I care, honey,” said Granny, “but you are dead, ya know.”

“I know,” he said, “but is that a reason to keep me out’n the conversation? Dead sure is borin’.”

“Cousin Bert, please pass the ‘taters.” said Maybell. He passed ‘em an’ she put some on Merty’s plate.

“Try these Momma.” she said. Merty did, an’ promptly fell over in a dead faint. Probably the only thing that saved her from dismemberment was the fact that she was lyin’ so still that them cats didn’t pay her no nevermind. Maybell put down the ‘taters an’ had some more stew. Cousin Bert, not noticin’ his mother’s sudden absence, picked up the ‘taters an’ dished some out. He took one bite an’ let out sech a yell that even them cats pelted fer cover. Granny reached over an’ socked him in the jaw, which made him quit yellin’ an’ commence to moanin’.

“Cain’t stand all this here racket,” she said. “That’s it. We is goin’ over to Beaver’s Falls to see Dr. Chisolm about some eyeglasses fer Cousin Bert here. They ain’t no cause fer all this fussin’ an’ hollerin’.”

Now I wasn’t the one to suggest to Granny that a cookbook woulda solved the problem quicker’n eyeglasses, ‘specially ‘cause I’d never been to Beaver’s Falls an’ was itchin’ to go. So Granny got down the ol’ inkwell an’ her best writin’ pen an’ proceeded to make a list, right there on the table cloth. ‘Course first she had to wring a lot of gravy out’n it, but she squoze it into the bowl of ‘taters, which made ‘em almost edible, an’ she made herself a list. Fer three whole days she sat there writin’ on the table cloth, not the best one, mind you, an’ when she was finished she had listed jest about ever’thing we owned, an’ a whole bunch of stuff we didn’t. When Maybell asked her why she was doin’ all that list makin’, Granny jest sort of looked at her funny like an’ then tol’ us about Second Cousin Finkle Pfister an’ his trip to the dentist.

Finkle Pfister was a Birddog-Pfister, his ma Daisy Lou Birddog had married Jinx Pfister on a new moon but against the wishes of her pa, Binky Birddog. As a result, Binky disowned Daisy Lou, which was fortunate fer her ‘cause it meant she weren’t no longer eligible to inherit the family curse. Now the Birddog family curse was a closely held secret, an’ all we Pfister’s knew about it was that you dasn’t wear red around a cursed Birddog, but Jinx decided he could handle that, an’ swept Daisy Lou off’n her feet, no mean trick as even then the gal weighed over six hundred pounds, but accordin’ to Granny he had the help of three or four of his brothers in cartin’ Daisy Lou off to Mount Misty. Like I said, Binky disinherited Daisy Lou, but after Finkle was born, Binky decided that since he didn’t have no other grandchildern no how, he would re-inherit Finkle, which put poor Finkle right back in line fer the curse. That was fine till a long lost Birddog, who went by the name of Jasper, come back an’ discovered that his Grand Uncle Binky had left the curse to Finkle an’ took him to court to have the will overturned. Judge Stark, who hated the Pfister’s ever since Sid Pfister set the judge’s barn afire during his weddin’ celebration, thereby burnin’ his newly wed an’ hard won (the judge was uglier’n Bubba Thornstem) bride right to the ground, ruled in favor of Jasper Birddog, but we Pfister’s think that Jasper’s promisin’ of his sister Eliza Mae to marry the judge had somethin’ to do with it. ‘Course Eliza Mae was no great prize neither, bein’ uglier’n that box that Pernod Pfister built, so maybe the judge got what he deserved. Then agin, maybe the judge coulda stood a visit to Dr. Chisolm, too. The upshot was that Finkle lost custody of the Birddog family curse an’ was real upset there fer a while, till his ma, Daisy Lou, decided that the Pfister family was jest as good as any ol’ Birddog an’ could jest as well have a curse of their own. So she dug up The Book an’ set to readin’ the section on family curses. Ol’ Jinx decided, an’ rightly, to Granny’s way of thinkin’, that if the Pfister family were gonna have a curse, all the Pfisters should have a word on what it should be, so he called a Pfister Family Meetin’.

There was quite some excitement there on Mount Misty as the Pfister family converged from ever’wheres. Pfisters come from all over the place, North Swamp Pfisters, who slept out in the shed back by Rockfish Creek (some of ‘em slept right in Rockfish Creek), Beaver’s Falls Pfisters, who mostly didn’t sleep anywheres at all, ‘cept fer little Izod Pfister who could usually be found sleepin’ in the stove, Skunk Lake Pfisters who arrived early an’ grabbed the cellar right away. Finkle gave up his favorite spot, behind the woodpile, to a crowd of Ginko’s Ferry Pfisters, while the Hangin’ Gulch branch of the family bedded down right in the maple tree out front. That worked out fine till one night Great Grand Uncle Fenton Pfister mistook the ol’ spotted owl fer his wife, Siesta Pfister (she was one of them exotic Tamale-Pfisters from down south) which raised quite a ruckus, but the maple sugar crop sure was sweet the followin’ spring. Great-Great Aunt Sissy even brung Bubba Thornstem an’ half the town of Lizard Junction, that bunch were the only Thornstems admitted. But the honored guest of the whole event was Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia Pfister, who flew all the way over from the old country (this was afore airplanes, mind you) with her kids, Boris the Masher Pfister an’ Little Zack, but nobody saw much of him ‘cause he spent the entire time under the sink with Finkle’s pet muskrat.
Now there was way to many of ‘em to eat in the house, so a couple of ‘em (from that Thornstem bunch, I think) got et out behind the barn. Like all Pfister family gatherin’s, this one started two or three months afore any business could git done, durin’ which time Finkle led a little raidin’ party down to Judge Stark’s new weddin’ an’ burned down his new barn, an’ his new bride, Eliza Mae Birddog, too. Things bein’ what they was, she weren’t any worse fer the wear, an’ the judge was actually glad it happened ‘cause his brand new eyeglasses was lost in the fire, so he forgave the Pfisters an’ even sent them a present of an ol’ hog, which provided the family with no end of amusement when the nearsighted (an’ very short) Boris the Masher Pfister proposed to it. Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia said she had no objections an’ as I recollect, Boris the Masher Pfister an’ that ol’ hog went out west an’ later formed the Death Valley branch of the Pfisters. An’ at that, he done better ’n Judge Stark.

So there they was, the entire Pfister clan, an’ the time had come to settle on a family curse. Daisy Lou brung out The Book, an’ read to all of ‘em the part about cursin’. The Book said, plain as day, that to have a really effective family curse, the whole family had to agree, so they all set down to hash out a compromise. Sanford Pfister, who wasn’t a proper Pfister at all, he’d went down to Leadville an’ gone to college an’ was workin’ as a C.P.A., said it should have somethin’ to do with warts. Sigrid Pfister Middlethorp, who had married an’ then divorced Arlan Middlethorp (which was a major scandel, she were the first Pfister ever to git a divorce, usually we found more quieter ways of disposin’ of unwanted spouses, like Krooth Pfister whose third wife Burbie Strumforth Pfister is still to this very day up in the attic) suggested that the curse include dry rot. This was Sigrid’s worst fear, since Arlan had given her his drapery cleanin’ business as part of the divorce settlement. Tanzi Pfister, who was odd even fer a Pfister, wanted daffodils in it. When ol’ Doc Manfred Pfister pointed out that daffodils wasn’t much of no curse, Tanzi said darkly “That’s what you think.” an’ no one was inclined to argue with her.

Somebody said somethin’ about a two headed curse, but Gyles/Ira Pfister got sore about it. Well, Gyles did, anyhoo, Ira kept tryin’ to keep things calm but it turned into a real screamin’ match until somebody apologized fer bringin’ it up. Gyles/Ira said as how it were okay, he didn’t really mind, an’ ever’body could git back down to business. Well, they talked an’ they argued, (only once did it come down to blows with axes) but by midnight of the third day, the entire Pfister family agreed on a formula fer the new Pfister Family curse. So Daisy Lou got out The Book an’ figgered out what ingredients they would need an’ then sent all them Pfister kids out ahuntin’ fer ‘em. Brandon Pfister brung back worms from the garden of a spinster, Zippy Pfister got a pair of socks from the Mayor of Smith Corners (extra potent, he’d been wearin’ ‘em since his wife died the year afore; we always thought that Mayor Harper was really an illegitimate Pfister hisself) an’ some paint left over from Pernod Pfister’s box. Gerlaine Pfister got to dig around in the mud up where Rockfish Creek cut through the ol’ Pfister graveyard, (no fear of disturbin’ all of them dead Pfisters, they was all at the meetin’) an’ come back with... well, somethin’, nobody wanted to try an’ figure out what in the heck it actually was. Toomy an’ Jake Pfister, the twins, brung back a complete set of bowlin’ pins, an’ don’t nobody know where they got ‘em, there weren’t no bowlin’ alley fer miles an’ miles. The standard stuff, eye of newt an’ sech, Daisy Lou got from her stock in the kitchen an’ it turned out real lucky that Riz Pfister come, ‘cause he always carried his own jar of pickled zebra tongue with him, jest in case. A baby piglet they got from the Hickey farm down the mountain an’ there weren’t never no lack of frog juice whenever the Pfisters was around, an’ soon they was all set.
Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia presided, (Boris the Masher held The Book fer her) an’ the family brung the stuff. First they built a fire, usin’ wood gathered special fer the job by Zamfir an’ Whizzle, two of the dead Pfisters, an’ then they hauled out the pot. It had been in the family almost as long as The Book had, an’ were purty well used at that point, but it had held generations of Pfister family recipes an’ could practically recite the formulas itself. As a matter of fact, it could fer a while, back when Auntie Yingo Pfister had substituted anchovies fer nightshade while mixin’ up a batch of her well known catalepsy remedy, but Curtis Pfister of the South Bend Pfisters had taken care of that by threatenin’ to melt the thing down fer scrap iff’n it didn’t shet up. So they filled the pot half way up with the milk of a red rooster, an’ commenced to throwin’ stuff in. They dropped in pieces of squid an’ some ol’ horseshoe nails. They added the shells of a pound of chestnuts, picked by the light of the full moon. In went the bones of a dead cat, an’ the skin of a live one. The piglet got tossed in whole, but fished right out agin when further readin’ revealed that all that were needed was the tail. They even dipped little Izod Pfister in there a couple of times to stir the stuff up a bit, an’ then they was ready fer the final step. Very careful like they poured the whole mess, boilin’ hot, into Pernod Pfister’s box while Izod’s mother, Mazie Pfister held the strainer to catch little Izod as he come tumblin’ out’n the pot. Gallons an’ gallons of juice drained out’n that pot, an’ dribbled into the box, an’ true to it’s promise, that box jest dried it all out. After they poured all that goop into the box, they was left with nothin’ but a single little lump of stuff, about the size of a pistachio nut (an’ lookin’ like one of the ones that Uncle Ed had raised). This was the Pfister family curse, which Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia took out’n the box, an’ with great ceremony, presented to Finkle Pfister. He thanked her kindly an’ swallered it right down. That were a mistake, cause it tasted kind of like Granny’s chili, which is a food not meant to be eaten by mortal man, Pfister or otherwise, but after they revived him, Finkle allowed as how he was now one of the four happiest men alive (the other three bein’ his three younger brothers, Ponce, Artie an’ Bigglesford Pfister who didn’t have to swaller the thing themselves). He promised to live a good life, be good to his mother an’ to always uphold the Pfister family motto, which was “Fer Heaven’s Sake, Don’t Let ‘Em Catch You.” Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia said that that were all anybody could reasonably hope fer, an’ that she’d like it if he’d write her once in a while to let her know how the curse was progressin’ but that the business now bein’ concluded, she declared that the Pfister Family Meetin’ was officially adjourned.

So the Pfister family took its leave, all of ‘em headin’ back to wherever they come from, takin’ most ever’thin’ they brung with ‘em (an’ quite a bit that they hadn’t) although no one realized till the followin’ winter that Little Zack had been left under the sink, so they shipped him back to Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia Pfister in a crate, postage due.

Finkle Pfister then settled down to wait an’ see what would develop of the Pfister Family Curse. He was real patient like, too, ‘cause didn’t nothin’ happen fer the next sixteen years. Then one spring Daisy Lou was out’n her garden when she discovered somethin’ she didn’t never plant there. Sure enough, it were some of them daffodils that Tanzi Pfister had warned ever’body about. Now Daisy Lou ain’t never seen no daffodils afore, an’ she sure as heck couldn’t figure out noways why they was growin’ in her stinkweed patch, so she pulled ‘em up an’ took ‘em with her into the house to ask Jinx if’n he knew what they was. Ol’ Jinx said he’d be hanged if he had any idea, but they looked mighty dangerous an’ she better git rid of ‘em right away, so she tossed ‘em into the mess o’ greens she was cookin’ up on the stove. That woulda been fine ‘cept Finkle Pfister come home that night (he’d taken to eatin’ all his meals out behind the barn) an’ Finkle purely loved Daisy Lou’s greens (her secret was to add jest a pinch of powdered cement) an’ so he ate the whole durned mess. Well all of a sudden he realized that there were somethin’ strange goin’ on, so he sat down under the table to see what was up. He didn’t have to wait too long, when suddenly he felt purty odd, so he hollered fer Daisy Lou to come see if’n she couldn’t do somethin’. She come arunnin’ an’ was mighty surprised to see ol’ Finkle settin’ there, an awful strange sight, but then she remembered the curse an’ figgered out what musta happened. So Finkle set down an’ wrote a note to Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia to tell her the news. He tol’ her about the tufts of purple hair, suggested by Gnaster Pfister, the earlobes which hung down jest about to his knees, thrown in by Lexi Pfister, the extra hand given by Georgette Tinglebury Pfister, the smell (a present from Chow Pfister), the boils from Hazel Pfister (who was always a bit stuffy) an’ the dry rot from Sigrid. He even tol’ her how the whole mess was triggered by them daffodils of Tanzi. He was jest tickled pink by the whole thing, (or that might have been Benno Pfister’s contribution). What he did notice, to his dismay, was that one part o’ the curse seemed to be missin’, that bein’ good ol’ Sanford Pfister’s warts. But that were okay, cause he did git the runnin’ sores, the itchies an’ the cravin’ fer cod liver oil that them Ginko’s Ferry Pfisters wanted included, an’ the green spots from Fenton Pfister, so he figgered that maybe there jest weren’t no room fer them warts. He closed the letter tellin’ Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia that he were well satisfied, that he were still tryin’ to lead a good life (havin’ given up bank robbin’ as a profession), he were bein’ good to his ma (he didn’t belt her more’n four times a day) an’ he ain’t been caught yet. He sent that there letter off to the old country, an’ was purty upset when it come back marked “Occupant Deceased - No Forwarding Address”, but by that time he was real busy hisself, havin’ jest found hisself a bride. She were Arabella Bricklehill, of the Snarksville Bricklehills, an’ she was a real beauty, ‘specially when the moon was full, an’ they had their selves a fine weddin’, with plenty o’ singin’, dancin’ an’ carryin’s on (them Bricklehills was mighty fun folks) an’ only three people passed away durin’ the celebrations, but one of ‘em was ol’ Grandad Bricklehill who was over one hundred an’ three an he didn’t hold with parties no how, so it were jest as well.

As a result, it weren’t till they got back from their honeymoon, which they spent over by the North Swamp Pfisters in their guest hut, that Finkle actually opened that there returned letter. Inside he found the letter he’d sent an’ a note from the dearly departed Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia (now removed) remindin’ him he’d also forgot Shelley Pfister’s curse of the teeth, but he shouldn’t worry none, they’d probably turn up somewheres. He were much relieved to know that Great-Great-Great Grand Aunt Anastasia were doin’ fine even though she were dead, an’ that them missin’ parts of the curse were not really lost, jest misplaced. So he weren’t too surprised a bit later when he discovered that he had developed warts on his teeth. While he were happy to have it all settled, Arabella said it were kind of like kissin’ a sack full of kitty litter, an’ kept after him (sometimes with the ax) to do somethin’ about it.

Now in them days Smith Corners were jest this little bitty ol’ place, without no diner even, jest a basic crossroads with a general store an’ a post office, but Finkle had heared that Dr. Peabody’s Wonderful Travellin’ Medicine Show was comin’ to town, so he figgered he’d go on down an’ see if’n that there dentist they had couldn’t maybe fix him up a bit. So he packed hisself a sack lunch an’ slipped off one night through the fog, down Mount Misty an’ over to Smith Corners. When he go there, he found a quiet, damp corner to curl up in an’ wait till mornin’ so’s he could see Dr. Peabody.

Dr. Peabody’s Wonderful Travellin’ Medicine Show used to be one of the biggest events of the year in these parts. Folks would plan fer months to git down to the nearest town when Dr. Peabody was around. Dr. Peabody travelled in style. He had hisself four wagons, them circus wagons what doubled as sleepin’ quarters fer him an’ his troop, painted in the brightest colors you ever seen, an’ pulled by four teams of horses all got up in bells an’ ribbons, jest like the notions department of the general store had gone an’ blowed up on ‘em. When they come into town, they had flags an’ banners what they unrolled an’ stuck on them wagons to purty ‘em up even more. Dr. Peabody’s assistant, Ivan, used to ride up in front, on the first wagon, playin’ his accordian an’ hollerin’ to announce their arrival, while them two nurses what travelled with the Doctor (an’ right purty gals they was, too) would walk along side the wagons givin’ out handbills what read “Iff’n you gots troubles, come on down to Dr. Peabody’s Wonderful Travellin’ Medicine Show. Dr. Peabody has a cure fer whatever ails you. Pills an’ tonics 15¢, patent nostrums 25¢, surgery $1.50, teeth extracted free with the purchase of a poultice fer 50¢.”

When Dr. Peabody arrived in downtown wherever, he always set up right there, smack in the middle of things. One of them wagons had a sort of stage attached that he’d fold out an’ then he’d commence to talkin’. An’ that man could talk up a blue streak. The story goes that once he started to talkin’ on a Wednesday an’ they couldn’t git him to shet up till the followin’ Sunday, an’ even then it were only ‘cause they dipped his head in a bucket of his own tonic. Dr. Peabody would git up on that there stage, rain or shine, an’ he’d start ahealin’ folks. I heared that once he brung an ol’ crippled dwarf with him to Smith Corners, jest to show the folks what his medicine could do. He gave that little feller a pill an’ afore you could spit, he were up an’ dancin’ around, doin’ handstands an’ sech. Well, folks thought it were jest about a miracle, an’ they bought ever’ single pill, poultice an’ tonic that Dr. Peabody had with him, an’ were demandin’ more, so Dr. Peabody was kept up nights fer a week, mixin’ cures till jest about ever’body in Smith Corners an’ thereabouts was feelin’ better than a skeeter in a marsh.

Dr. Peabody also had a ol’ Gypsy womern what travelled with him, an’ she’d set up in one of them wagons an’ tell folks their fortunes. Once, when Granny was younger, she an’ Grampaw went down to see ol’ Dr. Peabody an’ she let that ol’ Gypsy tell her fortune. She got purty upset, though, when that Gypsy started to read her tea leaves an’ tell her about her true love bein’ tall, dark an’ handsome, mostly ‘cause Grampaw Pfister was only 4’9”, was an albino an’, even at age 22, had hair growin’ out’n his ears, so Granny started readin’ that ol’ Gypsy’s tea leaves an’ tol’ her that she weren‘t no kind of Gypsy Granny’d ever heared of, ‘less Gypsies was now comin’ from New Jersey, an’ that she was goin’ to marry somebody short, dark an’ ugly, which was true ‘cause the followin’ day that Gypsy womern run off with the dwarf what Dr. Peabody had cured.

So, there were Finkle Pfister hold up around behind the general store when Dr. Peabody come into Smith Corners that day. Finkle heared the ruckus an’ got hisself up to see the goin’s on. Dr. Peabody had jest arrived an’ was settin’ up, so Finkle stood there back behind that ol’ oak tree an’ watched the crowd formin’. Finkle ain’t never seen nothin’ like it afore, so he figgered on waitin’ fer a bit afore he talked to Dr. Peabody, so he got out his sack lunch (pickled goats feet, dried cabbage, blood puddin’ an’ a raw onion) an’ had hisself a little snack. By this time things was really cookin’ at Dr. Peabody’s Wonderful Travellin’ Medicine Show. People was gittin’ cured left an’ right. Sybil Thornstem got Dr. Peabody to remove a bunion from her twelfth toe an’ had declared herself to be good as new. Dr. Peabody gave them Herbert kids some cough syrup, an’ they was gulpin’ it down an’ runnin’ around tellin’ ever’body how good it were, but that coulda been ‘cause his formula included about two gallons of corn likker. Ol’ Man Bailey, who run the general store with his wife, Bridget, an’ their daughter, Pearl (till she left Smith Corners an’ went down to Florida to become a game warden in an alligator swamp) said that Dr. Peabody’s poultice had took the crick right out’n his neck an’ that he wanted a whole case of ‘em to sell at the store. Joe Sackett, who were mostly a share cropper, but sometimes did some bootmakin’ on the side, gave Dr. Peabody a new pair of yellow striped shoes in exchange fer a pill to help cure his wife, Nancy Lee, of her vapors, an’ she felt so much better she dragged Joe off into the bushes right then an’ there. Most folks was generous enough not to mention that she dragged Bernie Edwards an’ the Miller twins into the bushes when she was done with ol’ Joe, nor that Joe didn’t pay her no nevermind since he had gotten another of them pills from Dr. Peabody an’ headed off in his wagon with the Widow Griffin, who was only seventeen at the time (she had married Senator Griffin when she were thirteen an’ he were eighty-seven, an’ inherited his propity when he died six months later).

Well, Finkle figgered with all these goin’s on that Dr. Peabody surely must have somethin’ he could do about Finkle’s tooth warts, so he come out from behind that there tree an’ headed fer Dr. Peabody’s wagon an’ that’s when the riot commenced. Now Finkle Pfister was a sight to see, even afore the Pfister curse. He were over seven feet tall an’ his ears sort of stuck out from his head. He were thin as a fence post an’ had to have his size nineteen shoes made special. His nose were awful big, even fer a Pfister, in fact his younger brother Bigglesford used to use Finkle as an umbrella on rainy days, but what really stood out about Finkle (an’ made him so special to us Pfisters) was his thumbs. He had four of ‘em, two on each hand. He always said they was real useful, mainly ‘cause he could hitch a ride in all four directions at once, but them thumbs did tend to startle folks what had never seen ‘em afore. All of that combined with the curse, purple tufts of hair, boils, the three left feet, the earlobes, the tail, them funny noises comin’ out’n his elbows, the stripes an’ sech, gave folks a bit of a shock, an’ when poor Finkle opened his mouth to ask Dr. Peabody about a cure fer his teeth warts, accidentally sprayin’ the crowd with bits of his lunch, well, that pushed ‘em right over the edge. Don’t nobody know who ‘xactly started it, but Finkle recalled later how he heared Murphy Thornstem (of the Possum Hollow Thornstems) holler somethin’ about stabbin’ Finkle with his salad fork (Murphy Thornstem had delusions of grandeur, an’ were always talkin’ about his plans to open up an internet café/English tea shop), which was when Finkle figgered it were time to git out’n there afore things got ugly. So Finkle hiked up his britches, grabbed the leftovers from his lunch, whistled fer his ol’ hound dog (sprayin’ the crowd a second time, which made ‘em all hang back a minute, givin’ Finkle a chance to git away) an’ run off, down the road, back towards Mount Misty. Well, that crowd was purty upset, so they set about gittin’ their selves a couple of shotguns, some torches, an’ a few pointy farm implements, an’ took off down the road after him. They chased poor ol’ Finkle all the way back up Mount Misty, an’ they woulda caught him too, ‘cept that a fog rolled in (some say Daisy Lou had somethin’ to do with that) an’ they lost sight of him. They searched up an’ down, but couldn’t find even one wart of ol’ Finkle, so they settled fer burnin’ down the Pfister family house, barns, that ol’ shed, the well, a couple of trees, all the goats an’ even ol’ Binky Birddog, who had to be dug up first. Daisy Lou an’ Jinx escaped by hidin’ in Rockfish Creek, Arabella an’ Finkle’s kids had been out pickin’ sumac an’ Finkle’s younger brothers, Ponce, Artie an’ Bigglesford hid in the root cellar, but ever’ single thing that Finkle owned was burned to a crisp. Then the crowd left, goin’ back down Mount Misty. Daisy Lou was purty mad, an’ ever’ one of them folks got a terminal case of hives mailed to ‘em the followin’ Christmas, but in the meantime, Finkle Pfister dug up The Book to see what he should do. Well, The Book told about how the Pfister family was insured by the firm of Fern, Devlin, Masters, Kenny, Fern, Einstein, Fern, Jeffries an’ Fern against loss due to earthquakes, meteors, plague, icebergs or riots, so Finkle sent a letter to Mr. Fern explainin’ what had happened. Mr. Fern wrote back that he was sendin’ a claims adjuster by the name of Ruben P. Lynch out to look at the place. Ruben P. Lynch was a little feller, about five feet tall, wearin’ a checkered suit made out’n alpaca hair, a hat in the style o’ Winston Churchill (not the Winston Churchill who run England, but the other one who lived down in Ginkos Ferry an’ had a collection of little round hats, mostly with fur on ‘em an’ some with little feathers in the band) an’ them little half moon glasses. He had a briefcase near about as big as he was an’ he drove a pale pink Edsel. He come up to Mount Misty, but after lookin’ around fer a bit, he said that the firm of Fern, Devlin, Masters, Kenny, Fern, Einstein, Fern, Jeffries an’ Fern couldn’t pay the claim, that there weren’t nothin’ he could do, since Finkle didn’t have no list of stuff what was there afore the riot. Finkle were upset, an’ Ruben P. Lynch got a case of them hives fer Christmas, too, but Finkle didn’t never git nothin’ from that there insurance company.

“Which is why,” Granny said, puttin’ away her inkpot, “whenever a Pfister leaves Mount Misty, they always makes a complete list first.”

So, with list in hand, Granny set in to packin’ fer the family trip to Beaver’s Falls. First she had Cousin Bert bring the wagon ‘round front with the ol’ three legged mule hitched on. Then she proceeded to load most of the stuff from her list on to the wagon. I weren’t sure why we needed all that stuff fer, but Granny explained that we was goin’ to visit with Uncle Ferdy Pfister an’ his kin while we was in Beaver’s Falls, an’ a good guest brings all the stuff they is gonna need. How that covered things like the butter churn, an ol’ broken rake an’ a box full of Grampaw Pfister’s clothes I don’t rightly know, but Granny had decided we was takin’ ‘em an’ there weren’t no arguin’ with Granny; the only one who ever argued with Granny were Grampaw, an’ look where it got him. Granny had us all ahoppin’, runnin’ back an’ forth with loads of stuff to be packed. Maybell an’ me she tol’ to git up to the attic an’ see if’n Burbie Strumforth Pfister was of a mind to go with us. She said she were, so Granny had us git a crate from the barn an’ pack Burbie in it, then sling it on the wagon. Cousin Bert had to round up them cats, with a little help from Ed (an’ a large scythe) an’ put ‘em in the back. Mama were in charge of gatherin’ up all the rocks an’ twigs we was goin’ to need, an’ Joe-Joe got sent to the barn lookin’ fer Granny’s false eye what she had left out there. Merty was jest responsible fer gittin’ herself on the wagon, which were almost too much fer her; we discovered when we was halfway down Mount Misty that Merty had tied herself to the underside of the wagon. Granny sent Grampaw out fer the tea set what she kept out in Merty’s shed, but Grampaw said he couldn’t find it no how. Granny threw a fit an’ Grampaw said if’n she was goin’ to be that away, he jest weren’t goin’ to go. They hollered fer a bit, an’ Grampaw chased Granny ‘round the barn a few times, but eventually they found them teacups an’ things quieted down.

Chapter 2

So the Mount Misty Pfisters set out fer Beaver’s Falls. It were a perfect night fer it too, full moon shinin’ down like an ol’ lantern so ever’body could see jest fine, ever’body ‘cept Cousin Bert, anyways. Granny figgered as how we’d make purty good time that night, an’ probably be down in Smith Corners by mornin’. We was fixin’ to spend the day restin’ up in them caves, she said, you know, them ones jest the other side of Smith Corners, where Second Cousin Mooky Pfister had holed up when the Moldavian Army were after her. Mooky were a caution, she were, as Granny always said. She were from the old country, an’ she lived with her Uncle Jules Pfister an’ his third wife Babette Pfister ever since Mooky’s folks had been lost in that there freak tidal wave while they was enjoyin’ a second honeymoon in the Black Forest. Mooky was mostly a good girl, an’ didn’t nobody get on with Jules’ goats the way Mooky did, but her one weakness was fer uniforms. She loved fireman uniforms an’ milkman uniforms an’ brass band uniforms, but she especially loved them spiffy uniforms they had got in the Moldavian Army. She’d seen ‘em when Moldavia had invaded the Pfister Family Fortress, an’ didn’t nobody thought to save her one when the entire invadin’ battalion dissapeared into the cranberry bog (thanks to a little quick thinkin’ from Blister Pfister, a couple of handy “you pick ‘em yerself” signs an’ a few of the residents of Hygless Pfister’s crocodile farm). Third Step Aunt Babette was real indulgent about the whole thing, an’ she give Mooky a whole bunch of swell uniforms, but Babette purely didn’t have no Moldavian Army uniform. Well, Mooky moaned an’ Mooky whined an’ in the end, Mooky packed up an’ run away from hone to join the Moldavian Army an’ git a uniform fer herself. She would have got away with it too, if’n it weren’t fer a few things. While it were true that Mooky were only eight years old at the time, an’ that the Moldavian Army were only lettin’ men join up, Mooky managed to get in, mostly cause she were six foot four an’ weighed 250 pounds (all muscle) an’ cause she had a beard that were as thick as ol’ Hyatt Pfister, who used to raise colonies of marmosets in his. She passed the physical exam by liftin’ the doctor an’ his assistant over her head an’ holdin’ ‘em there till they signed her papers. She got swore in by a Sergeant who didn’t notice that she didn’t speak no Moldavian (instead of the oath, she mumbled the words to Skip to My Lou) an’ she got assigned to a unit on the front (which, considerin’ the size of Moldavia is also purty much the back as well) an’ sent off to the supply sergeant to git her uniform. The supply sergeant said as he didn’t have no uniform that were goin’ to fit Mooky no how, an’ that she should git around to comin’ back in a week or two an’ he’d see what he could do.

