Archive for the 'Tuna' Category

More Millie

June 20, 2008 | Reruns and Leftovers, Tuna

Your last helping of Tuna for the week.  Have a great weekend y’all!

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Millie Conway

In our family, we celebrate Easter and our risen Lord as we do any other holy day - by racing home from church and eating entirely too much. And then complaining about how full we are as we waddle off to check out the dessert table.

And after all that eating, nothing much else can be done except to sit around the table and talk trash before going back for another piece of pie. When my mother-in-law Cleo and her siblings get together, talk inevitably turns to Millie Conway. After 70 or more years, it’s still Millie Conway. If you have ever wondered how long one can harbor sour feelings, it’s at least 70 years.

In case you are wondering, Millie Conway was a girl that Cleo and her older sisters grew up with. As legend has it, Millie had the good fortune of being an only child and consequently was afforded a few luxuries - new clothes, an occasional Coke or a bologna sandwich all to herself. In Cleo’s family there were seven children and no such luxuries. If Cleo were to have to choose a last meal, I can tell you right now it would be a sandwich of thick cut bologna with real mayo and a Coke. The contentious feelings towards Millie wasn’t borne out of the fact that she had so much and that Cleo and her sisters had so little, but that Millie was the original Nellie Oleson.

After a round table rehashing of Millie’s many acts of evil against the sisters, each one reported as though it had never been told before, one of the siblings will say of their oldest sister, “You know, Fanny always wanted to hit Millie but mama wouldn’t let her,” and then almost piously, “Mama never let us hit anybody or anything like that.”

And then someone will say, “Poor Fanny went to her grave wanting to hit Millie and never got the chance.” And then we all hang our heads in a moment of silence for Aunt Fanny and her unrequited and unopened can of whoop ass.

“Whatever happened to Millie Conway anyway?” someone asked.

“Oh she died some years back,” Cleo says.

Everyone paused to consider this.

Then Antique Daddy adds triumphantly, “Well, I bet the first thing Aunt Fanny did when she got to heaven was kick Millie Conway’s butt.”

And if there is any image that will convey the true meaning of Easter, it’s two old ladies in a throw down at the Pearly Gates.

Originally published April 2007.

Mover, Shaker, Biker?

June 3, 2008 | Aunt Jean, Tuna

At age 90, my Aunt Jean is a mover. Not a shaker though, because that would be undignified. 

 

Aunt Jean is always on the go, on various committees, visiting folks in the hospital, looking in on the elderly her nieces and nephews and does it all with a quick step and in stylish attire.

 

Every month, the church she attends arranges for the seniors to go out for dinner together at a local dining establishment where Christian fellowship and merriment commence therein.

 

Last month, the senior coordinator selected a new place in town called Luce Wheels.

 

Cousin Cheryl, who lives in Tuna and is about my age, sometimes goes with Aunt Jean to these senior dinners using the excuse that she will drive her home after dark, but really we all know it’s because Aunt Jean is fun to hang out with.

 

When the seniors arrive at this new establishment, it turns out to be a biker bar. 

 

No matter.  All the seniors go in and enjoy a meal and then later some of the tattooed patrons were nice enough to show them how to play shuffleboard.

 

About 7:00pm, Cousin Cheryl turns to Aunt Jean, yawns pointedly and says, “Well, it’s getting late, I guess I better be getting you home.”

 

“Oh no,” Aunt Jean says, “I think I’d like to stay. The band is about to start.”

 

On second thought, maybe Aunt Jean is a shaker.

 

Millie Conway

April 8, 2007 | Family Stories, Memaw, Mildly Amusing, Tuna

In our family, we celebrate Easter and our risen Lord as we do any other holy day - by racing home from church and eating entirely too much. And then complaining about how full we are as we waddle off to check out the dessert table.

And after all that eating, nothing much else can be done except to sit around the table and talk trash before going back for another piece of pie. When my mother-in-law Cleo and her siblings get together, talk inevitably turns to Millie Conway. After 70 or more years, it’s still Millie Conway. If you have ever wondered how long one can harbor sour feelings, it’s at least 70 years.

In case you are wondering, Millie Conway was a girl that Cleo and her older sisters grew up with. As legend has it, Millie had the good fortune of being an only child and consequently was afforded a few luxuries - new clothes, an occasional Coke or a bologna sandwich all to herself. In Cleo’s family there were seven children and no such luxuries. If Cleo were to have to choose a last meal, I can tell you right now it would be a sandwich of thick cut bologna with real mayo and a Coke. The contentious feelings towards Millie wasn’t borne out of the fact that she had so much and that Cleo and her sisters had so little, but that Millie was the original Nellie Oleson.

