Emerson creates an explosive evening
Posted Feb 24, 2011 By Mary Cook
Email
Print
Tweet ThisEMC Lifestyle - The swinging shelves in the cellar were lined with jars of preserves, and pickles, and the sandy root cellar was lumpy with potatoes, carrots and turnips. They had been bulging with stores since Mother had pickled, preserved and stored vegetables and apples for the long winter stretching ahead of us.
As Father would say, "If the whole world closed down tomorrow, we wouldn't have go out the lane to survive," and he'd beam over at Mother whose responsibility it was to make sure the cellar was well stocked.
And down there with the row on row of pickles, canned vegetables, and preserves, Father reserved a shelf for his use only. Here were the bottles of his homemade wine. Wine made from our own grapes and chokecherries, and from what father called a secret and ancient recipe brought over from Germany by his great grandfather. Mother said she doubted that very much since his great grandfather was a known abstainer. But Father's story never wavered.
The cellar was always warm in the winter time, probably because the old cook stove in the kitchen belted out a heat like Hades and some of it was bound to seep through the floor boards. And so there was always a dank, warmth to meet us when we had to go down for something from the cellar. The entrance was outside...through a little door in the side of the foundation of the house, and there was hardly a day went buy that Mother didn't lament how nice it would be to have a trap door in the kitchen floor like Bertha Thom had next door.
And one night, as we were all sitting around the old pine table in the kitchen looking over the winter Eaton's catalogue which had arrived, Audrey said it sure would be nice if we had some raw carrots to chew on. And maybe an apple or two from the barrel. That meant of course, someone had to go outside and down into the cellar. Nobody wanted to brave the cold night and traipsing through the snow to get there.
The arguing went on for several minutes.
Mother let out a loud sigh, and I knew for a fact, she was heading for the broom to pull straws. This was usually her way of settling an argument. She came back to the table with five straws in her hand. Amongst them was one short butt...the unlucky soul to pull it was the one who would go outside and down into the cellar.
Well, it was Emerson. And he wasn't too happy.
He said he wasn't that interested in eating carrots or an apple before he went to bed anyway. Mother told him to get off the chair and hike himself down...a deal was a deal.
Well, he shuffled off the chair, deliberately kicking it and headed for the kitchen door, pulling his Mackinaw around his shoulders. Mother had lit the lantern and he swung it like it was a baseball bat.
He sure wasn't down there long. He came back up with a handful of carrots and a bowl full of apples, banging his feet all the way slapping them down hard on the mat at the back door to rid of the snow.
Mother said he could have the first pick of the apples, which helped to mollify him slightly. Well, we were hardly settled down at the table again, when he heard several small explosions .... like a cap gun going off. Every eye was on Emerson.
"What did you do down there?" Father roared from his chair near the raging Findlay Oval. Emerson vowed he was innocent, as the popping sounds continued to send shock waves through the kitchen.
Mother and Father hoisted themselves out of their chairs at the same time, relit the lantern and headed for the back door. We five kids were right behind, flinging our coats over our shoulders.
Even though I was already in my nightgown, I wasn't going to stay in the kitchen and get shot at through the window by some maniac with a gun.
Father pushed open the door to the cellar just as several more loud pops exploded in the air. Holding the lantern high we saw the cause of the noise. One after another, Father's wine bottles had blown their corks, and red juice was dripping from the low rafters to the bottom shelves.
"Holy Jupiter," Emerson roared, as he ran his fingers over some of the bottles to capture the beet red wine. Mother hustled us upstairs, as the many bottles continued to pop their corks. She tore strips of flour sacks from the rag bag, dipped them in water from the wash basin, and she and Father began the long task of stuffing the bottles with temporary corks to save Father's precious spirits. Audrey was ordered to herd us to bed. She accused Emerson of doing some dastardly deed to the bottles. Emerson vowed he never touched them. But as Audrey said, we would never know, because goodness knows, Emerson was certainly capable of such a deed.
Some of the bottles were almost empty. Father and Mother brought a few out of the cellar and filled a big glass jug with what remained. "It'll sure lose its punch in a hurry," we heard Father say as we headed up the stairs. I had a hard time falling asleep after the excitement. And it wasn't long until we heard Father break into song. Father never sang. I asked my sister Audrey what was going on down in the kitchen. "I guess Father just didn't want to waste all that good wine and he decided the best thing to do was drink it up." She let out a long sigh and rolled over in bed to her own side. "Mother sure won't be happy," was the last thing I heard her say. If there was one thing Mother couldn't abide, it was someone who had too much "licker" as it was called back then. And it sure sounded like Father was getting more than his share.
blog comments powered by Disqus