Well, by now, Mooky was purty irritated, not jest cause of the uniform, but also cause she had missed both lunch an’ her afternoon nap. She stomped out of there an’ was headin’ fer her new barracks when she saw this feller in a very nice uniform, an’ jest her size, too. She followed him around fer a bit, meanin’ to ask him where he had got his uniform, when he turned an’ went into a house. They were a sign out front, but since Mooky ain’t learned how to read yet, she ignored it. She went up into the house an’ called out fer this feller, but he didn’t answer none so she went up the stairs an’ into his closet an’ found a whole bunch of uniforms, an’ she took one, a real purty one with lots of shiny buttons an’ stars on it. It fit her purty good, so she jest put it on an' walked on out o' there. Well, the thing about Moldavia is that it can git purty darn hot of an afternoon. So hot, in fact, that the cooks of the Moldavian army (Bobba an’ Edgar) used to save on cookin' fuel by puttin' the next day's breakfast out on the front steps of the General's house so's it could bake in the sun. Mooky, as it turns out, had been followin' the Moldavian Army General (they was such a small army, they only had but one
General, an’ on Tuesdays when the Captain was off visitin' his sister, the General used to fill in fer him) an' what with this being Tuesday an' all, he was wearin' the Captain's uniform, so Mooky'd got his. While she were gettin' dressed, them cooks had broke about four dozen eggs, left 'em on the General's front porch, an' wandered off in search of shade. So Mooky came out, saw them eggs an’ since she'd missed her lunch, figgered that an afternoon snack was in order an' durned if she didn't eat ever' last one of 'em.

Jest as she were finishin' up, there came the Moldavian Army on parade around the corner, all sixteen of 'em, (there was twenty three of 'em, but after the rout they suffered at the Battle of the Cranberry Bog, recruitment had fallen way off an’ desertions was up quite a bit) they seen Mooky eatin' their breakfast an’ was mighty put out. Well, they lit out after Mooky an' since she had more sense'n Finkle, she figgered that runnin' home would be a bad thing, so she took off a'runnin' over hill an' dale. She purty near lost 'em in the swamp, but that there General was mighty fond of the uniform what Mooky had taken (the Captain's uniform tended to pinch an’ smelt like peppermint) an' he rounded up his troops (all eleven of 'em what was left since one private had to go home fer dinner, two corporals got lost somewheres along the way, Bobba the cook, who doubled as a gunnery sergeant when the army was on maneuvers, had stubbed his toe and, since it were Tuesday, the Captain had the day off) an' outflanked Mooky on the fur side of the swamp. Well, Mooky threw a couple o' rocks at 'em an' ducked into them caves, you know, the ones jest the other side of Smith Corners.

What with the Moldavian Army invading the county without a permit, ever’body got kind o' stirred up in Smith Corners an' Mayor Harper got wind o' things. He figgered that Mooky could use some help, so he chased his wife off up to Mount Misty to warn us Pfisters about what were up. She run all the way, partly cause Mayor Harper had tole her that it were an emergency, but probably mostly cause them cats was chasin' her, an' she durn near passed away when Merty poked her head out from the well, but bein' married to Mayor Harper, she were somewhat used to such goin's on, so she recovered herself an tol’ us the news.

Merty said "I'll go an’ git her, you all wait here." an’ she went off down the mountain. Well, we don't rightly know what happened after that, but some years later, two spelunkers come across a man livin' deep in them caves, an' all they could git him to say was "The trees! They's alive! Oh horrors!"

So Merty brought Mooky up to Mount Misty. Jules an’ Babette come an' took her home, but Babette made Mooky give back that uniform what she stole from the General, since Mooky had broke the Pfister family code by gettin’ caught. Mooky gave it back, an’ she figgered but that she were purty tired of uniforms anyway, an’ that she were thinkin’ of joinin’ one of them monastaries in Tibet, which Babette an’ Jules guessed was ok, considerin’ she already had the bald head after that there haircut what she had got from the Moldavian Army barber (Bobba, the cook, who was a purty busy guy) so off Mooky went, an' she still sends us a postcard from time to time. Usually with a picture of a yak.

So the Pfister family set off fer Beaver’s Falls. Maybell sat up front with Granny an’ Mama, I rode on top with Joe Joe an’ Cousin Bert, Aunt Merty was slung underneath an’ Uncle Ed rode in back with them cats, tryin’ to keep ‘em out of trouble (an’ out of the chickens) without much success. We’d only got as fer as the maple grove down the mountain when them cats got into the linens an’ purty near shredded the tablecloth, not the ever’day one with the list on it, but the good one with the rose embroidery. They tore it into strips, which were a good thing fer Uncle Ed cause he needed somethin’ to stop the bleedin’, an’ we jest tol’ Granny that it must have got lost when the wagon rolled over an’ slid into the water down by where the Johnsons built that little bridge over Rockfish Creek, jest back of their mill. Well, we got the wagon righted an’ drug Aunt Merty out’n the creek, an’ Uncle Ed figgered that he’d rather ride on top with Joe Joe an’ Cousin Bert so I got moved up front with Maybell, Granny an’ Mama.

Granny an’ Mama was jawin’ about some recipe that Mama had found in The Book that were guaranteed to remove warts, with Granny sayin’ as how she couldn’t see no earthly reason fer doin’ it, so Maybell an’ me crawled under the seat an’ commenced to playin' a game of mumbley peg, usin' Grampaw's ole huntin' knife. Maybell were purty good, an' she usually won, but that were mostly cause she had that magnetic plate in her head. She almost scalped herself when we hit a bump, an’ purty soon we got tired of playin' so's we climbed back up agin an' asked Granny if'n we was there yet. She allowed as how if we didn't quit pesterin' her she were gonna throw us right off'n that wagon an' make us walk. Uncle Ed suggested that we throw them cats off too, an' jest about then we come over the ridge an' there was Smith Corners.

Them shopkeepers was so delighted to see us as we come into town that they had mostly shut all their shops down (in fact some had boarded 'em up an' one ol' feller, Sam Perkins, the one what run the pawn shop, had even gone so fur as to pack up an' leave town) an' they was waitin' on their front porches to show us their shotgun collections an’ watch us pass by. Granny nodded real friendly like at all of 'em, an Merty muttered at 'em from under the wagon. Maybell an' Cousin Bert wanted to stay an’ visit with some of ‘em, but Granny insisted that we push on till we got to Mayor Harper's where we was stoppin' fer a spell. Well, Mayor Harper’s place were just on the other side of town, so it weren’t too long afore we came to it.

Mayor Harper an’ his current wife (Mayor Harper went through wives faster than them cats went through mailmen) was thrilled to see us, an’ set down a nice lunch fer us too. There was pickled pigs feet an’ yam paste an’ liverwurst an’ caper sandwiches on raisin bread, sardine flavored lemonade an’ fresh pinecones in cream fer dessert. Mayor Harper said that they didn’t much eat that fancy ever’ day, but since we was special company, they was happy to lay on a spread. Granny recollected that the last time Mayor Harper had come up to visit us there on Mount Misty that she had served up grape jelly an’ oyster sausages, boiled arrowroot fillets an’ curried rattlesnake with a side of marbles, so it were fit an’ proper that he treat us jest as good when we came to call.
Granny got out the family photos, an’ Mayor Harper’s current wife decided to show us one o’ her world famous lasso tricks, as she had come from circus folk. The story goes that she had been found by them circus folk one night when the moon were full, out in that there field where they was pitchin’ camp fer the show the very next day. They weren’t no one there abouts who would lay claim to her, so them circus people up an’ kept her. They done taught her rope tricks, an’ how to rassle a mad hippo, an’ all sorts of balancin’ tricks. The balancing didn’t seem to take, no how, since she couldn’t walk across the room without trippin’ over Mayor Harper, their dog Boopie LaRue (who were part coyote, part poodle, part mongoose an’ madder than that Smith Corners crowd after they got covered with bits o’ Finkle Pfister’s lunch) or practically any pattern on the carpet, but she were a wizard with a lasso. Joe Joe’s favorite part were when she wrangled the neighbor’s kids an’ drug ‘em over the fence into the briar patch, an’ Cousin Bert were especially fond of trick where she set the rope on fire, an’ then the rope set her hair on fire. It were pretty apparent from the scars an’ from Mayor Harper insistin’ that she go outside first, that she had spent plenty o’ time rehearsin’ that one.

It were happy meal, an’ we all had a good time jawin’ an’ reminiscin’ til jest afore sunset, when them cats decided they was hungry. Well, Mayor Harper were none to pleased to lose the services of his best mule, an’ more than a little irritated that his oldest son Biff weren’t nowhere to be found when all the fuss died down, so, what with one thing an’ another, Granny figgered that we would be best to continue on our way.
We packed up an’ after a few minutes chasin’ Merty around the yard, Ed managed to get her back on the wagon an’ we went set out. Granny gave over the reins to Joe Joe who was itchin’ to drive, an’ she sat up in back with Burbie Strumforth Pfister who were afraid of yams an’ had hid under the remains of Granny’s tablecloth (not the ever’day one with the list on it, but the good one with the rose embroidery) durin’ lunch. We was out of town, an’ headin’ towards them caves when a ruckus broke out underneath them two an’ disturbed their jawin’. Cousin Bert (who was known fer bein’ light fingered) had stashed Mayor Harper’s dog, Boopie LaRue, in the back of our wagon, an’ Boopie was settin’ fer to give them cats a run fer their money. Maybell an’ Granpaw was laughin’ so hard they both fell off the back an’ we had to stop again to chase ‘em as they rolled down a little hill. While Cousin Bert an’ me was runnin’ after ‘em, Cousin Bert tripped over a stone what had a plaque o’ some sort set into it. Leavin’ Maybell an’ Grampaw to fend fer their selves, we set to tryin’ to read what were writ on the stone.

Mama clambered down off’n the wagon to see why fer we ain’t captured them rollin’ Pfisters yet, an’ she saw Cousin Bert an’ me diggin’ through the weeds what had grown up around that there rock. Granny an’ Burbie come down to join us, an’ Maybell come up the hill carryin’ Grampaw who, since it was after sunset, were somewhat heavier than usual, while Ed untied them ropes we had used to strap Merty to the side of the wagon, an’ usin’ her as a shield between Boopie LaRue an’ them cats, snuck down as well. Mama read the inscription an’ declared that we was not gonna go to them caves, no how, since we had come across somethin’ much more important an’ even educational. Grampaw weren’t sure he needed no more educatin’, since he were dead an’ it were bound to be wasted on him, so he volunteered to get dinner, an’ since the only other person in the family who could cook was Granny, we all said as how we figgered that would be purty fine. He hauled out the cook pot an’ discovered Joe Joe, who had fallen in it an’ gotten stuck there when them cats had tried to take over the drivin’ to get away from Boopie LaRue. Joe Joe voted fer boiled cat, an’ Ed said Grampaw was welcome to try, but he figgered them cats wasn’t gonna take to it.

Meanwhile, Mama was fixin’ fer to tell us the story of that there plaque. After we’d all settled down around the campfire what Granny had started (usin’ strips of fabric what had been draped over Burbie), Mama proceeded.
“On this here spot was the very place where the Pfisters first set foot on the soil of this here country,” she read. “Signed, Brangren Zankleston Pfister.” We was all purty impressed, ‘specially since the nearest border were some 700 miles away, an’ Mama tole us how Brangren got here, from the old country. Back when Great Great Great Great Great Great Aunt Googy Pfister weren’t nothin’ but a gleam in her father’s (Gloock Afrunian, who himself were an immigrant from somewheres purty cold, since he had showed up on Great Great Great Great Great Great Aunt Googy’s mother’s doorstep one frigid winter night wearin’ only a baldin’ coonskin cap an’ a confused smile but without a bit o’ frostbite on him) eye, it were the usual thing fer a young Pfister when he reached a certain age to go out an’ seek his fortune. Many a Pfister had found happiness by headin’ out with nothin’ but his good looks an’ a lunch to rival Finkle’s, an makin’ their way in the world as best they could. Mama tole us about Rutherfurd Pfister, one o’ our prouder kin, who stole out from home one night, leavin’ his poor widowed father, Dinsmore Pfister alone to take care of Rutherfurd’s 17 sisters (ranging in age from 2 to 56, an’ most folks was purty certain that their mother, Rinita Gottesfeld Pfister died happy to be goin’) an went on to become the King of Siam. Of course that was afore Siam got rid o’ their kings an’ then stopped bein’ Siam, but no one ever could tie that to King Ruthie (as he were affectionately called) anyhow, ‘cause he had purty much left before the coup an’ had taken all the royal treasure with him fer safe keepin’. Leastways that’s what he always said when he showed up fer dinner at Mount Misty wearin’ a tiara. Which really didn’t explain the dress, no how, but Granny said to hesh up an’ she’d explain it all when we was older. Apparently she meant older’n her, since we couldn’t never get the story out o’ her no ways.

At any rate, Mama tole us, Great Great Great Great Great Great Aunt Googy’s mother’s name were Henrietta, an’ her mother’s name were Dorinda. Now Dorinda had herself two childern, which were unusual in the ol’ country, family sizes there tendin’ to run closer to at least the size of the Moldavian Army (on Thursday, early in the day, that is, when Bobba were not out at the market an’ the Captain was on duty an’ the General was wearin’ his own uniform, this was afore Mookie come along, cause after she give it back, the General was heared to complain that it didn’t never fit right again). Henrietta’s sibling were named Andover, an’ no one, not even Great Great Great Grand Aunt Anastasia herself could say fer sure if he were a she or she were a he. But when Andover came of age (a tricky concept in our family, fer sure, since most Pfisters is born in dark places (like under the floor of the jail or down in that sorta warm spot behind the family crypt (which didn’t see much other use, truth to tell)) an’ are left there till they decide to come out by their selves, so we is never really sure which one is who, nor how old they really is, neither) his or her momma Dorinda took a long look at the situation an’ decided that since Henrietta were duller than a dead frog conversationally an’ looked like Eliza Mae Birddog Stark, the none too attractive bride of Judge Stark, who were so ugly, she could make a train take a dirt road, it weren’t likely that she were gonna find herself married any time soon, so it were up to Andover to git out there an’ continue the family name. Andover weren’t too displeased at the thought, since there weren’t nobody around the homestead any more fit fer marryin’ than Henrietta (an’ after the unfortunate incident with Fourth Cousin once removed (well, twice, but the second time didn’t happen till after he’d died) Vanity Pfister an’ his sister Durgella, we Pfister’s tended to shy away from that sort o’ thing, although not entirely, which is how we think the Dizzy Dell Pfisters’ went astray) Andover figgered that seekin’ a fortune weren’t a bad idea at all. So off he or she went of a Tuesday, an’ didn’t nobody never hear from her or him from that day to this.

Wednesday of that same week, however, Gloock Afrunian showed up. Dorinda figgered him fer a Thornstem an’ was about to send him packin’ when she noticed his tattoo. Since he weren’t wearin’ pants (an’ in fact, never put on a pair from that day till the day he died) it were hard to see how she didn’t notice a full color map of Norway runnin’ the length of his body, back an’ front afore seein’ most anything else about Gloock, but maybe Dorinda should’a been with us on this here pilgrimage we was makin’ to Beaver’s Falls too. Except, of course, fer her notorious fear o’ poodles, an’ what with Boopie La Rue takin’ over the whole wagon fer hisself, perhaps it were just as well that Dorinda stayed home.

Anyhoo, once’t she took a good long look at Gloock an’ realized he were like to be the only man what was gonna come along that hadn’t never met Henrietta, an’ since he didn’t seem to be to bright, no how, Dorinda decided that were good enough qualifications fer her, an’ she got Henrietta an’ Gloock betrothed on the spot. That spot has since become a sort o’ landmark, an’ often times in the late afternoon, even in this day an’ age, a couple o’ anthropologists are like as not to come drivin’ by an stop up on the porch. An’ if they remember to bring some fried pickles with ‘em, why then nearly half the time Hitzburn Pfister (who we figger is probably the nephew of Gloock an’ Henrietta’s ninth great granddaughter Adrippa Pfister, an’ currently living in the ol’ homestead) don’t shoot ‘em but once or twice afore he lets ‘em look around the place.

Dorinda were right smart about things, an’ by Friday Gloock were purty much thawed out, warmed both by the stories Dorinda (who had been the county champion tall tale teller there abouts fer thirty six years runnin’) spun fer him about Henrietta, (who she wisely didn’t let him meet till some four years or so after the weddin’) an’ by Dorinda’s home brewed cold remedy, which can be found on page 612 o’ The Book an’ can take paint off’n stolen mules at twenty two paces. Gloock, who were usually so lost he couldn’t find his way home from his own livin’ room (which, as it later turned out, was the reason fer his tattoos… but unfortunately he hadn’t never lived in Norway; the tattoo artist, a fella by the name o’ Warburton Stone were a man with a peculiar sense o’ humor, an’ that, as it turned out, were the reason Gloock had landed up on Dorinda’s doorstep) decided that this were a purty good deal, specially since Dorinda assured him that Henrietta had a nose like a ol’ hound dog (she meant that it looked like one) an’ Gloock figgered he wouldn’t never get lost no more.
Henrietta wanted to wait fer Andover to fetch his or herself home afore the weddin’, but Dorinda wisely suggested that waitin’ would only increase the likelihood that Gloock might actually end up in Norway an’ there weren’t no way they’d ever git him back from there, the Norwegian government’s extradition treaties being what they was, so heavily veiled an’ intensely perfumed, Henrietta married Gloock on the very next new moon, a traditional weddin’ day fer us Pfisters mostly cause on a new moon they was enough light to see where to sign the weddin’ license, but not really enough to make a quick getaway. They was reasonably happy, after a honeymoon in the Panama Canal an’ stayed happy cause Dorinda made sure that Henrietta never took off that veil. Eventually, after a good number o’ years spent whippin’ Gloock into shape, Dorinda, like all good mothers in law, fell ill to a wastin’ disease (which no one never managed to trace back to Gloock) an’ left them. Mama said she were of the opinion that Dorinda had figgered she done all she could fer Henrietta, an’ finally set out to see what had become of Andover, but Granny said that didn’t make no sense, an’ she figgered that ol’ Dorinda were probably buried down in the cemetery with the rest of them San Sebastian Pfisters, an’ Grampaw allowed as how they might both be right, but it were time to quit jawin’ an’ have some dinner.

We all set down to a big helpin’ of Grampaw’s Thistle an’ Mockin’ Bird Chowder, which were always a family favorite. Burbie sung us a couple o’ campfire songs, mostly ones about usin’ campfires to burn witches (cautionary tales fer us Pfisters) an’ Boopie entertained us with a few tricks he’d learned from Mayor Harper’s wife (our favorite were when he got them cats all to line up an’ play dead). Merty were still sulkin’ cause Granny had said earlier she couldn’t pull up Mayor Harper’s rose bushes to aid in her tonsorial splendor, but Cousin Bert found her a nice cactus in full bloom, which soothed her down some. Joe Joe started snickerin’ fer no particular reason, but Maybell wasn’t gonna rise to the bait an’ ignored him an’ begged Mama to continue her story.

By this time the moon were startin’ to set sort of lazy like over the horizon, an’ the shadows from the campfire were dancin’ long an’ spooky, an’ we was all feelin’ real homelike an cozy, so Mama chucked a rock at Merty to git her to settle down an’ she went on.

Gloock an’ Henrietta had their selves a whole bunch o’ kids, Brighton, Edwisina, Sulkie, Barhoovian, Pinella, Googy, Tit an’ Renaldo an’ Hanklin (the triplets), Torgold an’ o’ course Brangren Zankleston Pfister. Most of ‘em settled down an’ worked the farm with Gloock, but Brangen was always a curious child, even after he heared that curiosity killed them cats. Of course no one never proved it, an’ not jest because there weren’t no witnesses left, but that jest peaked Brangen’s interest. One evenin’ after finishin’ his chores (he were responsible fer milkin’ the antelope, gatherin’ all the mushrooms in fer the night an’ waterin’ Cousin Alfrince Pfister, who were from the Black Sea Pfisters an’ ever’one thought had some mermaid blood in him), Brangen was down in the cellar havin’ hisself a snack of acorns an’ mole jerky when he come upon a ol’ box what had been left there since the second time a tornado took the roof off the house an’ Dorinda figgered it were time to stop storin’ all the valuables in the attic. Brangen opened the box an’ he found something that he hadn’t never seen afore. It were his aunt or uncle Andover’s secret diary. Now Andover weren’t much of a writer, in fact most of them pages were just covered with pictures of Andover’s socks, what he or she drew cause there weren’t nothing else much worth talking about there abouts. There was a couple o’ pages where Andover debated stayin’ home an’ risking what happened to the Dizzy Dell Pfisters, an’ then Brangren come upon the last page in the diary.

“Here,” Mama said, “is what Andover writ.”

Ahem. Cough cough. Errr… is this here thing on? All right, ok. Here we go. I, Andover Pfister, bein’ of sound mind as fur as anyone can prove, an’ sound body of a sort, do hereby write my last will an’ testament. I leave this here box o’ dried frogs to my sister Henrietta, all my collection of goats teeth to my invisible friend Cecilia, an’ my favorite shoehorn to Great Great Great Grand Aunt Anastasia. If’n anyone kin find it, I leave that mule what we traded Uncle Parsnip fer to my Ma, Dorinda, an’ all my salami too. Please set free my pet goldfish, you kin find him in a paper bag what I keep behind the stove since last winter so he’d kin stay warm. An’ finally, I leave my footloose an’ fancy free travellin’ ways to whoever reads this first. Signed Mr. or Ms. Andover Q. Pfister.

Well, Brangen, bein’ the youngest child an’ always in ever’body elses hand me downs (which were fine till he had to wear his sister Pinella’s weddin’ dress to his senior prom, an’ even that woulda been all right, as it were a mighty purty dress, but Brangen was mortified that he couldn’t never find a pair o’ hand me down army boots to go with it, an’ Mooky weren’t lending hers to nobody after all the trouble she had to go through to git ‘em) an’ so he weren’t never the type to look a gift horse in the mouth. So when he got that travellin’ spirit, he lit out on the road without so much as a second thought.

Winters in them days was hard, Granny said, takin up the story so Mama could go see what all the ruckus was with the wagon catchin’ on fire. So cold that yer nose (iff’n you had one) might jest fall righ off in the snow. Winds that could skin a mule, which mighta been what happened to the one Andover lost. Why, some nights, it were so cold that the doors an’ windows froze shut an’ nobody couldn’t git outt’n the house till spring, or till somebody set the place on fire. Which weren’t what was goin’ on with the wagon, as this were a warm Indian spring (Indian spring were just like Indian summer, you jest didn’t have to wait so long fer it) when we was headed to Beaver’s Falls. Granny went on to tell us that in those cold winters, many a man got lost in the woods an’ froze his self solid on the path leadin’ up to the house, steps away from the porch what he couldn’t see it in the blizzard cause Tit an Hanklin would turn off all the lights an’ make ever’body hide under the sofa whenever they seen a stranger headed their way. This provided no end o’ entertainment (not to mention lawn ornaments) fer the triplets, till one winter when Renaldo fell in love with one o’ them frozen statues an’ insisted on keepin’ it in the house all through the followin’ summer until Thanksgiving when Henrietta had an unfortunate baking accident, but that there is a tale fer another day.

Anyway, it were winter, an’ it were cold when Brangen set out to see the world, jest like his Aunt or Uncle Andover. He didn’t even stop to take his mittens what Henrietta had knitted fer him, which were a shame cause it is often quite difficult to find three mittens what match. But off Brangen went, into the snow. Fer the first sixty miles or so, he found it purty easy, since he knew all the trees in those parts, havin’ spent the previous couple of summers wanderin’ around talkin’ to them, but once he got past sixty miles, an’ found his self further from home than he had ever been, Brangen started to think that maybe he shoulda stopped fer his mittens after all. But he decided that havin’ come this far, he weren’t going’ back now, so he plowed on through the snow.

“Now, I don’t know if you remember that winter,” said Granny to Grampaw, who had finished with the dishes an’ were perched up in the crook o’ the cactus listenin’. “I was jest a girl then, an’ what I remember most was that the snow were so deep, we lost track o’ the outhouse fer about six weeks. Well, it were a purty uncomfortable month an’ a half till we found it. An’ Brangen was out there, wanderin’ alone through drifts so high he couldn’t even see over ‘em, even though at nine feet seven an’ three quarter inches he were the tallest Pfister of his generation. Why his sister Googy, who were six foot six inches were practically a midget next to Brangen. Well he didn’t have no idea about where he were headed, nor where he’d been, so fer about a week an’ a half, Brangen walked in a big ol’ circle. Twice he come to his own back door, an’ once he even tripped over Tit who were sleepin’ in the back yard, but Brangen was determined, so he kept on sloggin’ through. He were still sloggin’ along when all of a sudden an’ with no warnin’ spring sprung. The snow melted, washin’ away most o’ them frozen statues from the front lawn, and Brangen too. He were swept along with them frozen fellers fer about seventeen days through valleys, past lakes, down gullys, over petite sized mountains (or perhaps they was rather large mole hills), an’ even across what seemed to be a small ocean. When he finally managed to drag his self out o’ the raging torrent o’ spring meltwater, he sat down an’ took stock. He counted up how many fingers he had after the frostbite an’ figgered he could get by with the eleven he had left, then took a look around to see where he had landed.

“It were right here,” said Mama, comin’ back from putting out the fire (which Maybell an me figgered Boopie had set when he were tryin’ to rope them cats). “Brangen looked round, saw this here barren landscape with all them caves in the distance, an’ the cactus an’ all, an’ he thought to his self, this’ll do,”

The wanderin’ spirit had been washed clean outtn’ him by all that water, so Brangen found his self a bride (Bisby Sentilla Thornstem, from the Crooked Canyon Thornstems, a lovely girl who was lookin’ fer a man to marry her or a rock to hide under when she come upon Brangen still drippin’ from his journey) an’ decided to stay right here. He put down roots in Smith Corners (which annoyed all the folks what had to try an’ dig them up again) an’ invited some of the folks from the old country to come an’ join him. Great Great Great Grand Aunt Anastasia declined the offer, though she did send a nice gift basket fer his wedding, but Googy (who were pregnant with Pernod at the time an’ bein’ mighty closed mouthed about how that’d happened) figgered she’d come on an’ see what Brangen had found. She brung a couple of other relatives with her in her luggage, an’ they all chipped in an bought a nice plaque to commemorate Brangen’s arrival.

“An’ that,” Mama said, “is how we Pfister’s ended up in this part o’ the world. We found the place up on Mount Misty, took care of the volcano, an’ have lived there from that day to this. An’ now, I think, it is time you all got some sleep. The sun is set to come up any minute, them cats is all tucked away, an’ it is time fer you to hit the sack”

Maybell, Joe Joe an’ I was purty tired, so we all joined Grampaw in the cactus an’ soon was asleep. Cousin Bert had fallen asleep half way through the story, an’ Ed figgered he were ok where he was, so Ed left Cousin Bert curled up in the ashes of the fire. He an Merty went back to sleep on the wagon, Granny grabbed her bucket an’ headed off to see about findin’ some fog, an’ I drifted off to sleep with Mama’s voice singin’ a song about axe sharpenin’. Them coyotes we was hearin’ through the night didn’t bother us none, possibly cause Mama’s singin’ voice was often compared to the sound of full grown hippos bein’ ripped apart by arthritic crocodiles, but most likely from fear of them cats as organized by Boopie La Rue.

We slept through the heat o’ the day, then next evenin’ we packed up what were left o’ the wagon and trundled off towards Beaver’s Falls. It were startin’ to rain, so we moved Merty to the top o’ the wagon so she could git some waterin’ (her hair were startin’ to grow back an’ it were in need of some fertilizin’) an’ moved Burbie down underneath where the rain couldn’t git at her so much (she were afeared that she might melt). Since we was travellin’ at sech a slow pace (the mule weren’t doin’ so well, he’d been lost, jest about killed them cats, practically skinned, an’ was lookin’ kind o’ peaked) Maybell an’ me decided we was gonna walk up ahead. We hopped down an’ set out to see what trouble we could round up. Granny called out that we should take Cousin Bert with us, which is when we realized we’d left him back in the fire pit, so Joe Joe run back an’ got him, but Cousin Bert allowed as how he’d rather ride under the wagon with Burbie.