After a round table rehashing of Millie’s many acts of evil against the sisters, each one reported as though it had never been told before, one of the siblings will say of their oldest sister, “You know, Fanny always wanted to hit Millie but mama wouldn’t let her,” and then almost piously, “Mama never let us hit anybody or anything like that.”

And then someone will say, “Poor Fanny went to her grave wanting to hit Millie and never got the chance.” And then we all hang our heads in a moment of silence for Aunt Fanny and her unrequited and unopened can of whoop ass.

“Whatever happened to Millie Conway anyway?” someone asked.

“Oh she died some years back,” Cleo says.

Everyone paused to consider this.

Then Antique Daddy adds triumphantly, “Well, I bet the first thing Aunt Fanny did when she got to heaven was kick Millie Conway’s butt.”

And if there is any image that will convey the true meaning of Easter, it’s two old ladies in a throw down at the Pearly Gates.

Happy Birthday Aunt Jean!

March 16, 2007 | Aunt Jean, Tuna

Photo Temporarily Unavailable

Forget the fancy skin creams and vitamins. The secret to living to be 89 and beyond and looking fabulous is as follows:

1. Snickers
2. Diet Cherry 7-Up
3. Don’t waste time cleaning switch plates

Photo: Aunt Jean on the right and her baby sister (my mother-in-law) Cleo on the left

The Broker

March 2, 2007 | Papa George, Tuna

My father-in-law George is a sweet and gentle man with a heart as big as the ocean. He never raises his voice. If he’s really really mad, he might say “damn”. That’s the only way you know he’s really mad because he doesn’t raise his voice. And let me add that in the eleven years I’ve known him, I’ve only heard him utter that word one time. Truly, he is a servant of God who looks after widows and orphans in their distress. But don’t mess with him.

A while back George took his car to be washed. When it was done, he got back into his car to find that a roll of quarters was missing from the glove box. George went inside and spoke to the manager and politely asked for his quarters back. George is not a big guy. With a head of thick silver hair and a cane, he’s not an imposing presence. I’m sure when the carwash manager saw George, he figured he would blow him off like a ripe dandelion.

The manager all but said I don’t have your quarters old man and why don’t you scram. But George wouldn’t budge. George said that was fine, that he would just hang around and talk to all the customers until he got his quarters back. In about ten minutes the manager handed him his roll of quarters. George thanked him very much and went on about his business. George brokered a deal for everyone to do the right thing without causing a stink and that’s a quality in him that I really admire.

Across the street from my in-laws house is a park that covers one city block. It is filled with big gnarly twisting ancient oaks which shade the 1950’s space age inspired playground equipment, a basketball court, a picnic area and lots of open space to run and play.

In the middle of the park is a large granite stone that is engraved with the message that the park was donated to the children of Tuna in 1947 in memory of Janis by her mother. I don’t know what happened to Janis or how old she was when she died, but it’s touching to think of all the children that have played in that park under the shade of those trees, whose children now play in that park and even grandchildren, Sean included.

Recently a big cell phone service provider came through Tuna and decided that a good place to erect a cell tower would be smack dab in the middle of the park, leveling most of the ancient oaks, leaving only the margins of the park and thusly rendering it no longer a park for all intents and purposes.

In exchange for obliterating the park, the generous BCS (big corporate schmucks) were willing to compensate Tuna with rent of about $1000 a month. It is my impression that the Tuna powers-that-be were salivating at the thought of all that money pouring into the city coffers and maybe even the idea that they would no longer have to maintain the park. And certainly the dumb people of Tuna would go for that. The notice of their intent and the date of the hearing was surreptitiously buried in the back of the local newspaper. Unfortunately for them, not much gets by George and he was on the case.

George was the only one who showed up at the hearing. When BCS saw the sight of an unassuming elderly man leaning on his cane, they probably figured they had a ripe dandelion in their sights. But like the car wash manager, they would be wrong. George stood up and made his case on behalf of the children of Tuna. And whatever he said, it was enough to convince the board to kill the issue. For the time being or until they figured George had forgotten about it.