Maybell an’ me set off, an’ Joe Joe trailed after us fer a bit, but when we spotted some rattlesnakes an’ tried to sneak up on ‘em an Joe Joe’s snickerin’ scared ‘em off, we dunked him in the river an’ threw rocks at him till he went back to the wagon. We saw him conferrin’ with Boopie an’ figgered that would keep him busy, so we left him there an’ (followin’ the buffalo tracks that Granny said were leadin’ us to Beaver’s Falls) took out to explore. Maybell were a whiz when it come to spottin’ wild animals, an’ I were pretty good at avoidin’ rockslides, so we was havin’ a lot of fun an’ makin’ purty good time too when we come up on The Hermit. Now we all knowed about The Hermit, cause it were one of our favorite bedtime stories, when Mama were tuckin’ us all into the coal bin at night. I liked it alright, but Maybell used to complain a fair piece cause Cousin Bert (who slept better’n most of the dead Pfisters) would roll over an’ kick her in the gizzard in his sleep. She weren’t none too fond o’ that, an’ she always asked iff’n we couldn’t jest throw Cousin Bert off’n a cliff an’ be done with it, but Granny wouldn’t hear o’ no sech thing. Eventually Cousin Bert would git a job workin’ fer the state diggin’ subway lines (strangely, no subway trains was ever put into them tunnels what Cousin Bert dug) which kept him away from Mount Misty most o’ the time, an’ Maybell would git some sleep, but this were afore all that, an’ she ain’t had but six hours o’ sleep in four or five years. What she did have, though, were eidetic memory an’ she remembered ever’ word Mama ever tol’ us about The Hermit, so when he popped up from behind a rock an’ threatened to scalp us with his stone knife, we was all terrible excited to see him.

The Hermit was a scrawny feller, about 113 lbs. soakin’ wet (which he were right then, cause he’d been followin’ us downstream hidin’ underwater an’ only comin’ up fer air when we wasn’t lookin’ so he were a little out o’ breath since we’d been skippin’ stones on the river fer the last three miles) wearin’ a diaper made from a llama skin (imported, after the Great Scootling Disaster they weren’t no more llamas native to them parts) an a fetching blue hat with a little veil an’ a feather who were bald in front with dreadlocks in the back an’ had skin the color of old kiwi fruit. He were carryin’ a pair o’ skis (“Jest in case,” he said an that were that), a bag full o’ Mallomars an’ a clay pipe. He didn’t never smoke (he were a rabid anti tobbacconist after his Grandma had died o’ chokin’ to death durin’ a tobacco spittin’ contest at the local church fair) but the pipe were a gift from his Pappy so he treasured it. Rumor had it that The Hermit’s Great Grandfather (on his Mammy’s side) had been a Pfister (possibly one of the disowned Bald Bay Bridge Pfisters what had moved east, got etiquette an’ changed their name to Narhoodle) but another rumor claimed that he’d been Governor o’ Iowa, an’ ever’body knew they weren’t never no Pfister born what would set foot (nor any other body part) in Iowa. Iowa seemed not to mind the slight, so the armed truce looked to hold.

I were purty startled to see that The Hermit had green argyle socks on, cause Mama didn’t never mention that in her stories, but later he tol’ us that he found ‘em sittin’ on a rock one day an’ had figgered that the gods was either tryin’ to reward him fer his hermittin’ or they was annoyed by his stinky feet (to Maybell’s way o’ thinkin’ them socks weren’t much help with that problem) an’ had sent him some Holy Footcoverin’s. Not wantin’ to affront the gods either way, The Hermit had worn them socks until they started to resemble Mayor Harper’s personals an’ were so crusted with dirt that they had their own ecosystem. The Hermit figgered that hidin’ in the river might be good fer that problem, but unfortunately all it did was water the roots of some o’ them weeds what had started to spring outt’n the top o’ them socks, an’ killed the entire breedin’ stock of fish in the river. O’ course, while the general population o’ Smith Corners (who was downstream about fifteen miles from where The Hermit resided, both cause he liked the privacy, an’ cause the last time he tried to move closer they set his diaper on fire, chased his pet chicken off a cliff an’ sued him fer conspiracy to cause nausea) were mighty upset that the river were toxic fer at least a week ever’ time he did that, they were somewhat mollified at havin’ fish fer dinner with so little effort, as the fish were jumpin’ ashore to get outt’n that there water.

By this time the rest o’ the family had caught up with us, an’ after we talked The Hermit outt’n the tree he’d skittered up when he caught site o’ Boopie marchin’ them cats up the trail and convinced Merty that The Hermit weren’t her sister Ermine, Granny figgered we might just set a spell an’ have some lunch. She unpacked the picnic basket what Mayor Harper’s wife had insisted we take with the leftovers in it an’ passed around the plates. Mama was all fer makin’ some lemonade, but when Grampaw fainted while dippin’ some o’ that river water, she said we might as well just have plain lemon juice instead. Maybell an’ Cousin Bert found some crabapples which we was savin’ fer dessert, an’ The Hermit had a bottle o’ wine that he’d been given as a bar mitzvah present, so all in all, we had ourselves a nice spread. After lunch, Burbie asked The Hermit iff’n he wouldn’t tell us his tale, an’ he seemed amenable to it, so we all pulled up a rock to sit on an’ paid attention.

“I was,” he said “destined fer a life of greatness. What I got, however, was a life of being grating, which is not, I assure you, the same thing.”

He went on to tell us about his life prior to hermitude. He was born of a Tuesday in a small town south of Beaver’s Falls by about 300 miles. It were a nice town, with flower baskets hangin’ off’n the lamp posts in the spring an’ a fall festival ever’ year to which the farmers would bring their prize winnin’ pumpkins an’ extra fat geese. They had a little red schoolhouse, a little white church, a little blue post office an’ a little rainbow colored paint store what did a boomin’ business ever’ spring when the townfolk felt like sprucin’ the place up after a long winter. There were a sewin’ circle what met at Missus Kelp’s house on Thursday afternoons. The men o’ the town all liked to fish, an’ they’d get together early of a Saturday mornin’ an’ head down to the lake, rain or shine, an’ though they hardly never caught no fish, ever’body figgered it were ok, an’ not jest cause o’ Bobby Dorminster’s still what were out behind the ol’ boathouse neither, but also cause while the men were all out fishin’ the women could get in a game of hai lai. Growin’ up The Hermit had been treated with kindness when he deserved it, an’ a switch when he didn’t, but that weren’t too often, as he were purty much like any kid in those days, cowlicked (them were mighty friendly cows, mind you) an’ dimpled an’ with plenty o’ freckles; traits which all lent their selves to havin’ a mild disposition. Joe Joe snickered at the idea that freckles caused wimpiness, (an’ when he gestured to Cousin Bert who were the reignin’ All County Jailhouse Fisticuffs Champ an’ whose face looked sort o’ like a red polka dot map o’ the Milky Way we sorta had to concede his point) but Grampaw tol’ him to hesh up so The Hermit could hurry up an’ finish his story, cause Grampaw needed to go find a convenient bush, that there lunch weren’t settin’ well with him. Granny whacked Grampaw in the head with the fryin’ pan an said he should git iff’n he must, but he didn’t have no call to bother live folks with his digestive problems.

We set Burbie (who’d fallen off’n her rock durin’ the fray) back up an’ The Hermit continued. In those days he were called Franklin. It weren’t his name, mind you; his Mammy had christened him Alton Morningstar Peabody (over the objection of her husband, whose last name were not Peabody but rather Grebs) but had allowed as it were all right with her if ever’body called him Franklin after her pet marmoset when she were growin’ up. Other than a mammy who had her quirks, Franklin had an idyllic childhood. He done well in school an’ seemed all set to join his Pappy’s business an’ eventually take over the livery stable when his Mammy set him down on the porch one day an’ tol’ him her deep dark secret.

“Pappy,” said Mammy Grebs “ain’t really yore pappy.”

Frankin had to admit that considerin’ the fact that he weren’t named Grebs an’ that Dr. Peabody had been through them parts some nine months afore he were born, he’d sorta figgered that maybe this were the case, but being a good and kind son he didn’t want to bring it up. Mammy allowed as how this were mighty polite an’ she were glad that she had raised such a well mannered child. She then begun to reminisce about how he’d always been a good boy, an’ she were proud of him, an’ started in to tellin’ stories about how he’d always helped little old lady (they was only the one, by the name o’ Mrs. Frinkle, it were a very small town) to cross the street (they was only the one, it was a very, very small town). When she started in on his Sunday School projects an’ his first grade record of perfect attendance, Franklin grabbed her by the ears an’ shook her a bit to git her back to her point.

Mammy went on to say that she’d gone to Dr. Peabody fer some help because she were not havin’ any luck havin’ a baby with Pappy, an’ what she wanted, more than anythin’ in the world were a child to love an hold an keep fer her very own. So when Dr. Peabody helped her out, she were so grateful that she’d named Franklin after him.

“So Dr. Peabody is my real pappy?” asked Franklin.

“Oh good heavens no!” said Mammy.

Franklin admitted to bein’ a bit confused at this, an’ asked Mammy what ever did she mean. Mammy went on to say that Dr. Peabody had mixed her up a potion an tol’ her that she needed to take it on the next full moon, then sleep with six cloves o’ garlic under her pillow fer the next two weeks. Mammy took the potion home an’ followed Dr. Peabody’s advice to the letter. She only had to wait two days, then she drank the potion on the night o’ the full moon an’ put that garlic under her pillow an’ was preparin’ to go to sleep when Pappy came in.

Now Pappy, as it happened, were deathly allergic to garlic. So the minute he got a whiff o’ what was in the bed, he begun to sneeze an’ wheeze like he were some sort o’ train engine tryin’ to get over a mountain. It were so bad that eventually he run outt’n the house an’ went to dunk his head in the horse trough. Well after he done that, they wasn’t no way Mammy was gonna let him come back to bed, so she sent him out to sleep in the barn. This went on fer two weeks, an’ then Mammy went back to Dr. Peabody to tell him what had happened. Dr. Peabody said she weren’t to worry none, that he figgered that even with Pappy sleepin’ in the barn, his potion were so good it were purty sure Mammy were pregnant now anyways, but to be sure, she should go see that ol’ Gypsy womern what traveled with him. Mammy set down an’ that ol’ Gypsy tol’ Mammy she were with child, an’ that this child were gonna be special, an’ that he were destined fer greatness. He would, she said, be able to see beyond the veil, have the second sight, know the unknowable, unscrew the inscrutable.

Franklin allowed as how this were fine, an’ he were pleased to know that his future were so bright, but would Mammy please tell him who his Pappy really were?

Mammy said “Well, I thought you understood. You ain’t got one.”

She went on to explain that after Franklin were conceived with no help at all from Pappy (who still slept in the barn to that day) nor nobody else, neither, it become clear to her that he were a special child, destined fer more important things than livery stables an’ small town Boy Scoutiness. She durn well expected him to become someone important. An’ so she had signed him up fer a correspondence course from Evangeline Honoria’s School of Prognostication an’ Pronouncements.

Now in them days, ever’body who were anybody in the world o’ the supernatural had a certificate o’ achievement from Evangeline Honoria. At least, that were what her advertisement on the back o’ the Sears Roebuck mail order catalogue said. Ever’ famous seer an’ sage on the east coast, an’ all the best fortune tellers in the west were graduates of Evangeline’s correspondence school program. Her teachin’ methods (the ad claimed, an if it were in print, that were truth enough fer Mammy) were passed down from master to apprentice, from prophet to clairvoyant down the ages stretchin’ all the way back to the temple priestesses durin’ the reign of Cleopatra.

Evangeline taught the President’s Astrologer an’ the Queen’s Tarot Card Reader. She even had trained that ol’ Gyspy womern what went around with Dr. Peabody’s Wonderful Travellin’ Medicine show. Franklin’s Mammy were very impressed by both the promises in the advertisement an’ the 17 point Garamond Bold Italic font, so she had sent away fer the six week course.

Franklin, not wantin’ to disappoint his Mammy applied his self to his studies. He learned to cast a horoscope, to tell fortunes usin’ ordinary playin’ cards an’ to heal diseases rangin’ from gout to Tourette’s Syndrome with the use of herbs and layin’ on of hands. In week three Franklin read his Pappy’s I Ching (which said “when the albatross is mellow, people will sit by the tree and all will be mauve”, which accordin’ to Evangeline Honoria’s Big Book of Interpretation meant that it were likely he were dead but nobody hadn’t noticed yet, which annoyed Pappy who figgered iff’n he were dead, it would be nice if somebody at least sent petunias which were his favorite flower), an’ then he tossed the rune stones fer his Mammy an’ found out that she were really a Oriental Potentate, but since when he were eleven years old he had used loquacious through sarsaparilla in his Webster’s International Dictionary to make a paper mache model of the solar system he couldn’t look up “potentate” an’ so Franklin threw them rune stones outt’n the window because his Mammy weren’t no kind of potato no how. Week five of the course were dedicated to the study of telekinesis, but Franklin had his Mammy write a note to Ms. Evangeline excusin’ him because ever since Pappy had been struck by lightening, he didn’t hold with electricity, so he wouldn’t allow no televisions in the house.

Now, the thing about Franklin were that he really weren’t the studious type. When he were in school, he usually sat in the back o’ the room an avoided Miss Myrtlebaum (the schoolmarm, who were also the town postmistress, dental assistant an’ proprietress of the local house o’ ill repute, which twice a month also hosted the Ladies Aid Society of the Presbyterian/Lutheran/Unholy Order of Satanist Church (they was only the one church, you may recall it was a very, very, very small town)) by the simple expedient o’ duckin’ behind Norton “The Tank” Simpson (who later went on to become president o’ the seamstress’ union an’ a patron o’ the ballet, but at age 11 weighed well over 300 pounds was approximately the size (an’ color) o’ Great Grandfather Pfister’s Fire Engine) whenever she were lookin’ fer a volunteer. So, despite his Mammy beltin’ him regular while he were studyin’ Evangeline Honoria’s correspondence course, they wasn’t nothin’ that took. He managed to pass the course by means o’ mailin’ all his answers in on tissue paper post cards durin’ rainstorms, an’ cause Ms. Evangeline figgered mostly anyone who sent in their answers with $3.97 a week had done the minimum work needed to be a certified, if not good, Prognosticator, but mostly because Mammy Grebs had writ a letter to that there Academy an’ tol’ ‘em that if Franklin didn’t graduate, she were prepared to send him along to their address fer some extra curricular studies. The picture she included sealed the deal, Franklin were graduated.

So, after six weeks, Franklin were the proud recipient of a brand new Certificate of Achievement in Future Demystifyin’ an’ Fortune Revealing signed by Ms. Evangeline Honoria her very self. This permitted him to call his self a graduate of Evangeline Honoria’s School of Prognostication an’ Pronouncements an’ also allowed him a fifteen percent discount on all mystic supplies from her Emporium o’ The Beyond, (money back guarantee offer not valid in some states, twenty dollar fee fer returned checks, shipping and handling extra). As noted, Franklin weren’t much of a student, so he weren’t never really sure beyond what, but that didn’t hamper him none as he prepared to set up his Parlor o’ the Past, Present an’ Future.

Pappy were so proud o’ Franklin that he were fit to bust, so he did. After the funeral (ever’one agreed they wasn’t never such a happy lookin’ corpse what they had ever seen an’ them petunias were an awful nice touch) Franklin changed his name (as required on page 46 o’ Evangeline Honoria’s Handbook o’ Lookin’ Into the Fog, in chapter three, which were all about the magical energies surrounding bein’ a mysterious figger, an’ how to be ready to skip town, jest in case) to Ickwiddle the Fetid, rented his self a second floor room (over the bowlin’ alley) an’ a stuffed owl an’ opened fer business.

He weren’t very good. As a matter o’ fact, he weren’t no good at all. In his entire career, Ickwiddle didn’t never make one correct prediction, nor never removed even the simplest o’ curses. Folks what brung their children to him fer a blessing often returned to visit him with their remains, an’ whenever he read someone’s tea leaves, they was like as not to choke to death on the dregs. Ickwiddle predicted that Arthur Hickmeister (who were the local chimney sweep/butter churn repairman) would be elected President o’ the United States of America, despite his fear o’ both handshakin’ an’ whistlestops. He predicted that the World’s Fair o’ ’93 would end in a giant cotton candy poisonin’ fiasco even though cotton candy weren’t invented till ‘97. He tol’ farmers there abouts that the future were purty clear; they should all plow under their soybean crops an’ plant nothin’ but zucchini. He cast a horoscope fer a local boy, an aspirin’ writer by the name o’ Samuel Clemmens an’ tol’ him that he should change his name to Hilton Prodvark. Icwiddle’s predictions was so fur wrong that folks what got warnin’s about their barns burnin’ down started to run out an’ git flood insurance. Unfortunately, this didn’t work neither, since one farmer what done that got run down by a rabid buffalo the very next day, an’ another lost his mother in law to an unfortunate combination of too much hairspray, a tragically misplaced jelly sandwich, an’ a low flyin’ Frisbee, so people soon begun to think that the problem might not be Ickwiddle’s predictin’, but rather Ickwiddle his self. Afore Ickwiddle set up shop, they figgered, no one knew when nothin’ was gonna happen, but now that they did, even though they never knew what were comin’, ever’body were tense an’ worried all the time. So obviously the thing were to get rid o’ Ickwiddle.

Ickwiddle his self were none too fond o’ this plan, an’ stood up at the town meetin’ where it were bein’ proposed an’ said so. He were eloquent about his dreams, his hopes, his goals, an’ his desire to jest help the good folk there abouts, an’ he waxed poetical about how all he ever wanted in this world was the chance to do somethin’ important an’ useful. He went on fer near two hours, an’ at the end, ever’body were in tears an they all allowed as how that there speech were the most movin’ thing they ever heared, an’ then they voted on the plan.

Fifteen minutes later, Ickwiddle were well outside o’ town an’ makin’ good time. Fortuately he’d remembered to bring his rented owl to the meetin’ with him, so he didn’t have to stop home fer it, an’ the townsfolk was a little slowed up by the fact that Harold Lynch (no relation to Ruben P. Lynch), who owned the hardware store/ library/ beauty parlor (very, very, very, very small… well, you get the point) couldn’t find his key to open up shop so’s people could purchase tiki torches an’ pitchforks fer the chase, so they had to wait until Mrs. Lynch (neé Fern, as it happened) run back home to get the spare. Eventually they got their selves sorted out an’ they lit their torches an’ then lit out after Ickwiddle. It weren’t really that they wanted to set him on fire, you understand, it were just that they wanted to be clear about how much they was very sure they didn’t never want to see him around there again, an’ if a little singein’ were required to drive the message home, well, they was prepared fer it.

By the time the folks set out, though, Ickwiddle had gotten a purty good head start. He weren’t particularly headed nowheres, so he jest took the first road he saw an’ commenced to runnin’. He come to a fork an’ headed left, then a turn off an’ took a right. Them folks after him had a dickens of a time tryin’ to figger which way he run, but after a good long chase they finally cornered him (“Right about on this very spot here,” he said.) Ickwiddle apologized fer all the trouble he done caused an’ agreed it were better iff’n he stopped callin’ his self Ickwiddle the Fetid (a dissentin’ minority suggested that he might as well hang on to ‘the Fetid’), but seein’ as how his Mammy was standin’ at the front of the crowd wavin’ a mighty sharp lookin scythe at him, he hoped they’d all understand how he were reluctant to go back to either Franklin or Anton Morningstar Peabody an’ that he figgered maybe he’d just go by The Hermit fer a while till he maybe picked a better name. With that, an’ his agreein’ to stay outt’n town, them folks said if it were ok with The Hermit, they wasn’t gonna burn him down, no how. The Hermit said that were plenty fine with him, so ever’body went home satisfied with a hard days work.

“I ain’t never come up with a better name, so here I am to this day,” concluded The Hermit.

Granny mumbled somethin’ about that ol’ Gypsy womern an’ what she were gonna do the next time she caught up with her. The Hermit assured Granny that he didn’t figger it were really her fault, an’ besides, he were satisfied with things the way they was. The folks of Smith Corners were mighty nice, if somewhat distant, an’ they only once come to blows over him livin’ there, so that were a blessin’, an’ he also guessed that he were pleased to have had the opportunity to see some of the world. The Hermit then glanced at his wristwatch, gave a huge shriek that knocked Burbie right off’n her rock agin, an’ skittered away off into the brush without another word. Boopie looked like he was set to go find out what were goin’ on, but Grampaw called him off an’ said that it were probably important hermittin’ business an’ we should be gittin’ back on the road anyhoo.

We picked up Burbie, gathered up the picnic an’ them cats, an’ got underway. The wagon what we was all ridin’ in was the one what Not So Great Uncle Hazeworth Pfister had built. Hazeworth weren’t much of a carpenter, so ever’ dozen miles or so one or another o’ the wheels was like to fall off. Most times Granny, who were doin’ most o’ the drivin’, would give us a shout jest afore one popped off so’s we could all grab onto somethin’ near an’ dear to us afore the wagon fell over. But fer some reason (maybe she were still upset about that ol’ Gyspy womern) jest then a wheel flew right off, beanin’ that brown mule right in the back o’ the head, then ricochetin’ straight into Mama’s lap. The mule had already had a tough day, an’ was purty annoyed by this treatment, so he took off down the trail like the devil were after him, haulin’ the wagon a’bumpin’ an’ a’bouncin’ along behind him. Come to think of it, all the excitement had stirred up them cats, so maybe the devil were after him.

Granny (who had such good upper arm strength she could bench press Ed) yanked on them reins so hard the leather started to smoke an’ did her best to slow down that mule, but the mule weren’t havin’ none of it. He kicked his three legs up an’ drug us along behind him down that windin’ path. It were quite a ride, Cousin Bert up top wavin’ his arms an whoopin’, Mama hangin’ on to Granny to keep her from flyin’ right off’n the seat ever’ time we rebounded off some rock, Maybell grabbin’ at my ankles, me hangin’ off’n the side o’ the wagon to see what were goin’ on, an’ Merty singin ‘ “Oh Suzanna” at the top o’ her lungs. The scarf what Uncle Ed were knittin’ begun to unravel all over the place, Boopie started throwin’ random things overboard, and Burbie had grabbed a ol’ umbrella an were usin’ it to fend off them cats (who, it seemed, were lookin’ fer someone to cuddle with, then possibly disembowel). What none of us knowed at that point were that we was bearin’ right down on the north western edge o’ the Great Dry River Canyon.

The Great Dry River used to be an ol’ empty streambed what had dried up sometime in the late Jurassic period, or at least that were what Professor Tunabloom used to tell us. The Professor were a scientist, one what studied archeo geology, or the science o’ how ancient cultures was so stupid that they had rocks in their heads. He were out by Mount Misty lookin’ fer clues as to what’d happened to the folks what lived in that area afore the Great Scootling Disaster, an’ one day while he were pokin’ around he come upon Merty, who had decided to spend the afternoon buried in the quicksand pit. Needless to say she were mighty put out when the Professor clonked her in the head with a ol’ dead branch an’ started yellin’ at her. He tol’ her later that he were only tryin’ to help, an he had been afeared that she were fixin’ to sink into that there pit (an’ that the snake what had crawled into her hair might git her), but Merty, who had a kind heart (an’ a large concussion), assured him that she weren’t too mad about him bashin’ her skull, an’ while she did appreciate the thought, perhaps he might ask first next time, cause maybe the person he was assaultin’ with dessicated tree limbs might jest prefer to drown in quicksand. The Professor allowed as how that might be true, an’ Merty invited him up fer dinner.

Now Granny, as has been mentioned, weren’t much of a cook, least ways not as fur as anyone who were fond o’ their stomach linin’ were concerned, and that night she outdid herself. To hear her tell it, Granny were so tickled that Merty’d made a friend that she figgered she might as well go all out fer him. She whipped up a broiled horse filet in avocado an’ jelly bean gravy, steamed oak leaves in a goats milk sauce, an’ pureed possum brains on toast points with blackberries an’ crushed walnut shells. For dessert she made a batch o’ Famous Fried Cheeze Brownies, a favorite amongst us Pfisters, from a recipe what she brung back from her visit to Alaska. She tol’ Ed to set the table with the real silver (jest in case the Professor were a werewolf) an’ to use the good table cloth, you know, the one with the rose embroidery, not the ever’day one. Granny chased Joe Joe out to the orchard to git her a bird’s nest fer her hair, an’ she even made me an Maybell take baths, even though it weren’t September.

When we all sit down to dinner that night, the table looked might purty. Mama had found some candles an’ we turned off the lamp, which helped to hide the fact that Grampaw were goin’ through one o’ his translucent phases, an’ even Cousin Bert were behavin’ his self, cause Granny’d threatened to take away his dynamite collection iff’n he didn’t. Uncle Ed sat at the head o’ the table and proceeded to dish out food fer ever’body, an’ once we was all served, we dug in.

Four days later, when the Professor regained consciousness, he noticed that he had lost his trousers somewheres. Mama said he had ‘em when he run outt’n the house, but when we found him the next afternoon curled up around a termite mound down by the Great Dry River an’ drug him back home, he didn’t have no pants on then, so he musta lost ‘em somewheres there abouts. She figgered they might still be out there, so we all set out to find ‘em, the Professor wearin’ a fetchin’ skirt o’ Maybell’s (which he’d found in Joe Joe’s closet, mind you) an’ a sunny smile. Granny’s meals often took visitin’ folks that way.

When we got to the Great Dry River Canyon, we rappelled down to the bottom usin’ Ed’s suspenders. The Professor stood there all amazed an’ sech, cause he didn’t understand how that river come to have water in it, no how. He’d been studyin’ the dry bed to the north an’ it were all flat an didn’t have no canyon, an this canyon were, as fur as he could tell, purty recent. When Ed asked him what he meant by recent, the Professor said that he were purty sure based on erosion patterns an’ the number o’ beer cans floatin’ in it, that this river didn’t date back much further than 25 PGSD (or Post Great Scootling Disaster).

“3 AGSD (Ante Great Scootling Disaster), actually,” chimed Merty. “We learned about it in school.”

Mama nodded in agreement and opened her mouth to tell the story, but Granny, who were bein’ unusually polite that day, tromped on her foot to git her to hesh up so Merty, who couldn’t often be persuaded to respond to a direct question, never mind tellin’ a whole story on her own, could do it. Now most times, iff’n Granny stomped on Mama’s foot, this would end in us havin’ to reglue all the furniture, repaint most o’ the house, an’ often times replace the livestock, but Mama wanted Merty to do well with her new friend too, so she got the message and heshed up, although she did throw a glare Granny’s way as if to say this weren’t over an’ they’d discuss it later, probably with pistols at ten paces.

“I was only allowed to go to school from the ages o’ seven to ten,” Merty began “so I didn’t never learn much, but I do remember the bit about how the Great Dry River Canyon come to be.”

It’d all started on a dare. One fine day Jurick Pfister an’ Densworth Thornstem were down by the Great Dry River diggin’ fer potatoes. They wasn’t havin’ much luck (the potato havin’ not yet been invented) but they was enjoyin’ the day, which were hot enough to fry potatoes, (iff’n they’d been invented yet) an’ clear an’ dry an’ without a cloud in the sky. Both Jurick an’ Densworth were sure that their was a good chance that they wasn’t gonna find nothin’, but they was havin’ fun, wanderin’ around the dry sream bed, findin’ rocks an’ snakes an’ sech, an’ not bein’ home where Jurick’s mother, Larissa, woulda drafted them boys to help her reupholster the barn. Now Densworth were a couple o’ years older’n Jurrick, but seein’ as they was the only two boys in town what was old enough to drink, but not too old to take their sisters to the prom, they tended to do stuff together.

That day Densworth was feelin’ bored. He an’ Jurick had spent the mornin’ getting’ the Widow Griffin’s cat outt’n a tree, an’ she had rewarded them with a pair o’ boxin’ gloves her late husband, Senator Griffin, had won in college when he was featherweight champion o’ Brewster county. Jurick were wearin’ the right glove an’ Densworth were wearin’ the other right one (Senator Griffin’s campaign slogan were “Always right!” a sentiment he carried through his life, which occasionally caused some trouble, fer instance when he were givin’ directions or when he were in the army an’ had the rank of Sergeant an’ were put in charge o’ marching cadences) an’ them two had been punchin’ each other all afternoon an’ they was both fairly black an’ blue (Densworth was, anyhoo, Jurick had skin the color o’ an eggplant to start with, so he mostly turned green when bruisin’). When they got tired o’ that, they started in to collectin’ scorpions in their gloves, fixin’ to take ‘em home fer Larissa, who used to fry ‘em up with a bit o chocolate sauce an’ some rutabaga greens fer breakfast.