Across the street from the park is a building that used to be owned by the Baptist church which moved to a new and larger location several years ago. The property is currently owned by another religious organization whose primary purpose is to house a food bank for the needy. After the meeting, George visited with the pastor of the church/food bank and told him that if he were willing, he could rent his parking lot to BCS for over $1000 a month, income the food bank sorely needs. Within a few days, the deal was inked.

Thanks to George’s brokering skills, BCS will plant their cell tower in an unused parking lot, the food bank will earn some much needed income and the giant oaks will continue to shade the children of Tuna as they play in the park and little Janis will continue to rest in peace - a win-win-win-win deal for all parties.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.Matthew 5:9

Limit Two Protocol

February 7, 2007 | Aunt Jean, Tuna

When I was at my Aunt Jean’s house a while back, I noticed that while she didn’t keep canned goods in the bathroom, she did have a stash of probably 25 or 30 giant Snickers bars. In the kitchen that is, not the bathroom. And it wasn’t even Halloween.

It was surprising to see so many candy bars because you never see her eat anything like that. Aunt Jean is tall and thin and regal and dignified and not given to self-indulgence. When I asked her about them, she said that when she was growing up, one of the oldest of seven very poor children, all she ever wanted was a big old candy bar all to her self. And now that she can afford them, she buys them because she can. But only when they are on sale.

Let me just stop here and say I would never have a stash of Snickers. Not because I’m not one to “stock up” on a commodity as precious as that, but because in order to have a stash I would have to have at least enough restraint not to eat them all. Whenever I get my hands on a Snickers bar, I chew off the paper with my teeth and then I toss it up in the air. And then I roll on it until I get the scent of Snickers on my neck. And then finally, I lay on the floor on my tummy with my feet out behind me and I gnaw on it and growl at anyone who looks my direction. So when she offered me one, I declined just to avoid that whole scene.

Anyway, apparently Aunt Jean really wanted her own liter of Diet Cherry 7-Up when she was growing too because when she sent me out to the garage to get something out of the extra refrigerator, I was confronted with an imposing wall of Diet Cherry 7-Up. When I asked her about it she said that Albertson’s had a super duper sale on them a while back, but it was limit two. “My goodness!” I said, “Limit two!? How on earth did you get so many?”

“Well, you know,” she said her voice trailing off. “I went to the store and I bought two.” She paused here to lightly pat her hair into place and then stretched her neck as though working out a kink. And then she evasively looked up and off to the left at nothing in particular. “And?” I asked. “Well, then I went home and…. I chaaaaanged clothes…. (cough) andthenIwentbackfortwomore (cough).”

In case you didn’t know, it’s in the fine print on the back of the bottles. In order to legally purchase two additional liters of Limit Two soda, you must have changed clothes. And not just in the car either. You must go home and change into a completely different color blouse. If we were to look at the grocery store surveillance video the week Diet Cherry 7-Up is on sale we would see my good and proper Aunt Jean wearing dark sunglasses, going in and out of the store carrying two liters of Diet Cherry 7-Up at a time. And you might think the video was on a loop until upon closer inspection you would see that she had changed clothes making it totally legal.

I then did a quick calculation in my head — four trips a day, four changes of clothes for seven days at which time limit two expires. And sure enough it adds up to a stash of enough Diet Cherry 7-Up that should last until the rapture at which time we will all be caught up in the air toasting the brethren with Diet Cherry 7-Up and Snickers.

And oh what a day of rejoicing it will be.

Canned Peaches

January 29, 2007 | Papa George, Tuna

At what point in life do you start keeping canned peaches in the bathroom? And what does it mean?

a) Collecting canned goods is my hobby
b) I spend way too much time at the grocery store
c) Sometimes I crave peaches at the mostly unlikely of times
d) All of the above.

On a recent visit to Tuna, I opened the linen closet in my father-in-law’s bathroom expecting to find, oh I don’t know, a washcloth or a towel or maybe even a Q-Tip. But no. Out rolled a #10 can of peaches onto my foot.

Given that, I couldn’t resist the urge to snoop see what else might be lurking therein. Sure enough, there was a cache of Christmas presents dating back to 1998 (an impressive museum of Ronco gadgets, World’s Best Dad statues and soap on a rope) as well as a case of Allen’s green beans. It was like a little mini-convenience store. I almost expected to find a man named Apu and a Slurpee machine in the back.