What them boys didn’t know was that over the ridge Mademoiselle Michelle’s School fer Proper Young Women was havin’ it’s annual picnic/field day/skeet shoot, an’ among the Proper Young Women with shot guns were a certain Miss Suzanne Farthington Porternull. Now Miss (since all them girls was called Miss, all the time, an’ they ain’t never heard her name without the Miss, the boys thought Miss were her first name) was, as fur as Jurick an’ Densworth were concerned, the purtiest girl in the whole town, maybe even the whole world. She were purtier than Dr. Peabody’s nurses, she were even purtier than Jurick’s Great Aunt Phantasia Pfister, who had won the Miss America contest some years afore even though she weren’t a citizen, an’ hadn’t even entered. An’ since Miss were so purty, an’ also cause she didn’t chase them off with her gold plated, engraved shotgun (made special fer her by the Izmuth company at the request o’ her daddy, Lord Farthington Porternull) more than half the times what they climbed into her tree to watch her organize her shoe collection (at that time she had over 800 pairs, by the time she died she were in possession o’ so many shoes that her daddy had built her a extra house jest fer her shoes) they both had a big ol’ crush on her. This were quite the bone o’ contention between ‘em, but since Densworth figgered that he were 6 inches shorter than her so it wasn’t gonna work out no how, an’ Jurick wasn’t entirely sure he could live with the smell, it didn’t never come down to lethal blows.

On this particular outin’ the Proper Young Women was all wearin’ their school uniform, what consisted o’ a pale purple petticoat under a sea foam green taffeta skirt, a white poplin blouse with ruffles around the neck an cuffs, an a hat. Them hats was a wonder to see, as they was approximately four feet wide an’ covered in enough flowers an’ ribbons to dress up a three legged mule. Often times the Proper Young Women would tuck their extra school supplies in amongst the gewgaws; on any given day Miss could extract three pounds o’ lined notebook paper, five sharpened pencils, two boxes o’ crayons, a six inch protractor, four gum erasers an’ a bottle o’ India ink from her headwear an’ no on would be the wiser. This were especially convenient because Mademoiselle Michelle (whose real name were Bertha Smarkleblat, but who wisely realized that this were not gonna bring in top prices in the education an’ etiquette game) didn’t hold with women carryin’ purses no how (she felt that iff’n you couldn’t find somewhere’s to hide it on yer person, you didn’t need it anyway. This worked fine fer Mademoiselle Michelle (neé Smarkleblat) since she had what was euphemistically referred to in the men’s magazines as an ample balcony an’ could store an entire orchestra in her corset, but since the Proper Young Women were mostly o’ the pre (or just recently post) pubescent sort, they had to make due with extended bonnetry an’ tuckin’ things in their socks.

So, as the boys come over the hill with the sun in their eyes, they saw what looked fer all the world like a field o’ snow capped grassy hillocks topped with ornate an’ exotic flower bushes. Now ever’body knows that scorpions like exotic flowers, so Jurick an’ Densworth figgered they’d run down there an’ grab some scorpions afore they all skittered away. Fortunately fer the Proper Young Women (who had jest all set down on the ground to reload their shot guns) Densworth weighed about three hundert pounds an’ had asthma, an’ Jurick tended to squeek as he walked, so between the thunderin’, the wheezin’ an’ the squeekin’, the boys managed to announce their arrival long afore they made it down the hill. As the Proper Young Women rose to greet their visitors (Mademoiselle Michelle had drilled manners into them, often times with an actual drill) an’ the boys galumphed to a stop in front of this herd o’ gals with shot guns an’ improbable sun hats, it looked fer a minute like it might git ugly as fingers twitched on triggers an’ scorpions rustled in boxin’ gloves.

Just then Jurick spotted Miss.

“Miss!” he cried.

As one, the entire clump of Proper Young Women chorused back, “Yes?”

This set the boys back a moment, with the idea that this might be some sort o’ cult with all them gals changin’ their name fer some reason, but after it were sorted out, an’ ever’body set down fer a cup o’ tea (Bertha’s was tea an’ a little somethin’ extra from the quart bottle o’ blackberry brandy what she had stored in her loge) Jurick an’ Densworth were sittin’ there somewhat tongue tied, trying to impress Miss. She were less thrilled with their stuffed boxin’ gloves than they might have hoped, but she did coo about the kitten (although not about the Widow Griffin, who were, in fact, a graduate of Mademoiselle Michelle’s, but also, all the other Proper Young Women felt, unfair competition) so they thought that their efforts were not a total loss.

Miss Suzanne (who would later move to the big city an’ become CEO of the Hanes Underwear Company, but at that time thought her fondest ambition were to marry a football hero an’ become the best bake sale organizer in the history o’ Smith Corners) weren’t particularly interested in either Densworth or Jurick, but she were failin’ Flirtin’ 103 (a follow up course to Flirtin’ 101 which covered ‘eye battin’’, ‘perfumery’ an’ ‘cooin’’) an’ she figgered she could use the practice, so she were alternatin’ between ‘gentle knee touchin’’ (which were indeed an advanced technique, an’ she weren’t doin’ it so well, but since the boys was already bruised head to toe they didn’t notice so much) an’ ‘gigglin’ fer affect’. Since her breath could rival Finkle Pfister’s, the gigglin’ weren’t goin’ all that well either, but since them boys was smitten, it didn’t seem to matter none to them. The three o’ them sat there sippin’ (or in Jurick’s case snortin’) tea an’ lookin’ over the dry stream bed.

“Do you suppose they ever found gold in that there river?” asked Miss.

“Sure!” replied Densworth. “An’ diamonds too!”

Miss tittered. “They didn’t either!”

Densworth went on to spin a tale about the dried up diamond mine, which jest happened to coincide with the dried up remains o’ a little swimmin’ hole about a mile up stream. He tol’ her that iff’n she wanted, he could git her a diamond from that mine. Jurick, not to be left out, said he could too, an’ faster than Densworth. Well, they got to braggin’ back an forth, an’ that lead to the three o’ ‘em tusslin’ an’ finally Bertha had to fire her shot gun into the fray to break ‘em up, but the result was that Jurick dared Densworth an’ Densworth dared Jurick an’ Miss doubled dared ‘em both to bring her back a diamond.

Densworth knew he were in trouble, since they wasn’t no diamonds to be had in them parts, but he were sure not gonna be showed up by Jurick, so he set out the next day with a shovel an’ a thermos o’ chocolate milk to sustain him. He went to the dried up swimmin’ hole an commenced to diggin’. By noon he had his self a pit that were four feet deep an six feet across, an’ he were puzzled that he hadn’t seen nor heared from Jurick. He kept diggin’ till supper time, when he headed home, covered with dust but no nearer to findin’ diamonds.

Jurick didn’t know that they wasn’t no diamonds, so he figgered that the trick were he jest needed to dig deeper an’ faster than Densworth. An’ he had a secret weapon. Larissa Pfister were a widow woman what had moved to Smith Corners to be closer to family after her husband, Santmyer, were killed in a tragic quiltin’ accident while on a cruise to the North Pole. She were left, not with one, as ever’one thought, but rather two babies. Jurick were her older child, an’ she liked him well enough, but her younger baby Rotisserie were her pride an’ joy. As sech, she didn’t want him to be corrupted by the world, no how, so she kept him locked in the cellar. Truth be told, it were better that way, since ever’ time she let him out fer a bit o’ night air, the next day the neighbors all complained about their chickens goin’ bald, but as a result o’ spendin’ all his time in the dark an’ with only a ol’ rusty garden spade fer a friend, Rotisserie were a natural born miner, but only iff’n he could dig in the dark.

That very night, Jurick went down to the cellar to see his little brother. He carried a chunk o’ raw meat an’ a muzzle, an’ after a squabble (which Larissa ignored, figgerin’ that another raccoon had got itself into the cellar an’ Rotisserie were havin’ his self a good time), Jurick got Rotisserie tethered up an’ drug him out into the evening gloom. He hauled his little brother down to that dried up swimmin’ hole an’ set him to diggin’. Well, since diggin’ were all Rotisserie had done fer most o’ the past seven years, his diggin’ muscles was well toned, an’ he set to it with a vengeance.

After a few hours, Jurick offered to give Rotisserie a break, but by that time he were about twenty five feet down an’ sinkin’ fast, an’ since the moon weren’t out that night Jurick couldn’t even see him, but he knew he were still goin’ cause he could here the rumblin’. Now, what nobody didn’t know at that time was that runnin’ below the whole area were a high pressured spring lookin’ fer somewheres to poke through. So, jest afore dawn, little Rotisserie managed to break the rock layer between the dry streambed an’ all that water. It might have been tragic, since Rotisserie couldn’t swim, no how, an’ he were some sixty eight feet underground at that point, an’ even the most dedicated television specialty news crew would have had trouble getting’ down there to film his rescue, but by a turn o’ luck, that spring were so pressurized (an’ carbonated to boot) that the force o’ that water pushin’ through that rock an’ up the narrow tunnel what Rotisserie had dug sent him shootin’ outt’n that tube at over ninety miles per hour, straight up into the pinkenin’ sky. The water filled up that empty swimmin’ hole in two shakes (ironically washin’ away the diamond deposit what were buried jest under where Densworth give up diggin’ the night afore) an poured on down the dry stream bed. They was so much water there, an’ it were gushin’ so quickly, that in no time flat it had etched out the entire countryside, creatin’ the Great Dry River Canyon, an’ spewin’ up so much water that the climate o’ the whole area were altered fer years to come. Rotisserie were found about fifteen miles upstream two days later in the branches of a pine tree, where he’d met a squirrel of whom he’d become purty fond; he declined to come home just then, an’ said he’d be along later. What with the climate changes an’ the sudden rise in the squirrel population in the area, things got fairly interestin’ fer farmers an’ they wasn’t a haberdasher fer miles what didn’t feel the pinch.

The Professor suddenly smacked his hand up against his head. We were afeared fer a moment that he’d accidentally sampled the leftover avocado an’ jelly bean gravy what we was havin’ fer lunch (which like Granny’s chili, were a food not meant fer mortal man) but he burst out with “O’ course! An’ that were what caused the Great Scootling Disaster! How could I not have seen it?”

Granny said that it were obvious, but she were glad he were there to point it up, an’ Merty were purty pleased that her story’d gone over so well. Professor Tunablossom went on to write a six volume scholarly treatise on the Great Scootling Disaster, an’ he dedicated volume four to Merty, which to this day were her proudest moment aside from the time she skinned that tiger with nothin’ but a dull spoon an’ a handful o’ dung beetles. He entertained hopes o’ winnin’ a Nobel prize fer it, but unfortunately fer him, the same year that his opus were published, the entire Nobel award committee were struck down with sech a virulent case o’ food poisonin’ that the whole thing were called off. Granny swears that her mailin’ each o’ them a batch o’ her peppermint an’ asparagus cookies were supposed to influence them in favor o’ the Professor, an’ she couldn’t be held responsible if they all had sech weak stomachs, no how. Eventually the Professor found his self a position at Harvard, where to this day he holds the President’s Special Chair on Unusual an’ Unlikely Geological Disasters. We often get a nice Christmas card from him, sometimes with a picture o’ his students in exotic an’ interestin’ locals (one year Ed swore he could see Great Great Great Grand Aunt Anastasia in the background wavin’), an’ once in a while he includes a box o’ scorpions fer Larissa.

An’ now we was barrellin’ down on the edge in a three wheeled wagon behind a three legged mule. With a huge shriek, the mule plunged over the edge, draggin’ us over the cliff behind him, and throwin’ us down the side o’ the canyon at break neck speed an’ into the roarin’ river below.

Chapter 3

The next afternoon, after we’d dried out an’ found the last o’ them cats (Cousin Bert were all fer movin’ on without them, preferably as quickly as possible, but Boopie were insistent) we continued on our way. Granny figgered that two more nights of campin’ out should git us to the train tracks, an’ once we crossed them, we’d be most o’ the way to Beaver’s Falls. Mama said that as she recalled, iff’n we followed the river downstream, we might be able to cut a bit off‘n the trip. She were right, when the followin’ evenin’ we rigged a pulley off’n the railroad bridge what crossed over the canyon an’ hauled the wagon out o’ the river. We come up on the wrong side o’ the canyon, so, after waitin’ fer the 7:45 to Luxembourg to cross, we headed over the river.

Once we got to the other side, we was feelin’ purty good about things, an’ Ed asked iff’n we could take a little side trip to see our Cousin Gordon Pfister what had his self a little shack on the side o’ a hill not too fur from there. Ed an’ Gordon had gone to school together, an’ afterwards they’d lost touch. Ed had invited Gordon to the weddin’ when he married Merty, but Gordon had sent regrets, explainin’ that on a recent excursion across the Rockies he’d had a hot air balloon accident (it popped) an he weren’t up to the trip, but he wished Ed an’ Merty well, an’ he hoped that iff’n they was ever over his way they’d feel free to stop in. He’d also sent a weddin’ present in the same envelope (to save on postage, he were one o’ the frugal Toms Tower Pfisters), a gallon o’ his special anchovy jelly, for which Ed an’ Merty had been mighty grateful. As a matter o’ fact, they always said that there anchovy jelly were directly responsible fer Joe Joe, so ever’body were awfully glad Gordon had been so thoughtful. Maybell wondered what were the reason she were there, an Ed said it were because of them cats, an’ Cousin Bert (who hadn’t asked, an’ were mutterin’ darkly to his self) were there mostly because they couldn’t afford the shippin’ fees to send him back.

Mama an’ Granny conferred with Boopie an’ they all decided that since we was makin’ sech good time, a detour were perfectly acceptable an’ would be a fine idea. They got out the map an’ spent several hours with it afore Merty noticed that it weren’t a map o’ the trip to Beaver’s Falls, it were a picture o’ Brangen’s father Gloock Afrunian. Granny allowed as how it didn’t matter no how, they was purty likely to find the place without a map, an Mama agreed. Boopie offered to take them cats an’ scout ahead, but Ed figgered that after the business with Maybell an’ me findin’ The Hermit, it were probably better iff’n we all stuck together. We wasn’t but three or four miles away from the river when we figgered out that Burbie hadn’t made it back on to the wagon, an’ so we doubled back, drug her outt’n the water (she’d gotten hung up on a snag an’ had jest about chewed her way clear when Merty spotted her), an’ got down to some serious travellin’. Turned out that “not too far” were jest Ed’s opinion, cause it took us six days o’ hard ridin’, thirteen stops to put one or another o’ the wheels back on (includin’ five times we had to perform CPR on the mule), four excursions into the brush to find Cousin Bert, two high speed chases to get them cats back in the wagon after we’d stopped to water Boopie an’ a overnight diversion to retrieve Grampaw after a thunderstorm one afternoon picked him up an’ carried him right off, to get to Cousin Gordon’s place. Granny said we might as well leave Grampaw be an’ find him on the way back, but Joe Joe an’ me (mostly cause it were Grampaw what give us our allowances, an’ me an Joe Joe was savin’ up fer a mail order bazooka) pestered her until she relented. But finally all of us made it to Cousin Gordon Pfister’s.

Cousin Gordon, who, as I mentioned, were a Pfister of the Toms Tower Pfisters, were an inventor. He’d been raised Pernod after his own mother, who were the very delicate Nadine Anthusia Bisslethwait Pfister o’ the Boston Bisslethwaits, died afore Gordon were born, an’ his father, Royfeld Pfister, in a shameful display fer a Pfister, run off with the librarian’s wife (that weren’t the shameful part) leavin’ the infant Gordon behind with only a persimmon, two jugs o’ homemade alcoholic refreshment an’ instructions on how he could mail his self to Pernod’s care C.O.D. (that weren’t the shameful part) an’ takin’ a job in the previously possessed automotive conveyance trade (that were the shameful part). In the Toms Tower branch o’ the Pfisters this were considered to be one o’ the worst things they’d ever seed, and as a result, they wasn’t but two or three what would ever consider buyin’ a used car from him, even with good credit terms an’ a great rate on their trade ins. Not even when he offered to throw in a free goat with purchase.

Gordon, meanwhile, found his way through the postal system to Pernod’s door. Pernod were somewhat perplexed by the arrival o’ a baby what couldn’t explain how he’d got there, but the two jugs o’ hooch went a long way towards makin’ him ferget about that particular problem, an’ the half o’ the persimmon what was left (Gordon had et half while in transit) was a welcome change from the turnips (that bein’ the only crop Googy’d planted that year, an’ a bumper crop it were, too). So Gordon stayed with Googy an’ Pernod till he were fifteen, which were the year that they all took a trip to Washington DC, an’ Googy liked it so much that she an’ Pernod never come back. But afore that, Gordon were so impressed by Pernod’s inventin’ (the jelly donut were a particular favorite, although, as it happens, Pernod’s favorite flavor (Beet an’ Mango Pickle Jelly, which were such an acquired taste that seven outt’n eleven times it were fatal) never caught on with the general public, (but us Pfisters figgered it were well worth the acquirin’)) that he’d decided to become an inventor his self. After comin’ back to Mount Misty by way o’ a cattle train through Qingdao, China (a major seaport, naval base an’ industrial center in the Shandong Province an’ home to the Tsing tao Brewery; Gordon’s travel agent, a Mr. Calvin Rock, while toutin’ the educational nature o’ travel was also a bit of a practical joker an’ probably related to Gloock’s tattoo artist) Gordon decided to get his self an education, which is how he entered kindergarten the same time as Ed. He’d got as fur as fourth grade when he figgered he’d had about all the schoolin’ he could stand an’ he set out to find his self a place o’ his own where he could do some serious inventin’ without botherin’ folks (Granny were like as not to chase after Gordon with the chainsaw after some o’ his livelier tests, which is what Joe Joe think happened to the mule). Fortunately fer Gordon, he were the last survivin’ member of the Boston Bisslethwaits. The rest of ‘em were done in by a random meteor strike while they was out cruisin’ in the Chesapeake Bay in their yacht (celebratin’ Darby Bisslethwait’s organizin’ o’ the takeover o’ the Bandaid Corporation), an act o’ God which unfortunately left the yacht purty much unusable (an’ most o’ the Bisslethwaits, too, an’ unfortunately while the firm o’ Fern, Devlin, Masters, Kenny, Fern, Einstein, Fern, Jeffries an’ Fern did insure against meteor strikes, they had a strict “no Bisslethwait replacement” policy, which caused Gordon to swat the claims adjuster with a ax an’ ship him back to Mr. Fern in a ziplock baggie), but also left Gordon a sizeable fortune. He immediately bought a shack on the side o’ a hill an’ sunk most o’ the rest o’ the money into the production of the toothless comb fer bald folks. We Pfisters were all delighted with it, but (not unlike Pernod’s Beet an’ Mango Pickle Jelly Donuts) it seemed never to catch on big with anyone else even though use o’ the Point Free Tonsorial Rake were rarely fatal.

Gordon weren’t discouraged by this, an’ he went on to invent the wildly unpopular Christmas Tree Freeze Dryer, the completely misunderstood Cast Iron Pillow Case, an’ a series o’ patented Tooth Fairy Summonin’ Molar Removers (manual, automatic an’ electronic) fer kids with no pocket money. The lawsuits what followed left him penniless, so Gordon were workin’ on perfectin’ his Alchemist’s Kitchen Friend, a machine what turned ordinary vegetables into Idaho Gold Potatoes, cause he figgered that were the fastest way to buried treasure. This were, o’ course, after the invention o’ the potato, so the Family held high hopes fer Gordon, but the last we’d heared he’d hit a few snags, mostly concerned with buryin’ his kids with the potatoes so’s they could tell him when they was ripe.

We knew we was gittin’ purty close when the mule suddenly disappeared from sight, an’ we found he’d fallen into a hole in the ground. Suddenly, outt’n the hole popped up a small face with slightly buggy lookin’ eyes, covered in dirt an’ wavin’ a fist full o’ root vegetables.

“Why fer did you drop yer mule on me?” the little one cried.

Granny grabbed the tyke by the ears an’ hauled him up. She dusted him off an’ found that his name were Tizzlewad Ford Pfister (it were tattooed in the usual place.) Once Tizzlewad figgered out who we was, he offered to take us on up to the house. About five hours later, when we realized that we’d been goin’ round in circles, Grampaw threw Tizzlewad off’n the wagon an’ that seemed to work cause about twenty minutes later the cabin came into sight.

And what a sight it were, too. Four stories tall in the back, an with three wings what we could see runnin’ out to the west, it had a front door what was underground and in the back o’ the house. The windows was tinted, mostly red, cause Gordon’s wife Shirley Bell Limberger Pfister felt that a rosy attitude starts at home. The front porch were not attached to the actual house, but were rather suspended in a nearby tree. It had only two bedrooms, but seven living rooms, three kitchens an’ one communal bathroom with a bathtub that were 14’ x 23’. That ended up bein’ Burbies favorite, partly cause it were maroon which were her favorite color, but probably mostly cause them cats wasn’t fond o’ swimmin’ (which may also be the reason she stayed behind in the Great Dry River). There were a fireplace in the parlor, but unfortunately no chimney, so all the smoke stayed right there in the parlor which weren’t so good few Grampaw’s asthma but Shirley Bell found it purty convenient when Gordon brung home a batch o’ fresh eels fer smokin’. The basement, which they kept in the attic where it were drier, were the perfect place fer Cousin Bert, who as fer as Maybell an’ me could tell took after Rotisserie more’n he did Great Grandfather Pfister.

Gordon an’ Shirley Bell were delighted to see us. They come runnin’ out to great us with open arms an’ drug us back up to the house. We was all jest as happy to see them, an’ all their kids (after she’d had Gordon dig up the ones what was on potato watchin’ detail) which Shirley Bell reckoned totaled thirteen or so, but she weren’t sure iff’n she should count the baby, no how, since he weren’t hers, one o’ the older boys had found him one day when they was out fishin’ fer scrod an’ they asked so nice iff’n they could keep it that she’d let ‘em.

“That Tizzlewad is a scamp,” said Mama, admiringly.

Shirley Bell looked sorta confused, an’ asked Gordon iff’n he recalled a child o’ theirs bein’ named Tizzlewad (he didn’t) an’ then said it were all jest as well anyway, since Tizzlewad were her mother’s name an’ Shirley Bell’d always hoped to have a child to pass it on to, only now she didn’t have to. Jest about that time Tizzlewad his self showed up, an’ Gordon an’ Shirley Bell recollected that indeed, he were one o’ their’s but they’d thought they lost him when, four years ago or so, he’d forgot to come home after the potato growin’ season were over, an’ Gordon had misplaced the map o’ where the kids was all planted (it turned up the following summer when Shirley Bell were lookin’ fer somethin’ to wrap her Grammie Fergie Limberger’s birthday present in, but Shirley Bell didn’t know what it was, so she’d jest wrapped an’ mailed it off, an’ Grammie Fergie had used it to train her pet merecat to sing.

Ever’body were so glad that we’d come (an’ also that Tizzlewad were back, as the potato crop were bustin’ out all over an’ Gordon looked to be needin’ all the kids to help out that year) that Shirley Bell decided they was gonna put on the dog that night.

In addition to dog, she served roasted willow bark, iced puree o’ lima beans with toasted apricot pits an’ drizzled with fish paste, three different soup courses (all with the same soup, cream o’ hot spam an’ strawberry, but since she only had eight soup bowls, she called it a new course ever’ time she took the bowls back to wash ‘em), brown bread with iron filin’s, deep fried moose with raw onion gravy an’ split snails in cream fer dessert. She were a better cook than Granny (although most of us were smart enough not to mention it) so taste testin’ Merty only fainted twice durin’ the meal, an’ one time she swears is jest cause she were so delighted at the delicate flavors.

The convivial spirit lasted well into the night, when Gordon invited us out to his workshed to see his latest invention. We all declared how this’d be the perfect endin’ to a swell evenin’ an’ out we trucked. The kids all recalled the last time their Daddy’d showed one o’ his inventions, an decided they would come too. Shirley Bell figgered iff’n ever’body else were goin’ it were best iff’n she tagged along to keep an eye on ‘em. So we all headed out back.

Three days later, after we’d managed to extinguish most o’ the fires, (the house were a total write off) all but three o’ Gordon’s kids had been convinced to come out from the well where they’d hid, an’ Granny determined that the mule were still serviceable despite bein’ slightly charred, Maybell noticed that Burbie were missin’ again. The last anybody could remember, she were up in that maroon bathroom, which were in the middle wing an’ what hadn’t been seen since the chickens exploded, an’ looked to have collapsed under the weight o’ the burnin’ Cast Iron Pillowcases what Gordon (who’d been unable to sell ‘em, or even give ‘em away with the purchase o’ a hand me down reconditioned goat what he’d picked up cheap at Royfeld’s goin’ outt’n business sale) had stored in the basement. Gordon were powerful sorry, but we all assured him that it were not his fault, how was he to know that Shirley Bell had stored all that gunpowder in his bucket o’ spare fig newtons. In her defense, Gordon weren’t partial to fig newtons, so Shirley Bell, who’d gotten the gunpowder for him for a surprise anniversary present thought that were gonna be a purty good place to hide it (which is why The Book come out so strong against both fig newtons an’ anniversaries).

Granny said that Gordon should contact the firm of Fern, Devlin, Masters, Kenny, Fern, Einstein, Fern, Jeffries an’ Fern an’ git his self reimbursed. Gordon weren’t sure that would do no good, since his list o’ things he owned were kept on the back o’ his potato plantin’ map, what hadn’t been seen since afore Grammie Fergie Limburger’s merecat had won that scholarship to Juliard, but Granny offered him her list (on the ever’day table cloth, not the fancy one with the rose embroidery what was currently spread across most o’ the county in small burned pieces) which Gordon thought were mighty kind o’ her, an’ he set off to the neighbor’s house to use the phone. Since the nearest neighbor were some thirty miles off, Gordon figgered he would be back sometime the next night, but Shirley Bell said it were ok, ever’body could sleep under the wagon, an’ there was still plenty o’ fig newtons left to munch on. Mr. Fern tol’ Gordon that he’d send out a claims adjuster, who, as it happened, arrived at jest about the same time as Gordon got back. Who should it be but the very red an’ blotchy former Ruben P. Lynch. Granny weren’t sure that Fern, Devlin, Masters, Kenny et al would accept a claim adjucated by the deceased (which upset Grampaw agin, so much so that he crawled into a gopher hole an’ it took both Joe Joe an Ed pullin’ an’ Cousin Bert crawlin’ down behind an’ pushin’ to git him out) but Ruben P. Lynch said that Mr. Fern figgered he didn’t have enough claims adjusters as it were, an’ if the Pfisters was gonna keep sendin’ ‘em back dead, he were just gonna send ‘em out that way.

Ruben looked over that there list, an’ asked a few pointed questions (like whether Burbie were related in any way to the Bisslethwaits o’ Boston) an’ eventually decided that the firm of Fern, Devlin, Masters, Kenny, Fern, Einstein, Fern, Jeffries an’ Fern would, indeed, pay off on this claim, an’ that jest as soon as he got back to the office, the check would be in the mail, an’ he would be much obliged if Gordon could do the same fer him. Gordon agreed, found a large box, a roll o’ stamps an’ a sack lunch (consistin’ mostly o’ exploded chickens an’ left over fig newtons) an’ packed Ruben P. Lynch up with his thanks.

Granny decided we’d better get a move on, so Shirley Bell an’ Gordon dug up the kids so’s we could say our goodbyes. There was tears all around, an’ not jest cause it turned out that Gordon had planted onions by mistake, neither. We all promised to write, an’ Gordon an’ Shirley Bell assured us they’d bring the kids round for a visit in the fall, after the harvest. We packed Ruben P. Lynch’s box up in the wagon (Ed had graciously offered to drop him off at the post office) an’ left Burbie’s box with Gordon (Mama suggested that iff’n they found her, they could forward her along back to us), whistled fer Boopie (who had all them cats stacked up in a pyramid an’ ridin’ a unicycle as a farewell performance) an’ checked again that Merty were securely fastened (Gordon’d lent us some iron chains what we slung around the wagon so’s Merty could ride underneath as she liked, but they also had shackles so she couldn’t accidentally fall off or git left behind) an’ headed out. Maybell an’ me sat on the back o’ the wagon an’ was wavin’ till we was out o’ sight.

Chapter 4

Cousin Bert were getting’ purty excited cause we was gittin’ close to Beaver’s Falls. All his life he’d heared stories about the big city, an’ he were plenty thrilled to be on his way to checkin’ them out his self. Once, some years ago, he’d sent away to the Beaver’s Falls Tourist Board fer a map an’ their informative pamphlet, an’ as we left Gordon’s place, he took it out an’ were showin’ Maybell all the sights to see.

“This here is the town square. They got a statue o’ Maxwell Finhope Pfister there. He were a hero,” said Cousin Bert.

Maybell were lookin’ at the map, tryin’ to spot the place where Cousin Bert were pointin’, but since he was prone to the twitches an’ he’d had an over ripe tomato with cranberry sauce an’ marshmallow toppin’ fer lunch, all she could make out were a purty large splotch over most o’ Beaver’s Falls.

“Really?” she asked.

“Well, they don’t call him a hero, but I think he were!” Cousin Bert replied.

Maxwell Finhope Pfister were one o’ the Beaver’s Falls Pfisters. He’d been conceived durin’ the Drought o’ 43, an’ born late in ’47, but while his momma, Prunella Pfister, were proud o’ him, he didn’t really amount to much for the first thirty years or so. Sure, he did all things any normal Pfister would do, he was good at breakin’ an’ enterin’, he knowed how to kill a man with his thumbs (the man’s thumbs that is, jest about ever’body knows how to kill a man usin’ their own thumbs), he could break glass usin’ only his voice (in fact, Prunella often wore earplugs around the house fer that very reason), an’ he had a smell what could be picked outt’n a crowd o’ angry water buffalo on a hot day in downtown Bangladesh, but that were jest average fer Pfisters, an’ Maxwell had a secret desire to be special. Often times he would sit on a rock in the middle o’ the road an’ ask strangers passin’ by iff’n they was troubled, an’ iff’n he could help. The town council o’ Beaver’s Falls was forced more than once to send someone around to ask him to quit it, since people was sayin’ that the only thing what was troublin’ them was Maxwell.

Maxwell were unperterbed by all o’ this, he figgered that iff’n he didn’t ask, he wouldn’t never know iff’n anybody did need some help. His momma Prunella had always encouraged him to be ready to lend a hand, an’ he aimed to follow her advice whenever he could. It’d been jest about eight years that Maxwell’d been sittin’ there on that rock when his chance come along.

His chance were named George Partin. George were a wood cutter who could be found most days up the mountain some makin’ a livin’ clearin’ land fer the farmers what couldn’t afford to live on flat land. George found that most folks in town was pleased that he’d found gainful employment outside o’ town limits. George, it seems, were not much of a conversationalist. As a matter o’ fact, even though there weren’t no medical reason fer it, George hadn’t begun to talk till he were twelve. His teachers weren’t too upset by this, mostly because it meant that they could sit him in the back an’ no one would notice, which were a stroke o’ luck cause George were also not (at least as fur as the majority of the population o’ Beaver’s Falls were concerned) a purty child. In fact, even his ma used to prefer it when George were playin’ superhero an’ wearin’ a mask. On Halloween, George’s pa used to put George out in the tree outside the house to scare off kids with eggs, an’ he didn’t even have to wear a costume. George were, not to put too fine a point on it, unlovely.

So when George found his self up on the mountain clear cuttin’ with no one around, it seemed like the ideal job fer him. He liked the open air, an’ fer the most parts the squirrels an’ bears seemed not to mind him (other than that he were destroyin’ their habitat, o’ course) so he were purty satisfied. He built his self a little place up above the falls usin’ the timber what he were harvestin’ an’ he settled into a purty good life. There was only one thing what was missin’, an’ George had no idea how he was ever gonna git that particular hole in his life filled, so when he come into town that day to git his ax sharpened as he did ever’ six months, it were on his mind that he could use some help.

In this humor that he tripped over Maxwell (who, truth to tell, were gittin’ purty distressed as he’d been sittin’ that rock fer so many years that he were starting to wear a dent in it) who’d fallen asleep cause ever’body knowed it were George’s ax sharpenin’ day an’ as a result traffic were fairly light that day. After gittin’ his foot outt’n Maxwell’s mouth an’ apologizin’ (which took the tongue tied George about his entire vocabulary to do) George heard Maxwell offerin’ to help him out. Well, George took a look at Maxwell, who were a fairly handsome man (both his eyes was the same color an’, unlike Prunella, he had hair) an’ he figgered two things. First, he figgered that Maxwell probably had his self some experience, an’ two (an’ this were the biggest sellin’ point) Maxwell appeared to be willin’ to talk to George without havin’ three stiff drinks aforehand.

So he confessed his deepest desire to Maxwell. George wanted a wife. An’ not jest any wife neither, he wanted a prize winnin’ wife. George had been in the habit while waiting’ fer his ax to be sharpened o’ goin’ to the news stand down on the corner an’ purchasin’ a copy of Gals Gals Gals, a magazine fer discernin’ men. George weren’t never sure whether he were discernin’ or not, but he knowed he were a man, especially after lookin’ at Gals Gals Gals. Well, he didn’t git into town more than twice a year, so he only ever got the September an’ March issues, but a couple o’ years ago he’d come in early an’ had picked up the February issue by mistake. The thing is, the February issue was when Gals, Gals, Gals reviewed all the beauty contest winners from the previous year. They rated Mrs. Ulster County, Miss Greater Detroit, Miss Black Forest, Mrs. Conroy’s Auto Parts, Ms. Vegetarian Weekly, Miss America, Mrs. Silicon Valley, Miss Crabapple Elementary School, an’ ever’ other winner they could find on their poise, their appearance, their baton twirlin’ an’ even (in the case o’ Ms. Lower West Virginia), their pig callin’ skills an’ how they looked in formal evenin’ overalls.

An’ George were determined that he were gonna marry one o’ the winners. He didn’t have no plan, really, an’ all the letters what he had written to Miss Simson’s Cider Orchard (whose talent, by the way, were makin’ fudge, which were not a very dynamic event on stage an’ probably why she only come in second in the Miss Greater Bruegger’s Township contest) had been returned (probably not cause she were rejectin’ him but more cause he’d forgot to attach stamps to ‘em), but he were steadfast in his aims. If only he could meet a prize winnin’ gal, he figgered, he’d carry her off to his mountain home (in a burlap sack an’ gagged if necessary) an’ marry her an’ live if not happily, then at least contented ever after.

Maxwell thought that this were just about the most romantic thing what he had ever heared an’ so he vowed to dedicate his life to George’s cause.

Since it were September, Maxwell figgered that the first thing to do were to head down to the library to see iff’n they had the latest copy o’ Gals Gals Gals (strictly for research purposes, mind you) an’ then to stop at the drug store fer some moisturizin’ hand lotion (Prunella’d been complainin’ that the donkey had dry patches what needed some care), then off to the toy store to pick up the blow up doll he’d ordered (complete with built in dynomite so’s it’d blow up real good) an’ then a quick side trip to Mistress Garabella’s House o’ Ill Repute an’ Pancakes, the town’s only bordello an’ diner (he were only human, after all, an’ Prunella were a terrible cook). After runnin’ all his errands, Maxwell an’ George (who’d opted to skip the library, the drug store an’ the toy store an’ was allergic to pancake syrup) set down to do some serious plannin’. Maxwell were purty sure that the best way to get a beauty contestant to come to Beaver’s Falls were to hold a beauty pagent. Neither o’ them had ever seed a beauty pageant, so they decided to hitch a ride up to Wango, the county seat, an’ ketch the Miss Wango an’ Surroundin’ Counties contest to see how it were done.

Wango was all abuzz when Maxwell an’ George pulled into town. Them beauty contestants had arrived a few days afore that an’ was causin’ quite a stir among the local ladies (an’ even more so among the local men, an’ the local teenage boys all had to be put to bed with a cold compress on their heads). As part o’ the contest, the town board had set up a platform in the middle o’ the town square where the preliminary rounds was to take place. Well, by this time it were mid October, an’ in those parts it got purty cold startin’ right around Labor Day (the national holiday on which all o’ us Pfisters was born) so their were snow on the ground an’ all the chickens had been brought inside fer the winter. When them beauty contestants realized they was gonna have to prance around in their swimwear outside in the snow, they was somewhat annoyed, but it were explained to them that this were necessary, as they was bein’ judged on deportment, carriage (Miss Smith Corners East Side, (whose real name were Melinda Sue Wortenbaker), one o’ the contestants, was worried cause she’d come by train, but the judges assured her this wouldn’t count against her), an’ hardiness. Once them teenage boys got a look at these gals in their swimmin’ costumes, the whole bunch o’ them (the boys, not the contestants) had to be dumped into the horse trough an’ chased off with a shot gun. After order were restored an’ the bleachers re-erected, the contest continued. Them gals marched around in the freezin’ cold wearin’ not much more than a few inches o’ what might have been lace drink coasters tied together with dental floss, impossible shoes, an’ the smiles fer which they were so famous. Two o’ them froze solid while waitin’ fer their turn at the interview portion o’ the event, one broke somethin’ fragile (it later turned out to be a glass unicorn she were carryin’ fer good luck) when she tumbled down the icy stairs in her six inch heels, an’ the rest survived by lightin’ a bonfire usin’ one o’ the judges, but eventually the field were narrowed down to five finalists, who would compete the next evenin’ in the evenin’ gown an’ talent competitions.

George were gittin’ more an’ more excited. As a matter o’ fact, Maxwell had to dump him into the horse trough with them teenage boys; he would have chased George with a shot gun too fer good measure, but Maxwell’d forgot his shot gun at home, he really hated loud noises, an’ he’d promised Prunella that he would stay out o’ jail this trip. After fishin’ him out an’ thawin’ him by the bonfire what the judge were makin’, them two decided that they needed a good night’s rest, so’s they could be ready fer the next day.

Well, there were only one hotel in Wango (a Motel 6) an’ it only had 10 rooms, all o’ which were booked solid with beauty contestants. That didn’t worry Maxwell none though, he’d done a little explorin’ an’ found a broom closet at that there hotel, an’ a fire escape out back what they could climb up to git there. They was jest gittin’ settled in fer the night when they heared a whole lot o’ gigglin’ in the hall. All them beauty contestants had been havin’ dinner at the restaurant run by the local monastery (the Holy Order O’ The Brotherhood O’ The Franciscan’s, Not The “San” Ones, Mind You, But The Other Kind, commonly known there abouts as the Other Brothers) an’ this was some of ‘em jest gittin’ back. The Other Brothers, in addition to runnin’ a fine eatin’ establishment, also brewed their own wine an’ beer, had a still with the finest corn likker in the state (Dr. Peabody were one o’ their best customers), were famed fer their baked goods with home grown ingredients frowned on by the Bureau o’ Drugs, Tobacco an’ Firearms, had on more than one occasion been fined fer the fumes what come out o’ their ‘lab’ out in the back an’ were often times seen makin’ latex balloon animals. As a matter o’ fact, some folks in town was purty sure that the Other Brothers would do just fine in San Francisco

When the Other Brothers had heared that there were gonna be a beauty contest, they’d immediately signed on as sponsors, figgerin’ that them girls could use some spiritual guidance, an’ perhaps pharmaceutical encouragement. They’d been concoctin’ a whole bunch o’ new herbal remedies, they was eager to test ‘em out, an’ nobody in town would let the Brothers use their teenage boys as subjects after the whole unpleasant business that lead to the sinkin’ o’ town hall an’ the excommunication o’ Bishop Pettifog (to be honest, it weren’t entirely his own fault… Brother Spooner were in charge o’ doses an’ he’d always been a little confused about the metric system). In fact, they was developin’ a recipe fer a new diet pill, combined with a little somethin’ to make the dieter feel relaxed (only rarely terminally relaxed) an’ they was ready fer some testin’. The town mothers was all against animal testin’, so it were gonna have to be tested on beauty contestants, which the town mothers was perfectly ok with, especially if the side effects included dizziness (it did, but no one could really tell cause them gals was purty dizzy to start off), hair loss, snorin’ an’ uncontrollable droolin’. The Other Brothers said they were purty sure they didn’t have them side effects, but (after some negotiation with the town mothers) they agreed to add ‘em.

So now these beauty contestants was comin’ back to the hotel well fed (they’d each eaten a whole carrot, two lettuce leaves an’ half a saltine) a bit tipsy (from the Other Brothers’ most beloved vintage, Sloppy Drunk Monk Vineyards Shiraz) an’, as a result o’ a little mix up in the lab, more suggestible than the Brothers actually intended. George an’ Maxwell heared them through the broom closet door an’ was prepared to spring out an’ grab their selves one o’ those gals an’ haul her back home, prizes or no, when one o’ the girls happened to bump into the maid’s cart what were outside the door. The cart rolled up an’ wedged itself under the handle o’ the door, effectively sealin’ them boys up. The pageant girls continued on their unsteady titterin’ path up the hall, oblivious to the plight o’ George an’ Maxwell, who pounded on the door all night. In vain.

The next day after all them girls had left fer the theater where the pageant were bein’ held, the maid come around to do up the rooms. She freed the cart an’ were purty surprised when she opened the door to the broom closet an’ George an’ Maxwell come tumblin’ out. Her shriekin’ were loud enough to wake the dead, an’ probably would have got them boys in some trouble except fer the fact that ever’body else in town (all but them teenage boys what had had to be put into cold showers an’ tied up after) was at the beauty contest an’ currently on stage were Miss October Gals Gals Gals (who were later to be disqualified when it were discovered that she were related to one o’ the judges (it were her daddy), that she’d bribed that same judge to let her win, an’ that when he’d turned her down, she’d turned him into kindlin’ durin’ the swim suit competition) whose talent were Alpine Yodelin’ while ridin’ a unicycle, none of which she did all that well, so ever’body had their hands over their ears (which unfortunately left other things unprotected when she hit a bump, launched herself airborn, flew off the stage, and landed in Mademoiselle Michelle’s mezzanine).

So the maid’s screamin’ went unnoticed, an’ eventually Maxwell an’ George got her to quiet down by virtue o’ puttin’ a pillow case over her head an’ shovin’ her into the same closet in which they had spent so many happy hours the night afore. They hurried up outt’n there cause they knowed that the show had already started, an’ they snuck in the back stage door. Maxwell had never been in no theater before, an’ George hadn’t never been no where, so the two o’ them were quite surprised at what they seen. Ever’where there was gals in various sparkly costumes tap dancin’, jugglin’ raw eggs (that were Miss Sidewinder, the contestant what were sponsored by Jake’s House o’ Snakes in Little Bend, an’ she were purty good too, especially since she juggled them without shells) an’ singin’ opera. Maxwell thought that the one singin’ opera had accidentally sat on a cat an’ offered to help, but just then George let out a little bellow, so Maxwell figgered he’d better go see what was up.

George had got his self right up in the wings an’ was lookin’ across the stage. There, wearin’ a pink tutu an’ a spangly bra were a huge brown bear. What George couldn’t see were the bear’s trainer, a Miss Dingle Falls (who, at age 37, were in her last year o’ pageantin’ an’ were pullin’ out all the stops) an’ all of a sudden George were afeared that he might end up married to a four legged furry omnivore. Maxwell assured him that this were most certainly not the case, that the bear weren’t the contestant, an’ George calmed down.

Jest then the stage manager, a man of long standing patience an’ very strong arms by the name o’ Hubert Vandermeyer spotted the two o’ them. He checked his clipboard, hitched up his trousers an’ headed over to ask them what they was doin’. When Maxwell said they was huntin’ fer a bride an’ Hubert got a good look at George, well, things got a bit dicey. After a few moments o’ tension where it looked like Hubert might make use o’ the fire batons what Miss South Arkansas Bay were practicin’ with in ways what they was never intended to be used, George an’ Maxwell (who were afraid o’ fire ever since, as a child, Prunella had left him at the candlemaker’s shop by accident fer a week) apologized fer the inconvenience an’ left. They tried to git in the front door, but since they didn’t have no tickets, nor no money to buy none, them ushers (wearin’ uniforms what Mooky would have purely loved) did what ushers do an’ ushed them away.

George were purty upset by the whole thing, but Maxwell reminded him that they wasn’t plannin’ to git him a bride at this here beauty contest (especially considerin’ the distance they might have to drag the gal to git her home from there), they was just doin’ research so’s they could hold a pageant o’ their own. George allowed as how he’d be happy to do the haulin’ iff’n Maxwell’s back were botherin’ him, cause he’d seen a couple o’ gals what he would be happy to marry iff’n they won. Maxwell figgered that they could wait an’ see who won, an’ then decide iff’n she was worth the haulin’. George agreed that this were probably a good idea, so the two o’ them set down in the town square to wait fer the results.

They didn’t have long to wait, neither, cause about ten minutes later the doors flew open an people started pourin’ out. The excitement were palpable, an’ you could feel it too. Maxwell grabbed the first person what walked by, who happened to be Father Furkle o’ the Other Brothers, an’ asked him who won.

Now Father Furkle, in addition to his priestly duties an’ bein’ the town supplier o’ illicit recreational narcotics, were also a bookie. An’ he had made book on a gal from up north, one Gladia Oliver, Miss Cadawalader County, whose talent were climbin’ trees. She looked so dern cute peerin’ down through them branches that Father Furkle had accepted bets that equaled the monestary’s projected income fer the followin’ year. Unfortunately, Miss Cadawalader had forgot her climbin’ shoes at home, an’ was forced to show off her talents while wearin’ her evenin’ gown footwear. While she did pick up extra style points, she didn’t actually make it up into the tree, so while she had aced the swim suit contest an’ got through the interview with flyin’ colors (she were asked “What would you do to make the world a better place” an’ she answered “I would smile.” an’ then went on to demonstrate), the spectacular failure at her talent (she tried, but eventually slipped, fell outt’n the tree an’ rolled into the orchestra, an’ was saved by a quick thinkin’ tuba player an’ a well placed glockenspiel) cost her the competition an’ Father Furkle a whole lot o’ money that were goin’ to be hard to explain to the new Bishop. So he were not in the best o’ moods when Maxwell snagged him, an’ so he flat out refused to tell him.

Maxwell were so surprised that he followed Father Furkle all the way back to the monestary an’ were about to go in an’ force him to tell when he heared the ruckus an’ shoutin’ startin’. He didn’t know that Father Furkle had jest tol’ the Other Brothers that they was gonna have to give up their comic books an’ trips to Mistress Garabella’s House o’ Ill Repute an’ Pancakes so’s they could pay fer the bets what he had placed, an’ the Other Brothers was none too pleased. When a pew come flyin’ out through the window, Maxwell figgered he could find somebody else what would tell him who won, an’ so he got his self outt’n there an’ headed back to town.

George had had his self some better luck. He’d come up to Matron Bettina Brewster, who were ninety five, practically blind, an’ the warden of the Wango Women’s Detention Hall. She were a tough old bird, despite not bein’ able to see past the end of her own nose (which were probably why she’d bothered to stop when George accosted her, as you may recall George were not pleasant on the eyes an’ most folks would have just moved away at the best speed they could manage) an’ she purely loved a good beauty pageant although, with her vision problems, it was often the cause of great wonder why she liked ‘em so much. The fact is, Matron B (as the gals in Detention Hall used to call her) jest liked the smell o’ perfume, an’ them beauty contestants tended to sweat like hogs on a hot day while performin’ their talents, so they was usually slathered up purty good with perfume an’ toilet water an’ scented creams an’ the like to hide the underlyin’ odor o’ good hard work. The unfortunate thing fer her were that Matron B were allergic to perfume, so she couldn’t stand to wear the stuff herself, but once a year she’d treat her self to a beauty pageant where she could git her fill o’ purty scents before she went back to the Women’s Detention Hall where iff’n they showered monthly it were a treat. As such, by the end o’ the night, her nose were so clogged up by allergies that George’s smell didn’t bother her neither, an’ so when he come up an’ asked her who won, she smiled, pointed over her shoulder to where the winner had jest come outt’n the buildin’ an’ gave George a peppermint what had been in her purse since she were seventy.

Jest then Maxwell got back an’ George tol’ him that the winner were over on the other side o’ the town square an’ they could go on up an’ meet her. There were quite a crowd around her, an’ Miss Wango an’ Surroundin’ Counties were surrounded herself. Maxwell pushed through the crowd draggin’ George along behind him, an’ he come up behind Miss Wango. He tapped her on the shoulder an’ was pullin’ George up to meet her when she turned around, an’ low an’ behold it were Prunella. Needless to say Maxwell were purty surprised by this turn o’ events, but Prunella explained that she’d gotten tired o’ sittin’ around home alone while he were out there on his rock an’ so she’d taken to enterin’ beauty pageants. George (who were rather afraid o’ Prunella, not in the least cause her talent were skinnin’ hogs with her teeth) allowed as how he’d rather not marry Prunella, when all was said an’ done, an’ while Maxwell wouldn’t have minded having George as his step dad, he said he understood, an’ the three o’ them packed up an’ went back home.

When they got there, they was surpised by the reception what they got. The Beaver’s Falls Tourist Board had got wind o’ Prunella’s big win an’ they decided to throw her a parade. They’d gone all out, too, with elephants borrowed from Harminster’s Huge Circus (one ring, three clowns, two elephants an’ a tightrope walker) what had gotten stranded in Beaver’s Falls the previous winter when they lost their wagon in a freak mid winter forest fire, ticker tape (well, no one in town knowed exactly what ticker was, so they’d used scotch tape instead), an’ all the balloons what had been left behind when the balloon factory went out o’ business an’ the owners had skipped town.

Prunella were mighty pleased, an’ she even made a speech on the steps o’ town hall. She thanked ever’body, tol’ them about how much she’d enjoyed the parade, an’ how she hoped she’d be able to git all the tape off afore Christmas. She waxed poetical about all them fine folks in Wango, an’ broke out her box o’ Other Brothers Brownies, what was part o’ the prize package. After a purty mellow evenin’, Maxwell asked the Tourist Board about the possibility o’ sponsorin’ a beauty pageant o’ their own. The Tourist Board thought about the money what that would bring in, an’ they thought about the warehouse full o’ Beaver’s Falls souveniers what they had left over from when the Olympics Committee overlooked ‘em entirely (to be fair, the Committee wasn’t meetin’ the week that the Beaver’s Falls proposal arrived, there were an electric fire at the post office what had singed the back half o’ the proposal where the directions to git to Beaver’s Falls were, an’ this were afore the Olympics had been invented) an’ they said yes.

Maxwell were named Director o’ the pageant, an’ he were in charge o’ ever’thin’. He sent out invitations to all the beauties what was listed in the February issue o’ Gals Gals Gals (except Miss October, o’ course, who had, after the great embarrassment o’ bein’ ejected from the Miss Wango an’ Surroundin’ Counties pageant had gone on to git herself a degree in animal psychiatry an’ was makin’ a name fer herself treatin’ ferrets with split personalities) an’ to his great surprise, all o’ them said they was gonna come. He hired his self some judges, rented a hall, got some local businesses to contribute prizes fer the winner, an’ sold tickets to his self, then scalped ‘em fer a profit.

The day o’ the big contest came. The contestants was back stage, all excited an’ makin’ that titterin’ noise what gals make in big groups, soundin’ like a flock o’ seagulls in a helium factory. The audience were out front, wavin’ their recycled Olympic souvenier flags (the Tourist Board paid second graders to paint over the Olympic rings an’ put stickers over the little picture o’ the javelin thrower). Them judges was sittin’ at their table, wearin’ evenin’ gowns (Maxwell especially liked the one what the President of Uganda were wearin’, although Mr. Gumbara had refused to even consider a tiara), an’ sippin’ on Wango Cola, (their failed advertisin’ slogan was “the beverage choice o’ people what never heared o’ Coke” as it tended to raise Coke sales wherever Wango Cola was sold) who were one o’ the sponsors o’ the event.

The lights went down, a drum rolled, an’ a spot picked out the announcer, Bertram Schooble (who weren’t none too smooth on the microphone, but he did own the only spotlight in town, an’ had said they couldn’t use it ‘lessen he got to be in the show. He were just about to start (after a dramatic pause what we could have drug our wagon, the three legged mule, all o’ King Ruthie’s seventeen sisters an’ most o’ The Hermit’s home town through) when somebody let out a huge scream. The stage manager (not Hubert Vandermeyer, who were unavailable, since he were doin’ a tour o’ Damn Yankees in Idaho) were purty quick thinkin’, an’ he got the house lights turned back on right away. Ever’body got up an’ scooted on outt’n the theatre to see what were goin’ on.

What were goin’ on were a beaver stampede. Hunderds an’ hundreds o’ beavers was runnin’ through the streets o’ town, headin’ down from the mountain an’ runnin’ off towards the Great Dry River. Little beavers an’ big beavers was all climbin’ over each other on their way to gittin’ away from somethin’ though didn’t nobody in town know who at that moment. All’s anybody could hear at first were the pitterin’ o’ little clawed feet, the occasional squeek o’ scared beaver an’ the screams o’ Mrs. Maggie Fusco, who hadn’t gone to the pageant (she were opposed to the objectifyin’ o’ women an’ preferred to stay home with her romance novel an’ a can o’ Dr. Pepper, the beverage o’ people who’d been taken in by Wango Cola an’ now knowed better). Maggie had jest stepped out on her porch when the beaver tide began an’ was swept away till she managed to catch on an’ cling to the town flag pole, where she’d shimmied halfway up an’ was yellin’ fer help.

Well, the Beaver’s Falls Fire Department flew into action. They all ran away. Some folks claim they was seen headed towards the fire house, an’ others figgered they was goin’ to git a ladder to git Maggie down off’n that flag pole but whatever their intentions was, nobody didn’t never find out, cause juest then, underneath all the patterin’ squeekin’ an’ hollerin’, a new noise come to ever’body’s attention. A rumble started makin’ its way down the mountain an’ through the town. All o’ a sudden, ever’body realized what it were, an’ it were a sound ever’body dreaded to hear. It were the sound o’ water, lots o’ water, comin’ down from up over the falls an rushin’ towards town. The dam had broke!

All at once, ever’body in town begun rushin’ an’ hootin’ an trippin’ over escapin’ beavers. Parents picked up their kids (well, Carabell Malton, the mother o’ the Malton twins, Cassie an’ Sassie, who were the terrors o’ the preschool, did drop hers in the town square) grabbin’ whatever they could reach an’ headin’ outt’n town, hot on the trail o’ them beavers. Most folks mighta made it to, except fer one little thing.

One o’ the things what George did, up there on the mountain, while choppin’ wood, was to make sure that the dead wood what he found lyin’ between the trees was gathered up an’ removed. Most o’ it he put in a big pile, up by his cabin above the falls, an’ it would jest disappear. What happened was that them beavers found the big ol’ pile o’ sticks an’ they would take them off to use in their dam buildin’ efforts. Since takin’ sticks from a pile were so easy, the beavers what did this (rather than chewin’ off sticks o’ their own) had more time fer food gatherin’, poker playin’ an’ the wooin’ o’ female beavers. The other kind, the ones what did their own wood cuttin’, didn’t have so much time fer breedin’, an’ soon they died out. As it happened, the stick stealin’ beavers got so lazy that their teeth (what was kept sharp by all the gnawin’ that beavers usually do) got dull till them beavers couldn’t cut wood even if they’d wanted to. This weren’t a serious problem till George went down to town a’huntin’ fer a prize winnin’ wife.

With the George’s wood pile link removed from the local supply chain, them beavers was at a loss. What with the dull teeth an’ bein’ so fat an’ lazy, maintenance on their dam had fallen off, an’ repairs wasn’t bein’ made in a timely manner, so the dam sprung a leak. Them beavers was too busy with the lady folk to pay it much mind, an’ so the leak became a gusher, an’ afore they knowed what hit ‘em, the dam come tumblin’ down.

An’ what had happened to all them extra sticks what’d been left lyin’ around? Well, them farmers what had had to clear their own land wasn’t sure what to do with ‘em, so they’d been throwin’ ‘em all in the river. The sticks were floatin’ downstream an washin’ up at the swimmin’ beach on the fur side o’ town. This went mostly unnoticed cause there wasn’t hardly nobody what went swimmin’ there after the Labor Day freeze, except for Prunella, an’ she’d been away too, compeatin’ in beauty contests. So all them sticks were backed up at the swimmin’ beach. Then, the first o’ the flood water reached ‘em an’ knocked ‘em all loose an’ washed ‘em up over top o’ the Tarhoogaloochi Bridge (named fer Spenser Tarhoogaloochi, who saved three drownin’ kids on that very spot, but unfortunately later loft his life in a hot air clothes dryer incident) blockin’ the roadway so’s nobody couldn’t git past it. The entire town, carryin’ their children, their grandparents, an’ many of them carryin’ brand new television sets from Omar Bartholamew’s Electronic’s Emporium on Main Street, or Main stream, as some were now callin’ it come runnin’ up to this tangle o’ dead wood, an’ as one, they turned to see where George were. George, at that very moment, were runnin’ precisely the other way. When the beavers started runnin’, George had been in the theatre with ever’body else. When the screamin’ had started, he’d run outside, an’ since he were more familiar with beaver behaviour, he had figgered out what’d happened afore anybody else did. So George, while the rest o’ Beaver’s Falls panicked, had kept his cool, an’ looked fer his opportunity. Suddenly, he saw her. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seed in his entire life. Live from the pages o’ Gals Gals Gals, there stood the prize winnin’ woman o’ his dreams. An’ when the towns folk started to grab up their nearest an’ dearest an’ run down to git outt’n town, George had grabbed this vision o’ beauty, this paragon o’ prize winnin’ woman flesh an’ he headed up the mountain. The gal he’d nabbed were startled, but seein’ all the confusion around her, an’ havin’ a phobia about skitterin’ beavers, she figgered she were better off on the shoulders o’ a feller who were headed in a direction that were likely to leave her above the water line when all were said an’ done.

Maxwell, meanwhile, started to feel kind o’ guilty about all o’ this, it bein’ his fault that George hadn’t been around to clean up all this flotsom in the first place. So after a quick check showed him that George (an’ apparently, at least one o’ the judges) weren’t no wheres to be found, Maxwell guessed it were up to him to save the day (not to mention the towns folk who was watchin’ a tidal wave approach an’ tryin’ to fend off crazed beavers), so he dug into his satchel an’ found two sticks o’ dynomite what were left over from last Easter. He quickly rigged up a fuse, tossed them sticks o’ dynomite up under the branches what was blockin’ the bridge, an’ backed off. When the blast went off, it blew the pile o’ sticks sky high, an’ only actually managed to kill one person, Mrs. Whickett, but she were always goin’ around tellin’ people what to do (she tol’ Maxwell to throw them firecrackers underneath the bridge) an’ so most o’ the town, includin’ Mr. Whickett, were none too sad at her passin’.


Ever’body crushed across the bridge an’ stood on the other side as the waters what washed down the mountain carried most o’ the town down off into the river an’ out towards sea. With it went three quarters o’ the houses, half the livestock, many o’ the elderly who was runnin’ too slow, an’, much to ever’ one’s dismay, about two thirds o’ the beauty contestants, who had all discovered too late that the reason the rowboat mounted on the fountain in the town square were called “Collin’s Folly” were that it were made o’ solid steel, an’ modled after a cheese grater. So they got exfoliated purty thouroughly, an’ then the boat wen’t straight to the bottom, taken the pageant gals with it. They was less upset as all them extra Olympic souuveniers floated off, until the followin’ year, however, when they got a secret visit from the Olympic Committee, an they had nothin’ to show for their selves.

Maxwell were declared the hero o’ the day. He were raised up on their shoulders an’ they marched him back into what were left o’ Beavers Falls, thankin’ him fer savin’ their lives. Jest about the only thing left were the candlemaker’s shop (which caused Maxwell to shudder) an’ that were only cause all that wax had caused it to float when the water were high an’ set back down agin as the water drained. The candlemaker was purty happy with it too, since the new location were in a much better part o’ town than the old one, an’ the new basement what his shop had landed on had been scoured clean by the flood (his old basement were so full o’ stuff that he’d lost his wife down there some three years afore that). So, while the whole town got down to findin’ their china an’ diggin’ their grandmothers outt’n the rubble, the candle maker set about makin’ a Life Sized Realistic Statue o’ Maxwell, the town hero.

An’ what about George? Well, by the time Maxwell thought to check, it were purty late in the winter. The snow had piled up so high that it took almost a week fer Maxwell to dig his self up to George’s cabin door. An’ when he got there, he were mighty surprised to see who it was what George had carted off tto be his bride. There, sittin’ in George’s parlor, were Miss America herself, Jurick Pfister’s Great Aunt Phantasia. She were mighty pleased to see Maxwell, an’ once he tol’ her about his pledge to help George in his prize winnin’ wife quest, an’ tol’ her about all the adventures they’d had on the way, Great Aunt Phantasia were moved, an’ she tol’ George she figgered that were about as romantic a story what she had ever heared, an’ she would marry him, cause that’s how fairy tales ended. George suggested that he didn’t know nothin’ about fairy tails, but he did know that he would be the happiest man in the world, an’ so, on a cold winter night, away from the eyes of ever’body except some o’ the more curious o’ the beavers, George an’ Phantasia got hitched. An’ (iff’n they ain’t divorced yet) they is married to this very day.

Maybell, who loved a happy endin’, especially iff’n beavers was involved, allowed as how that were a mighty fine story.

“Jest one thing,” she asked. “Iff’n they made him a statue an’ all, why don’t they call him a hero no more?”

Cousin Bert explained that the town had took that statue what the candle maker made an’ set it up on a pedestal (what had been recently vacated by the washed up statue o’ Ming Who, first Mayor o’ Beaver’s Falls). With big ceremony, they had hoisted it up there, where it stood, purty as you please, until one hot day when the wax begun to soften. Didn’t nobody notice when drips o’ wax started fallin’, an’ afore too long there was a puddle round the base o’ the statue. Well, that very same day, the Tourist Board had managed to convince the Olympic Committee to give ‘em another chance. Them members o’ the Committee was all there, seein’ the sights, an’ the sites, when they wandered through the town square an’ each an’ ever’ one o’ them stepped into that puddle o’ wax an’ took a tumble. Since the average age o’ an Olympic Committee person is upwards o’ 96, so the Tourist Board ended up with a pile o’ broken hips that were big enough to be classified as a natural disaster area. Needless to say, them Olympic Committee persons didn’t have much tolerance fer this sort o’ thing an’ (even though they found the re-altered souveniers (for which third graders with paint remover an’ scrub brushes had been engaged) endearin’) they packed up their selves an’ left, dashing the Tourist Board’s hopes fer ever. So they declared Maxwell persona non grata (or “Man least likely to git a cheese grater fer Christmas”), removed his statue, banished him to live with George an’ Phantasia, an’ dug up his rock.

Cousin Bert figgered that maybe they still had the statue somewheres an’ asked Granny iff’n he could go see it once we got to Beaver’s Falls. Granny said she didn’t rightly know, but that we could ask Prunella iff’n she knew, even though she were purty old now, were rumored to have almost no memory left, an’, even with family, usually shot first an’ asked questions sometime after the inquest.

Chapter 5

The Pfisters was a prolific bunch. Many times, locals round wherever the Pfisters settled were heared to comment that them Pfisters bred like dull-toothed beavers. Pfisters figgered that it were a purty good idea to have lots o’ kids, not jest in case o’ emergency, but probably mostly cause we was always lookin’ fer somebody who was willing to adopt some o’ them cats.

Uncle Ed were havin’ a bad time o’ it, cause them cats had stopped listenin’ to him entirely since they’d taken up with Boopie La Rue. As we were headin’ down to Beaver’s Falls them cats was bein’ purty uppity, an’ we was all wearin’ three or four layers o’ clothin’, not so much to prevent the risk o’ losin’ a limb ever’ time them cats run by (Merty were kind o’ lookin’ forward to it, cause she figgered a wooden leg would add some character) but mostly to staunch the bleedin’. Ed were tryin’ to git them cats back into their box, but they wasn’t havin’ any o’ it. Maybell was keepin’ an eye out fer aloe plants, cause while none o’ us Pfisters is particularly bothered by scars, (Great Great Uncle Bluebeard Pfister would have been quite a different feller without his scars) Grampaw wanted to make fried aloe an’ lizard jerky sandwiches fer lunch, when all o’ a sudden one o’ them cats broke free an’ landed on her head, an’ she let out a yelp an’ fell right off’n the wagon. Granny looked around to see what’d happened, when suddenly another one o’ them cats (or maybe the same one, them cats moved so fast we could never really tell which one were which, nor how many, exactly there was, an’ Cousin Bert were o’ the opinion that there were really only the one, but that it got around) went flyin’ past her head an’ landed square on the mule. After fallin’ in the Great Dry River Canyon, Granny weren’t about to take no more nonsense from that mule, so she’d hobbled him so’s he couldn’t make another break fer it, which were probably the only thing that kept us from flyin’ right through Beaver’s Falls an’ missin’ the whole town entirely. Mama were purty upset, since another o’ them cats were climbin’ up her leg, an’ she’d jest put on a new pair o’ stockin’s, an’ Joe-Joe was hidin’ in the cauldron again, cause he figgered there was enough people movin’ around on the wagon to distract them cats that they wouldn’t bother tryin’ to chew through all that iron.

Well, Granny risked life an’ limb an’ climbed down off’n the wagon an’ grabbed the cat that were playin’ tic tac toe on the mule’s hide by the scruff o’ the neck. Once she’d got ahold o’ it, the mule turned right around an’ bit a chunk o’ tail right off’n it, but them cats was so mean, it didn’t seem to notice. Mama smacked the one what was usin’ her legs as a tree with The Book, an’ Maybell come runnin’ back with the other one still chasin’ her. Ed popped the box over it as she scurried by, an’ Cousin Bert tackled her an’ poured water on her till she stopped screamin’. Mama waited till ever’body had calmed down agin, then she looked fer Boopie La Rue.

Boopie weren’t afeared o’ nothin’, or so Mayor Harper’s wife had tol’ us, but we all knowed that look o’ Mama’s, an’ even Granny (who once tol’ the famous ax murderer, Johnny Bo Kwartz, who usually killed six people afore breakfast an’ would as soon chop yer head off as look at you that iff’n he didn’t shape up an’ behave his self, she were goin’ to have to get stern with him, after which he give up ax murderin’ entirely an’ devoted his life to raisin’ funds so’s the town o’ Smith Corners could git a childerns library) had enough sense to git outt’n the way. Mama smiled at Boopie, by which time we was all quakin’ in our shoes, an’ tol’ him that iff’n he were gonna teach them cats bad habits, he might jest find his self with no cats at all to play with. Boopie looked fer a minute like he were gonna growl at her, then he got a glimpse o’ her eyes, (Mama’s eyes, when she were angry, could melt lead, an’ right then her eyelashes was startin’ to smoke) an’ his tail went right between his legs an’ he hung his head, an’ promised to do better. Mama said as how that were all she could hope fer, an’ would he please make sure all them cats was back in their box now so’s we could continue on our way. As purty as you please, Boopie had a word with them cats, an’ afore we knowed it, they was all marchin’ in single file, right back into the box.

Jest about then we was comin’ into the suburb o’ Beaver’s Falls (it weren’t that big a town, so they only had the one) where folks what thought city life were a bit too hectic fer them lived. Cousin Bert were gittin’ purty excited, an’ were bouncin’ up an’ down like a chicken with a rubber worm. Maybell were braidin’ her hair, an’ Merty even put on some shoes. Ed straightened his tie, an’ Grampaw asked iff’n anybody had one o’ Gordon’s toothless combs what he could borrow. Granny once agin reminded him that he were dead, but Grampaw said that weren’t no reason not to look respectable.

As we rolled into town, the one thing we noticed were how dead quiet ever’thing were. There wasn’t no kids runnin’ around, nor even a dog barkin’. The sun were shinin’ bright, (so bright that we couldn’t hardly see Grampaw at all, an’ Granny were tellin’ him that his search fer a Point Free Tonsorial Rake were jest him bein’ vain) the breeze were blowin’ soft (which were a blessin’, since Cousin Bert hadn’t had his bath that month) an’ Mama figgered there should be somebody settin’ on a porch or pitchin’ horseshoes or somethin’ but they wasn’t no where to be seen. Uncle Ed said that even if they’d seed us comin’ it wouldn’t explain why there wasn’t nobody anywhere, not even a Pfister, out to greet us.

We rode down them quiet streets, past houses what looked perfectly normal, but didn’t see a soul. Granny checked The Book to see iff’n maybe it were some holiday what we missed an’ perhaps the whole town had gone off to visit with relatives in Smith Corners, but The Book, which were usually a reliable source o’ information about ever’thing (in fact, The Book even had information what would have made Ickwiddle the Fetid a lot more popular as a prognosticator) was strangely silent on the matter. Even the mule, (who, what after all the three legged trottin’ across the countryside, the jumpin’ off o’ cliffs an’ the business with them cats were purty wore out) looked worried, an’ so it weren’t no surprise that when the handbill fell outt’n the tree, he spooked. Since Granny’d hobbled his feet together, when he tried to run all he did were fall over, an’ then Joe-Joe picked up the advertisement what had blown across the road.

“Friends!” it said. “Is you sufferin’? Is you lost?” (Maybell, who were lookin’ at Cousin Bert’s tomato an’ cranberry sauce covered map allowed as how we might well be) “Do you need help to git through yer day? Come on down to The Right Reverend Jebedaiah Stone’s (who was called Brother Jeb by his friends, an’ he wanted ever’ one to be his friends) Revival Meetin’ an’ Hands On Healin’ Prayer Service an’ git yourself Saved!” Mama shook her head an’ said that she were afeared that nothin’ good never come from somethin’ o’ this sort, but Maybell an’ me aked her really purty iff’n we couldn’t please jest go an’ see what were what. Joe-Joe wanted to go too, an’ Merty were o’ a mind to attend, then Granny tol’ Mama that she heared that Uncle Ferdy (who we was aimin’ to stay a spell with while we was in Beaver’s Falls) had married a gal outt’n the Rim Rock Bellefleur’s (who, ever since one o’ their ancestors become Pope, tended to be somewhat overtly religious) an’ Uncle Ferdy had always been the gullible type so they was probably at the Revival Meetin’ an’ Hands On Healin’ Prayer Service their selves. Mama then took a look at the mule an’ figgered that if there was anythin’ to this Healin’ stuff, the mule could certainly use some, so we might as well stop by. The flyer said that The Right Reverend Jebedaiah Stone had set his self up on the fair grounds on the other side o’ town, so we put the mule in the wagon, got Boopie to hitch up them cats, an’ set out to see Brother Jeb.

As we got closer to the fair grounds, we started to hear some noise. An’ what a noise it were, it sounded like the end o’ the world. People was singin’ an’ shoutin’ an’ cryin’, there were a choir (the Right Reverand Jebedaiah Stone’s Angelic Voices o’ Heaven Singers, recordin’s available for purchase at the door, take one home today an’ let the spirit stay with you ever’ time you turn on yer Victrola) an’ a organ an’ hand clappin’ an’ foot stompin’. We could see the big tent (recently purchased from Harminster’s Huge Circus) what had a Twenty Five Foot Fully Electrified Light Up Cross right on top, an’ Realistic Pictures o’ the Life o’ Jesus as depicted by a Real Artist (copies available fer sale at the door, take one home today an’ let the spirit stay with you ever’ time you open yer eyes) painted all up an’ down the sides (them paintin’s had used to be realistic pictures o’ the Harminster’s Huge Circus, complete with clowns an elephants, an’ the Real Artist had turned them clowns into disciples an’ the ringmaster into Jesus, an’ in only one picture did Peter have a clown nose an’ Jesus have a top hat where the Real Artist had run out o’ paint). Standin’ outside the gate o’ the fair grounds we seed two ministerial types, an’ they flagged us down as we drove up. They was Father Picklemeister (the local Catholic priest) an’ Preacher Oates (who were the spiritual leader fer both the Presbyterians an’ the Lutherans in town). These two fellers exhorted us not to go in, explainin’ that this Right Reverand Jebedaiah Stone were a false prophet an’ that his Hands On Healin’ Service were nothin’ more than the work o’ the devil an’ a big ol’ pack o’ lies to boot. Granny said that this didn’t make it no different than most any other church service, as fur as she could tell, an’ we went on in.

As we got inside, we could see that Brother Jeb’s presence had ‘em whipped up to a frenzy. There was women rollin’ in the aisles talkin’ in tongues, men throwin’ their hands in the air an’ praisin’ ever’thing they could think o’, an’ children dancin’ an’ singin’ an’ carryin’ on (well, we wasn’t sure iff’n the spirit had them or iff’n they was just takin’ advantage o’ all the hubbub to have their selves a good time, but it surely added to the excitement).

Inside the door, right were you couldn’t miss it, were the souvenir an’ refreshment stand. They had official Brother Jeb Bibles (which he had kindly edited fer content, so they was appropriate fer all ages), Vials o’ Holy Water personally blessed by Brother Jeb an’ God (not to be confused with the Forbidden Fruit Smoothies, what were made from apples, bananas an’ a splash o’ Blessed Spirit, as provided by the recently converted Deacon Bobby Dorminster an’ his corn likker still) Official Sanctioned Programs (personally guaranteed to be touched by Brother Jeb an’ signed by one o’ the Right Reverand Jebedaiah Stone’s Angelic Voices o’ Heaven Singers with a coupon good fer a discount on the purchase o’ one recordin’ an’ two bibles included) an’ re-recycled no longer Olympic flags (repainted by the special education vocational class, with crosses hand embroidered by the Wednesday Afternoon Book Club on ‘em). Mama declined the offer o’ a Prayer Hanky with the Very Words o’ The Lord’s Prayer (revised by Brother Jeb) printed on it, an’ Joe-Joe had to be reminded we was savin’ up fer a bazooka cause he were sorely tempted by the Biblical Sayin’s Chocolate Assortment with Caramel Fillin’ an’ Printed with Important Verses on the Top. I looked at the Padded Prayer Seat but figgered that I’d do jest as well settin’ on Grampaw, so I could save my money.

The usher showed us to our seats, right down front, an’ we looked around to see iff’n we could spot Uncle Ferdy. What with all the kerfuffle, we couldn’t really see nobody, so Granny sent Uncle Ed an’ Cousin Bert to go ahuntin’ an’ instructed Maybell an’ me to keep a firm grip on Merty, who wanted to join in the Holy Snake Dance what was formin’. There was a pair o’ Deaconesses up on stage, right purty gals, who was gittin’ the crowd all warmed up fer Brother Jeb, not that the crowd needed much warmin’ (in jest about any other jurisdiction, that crowd would have been counted as a full scale riot, but the judge were no where’s to be found, so them Deaconesses had a purty free hand). Then, with a big ol’ organ flourish an’ a holy chord from the Right Reverand Jebedaiah Stone’s Angelic Voices o’ Heaven Singers, the spotlight swung round an’ landed on Brother Jeb. He were a good lookin’ feller with a big moustache, an’ a voice what could charm a cat outt’n a tree (an’ the Widow Griffin outt’n more than some old sportin’ equipment too). He commenced to preachin’ an’ the crowd went wild. He praised an’ he damned an’ he healed an’ he prayed an’ afore he were done, there weren’t a soul in that tent what hadn’t felt the Spirit move them. Not a soul but Granny, that is. We started to notice that Granny didn’t seem too interested in what Brother Jeb were preachin’, but she were lookin’ mighty hard at that there moustache. Purty soon Brother Jeb noticed her glarin’ at him, an’ he looked like he were gittin’ a bit worried. After a bit, what with all the shoutin’ an’ runnin’ around an’ sweatin’ he were doin’ (personally, I were startin’ to think that the sweatin’ were more from the hairy eyeball Granny were givin’ him than from the runnin’ around) Brother Jeb said that he were tired, an’ that were all fer tonight, but that people should come back tomorrow fer his Extra Healin’ Service where, fer a small donation, he’d pray them right into heaven. He tol’ the folks not to fergit to pick up their eight by ten glossy photograph o’ Brother Jeb shakin’ hands with the President o’ the United States an’ other Important World Leaders with their Favorite Bible Verses Right on the Back fer only a small love offerin’ at the souvenir stand on the way out, an’ he would see ever’body tomorrow. Then he an’ them Deaconesses snuck out the back as the crowd all moved out.

Granny herded us all out the back o’ the tent, followin’ Brother Jeb. By this time Ed an’ Joe-Joe had found Uncle Ferdy an’ his wife, (Flotilla Bellefleur Pfister, who were, indeed, the religious sort, an’ who had so many o’ Brother Jeb’s souvenirs stuck all around her that she looked like a giant hedgehog what had gotten lost in a flag factory) an’ had them in tow. We didn’t rightly know why Granny were stalkin’ The Right Reverend Jebedaiah Stone, but it looked as though it might jest provide some entertainment, so we all trailed out after her.

Out back o’ the Revival Meetin’ tent there was a couple o’ smaller tents what served as livin’ quarters for Brother Jeb an’ the Angelic Voices o’ Heaven Singers, as well as fer the ushers, the two Deaconesses, the souvenir seller an’ the organist what traveled with him. We saw Brother Jeb duck into the largest one, with the Deaconesses, who was gigglin’, laggin’ jest behind him.

Granny marched right up to that tent, looked fer a doorknocker (even when bustin’ in on someone, Granny liked to be polite) but not seein’ one she jest yelled “Knock,” at the top o’ her lungs (an’ Granny yelllin’ were somethin’ didn’t nobody want to hear, even them cats was afeared o’ Granny’s voice) an’ proceeded to go right in. We was all purty close behind her, so all us Pfisters crowded right into the tent with Granny, Brother Jeb an’ them two Deaconesses. Since there was a dozen o’ us (Mama, Granny, Grampaw, Joe-Joe, Cousin Bert, Maybell, me, Uncle Ed, Aunt Merty, Uncle Ferdy, Aunt Flotilla an’ Boopie La Rue) not countin’ them cats, the smaller tent started to look like its own Prayer Meetin’ an’ Hands On Healin’ Service. Brother Jeb jumped up from where he’d set down to take off his shoes, an’ them Deaconesses let out a pair o’ matched shrieks (although that may o’ been cause o’ them cats) as we Pfisters all crushed into the tent. Brother Jeb started in to flusterin’ an’ carryin’ on, but we could all see his heart weren’t in it, when Granny marched right up to him, grabbed ahold o’ that gigantic soup strainer, yanked it right off’n his face, an’ said “Ha! I thought so!”

It were Dr. Peabody. We was mostly all stunned, but Granny jest threw that big ol’ mustache down on the ground an’ proceeded to stare at the now undisguised Brother Jeb till he broke down an’ tol’ us how he come to be a preacher.

It’d all started back when Finkle Pfister’d come to see Dr. Peabody about them warts what was caused by the family curse. When them Smith Corners folk had gotten all riled up an’ chased Finkle back up the mountain, Dr. Peabody (who figgered he probably could have fixed them tooth warts, iff’n he’d had the chance) followed along behind ‘em partly cause he were curious about Finkle (an’ his dog, what were a breed that Dr. Peabody, who were a judge fer the Westminster Dog Show in his off season ain’t never seed afore) but mostly cause that crowd o’ folks run off without payin’ Dr. Peabody fer all them cures what they had got afore Finkle’s appearance got ever’body up in arms. He saw the crowd burnin’ down the entire Pfister Farm (although, to be honest, he did figger at the time that by the look o’ things, the place had been abandoned fer quite some time) an’ a couple o’ the Pfisters too (an’ again, Dr. Peabody figgered that they had been abandoned fer a while too, or he would have stepped in, as the Dr. were basically a nice person). Afore any o’ that crazed mob spotted him, Dr. Peabody hid his self behind a big rock an’ he waited fer the ruckus to die down. When it did, he took a look around to see iff’n he could spot any survivors, but he didn’t see nobody, so he trotted on back down into town, gathered up his troop, went around tryin’ to collect from whoever he could, an’, in fairly short order, got his self back on the road.

He figgered that would be the end o’ it, but he were wrong. It turned out that Dr. Peabody were also insured by the firm o’ Fern, Devlin, Masters, Kenny, Fern, Einstein, Fern, Jeffries an’ Fern against medical malpractice claims, damage to his wagons, loss o’ life, liberty or limb, an’ with a special nurse replacement clause. Now, when Googy mailed them hives to ever’body, most folks there abouts sought out Dr. Peabody fer a remedy. But Dr. Peabody knew that iff’n a Pfister sent you a gift, you was stuck with it, so he declined to even try. Then Mr. Fern come along an’ tol’ Dr. Peabody that a claims adjuster o’ his had gotten them hives too, an’ he wanted Dr. Peabody to do somethin’ or he were gonna seriously consider whether the firm of Fern, Devlin, Masters, Kenny, Fern, Einstein, Fern, Jeffries an’ Fern ere gonna be able to keep insurin’ him (an’ perhaps, they might even have to start causin’ him harm). Dr. Peabody did ever’thin’ he could, he tried syrups an’ lotions an’ creams an’ oils an’ ointments an’ liniments an’ unguents an’ rubs an’ salves an’ gels an’ balms, but no treatment he tried did a lick o’ good, an’ by New Years Day Ruben P. Lynch had (most ungraciously, as fer as Dr. Peabody were concerned) expired. Mr. Fern payed Dr. Peabody a second visit, an’ with very little ceremony (jest a little fanfare, only one flag an’ not more than three or four speeches) the firm of Fern, Devlin, Masters, Kenny, Fern, Einstein, Fern, Jeffries an’ Fern dropped Dr. Peabody from their family of happily insured customers.

Needless to say, Dr. Peabody felt this were a bit excessive, especially since he’d risked his own neck goin’ up there to see iff’n he could help out the Pfisters after the burnin’ (Granny thought it would have been a much better gesture iff’n he’d helped out afore, but Mama heshed her up an’ Granny, who remembered the incident with Merty an’ Professor Tunabloom, figgered this would make them even an’ allowed herself to be heshed), but Mr. Fern were a rather stern feller, an’ when he made up his mind, there wasn’t nothin’ or nobody what could make him change it agin. Dr. Peabody was left with no insurance. Now in them days, ever’body figgered Dr. Peabody did purty good fer his self, an’ it seemed like he’d got his self quite a nest egg stashed away somewheres. Truth to tell, however, when Granny’d tol’ off the ol’ Gypsy womern an’ she’d run off with the crippled dwarf, they’d taken the cash box with ‘em, so now Dr. Peabody didn’t have no cushion at all. He tried to git another insurance firm to pick up the malpractice insurance, but most o’ them was understandably reluctant to accept a customer with no steady billin’ address an’ a somewhat flexible clientele. Dr. Peabody muddled along fer quite a while until one day, one o’ his nostrums went horribly awry.

This particular day had started off poorly. Both o’ them nurses had come down with head colds an’ was flat out refusin’ to take any o’ Dr. Peabody’s patented cures fer it. Ivan, his assistant, discovered a hole in his accordian, so as they rolled into town, all he had to play on were a set o’ old bagpipes, an’ didn’t nobody want to hear that, Dr. Peabody had lost his favorite top hat, one o’ the horses what pulled his wagon’s had gone lame an’ it were rainin’. Jest as they was roundin’ the bend comin’ into town, lightnin’ struck a tree in front o’ them an’ knocked it down across their path, the fire alarm in town went off cause the church had caught on fire, an’ a wheel on the lead wagon went flat. But rather than read the signs an’ give it all up as a bad idea, Dr. Peabody continued into town an’ set up fer his show.

The rain (which were comin’ down in buckets) kept most o’ the crowd home, but Dr. Peabody pressed on fer the few what showed up. Most ever’ body there were purty miserable, what with the rain an’ whatever had been ailin’ them in the first place, but the most miserable person there were a gal by the name o’ Mayna Welch Pfister, whose daddy, Yoritz Welch had been an itinerate cherry picker what followed the crops, but after spendin’ a night with Pollichnia Pfister (Mayna’s mother) hadn’t never been heared from agin. As a result, Mayna went through life with a very large inferiority complex an’ a fear o’ cherries. She were there that day, though, cause she had heared tell o’ a new sort o’ beauty cream what were made from real live chopped oysters (Brother Jeb allowed as how she’d probably meant pearls, but there wasn’t no convincin’ her about that) an’ she wanted some. It weren’t that she weren’t a purty girl to start off (iff’n one ignored the bumps on her nose an’ them stripey things what run down the sides o’ her neck, an’ her hair, an’ her teeth, well, they was easy to ignore, since she didn’t have none) but she figgered the reason her dad hadn’t never come home were cause she were not quite purty enough (ever’body else in town figgered it probably had more to do with Colonel Tamblin Pfister, Pollichnia’s father, an’ his shot gun) an’ iff’n she had some o’ this beauty cream, he’d come back. Pollichnia tol’ her not to think that way, but Mayna were not about to give up hope, an’ so she’d come to Dr. Peabody fer help.

Dr. Peabody’d never heared o’ no beauty cream usin’ live chopped oysters, but since things had been a bit lean, he weren’t about to turn away any potential payin’ customers. He took her order, assured her he’d have somethin’ fer her the next day an’ set to work. Now, there wasn’t much by the way o’ oysters around them parts, so Dr. Peabody figgered he’d jest substitute somethin’ else, an’ what he come up with was snails. That year had been plenty moist already, an’ the vegetation were lush an’ green, an’ the snails were plentiful an’ fat. So Dr. Peabody sent Ivan out huntin’ fer some nice fresh snails an’ commenced to mixin’ other potions while he waited fer Ivan to return.

Ivan didn’t like snails. Once, when he were a boy, things was so bad that his mother had to feed him an’ his five brothers garden snails fer a week, an’ no amount o’ telllin’ him they was a French delicacy could make Ivan go near one agin after that. So when Dr. Peabody sent Ivan out fer snails, Ivan figgered he’d find somethin’ that might work an bring that back instead. What Ivan landed on to bring back was earth worms. He knew that with all the rain, earth worms was gonna be slitherin’ around ever’where, so he hired his self a local eight year old by the name o’ Sandy to bring him back a can o’ earth worms.

Sandy, as it happened, didn’t like worms all that much. He’d always been the littlest kid in his class, an’ as a result he was on more than one occasion forced to eat a worm by his bigger an’ meaner classmates. But he did want the quarter what Ivan promised him (he were savin’ up to buy his mother a new hat fer Kwanza) an’ so he agreed. But rather than worms, Sandy looked around his parents grocery store to see what he could fin instead. What Sandy come up with were a tin o’ chopped oysters.

So Sandy poured them oysters into a empty soup tin an’ tol’ Ivan they was earth worms, Ivan took ‘em an’ put ‘em in a dish an’ tol’ Dr. Peabody they was snails, an’ Dr. Peabody, who’d found a ol’ recipe fer makin’ beauty cream from slugs poured ‘em in, an’ tol’ Mayna they was oysters, which they was. The problem were that the recipe what Dr. Peabody were usin’ had a footnote at the bottom o’ the page which Dr. Peabody had spilled tincture o’ iodine on so he couldn’t read it no more that spelled out very specifically all the problems you would git iff’n you were to substitute oysters fer the slugs called fer by the recipe. Since Dr. Peabody thought they was snails, he didn’t see no problems, but as soon as Mayna got that there beauty cream, the problems begin.

First off, it worked. It were the best beauty cream ever. It cleared up her complexion, straightened her teeth, curled her hair, painted her toenails an’ ironed her best dress. That beauty cream worked so good that in no time at all, Mayna were the purtiest gal alive, purtier even than the Widow Griffin an’ Great Aunt Phantasia Pfister combined. She put all the Proper Young Women to shame, an’ would have won ever’ contest ever reviewed in Gals Gals Gals, iff’n she’d only cared to enter. She were so purty that ever’ man in town immediately tol’ his wife that he were leavin’ her. Mayna weren’t about to take up with any o’ them, as she had herself a domestic partner by the name o’ Brianna Allbright who she loved to pieces, but that didn’t stop them menfolk none. The women in town was all fairly annoyed by this, an’ they all went to see Dr. Peabody. They demanded that he either de-purtify Mayna, give them some o’ that cream, or, by preference, do both. He allowed as how he didn’t have no antidote fer that there cream, but that he’d certainly be happy to whip up another batch. Ivan were no where to be found, so Dr. Peabody went out to gather up the snails his self, an’ made up some more o’ that potion. Unfortunately fer him, underneath the footnote about the oysters, there was a second one what had gotten singed off one time when his recipe book fell into the fire, what said that under no circumstances should anybody ever, never ever, substitute snails, no matter how temptin’, an’ no matter how scarce slugs might be. The recipe didn’t even want to speculate about how bad this would be, jest warned that the last two fellers who tried it got run over by a bus, an’ one man in Massachussets refused to listen to this warnin’ an’ now he were the Governor o’ Iowa.

Blithely unaware o’ the plight o’ that poor Massachussets man, an’ not even keepin’ an eye out fer passin’ busses, Dr. Peabody mixed up the second batch an’ passed it out to all the women in town. Each an’ ever’ one o’ them went home an’ applied their cream accordin’ to the directions supplied by Dr. Peabody. An’ each an’ ever’ o’ them went to sleep, an’ woke up the next mornin’ an’ rushed to the mirror. All over town, there was heared screams o’ outrage an’ the breakin’ o’ mirror glass as ever’ woman in town discovered that she looked like a poster child fer the Ugly Society. They stormed out to where Dr. Peabody an’ was prepared to tear him limb from limb.

Dr. Peabody had woke his self up early that mornin’, an’ since the nurses was feelin’ better, he’d taken his whole troop out fer breakfast at Mistress Garabella’s House o’ Ill Repute an’ Pancakes, an’ he were settin’ near the window finishin’ up his coffee when he noticed the crowd o’ women marchin’ by headed out towards where he’d parked the wagons. Dr. Peabody had seen a crowd like that once afore, only instead o’ chasin’ after Finkle Pfister, they all looked like him. He figgered out purty fast that it must have somehow been his fault (Dr. Peabody, while somewhat unlucky, had always been a quick thinking sort, a useful trait fer both travellin’ doctors an’ preachers) an’ so he hid the troop in a shed an’ went to see what were goin’ on. Them women had found the wagons empty an’ proceeded to dismantle them into very small pieces on the chance that Dr. Peabody were hidin’ inside, an’ (so as not to leave a mess) they was preparin’ to dispose o’ the pieces in a tidy way by burnin’ them. The horses had all bolted once they got a look at them women, so they was safe, an’ the troop were all hid away, but them wagons an’ ever’thin’ Dr. Peabody owned was a total loss, an’, o’ course, he didn’t have no insurance.

Them ugly women was jest about to take off after Dr. Peabody an’ tear him into small pieces when their husbands showed up. Now, when them husbands had got up in the mornin’, they all looked around fer their wives, only partly cause they wanted breakfast, but mostly cause they wanted to tell them agin about how purty Mayna were. When they all found their womenfolk gone, the whole bunch o’ them had set out after ‘em. An’ they found ‘em, jest afore the women were gonna start their search. There were a moment o’ silence as them two groups run into each other in the middle o’ the town square, an’ then the most marvelous thing happened. The women, (who’d been lookin’ at each other all this time, so was purty used to how ugly they looked) was all afeared that their husbands was gonna run away screamin’, but instead, each an’ ever’ husband took his wife into his arms an’ begun a’kissin’ on her. Even husbands what hadn’t even kissed their wives on their anniversary for years started in with the smoochin’ an’ the huggin’ an’ were headed towards some things what they ought not do in public where childerns might see ‘em. Turns out that while the slug cream made with snails had the unfortunate side effect o’ makin’ anyone who used it unbearably ugly, it also made them pheremones what we all have so strong that no one could resist ‘em. So all them husbands picked up their wives an’ carted ‘em off home agin (for whatever purposes they had in mind, an’ Granny wouldn’t let Dr. Peabody tell us nothin’ about that) an’ them women fergot all about comin’ after Dr. Peabody.

Well, what with the loss o’ their wagons, no insurance, an’ the ol’ Gypsy womern an’ the crippled dwarf havin’ run off, didn’t nobody in Dr. Peabody’s troop feel like goin’ back into the Travellin’ Medicine Show business. They tried the vaudeville circuit fer a while, but Ivan didn’t like the costumes, an’ them nurses couldn’t tap dance, so eventually they all set down to decide iff’n they could find another line o’ work, or iff’n maybe it were time fer them all to go an’ make their own ways in the world. As they was talkin’, Ivan was thumbin’ through the classified ads (he were gittin’ a jump start) when he spotted the notice about the organ. Ivan had always wanted to play the organ (in fact, he’d taken up the accordian because his uncle had tol’ him that all the best organ players started on the accordian) an’ he was gittin’ an idea. Iff’n Dr. Peabody were a preacher, Ivan could play the organ, the nurses could become Deaconesses, an’ the whole troop could stay together. Ever’body figgered this were a fine idea, so Dr. Peabody had sent away fer information from Evangeline Honoria’s School o’ Preachin’ an’ Prayin’, an’ after a four week course (Evangeline figgered that preachin’ were easier to learn than prognosticatin’) he found his self an ordained minister, an’ proceeded to set up The Right Reverend Jebedaiah Stone’s (Evangeline kept the idea of a name change as a good plan fer any o’ her graduates) Revival Meetin’ an’ Hands On Healin’ Prayer Service. He’d contacted the ol’ Gypsy womern, (who, by this time had divorced the crippled dwarf who had gambled away all the money in the cash box bettin’ on the dog races) an’ she agreed to come back an’ run the concession an’ souvenir stand. Granny grumbled at this, but allowed as how iff’n she wasn’t doin’ any more tea leaf readin’s it were ok.

Aunt Flotilla were somewhat startled by the whole story. She then said that Pope or no, iff’n all it took to become a preacher were a four week course (an’ Mama tol’ her that fer some it didn’t even take that much study) then she weren’t so sure that this whole religion thing were fer her. In fact, she decided right then an’ there to dedicate her life to the study o’ the South American Three Toed Tree Sloth, an’ leave God to figger his own self out. Mama said this were as good an outcome as one might hope fer, an’ thanked Brother Jeb fer his time, but now we was all tired as it had been a long day an’ iff’n he’d excuse us (which he seemed purty happy to do, all things considered) we was gonna round ourselves up an’ head on over to Uncle Ferdy’s place fer the night. Ed, (who, after Mama’s earlier clash about them cats had come to an understandin’ with Boopie) gave a whistle an’ all them cats an’ Boopie marched outt’n there as purty as a parade. Merty mentioned that the mule were still passed out in the wagon, but it turned out that Brother Jeb had a bottle o’ Mama’s World Famous Pfister All Purpose Tonic, Horse Liniment An’ Silver Polish on hand, an’ it worked fairly tolerably on mules too, so afore no time at all, we was packed up an’ headed to Uncle Ferdy’s.

The moon were full an’ shinin’ bright by the time we pulled up to Uncle Ferdy’s. We all piled off’n the wagon, an’ Aunt Flotilla went in to see iff’n she could find us all somewheres to sleep. As we headed up the stairs, we noticed that there were a big box on the porch. Uncle Ferdy said that it weren’t there when they had left earlier, so he figgered that the post man had delivered it while ever’body were at the Revival Meetin’. He looked on top, an’ to his surprise, he saw it were addressed to Mama. Cousin Bert helped Mama to pry the box open (he had purty strong teeth) an’ lo an’ behold, out popped Burbie, a little singed around the edges, but not much worse fer the wear. Well, we was all thrilled that Gordon had managed to dig her out an’ send her along to meet us, an’ she were plenty happy that them cats was behavin’ their selves better, an’ we even uncrated Ruben P. Lynch who were happy to join the party. What with all them family members together, an’ the joyful reunion, we all sat up a’jawin’ an’ rockin’ on the front porch until the sun come up.

Chapter 6

Uncle Ferdy had his self a nice ol’ Victorian house right in the middle o’ Beaver’s Falls. There was a grand staircase, a wrap around porch, a turret (where they kept Great Great Grandmama Jemima Pfister), a pantry off’n the kitchen, an attic with a ghost (not unusual fer a Pfister household, I know, but they was some few neighbors what were heared to comment rather frequently about the noise what that ghost made) an’ a cellar what was good fer buryin’ bodies, but the centerpiece o’ that house were the parlor. When Aunt Flotilla married Uncle Ferdy, she brung with her a dowry what included a whole set o’ parlor furniture, carved by midgets an’ inlayed with hematite skulls. It were jest about the fanciest things that Maybell an’ me had ever seed, an even Joe Joe were impressed. We sat there in the parlor, sippin’ castor oil lemonade an’ lookin’ at pictures o’ Flotilla’s sisters (she were one o’ four identical sisters, so we might have been lookin’ at pictures o’ jest one o’ them, but we figgered it weren’t polite to mention) an’ listenin’ to the radio. Mama, Granny, Ed an Cousin Bert had headed out to see Dr. Chisolm to git Cousin Bert his eyeglasses. Maybell an’ Joe Joe an’ me wanted to tag along, but Mama said we had to stay behind an’ keep an eye on Merty, who’d got ahold o’some o’ Mama’s World Famous Pfister All Purpose Tonic, Horse Liniment An’ Silver Polish when the mule were done with it, an’ she weren’t quite herself. Maybell argued that she weren’t never quite herself, an’ Maybell couldn’t see as she were any worse off than she ever were, but Mama wasn’t brookin’ no argument, so we was left at Uncle Ferdy’s. Burbie were tired from all her travellin’ so she decided to stay, too, an’ the post man had been by earlier, so we’d put Ruben P. Lynch back into his crate an’ sent him off. He’d thanked us fer all our kindness, an’ promised he’d send us a note when he got home. The post man weren’t none too sure about takin’ a box with a person in it, but once Uncle Ed explained that it were ok, Ruben P. Lynch were deceased, (an’ Granny said iff’n the post man didn’t take him, she was gonna stuff him into the box with Ruben P. Lynch) well, the post man allowed as how there were some flexibility in the rules, an’ so long as Ruben P. Lynch didn’t mind, he wasn’t gonna keep the man from gittin’ home. Ruben thanked him, allowed himself to be nailed in, an’ was on his way.
Uncle Ferdy were a school teacher at the local high school. He taught science, woodshop an’ was the coach o’ the curlin’ team. Since we wasn’t nowheres near Canada, there wasn’t no other curlin’ team fer hundreds o’ miles, which meant that Uncle Ferdy’s team were (if only by default) always the champions. Uncle Ferdy’s office (which were right across from the parlor) were full o’ trophies what the team had won, along with signed pictures what the team had took ever’ year at the banquet. Joe Joe thought he spotted Great Great Great Grand Aunt Anastasia Pfister in one photo, standin’ in the back an’ wavin’.

Aunt Flotilla were a modern woman, so she didn’t have no job, she collected unemployment (which, at the time, were a fairly new way to make a livin’, but ever’one what Flotilla had ever worked fer in the past agreed that it were better that she not have one) an’ were president o’ the Gardener’s Club. Them gardener’s met once a month to discuss issues like whether or not to plant tulips, an’ to hold talks on “Potting Soil, is it cheating to use real pot?” As Pfisters went, the two o’ them was fairly quiet an’ conservative people, which we didn’t mind much, but Maybell whispered that she’d be bored to death livin’ here all the time, an’ Joe Joe jest snickered. Since it were Joe Joe, we ignored him, but it turned out that we should have payed him some mind when Uncle Ferdy an’ Aunt Flotilla took us up to the turret an’ introduced us to Great Great Grandmama Jemima Pfister.

Great Great Grandmama Jemima had been up in that there turret since the day them beavers come to town. She’d been at the beauty pageant an’ she tol’ her mother, Willa Gorgonplatz Pfister, that she hoped some day to grow up to be a truck driver, cause she sure as heck didn’t want to be a beauty contestant no how. Willa (who were from the old country Gorgonplatzs an’ had her own ideas about what a girl should grow up to be an’ was willin’ to enforce them with brute violence) allowed as how no daughter o’ her’s were gonna be a truck driver (which shows how much she knew, cause Great Great Grandmama Jemima’s sister Philipena went on to be the first trucker to drive around the world) an’ she determined right then an’ there that Jemima were goin’ to git educated. Back then, it weren’t the fashion to send Pfister girls to school, partly cause they were already smarter than most o’ the teachers, but mostly cause o’ the twitch.

Fer many years, whenever a Pfister gal walked through town, it were not unusual to see the local men come out to watch ‘em go by. It seems that most Pfister gals has got theirselves an extra bone in their spine than most folks, an’ it causes them to have an unusual gait when they is walkin’. In fact, it causes a twitch in their hips which (while the charge that it is fatal to observers hasn’t never been conclusively proved) tended to be a bit distractin’ to men what was watchin’ them, an’ as a result tended to annoy women what wasn’t bein’ watched (in fact, most o’ the fatalities credited to the Pfister twitch can be traced back to fryin’ pans to the head injuries provided by angry wives). As a result, Pfister gals the world over was often banned from schools, churches, grocery stores, race tracks, bars, street corners, shoe emporiums, ridin’ stables, bus stations, an’ jest about anywheres else what two or more men was likely to congregate.

Willa figgered that, considerin’ the twitch, it were not a good idea to send Jemima to school, but she did want to git her an education, so she tol’ Jemima that she were gonna hire a tutor. Jemima said she didn’t want no educatin’, that she were purty happy the way she was, an’ iff’n Willa were gonna insist, well, Jemima were jest gonna run away from home (she’d heared that Harminster’s Huge Circus were hirin’, an’ she’d always wanted to try out the flyin’ trapeze). Willa said she weren’t gonna do no such thing, then marched her right through the beaver stampede, up to the turret an’ locked her in.

Fer the first few years what Jemima lived in the turret, things was purty quiet. Jemima took up knittin’, she taught herself to be an expert swords woman, an’ she wrote a treatise on the migratory patterns o’ the common pomegranet. Eventually, however, she got purty bored up there, an’ asked her mother iff’n she couldn’t be let out. Willa were not fooled fer an instant (she knew that yer average Pfister could hold a grudge longer than it took wood to petrify, an’ Jemima were above average) an’ wouldn’t have no sech of a thing. She did repeat her offer o’ a tutor, an’ since she were so bored, Jemima took her up on it.

The tutor what Willa found were an’ itinerate tinker who went by the name Artemis Greenfellow Snaperson the Lesser. His father, he said, were Artemis Greenfellow Snaperson the Greater, an’ his grandfather were Artemis Greenfellow Snaperson the Prime. Iff’n he ever had a son, Artemis said, he were gonna name the boy Thomas. Artemis were an interestin’ teacher fer Jemima. He knew almost nothin’ about readin’, writin’, algebra, zoology, the geography o’ France, statistical anomalies o’ the sunspot cycles, nor anythin’ else what Jemima were interested in learnin’. What he did know, however, was the theory an’ practice o’ bowlin’ ball construction, yodellin’ fer amateurs, explosive decompression, train whistle codes, an’ a host o’ other noisy and (as fer as Jemima were concerned) very intriguin’ subjects. Purty soon she could tell where a train were goin’ jest by hearin’ it whistle as it were comin’ up Black Road Pass, she could call the goats in from the field without gittin’ up from her chair, she knew how much dynomite were required to make a hole big enough to fill the Albert Hall, she could make a horseshoe outt’n a doorknob usin’ only the tools what she had in her bathroom, an’ many other useful but loud things.

But her mother still wouldn’t let her outt’n the turret. Jemima got Artemis to git her a set o’ bagpipes an’ a didgeridoo an’ the two o’ them would sit up all night playin’ duets. She built a cannon from pieces o’ her dresser an’ some ol’ coat hangers, an’ she’d fire it at irregular intervals. She took to hurlin’ bricks what she broke outt’n the wall in the back o’ her closet out the windows at passersby. She also played Wagnerian operas on the zither that her mother bought her fer Christmas. Eventually all the neighbors moved away (which Willa didn’t mind none, they was all purty uptight folk an’ if they didn’t appreciate the fine music what Jemima played, they didn’t deserve to hear it no how), an’ the Tourist Board re routed Main Street so visitors wouldn’t ask questions.

Fer the next thirty years or so, Jemima stayed in the turret. Willa would push a tray o’ food through the slot in the door occasionally, Artemis would visit from time to time with louder an’ more dangerous toys, Jemima would engage in blowin’ mortar rounds up the chimney, or pickin’ off the neighborhood ducks with her pea shooter or any o’ her many hobbies, an’ ever’body would go on about how glad they was that she were safe an’ sound. Meanwhile, Jemima’s sister Philipena an’ her brother Watoosie grew up with almost no supervision at all. They spent most o’ their days under the porch raisin’ muskrats, an’ eventually with no fanfare, they left home, got married, an’ joined the Dizzy Dell Pfisters, who welcomed them with open arms. Philipena, as was mentioned, become a truck driver, while Watoosie found his self a job as a janitor at a fake vomit factory, a job he purely loved, an’ they would have lived happily ever after except fer the Pacific Ocean, which always remained Philipena’s nemesis, an’ the explosion what killed Watoosie an’ scattered half digested plastic peas fer three counties.

Jemima, meanwhile, never did marry, partly cause she were a very picky gal, but mostly cause the only man she ever saw up there in her turret were Artemis, an’ by the time Jemima were old enough to start thinkin’ along those lines, he’d married Willa, who refused to share. Eventually he died, an’ not long after that Willa followed him, leavin’ Jemima alone in her turret. The house fell into some disrepair, an’ had become quite overgrown by the time the lawyer (who worked fer the firm o’ Fern, Devlin, Masters, Kenny, Fern, Einstein, Fern, Jeffries and Fern) tracked down Ferdy to tell him he’d inherited property from his father’s stepbrother’s widow (cause after Watoosie exploded an’ Philipena drove off an’ was never heared from agin Ferdy were the next nearest livin’ kinfolk what Mr. Fern could track down).

By the time Uncle Ferdy arrived, the vines were so thick that it took a couple o’ years afore they even found the door to the turret. Great Great Grandmama Jemima had been wonderin’ where ever’body had got to, an’ so she were purty surprised one spring day when Ferdy come through the door, covered in vines an’ wieldin’ an’ ax. She belted him a couple o’ times with her didgeridoo afore they got ever’thing straightened out, an’ eventually Uncle Ferdy asked her iff’n she wanted to get out o’ the turret.

By this time, she’d been in the turret fer almost eighty years. She thought about it as Ferdy described automobiles, victrolas, machine guns, canned spam, store bought soap, an’ a whole host o’ other things what she’d missed, but when he got to the World’s Fair o’ ’93 giant cotton candy poisonin’ fiasco, Jemima decided to stay in her turret. So Ferdy closed the door, returned to Willa’s policy o’ shovin’ trays through the door, an’ hired a local kid by the name o’ Thomas Greenfellow Snaperson the Subsequent to come visit her from time to time.

So Uncle Ferdy an’ Aunt Flotilla thought it would be nice iff’’n we went up to the turret to visit with Great Great Grandmama Jemima. We tromped up the stairs, Maybell an’ me in the lead, Joe Joe (who’d been explorin’ the night afore while we was all settin’ on the porch, an’ had some idea what were comin’) laggin’ behind, an’ Uncle Ferdy an’ Aunt Flotilla bringin’ up the rear (an’ unnoticed by Maybell an’ me, donnin’ protective head gear as they come). We come to the top o’ the stairs, an knocked, but Flotilla called up that Jemima were purty near deaf, so’s we might jest as well go in as spend all day knockin’. Maybell opened the door, screamed an’ hit the deck. I were purty quick on the uptake, so I dived fer the floor, an’ Joe Joe headed back down the stairs to hide behind Uncle Ferdy, so when Great Great Grandmama Jemima fired off the shotgun what she had pointed at us, all she hit were one o’ them cats. The cat glared at her fer a moment, then wandered off to find Boopie an’ register a complaint. Ferdy yelled to Jemima that we was jest comin’ fer a visit, Joe Joe snickered agin, an’ Maybell an’ me vowed to pay him more attention next time.

Jemima were plenty glad to see us, an we had a lovely visit with her, punctuated by her occasionally settin’ off fireworks in the window box, an’ invitin’ us to throw tea cups at the neighbor’s pet iquana. We tol’ her about our trip so far, an’ how much we was enjoyin’ Beaver’s Falls, when all o’ a sudden we heared Granny hollerin’ up at us from the street. We rushed to the window an’ seed her headin’ up the road towards the house at a purty good clip. Mama an’ Ed were right behind her, an’ Cousin Bert was closin’ fast, wearin’ a brand spanky new pair o’ glasses. When she got close enough, we could hear what she were yellin’ about, an’ the gist o’ it seemed to be that we needed to git ourselves out to the wagon right away, that she’d had enough o’ Beaver’s Falls, an that we was leavin’. Maybell an’ Joe Joe an’ me were purty upset cause we hadn’t got to see much o’ Beaver’s Falls outside o’ the fair grounds but we also knew that when Granny hollered like that, it weren’t the time to discuss it.

So we bid Great Great Grandmama Jemima goodbye, run down the stairs, rounded up Merty an’ Burbie, who was sittin’ out back in the lemon tree, whistled fer Boopie, hitched up the mule, hauled Cousin Bert up into the wagon, made room fer Granny, Mama an’ Ed, woke up Grampaw who’d been nappin’ in the barn, kissed Uncle Ferdy an’ Aunt Flotilla, made them promise to come an’ visit us up on Mount Misty, an’ not seven minutes after we heared Granny callin’, we was on the road an’ headed out o’ town. Once Granny’d caught her breath, Maybell asked her what all the fuss was, but Granny jest muttered somethin’ about the fish an’ the pine tree, an’ we couldn’t git nothin’ more outt’n her about it.

Uncle Ed took over drivin’ fer a while, an’ didn’t nobody check the map, so before too long we all started to realize that we was headed the wrong way. Nobody wanted to offend Ed, though, so we figgered we would jest let him go till he got tired, then turn round an’ head back towards home. Iff’n that didn’t work, well, we was still ahead o’ schedule, so it were ok with Granny iff’n we took a detour. An’ if all else failed, we was only about 700 miles from the ocean, an’ recent experience had showed us that the mule couldn’t swim, so if we could find some industrial strength sun block fer Grampaw, we’d be fine. So we continued along in the wrong direction till we come up to the Exfoliated Forest.

The Exfoliated Forest were a place with a purty interestin’ history. Many years afore that, the whole area had been wide open plains with not a tree to be seed fer miles. The tallest thing what growed there were the grasses, what never got more than knee high to a short necked giraffe. Ever’body there knew that cause there was plenty o’ giraffes there abouts, but only the short necked variety, the long neck giraffes havin’ all starved to death fer obvious reasons. Fer many years the residents o’ the area were perfectly happy, (even with the occasional snake in the grass) as was the local sun block industry (what always prospers better in a land with no shade) except fer the infrequent random rabid short necked giraffe attacks (cause as ever’body knows, short necked giraffes have worse tempers than their long necked cousins). Then one day, a woman by the name o’ Gertrude St. Clair O’Malley, Arboreal Secretary o’ the Cabinet come around, preachin’ about the President’s new “plant a tree fer me” campaign.

Gertrude were a stocky, though not unhandsome, woman, who were passionately devoted to the cause o’ greenin’ up the countryside. She were very persuasive, an’ she didn’t much care what sort o’ tree you planted, but iff’n you volunteered to plant one, afore you knew it, you were enrolled in the state college as a forestry major. There wasn’t many folks what knew what a forestry major in college did after graduation, but Gertrude (whose personal motto were “It’s better if it’s green”, an’ who had worn hobnailed climbin’ boots to her own weddin’, an’ who were Miss Gladia Oliver’s personal coach) didn’t let that stop her. She were on a crusade to save the forests o’ this great land, whether they needed it or not. She traveled with a big box o’ seeds, a catalogue o’ the flowering shrubbery o’ the eastern seaboard, a gold plated shovel (what had been awarded to her when she were instrumental in preservin’ the Petrified Forest with the advertisin’ campaign “A tree is a tree forever, and ever. And ever.”) an’ an assistant who’s name were Albert Wilburton (a scrawny feller who had first come to love trees when he were discovered in one, shortly after his birth, by the man who adopted him an’ raised him as his own child). Gertrude an Mr. Wilburton (as he preferred to be called) wandered the countryside lookin’ fer barren plains to plant an’ unwary strangers to convert to the cause.

When they got to the grass plains outside o’ Beaver’s Falls, they was delighted. Here were miles o’ empty land, an’ as an extra perk, Gertrude figgered them giraffes could do with a few leaves to vary their diet.

So Gertrude an’ Mr. Wilburton set to plantin’ a forest. The trouble was that all they had left in their seed box after a somewhat extended tour (an’ a small accident involving a minor tornado, two curious boys an’ Mr. Wilburton’s best bowler hat) was some coconut palms (which wasn’t about to grow so fer north o’ the equator) an’ a whole lot o’ Thin Skinned Nubbly Barked Walnut Trees (arguably the ugliest tree in the plant kingdom, with twisty branches, greyish purple bark an’ warty lookin’ protrusions ever’where, with nuts what were completely inedible, even the squirrels wouldn’t touch ‘em, plus they was harder than steel an’ tended to fall with near terminal velocity if disturbed by someone walkin’ underneath, an’ the roots o’ the Thin Skinned Nubbly Bark was so pervasive that they crowded out anythin’ else what tried to grow nearby, an’ iff’n you planted ‘em too close to a house, they would poke up through the basement, the first floor, an’ often the second floor, an’ the only way to git rid o’ them were explosives an’ saltin’ the earth after). Mr. Wilburton weren’t sure that it were a good idea to plant trees what were considered a natural disaster in other parts, but Gertrude were not to be discouraged, an’ so she commenced to sowin’ them seeds.

The Thin Skinned Nubbly Barks took to the area like weeds. They shot up so fast that within one season, the Forest looked like it were decades old. The short necked giraffes all immediately expired, partly cause them trees killed off all the grass in the area an’ the giraffes mostly couldn’t reach the leaves, but probably mostly cause the only thing more toxic to a giraffe than a Thin Skinned Nubbly Barked Walnut were ten gallons o’ gasoline an’ a match. Since the folks what lived there abouts made their livin’ makin’ tea cozys from the skin o’ the short necked giraffe, they too promply all expired, an’ the forest were left to grow unchecked, except fer one thing.

Gertrude hadn’t checked afore she planted, but iff’n she’d looked in her catalogue o’ flowerin’ shrubbery, she would have noticed that the only single natural enemy that the Thin Skinned Nubbly Barked Walnut Tree has in this entire world is a herd o’ thirteen to seventeen Thompson’s Gazelles. Iff’n there was less in the herd, well, mostly they was no threat cause the lions would eat ‘em, an’ iff’n there was more, it took ‘em too long to git through the twisty branches o’ the Thin Skinnned Nubbly Barked Walnut forest, so they’d all die o’ thirst afore the herd could git to the next waterin’ hole. As it were, though, it happened that there was jest exactly fifteen Thompson’s Gazelles in the herd what lived in the grass, an’ as ever’body knows, Thompson’s Gazelles purely love to nibble on Nubbly Bark. It were such a treat fer them that most zookeepers grow one out back somewheres that the payin’ customers can’t see it (which is a good thing, considerin’ how ugly it is) so’s they can give their Thompson’s Gazelles (an’ their mountain goats, emus an’ koi who have all learned to love the stuff) a reward fer bein’ good gazelles (or goats or emus or koi).

So this herd spotted a whole forest o’ Nubbly Bark an’ they come rushin’ across the plains like buzzards headin’ fer road kill. They tore into that bark an’ nibbled an’ nibbled till their nibblers was sore. They crunched an’ they munched their way straight through the whole durned forest, till not a single tree had an inch o’ Nubbly Bark left, they was all as nekkid as Cousin Bert at the swimmin’ hole, a sight not meant to be seed by mortal man. Now, the thing about the Thin Skinned varietal o’ Nubbly Barked Walnut Trees is that once the skin has been removed, it don’t never grow back. An’ the thing about Thompson’s Gazelles is that once they has eaten a lot o’ Nubbly Bark, they lose a taste fer anythin’ else an’ won’t eat nothin’ but Nubbly Bark. The other thing about Thompson’s Gazelles is that while they know both o’ the first two things, they seem not to mind all that much, cause they’ll do it anyway.

So, o’ course, shortly after denudin’ the whole forest, the Thompson’s Gazelles all expired too. All what were left were a bunch o’ skinless twisty ol’ trees an’ a few giraffe an gazelle skeletons, an’ nothin’ else. An’ so the area become known as the Exfoliated Forest.

Ever’body knew that the only place anywhere there abouts where the Skinless Nubbly Barked Walnut Tree grew were in the Exfoliated Forest, an’ ever’body knew that the Exfoliated Forest were on the fur side o’ Beaver’s Falls from Mount Misty, so when Uncle Ed seed them trees, he figgered out that he were goin’ the wrong way an’ he turned us around. He tol’ Mama that while he appreciated her not bein’ a back o’ the wagon driver, it were ok with him if she noticed we was headin’ astray an’ she mentioned it. She thanked him, an’ agreed that iff’n we was ever more than fifty miles off course, she’d say somethin’, an he allowed as how that would be jest fine.

Chapter 7

Boopie La Rue were gittin’ purty tired o’ all this travellin’, an’ so he decided to teach them cats some more tricks. We was clear o’ the Exfoliated Forest an’ well on our way back home when Boopie climbed up to the drivers seat an’ took over from Ed, an’ steered us off the road fer the evenin’. Grampaw were gittin’ hungry, so he offered to make some supper, an’ Merty an’ Cousin Bert said they’d set up camp fer the night. Boopie took all them cats an’ marched ‘em off into the darkness, refusin’ to let on what he had in mind fer ‘em an’ Ed allowed as how that were fine with him (them cats, who was glad to be out o’ the box, didn’t seem to mind all that much either). Mama took out the chain mail she’d been crochettin’ an’ Maybell an’ me went out huntin’ fer some wood fer a fire.

Things was mighty quiet out there in the darkness. There was a few trees off in the distance, an’ plenty o’ dry bresh all around, so we headed off fer the trees figgerin’ we could git some branches there an’ some kindlin’ on the way back. What we stumbled across along the way were, instead, a graveyard. Now Pfisters is quite at home in a graveyard, so Maybell an’ me took a look around. Them tombstones was old an’ tumbled, an’ it looked as though no one had been round to visit them in about a hundred years or so. We come across the tombstones o’ Vesna Hogwood Pfister (who’s inscription read “Here lies a Pfister, dead, we hope”), Larkin Pfister (“Beloved Husband of Li Prang Pfister an’ Sue Sleasman Pfister, father o’ Arasu, Seluta an Forlit”), an’ Pandurengan Amitabha Venkatesh Pfister (“I’ll be home fer the Christmas”) but the one we liked best were Mishel Hailing Pfister (“I ain’t carvin’ that on a headstone no matter what they are payin’ me… Shut up, you’ll carve what I tell you or you’ll be lookin’ for a new job tomorrow!... No, I won’t… Yes you will… Won’t… Will or I will have to have a talk with your mother… OK, fine, but no good will come of this, I am sure”). Right next to him were Milton Pendergast (“Cherished Son and Stone Carver” an’ under that, in very small letters “I tol’ you nothing good would come of it!”).

Maybell an’ me wandered round lookin’ at Pfisters, their friends an’ neighbors, their enemies, an’ the random stranger what got buried there (Patricia Lou Merriweather, “Not from these Parts, Not around here, But to Someone, We’re sure she were Dear, Hopefully someday, Someone will Know, That dear Patricia, Just Had To Go.”). We picked some blueberries what had grown up around the crypt o’ rich Nephew Fallingsworth Pfister, (made o’ marble (the tomb, not Fallingsworth, it were often said he were made o’ granite) with the carvin’ over the door readin’ “Fallingsworth Pfister, Probably one of Ours, so be sure You Never Open this Door” in letters what were painted gold) an’ grabbed up some dead branches an’ headed back fer the family.

Joe Joe an’ Grampaw had dinner ready when we got back, an’ Boopie brung them cats back an’ showed us a new trick what he were teachin’ them, which involved the cats all standin’ on their heads an’ spellin’ out words on cue with their tails. We clapped an’ cheered, not jest cause it were a good trick, but mostly cause we was concerned that iff’n them cats got riled, we might lose Burbie entirely. As we was settin’ there, enjoyin’ the warmth o’ the fire, the fine company, an’ Merty playin’ hymns on the kazoo (she only knowed two, Shepard of Tender Youth, written by Clement of Alexandria in 200AD, an’ The Blood Washed Throng, which were quite popular with Pfisters, though not always fer the obvious reasons), we heared a noise off in the distance. It were a horse, gallopin’ an’ it were gittin’ closer. After a bit, the horse, an’ the feller what were on top o’ it, come right up to where we was parked. The feller jumped off’n the horse, dug around in his saddlebags, pulled out a package an’ a clipboard an’ come up into the firelight. He asked which o’ us were Percival Owen Pfister. Grampaw spoke right up an’ said it were him, but iff’n this was a legal matter, it’d need to be referred to his laywer cause Grampaw had been deceased fer some time. The feller with the package said it weren’t no never mind to him what state Grampaw were in, he were jest there to deliver a package, an’ if Grampaw would please sign, he could git on his way. Granny offered him a cup o’ coffee, but (fortunately fer him, as Granny’d made the coffee) he didn’t have the time to stay, he had other deliveries to make, an’ jest as fast as he’d arrived, he hopped on that there horse an’ galloped off.

Grampaw looked all over that package fer a return address, an’ there, in small, shakey letterin’ he found Great Great Great Grand Aunt Anastasia Pfister’s address in the ol’ country. He were purty excited by that, it were always a treat to git somethin’ from Great Great Great Grand Aunt Anastasia. He opened the box, an’ the first thin’ he pulled out were a note from Great Great Great Grand Aunt Anastasia. She said she hoped the family were well, she sent news that Little Zack (who now stood 6’9 ½” an’ outweighed Norton “The Tank” Simpson) had got his self a wife, a gal by the name o’ Lorelita Sonnengrass Pfister, an’ they was aimin’ to spend their honeymoon tourin’ the world, an’ that they might turn up on our doorstep one o’ these days, an’ Great Great Great Grand Aunt Anastasia would be tickled iff’n we would avoid shootin’ them iff’n they did. She said she were pleased that Cousin Bert had his self some new glasses, an’ that she would be happy to tell Maybell an’ me the story o’ Pandurengan Amitabha Venkatesh Pfister one day, but in the meanwhile, we’d probably be glad to know that he did, indeed, git home fer Christmas that year. She then tol’ Grampaw that she hoped he’d enjoy this little present what she’d found, an’ that he would send her a picture o’ the whole family when he got his self a chance, cause she’d love to see how we was growin’. She sent her love, an’ tol’ us not to git caught, an’ signed off.

Grampaw went diggin’ around in the excelsior in that box an’ finally pulled out the present. It were the most beautiful thin’ I think I ever saw. It were a hat. Not jest any hat mind you, this hat were knit with green stripes an’ yellow stripes an’ stripes that were purple. It had earflaps what could be pulled all the way down, an’ strings what could tie under the chin, it come to a point on the top an’ had a dingle ball on it what were all the colors o’ the rainbow an’ jingled besides. Grampaw put it right on, an’ we all allowed as how we was right jealous, an’ he looked like a movie star (this were afore movies, mind you) an’ that we wished we could have one. Grampaw said iff’n we were good, maybe he’d let us wear it one day. He then realized that there were another piece o’ paper inside that hat, so he took it off an’ pulled out a piece o’ parchment. On that paper, there were the story o’ that hat.

“This Hat,” the note said “is the Hat o’ Reason.”

Many years afore, back when King Ruthie were still covetin’ the crown jewels o’ Siam, there was a very large drought in the ol’ country. Farmers ever’where was losin’ their crops, cattle was faintin’, rivers was dryin’ up an’ even kindergardeners was not allowed to fingerpaint with water colors. Things got so bad that the Pfisters was considerin’ leavin’ the family homestead an’ migratin’ to Addis Ababa, iff’n it didn’t rain purty soon. Well, jest about then, somebody (an’ history don’t record exactly who) figgered that maybe it were time to consult The Book.

In them days, The Book were kept on a shelf in the attic, behind the trunk what was full o’ thumb tacks an’ ol’ candles, right next to the jelly jar full o’ spider webs, an’ wrapped in a ol’ torn up sheet what had been from Great Great Great Grand Aunt Anastasia wedding trousseau (she never did marry, but she always lived in hope). Grand Dame Ledneva Pfister, who the locals all called on whenever there were a dispute to be settled or a pig farmin’ contest to be judged, brung The Book down an’ looked to see iff’n there weren’t a chapter on droughts. She paged through recipes fer Cow Sweat Cocktails (the trick were not to add the cherry till after the fizzin’ stopped), directions fer how to git to the North Pole in a emergency (complete with lists o’ what to pack an’ mailin’ labels to affix to postcards once you got there), pictures o’ the first Pfisters (a bit fuzzy, the Pfisters that is, not the pictures) an’ the lyrics to three songs with which rabid lions could be killed (two with harmony, iff’n you happened to have a quartet handy). She found a list o’ all the ingredients needed to make Baked Alaskan (the most difficult one to keep fresh bein’ a live Eskimo), tables convertin’ the intelligence quotient o’ a Pfister into somethin’ that could be measured by local school system on a budget (age plus the mass o’ the school buildin’ divided by the number o’ football players what had younger sisters squared (findin’ square sisters were the key) minus all the hair the principal lost durin’ the calculations an’ so on, the formula went on fer 292 pages) an’ lists o’ little knowed facts about the mating habits o’ french fried raspberries (what were very elusive an’ hard to photograph in season). She read about what the Pfisters should do in case o’ flood (strap their selves to Boris the Masher, who were very, very buoyant), in case o’ financial disaster (bank robbin’ were considered only a first step in financial recovery) or the loss o’ a limb (borrowin’ one from a siblin’ figgered in this answer). Then, on page two, she run across the answer about what to do in case o’ a drought.

First, The Book said, it were important to know a thing or two about the nature o’ water. Water, The Book went on, were powerful wet stuff. So wet, in fact, that if the average Pfister fell in it, it were likely that he’d melt clean away, so that were to be avoided at all costs. O’ course, The Book continued, there never was born a Pfister what was average, so there wasn’t no need to worry much about that (but still, most o’ us Pfisters figger better safe than sorry, an’ we try to stay away from water iff’n we can, especially iff’n it is condensed into a tub or other like container, an’ most especially iff’n there is soap anywheres about, since we is mostly all deathly allergic to the stuff) but never the less, water is wet. Droughts, on the other hand, is dry. Dryer than the longest sermon by the dullest preacher what ever lived. Dryer than the Desert Chablis bottled by the Other Brothers (they were tryin’ fer a dessert wine, but Brother Spooner were also in charge o’ havin’ the labels printed which were probably why the new Bishop didn’t last so long neither). So dry that it made water look even wetter by comparison.

The Book went on to explain the reasons why droughts happen. They occurred partly cause weather patterns got their selves disrupted an’ climate changes happened as a result, but probably mostly cause o’ them cats. Cats, you see, don’t like water much, cause it is so wet, an’ so when they set their minds to it, dry things is likely to happen. With ordinary cats, this may just end in yer flower garden bein’ mysteriously shredded an’ slightly dead mice in yer slippers, but when dealin’ with them cats, things could git outt’n hand. If them cats were got their backs up about somethin’, it were likely that small countries was gonna go missin’. Once them cats had got their selves annoyed by a neighbor what had erected a cement wall to keep them cats outt’n the wild boar pen what he had built (he were losin’ too many boars) an’ in retaliation them cats dismantled his barn, poked holes through his grandmother an ate his tractor. So one needed to be careful, suggested The Book, with how one handled them cats when they was feelin’ damp. Grand Dame Ledneva found all this fascinatin’, an’ so she continued readin’.

The Book suggested that there was two ways to deal with a drought caused by them cats. The first were to hire a mongoose to round them cats up, weld them into a solid steel shippin’ container, send it to the McMurdo Station in the Antarctic, postage due, with a warnin’ sticker that read “Caution, radioactive parsnips, do not converse with contents unless fully certified by the Forest Rangers an’ wearin’ proper Tennis gear”, an’ the second were to take them cats to court an’ git an injunction. The Book went on to say that the first method were probably easier, but iff’n one must follow the second, the only way to win the case were if one were wearin’ the Hat o’ Reason. Cause cats their selves is often so unreasonable, the only way to beat ‘em is by bein’ so reasonable that they finally give up in despair an’ wander off to shred yore sofa. This is hard on furniture, to be sure, but iff’n you want to keep your children in fingerpaint, there are some sacrifices that must be made, or so The Book finished up.

Grand Dame Ledneva looked around an’ discovered that her weldin’ torch were missin’ (it later turned out that Ghengis Kahn had borrowed it, not Ghengis Khan, who were famous for wearin’ a funny moustache an’ bein’ a genocidal Mongolian warlord, but rather Ghengis Kahn, Grand Dame Ledneva’s neighbor who weren’t famous for anythin’, were bald as a bowlin’ ball, were never convicted o’ any o’ the homicides what he were accused o’ an were a part time accountant at a potato chip factory) so she could’t very well follow the first option, an’ that were what made her decide that she’d make a Hat o’ Reason.

The Book had a pattern fer makin’ a Hat o’ Reason. First, it said, you take the wool of twelve Parisian sheep. Only Parisian sheep would do, The Book claimed, an’ since Grand Dame Ledneva didn’t have no sheep at hand what were Parisian, she bought round trip train tickets an’ sent her herd o’ sheep off on a whirlwind tour o’ the French capitol. They had a lovely time sippin’ wine in bistros, visitin’ the Eiffle Tower, admirin’ the Mona Lisa an’ strollin’ along the banks o’ the Siene, writin’ poetry, paintin’ pictures, an’ generally havin’ a good ol’ time, till eventually Ledneva had to send ‘em a telegram to remind ‘em that they was needed at home. Once they returned, she sheared ‘em, followin’ the instructions in The Book which had tol’ her that she had to use silver shears an’ stand on her left foot under a bucket o’ oatmeal while singin’ Chinese drinkin’ songs durin’ the shearin’ (they was times when we all thought that maybe, jest maybe, The Book were havin’ us on), then washed the wool in water from a stream that flowed up a mountain (she accomplished this by gittin’ Boris the Masher to stand at the bottom an’ hold the mountain upside down) carded on a toothless comb (what Grand Dame Ledneva ordered special from Cousin Gordon) an’ spun by the light o’ the moon. She dyed the yarn in dyes made from the eyes o’ hummingbirds, the sweat glands o’ Siberian tigers, an’ the nubbly bark o’ the Thin Skinned Nubbly Barked Walnut. The knitted it on needles carved from the bones o’ ancient Pfisters, gathered in a reed basket an’ polished with a diamond wheel.

As Ledneva begun to knit, ever’body fer miles around was gittin’ purty anxious. Even though the local bottlin’ plant had taken to bottlin’ dehydrated water (jest add water) it looked like they was gonna close down. Ice cubes were sellin’ fer record prices on eBay an’ even goldfish (what were knowed ever’where as the lazy louts o’ the animal kingdom) could be seen settin’ by the side o’ the road holdin’ cardboard signs that read “will work for water”.

Well, she knit an’ she knit. She made dingle balls, an’ she tied ‘em on, she put fringe on the strings, an’ she finished the loose ends, an’ finally Ledneva finished. That very day she come out onto her porch, while the folks all gathered round, an’ she presented the Hat o’ Reason.

“A hat?” the folks cried. “We come to you fer advice on how to stave off death, how to prevent our farms from fallin’ to ruin, how to keep our families fed an’ our lives in one piece an’ you take up craftin’ snow bonnets? How is that gonna keep us from losin’ our farms an’ our lives?” an’ they pelted her with rocks an’ they went home an’ all proceeded to dry up an’ blow away.

With no whiney neighbors to bother her, Ledneva retrieved her weldin’ torch, boxed them cats up an’ sent ‘em off accordin’ to instructions, an’ the drought ended an’ the rains came, an’ that winter, anybody who were left froze to death, but Ledneva had a nice warm hat what kept her head plenty warm, so she survived jest fine. An’ The Book said “See? I tol’ you that were the easier way to go. Next time listen when I am tellin’ you somethin’.” An’ Grand Dame Ledneva did, an’ all them other folks would have, but they was all dead, an’ that was how the Pfisters come to have such large tracts o’ land in the ol’ country. But to this day, Pfisters is reckoned to be weather wise, an’ the folks at McMurdo Station in Antarctica don’t venture out at night, for fear o’ them cats.

Grampaw said he were mighty pleased to have that there Hat, an’ not jest cause he were afeared o’ droughts, but mostly cause he’d lost most o’ his hair to a unfortunate tussle with a passing wildebeast over some unattended kippers an’ a vat o’ clotted cream (which were, he said, a good lesson fer us all, never to leave yer kippers unattended, a lesson we took to heart, all of us except Joe-Joe, who snickered, but were mortified the followin’ spring when it were discovered that his favorite bicycle had been stolen by some passin’ herring). We all settled down round the campfire, an’ them cats was especially nice to Grampaw that night.

The followin’ afternoon we set out agin, circlin’ south o’ Beaver’s Falls an’ headin’ towards home. We was all glad to be goin’ back to Mount Misty, especially Cousin Bert, who was gittin’ purty homesick, an’ was worried that his pet snake, what he left in a box under his bed, were probably gittin’ lonely by that time. Granny set Cousin Bert on her lap an’ give him a little hug, an’ to cheer him up, she sang him the lullaby o’ Hully MacCreedle Pfister, the travellin’ weaver, what used to go from town to town carryin’ his loom on his back an’ makin’ fabric wherever he roamed. Oh, Hulley MacCreedle, the Pfister o’ wool, the chorus went, weave me a shawl fer the dance. Oh Hulley MacCreedle, silk, cotton or tulle, if only you’ll give me a chance. It weren’t a very good song, Granny were the first to admit, but it made Cousin Bert happy.

Maybell asked if Granny knowed any good songs, an’ she said that Mama knowed a purty good one, the Ballad o’ Salodine Pfister. Mama weren’t in voice that day, so she offered to tell us the story o’ the Ballad o’ Salodine Pfister instead. Maybell an’ Joe-Joe an’ me all wanted to hear it, an Burbie said she knowed some o’ the story, but had never heared the end, so she come up top o’ the wagon too, an Mama started in.

Salodine Pfister were a bit o’ a loner as a child. She had hair that were copper (the kind what had been left out in the weather too long, that is, with brown an’ green streaks mixed with some white bits what was probably not copper at all but left there by some passin’ pigeon) an’ eyes the color o’ the gum what you find under a movie theatre seat. She were tall an’ lanky, an’ in a pinch, she could be used as a hitchin’ post fer horses. In fact, when they had company, her parents (Osgourd an’ Kitrinki Pfister) used to use her as a coat rack, an’ since she were such a quiet an’ well behaved child (unusual as that were for a Pfister) she didn’t never complain about it none, she jest stood in the hall until ever’body went home. Sometimes a guest would fergit to pick up his outerwear on the way to the door, an’ Salodine would be left standin’ there for a week or more till whoever it were come back to pick it up.

Salodine did have a dream, though, an’ that were she wanted to be the first woman to climb Mt. Everest. She’d seed pictures o’ it in a book what Osgourd had got once when he went to the big city (Kalamazoo, that is) fer a business convention. At the time, Osgourd were tryin’ to start his own business, a Fry It Yerself franchise, which were a store where folks could bring stuff an’ fry it in the big hot oil fryers. The idea were that most folks had somethin’ around the house what deserved to be deep fried (possibly with a coatin’ o’ batter, but that were a small extra charge) an’ you could bring it to the local Fry It Yerself an’ they would fry it fer you. Osgourd had gone to the sales convention in Kalamazoo to see the latest in fryers, cause he were in the market fer a really big one, one what you could fry yer mother in law in, iff’n you had a mind to. He were tol’ that fryin’ one’s mother in law were frowned on, by company policy, which he found purty disturbin’ (since he’d already done it) an’ had gone fer a walk. On the way, he’d stopped at the gas station, where he seen this book on Mt. Everest, what he bought as a souvenir fer Salodine.

An’ she took to it like a llama to french fries. It become her dream to someday climb Mt. Everest, an she weren’t gonna be put off. Kitrinki were proud o’ Salodine, as Kitrinki herself had a dream when she were little (her dream were to join the Mormon Tabernacle Choir (this were before the invention o’ Mormons, mind you) but sadly she’d had to give up that dream when she discovered that they didn’t accept people what not only couldn’t sing, but what also had a fear o’ choir robes (an’ Kitrinki, (whose own mother, Grammy Kale Marie Pfister, had been frightened by a geisha in a kimono when she were pregnant with Kitrinki an’ had passed on that fear to her daughter) couldn’t git over the terror that somethin’ horrible were gonna creep up her leg while she were singin’, an’ no amount o’ explainin’ that she were actually supposed to wear other clothes under the robe could make her change her mind) so she were proud o’ Salodine fer stickin’ to her dream (even though Salodine were purty sure that she weren’t all that fond o’ yaks).

Osgourd, however, were a stick in the mud Pfister, from the very conservative Bluebell Pass Pfisters, had heared stories about what explorers got up to in their spare time (for instance, Lord Guhrkin Denizier, the world famous discoverer o’ the source o’ Rockfish Creek (it were mail ordered), were also knowed fer his fondness fer immature chickens an’ his penchant fer naked dwarf bowlin’, which were illegal in seventeen states an the Virgin Islands, although not jest fer the obvious reasons) an’ he wasn’t havin’ none o’ that in his house (Kitrinki were forced to remind him, whenever he got this way, that it were, in fact, her house, an’ she had brought it with her when they was married, not to mention that iff’n he didn’t watch out, she were gonna pack up the house an’ go back to her mother’s, leavin’ him with an’ empty lot an’ some interestin’ memories, but not much else) an’ he forbid Salodine to go. She said that iff’’n he were gonna be like that, she would run away, change her name, an’ do it anyway. Osgourd tol’ her to go right ahead.

So Salodine Pfister run away from home carryin’ a paper bag with her book about Mt. Everest, two mouldy apples, a extra pair o’ socks, an’ two coats left over from her parent’s last soiree. When she’d got as fur as the Piggly Wiggly (the little pink one what lived on Burddick Harmflore’s farm, not the grocery store what had yet to be opened, partly cause they couldn’t come to an agreement with the builder’s union about labor costs, but probably mostly cause nobody’d coined the term “grocery store” yet) she set down right there in the road to consider her options. First, she figgered, she was gonna be a gal o’ her word, so on the spot she changed her name to Arethusa Pfister. That went purty well, so she took out her book on Mt. Everest, an’ set about workin’ on a plan. The book said that Mt. Everest were all the way on the other side o’ the world, which, as fur as Arethusa knowed, were purty fur, further even than a trip to Grammy Kale Marie’s. So Arethusa figgered it might be a good idea to git a job an’ work her way over there. She went down to the Piggly Wiggly (the soon to be grocery store, not the little pink one what lived on Burddick Harmflore’s farm) which were right next to the Employment Office, which is where she went to find herself a job.

The Employment Office were run by a feller by the name o’ Driedle Calhoun, a very sincere little chap who thought that he were Important. He took great pride in matchin’ people up with jobs what suited their personality, an’ to do so, he used all the most modern an’ newfangled testin’ what the state could provide. When Arethusa come in, (carryin’ his coat what he had left at some business dinner he’d gone to a week afore) at first he thought she were a secretary (returnin’ his coat). Once that were sorted out (it turned out that Osgourd had been wooin’ Driedle on the hopes that Driedle would find him some unemployed fry cooks to work at the Fry It Yerself an’ so he’d invited Driedle to supper) an’ Arethusa give him his coat (which she were happy to git rid o’, since it weren’t her size an’ it smelled like licorice) she tol’ him her dream. It jest so happened that the day afore that Harminster’s Huge Circus had been by lookin’ to hire roustabouts. Didn’t neither o’ them know what a roustabout were, but Driedle gave Arethusa the information anyways, since where them roustabouts was needed was on the road fer a world tour, which, conveniently, stopped at the base o’ Mt. Everest.

So Arethusa joined the circus, an’ quickly found out that a roustabout (fer Harminster’s Huge, at any rate) were a person what shoveled out the elephant stables. An’ while Harminster’s Huge Circus didn’t have a lot o’ elephants, them elephants they did have seemed happy to try an’ make up fer that shortcomin’ in what they left behind fer Arethusa. Fortunately, one o’ her chores as a child had been shovelin’ out Great Uncle Brenton Pfister’s room purty regularly, an’ the differences were slight, an’ leanin’ in favor o’ the elephants. Once the show were set up somewheres, an’ the elephants were cleaned up after, afore it were time fer their next need, the Circus were Arethusa’s playground. She watched the jugglers toss things around, saw a sword swallower eat a whetstone to keep himself sharp, an’ she got the Flyin’ Kersplat Brothers (even they admitted this weren’t a good name fer arielists) to teach her how to do a triple summersault off’n the flyin’ trapeze. It were a wonderful life fer her, an’ she only occasionally missed her mother.

The Harminster’s Huge Circus made its way from town to town across the globe. They wasn’t a particularly famous circus, but they had a charm what were undeniable. Arethusa sometimes were also the ticket seller (when Mr. Harminster, the proprietor, had an attack o’ gout an’ couldn’t git out o’ bed) an’ she enjoyed seein’ the joy on children’s faces as she sold ‘em a ticket (an’ the joy on Mr. Harmister’s face as she give him all the ticket money). Then, one day, she noticed they was in Nepal. Well, Nepal were her jumpin’ off place, so she bid Harminster’s Huge Circus farewell an’ set about to climb Mt. Everest.

Mt. Everest, or Qomolangma as it is knowed by the natives, is a purty big mountain, the biggest on Earth (which is purty much why Arethusa wanted to climb it). She knowed that you needed a sherpa iff’n you was gonna attempt the climb, so she hired herself one, a local feller by the name o’ Pasang Sherpa (or, literally, in the sherpa tongue, Friday Man). Pasang were a tiny squirt o’ a feller, about five foot nothin’ with brown hair on a head what looked like a coconut an’ sparklin’ eyes an’ a big smile. He were a fine man with a yak (which were fortunate cause it turned out Arethusa were right about not carin’ fer yaks much) an’ he had a sharp tongue what could blister paint at ten paces. Arethusa got herself some warm socks, a pair o’ yak fur boots, a coat made from silk, lined with fur, an’ with big ol’ pockets what she could tuck extra sandwiches in, mittens which was bright red so iff’n she lost one in the snow she could find it agin, a hat kind o’ like the Hat o’ Reason with a dingleball on it, an’ she an’ Pasang set out to climb Mt. Everest.

Didn’t nobody never tell her that to climb that there mountain most strong men had trains o’ thirty sherpas drivin’ dozens o’ yaks carryin’ food, twenty tents set up in camps all up an’ down the mountain, bottled air fer when it got too thin to breathe, radios an’ compasses an’ all sorts o’ weather stations an’ fancy gear, parkas lined with special water proof, weather proof, wind proof fabric, an’ dozens o’ companions to go with ‘em, so on a sunny day Arethusa an’ Pasang set out by their selves (with their yak, who’s name in human history don’t record, but who called his self yaaaahhrrrkaaakkk) to climb to the top. While she were climbin’ she passed another group o’ climbers, (one what had all them strong men an’ compasses an’ sech) an’ them strong men tried to stop her an’ send her back down, but she jest waved as she passed ‘em, an she an’ Pasang kept hikin’. When it got dark, Pasang took a yak skin tent outt’n the pack on their yak’s back. He made some yak jerky stew an’ tea with yak butter in it over a fire made from yak dung. They then wrapped up in yak fur sleepin’ bags fer the night (durin’ which the other party with the dozens o’ companions all froze to death in their fancy parkas, an’ their sherpas packed up all their compasses an’ radios an’ went home).

The next day Arethusa an’ Pasang continued on up the mountain. Arethusa said, after returnin’ home, that it were purty cold up there, an’ that she kept herself warm by rememberin’ Brangren Zankleston Pfister’s ordeal (an’ by drinkin’ plenty o’ that yak butter tea) an’ she were grateful that Pasang were there, cause he were mighty fine company. It were a tough trek, an’ Arethusa (who were only fourteen, though at 6’ 5 ¾” looked older) were startin’ to git discouraged, but Pasang (who, truth be told, hadn’t never climbed Mt. Everest afore, he were afraid o’ heights, an’ allergic to snow an’ had always been sickly, a trait not popular in the sherpa community) wasn’t gonna miss his chance to join the Five an’ a half mile high club (that bein’ the altitude at the summit) which were less about sex an’ more about sherpas what had made it to the top sittin’ around their yak skin wallpapered club house drinkin’ yak beer an’ snackin’ on yak chips an’ swappin’ lies about how they come to have such fancy compasses an’ weather forecastin’ equipment an’ sech. So Pasang took it upon his self to keep her entertained, an’ all the way up the mountain he read to her the latest issue o’ Teens Teens Teens magazine. They took quizzes to see iff’n they were compatible (Teens Teens Teens thought they would make excellent beach volleyball teammates, a sentiment what Pasang, who were sneezin’ his head off cause o’ all the snow could git right behind) an’ at night in their tent, they tried out the latest in hairstyles o’ the stars. They got up to about 24,000 feet an’ yaaaahhrrrkaaakkk sprained his ankle. Pasang figgered that yaaaahhrrrkaaakkk could stay behind in the tent, it were purty certain that with a yak in it, the tent weren’t gonna blow away, an’ Arethusa an’ Pasang could continue up to the top. Yaaaahhrrrkaaakkk agreed, an’ allowed as how he’d keep the tea warm fer ‘em, and so, one bright sunny mornin’ Arethusa an’ Pasang set off fer the top.

They was feelin’ purty good, an’ more than a little relieved that they weren’t carryin’ yaaaahhrrrkaaakkk to the top (it had been discussed, but yaaaahhrrrkaaakkk didn’t want to be a burden, an’ besides, he’d already been) so they practically skittered up to the summit. It were jest as beautiful as Arethusa’s book said it were, up there on the top o’ the world. Pasang realized that they had plum fergot to bring a flagpole what they could tie their flag to, so he tied it to Arethusa (who figgered it weren’t much o’ a stretch after her coat rack days) an’ set up their camera an’ stood with his arm around her knees as the picture were took. Arethusa looked around at all them mountain tops way below her, covered in gleamin’ white snow, an’ the clouds what were floatin’ along like marshmallows floatin’ in yak tea, an’ she immediately decided that she were goin’ to climb back down an’ git herself a job workin’ in a twinkie factory makin’ cream fillin’, which she did. Pasang went back home an’ joined the Five an’ a Half Mile High club, an’ yaaaahhrrrkaaakkk the yak retired to Hawaii, where to this day he enjoys chasin’ butterflies an’ regalin’ the natives with the tails o’ his travels.