In the same way that life is about the journey and not the destination, and as hunting is about the thrill of the chase and not the catch, Papa George, my father-in-law, is not so much about the procurement of edibles, but about the bargain. And ladies, you yourself know that when you find a bargain, the first thing you want to do is burn up the phone lines to spread the good news. Papa George is no different. Except that for him it’s about canned goods and not shoes.

AM: Hello.
PG: Kroger got purple hull peas on three for 39.
AM: Oh. Hi George. How ya doin’?
PG: Smithfield bone-in ham, 99 cents a pound.
AM: Oh me? I’m fine. My throat is a little sore. Thinking about seeing a doctor.
PG: Allen green beans, the big cans, 49, usually 69.
AM: Sean’s fine too. He’s at school today.
PG: Love ya. Bye.
AM: Love ya too Papa George. Bye.

It’s Papa George’s own sort of love language. If he’s not calling to give you the market report, he doesn’t like you that much.

But I digress. We were talking about peaches. It’s hard to imagine how one could wander off a topic as fascinating as that.

Yes. So then. In case there is a quiz later, the answers to the original questions.

From what I can surmise, the point in life at which one starts keeping peaches in the bathroom is about the same time the social security checks start rolling in. Now I know what you’re thinking - I would never keep peaches in my bathroom. Just wait until you get that AARP invitation before you start making judgements.

And what does it mean? I don’t know. But, it’s really convenient when you get a hankerin’ for peaches while taking a bubble bath.

Therapy With A Side Of Cold Cream

November 29, 2006 | Memaw, Tuna

My mother-in-law, Cleo, has owned a cosmetics and clothing business on Main Street in downtown Tuna for more than 25 years. She has enjoyed a fair measure of success for a variety of reasons. One, she can flat out sell. That woman could sell the devil a Bible and then he would order a few more for gifts. Two, Papa George stands squarely behind her, encouraging her and supporting her every step of the way. Three, she understands that she is not selling clothes and cosmetics, but hope and dreams. And four, the good people of Tuna need some place where they can get therapy and a makeover at the same time.

A bell tied to the front door, clinkles and clankles, announcing the arrival of each customer. She greets them by name. “Helloooow there! Come in!” she calls from behind the counter looking over the top of her rhinestone bifocals. She asks about their children, their grandchildren. She knows them.

Usually the first customer of the day is some old farmer wearing bib overalls. That might seem odd if you were at the mall, but no one in downtown Tuna blinks an eye to see a farmer in a boutique. His wife has sent him in with an empty powder compact that he pulls out of the pocket on the front of his overalls. Cleo knows exactly what to replace it with without even looking at it. His wife has bought the same product in the same shade for the last 25 years. He pulls up a stool at the makeover counter to rest and chat. He leans on his cane and Cleo leans on the counter to hear the latest. His wife has cancer, but she is hanging in there he says. Cleo listens and offers him a piece of homemade fudge. There’s nothing that George’s fudge won’t make better. Cleo rings up the makeup and walks him to the door. “You hang in there now. We’re a’prayin’ for you,” she says as he makes his way out the door.

Ever so often, some young gal will come in with her head hanging low. She’ll pull up a stool at the cosmetics counter and pour out her woes all over the eye shadow counter. Like a good bartender, Cleo listens. Her husband has left her. He took the dog and her Kenny Chesney album. Cleo gives her a piece of homemade fudge and pats her arm. Fifteen minutes later, her woes have been replaced with a new face and a new blouse. When you’re living your life out in a country and western song, a bag of cosmetics and a new blouse will fix most all that ails you. She hugs Cleo as she leaves the store. “Keep your chin up gal!” Cleo calls to her. She has made a customer and she has made a friend.

You can’t get that at the mall.

The entire Tuna series can be found at the Best of Antique Mommy

Your Personal Tuna Shopper

November 28, 2006 | Tuna

While I was in Tuna recently, as a service to my readers, I scoured the retail landscape looking for this year’s must-have holiday gift for that very special someone in your life who has everything. No need to thank me.

Photo Temporarily Unavailable

Today’s featured item is this one of a kind hand crafted item made completely of seashells! Place him jauntily atop the washer or beside the sofa on the front porch to welcome visitors. Nothings says You Are Special like a seashell Collie. $17.50. Shipping not included.

Check back throughout the season for more weird crap one of a kind hard to find speciality items shipped directly to your doorstep from downtown Tuna.

Antique Mommy
Your Personal Tuna Shopper

It’s Not A Party Without Properly Cleaned Switchplates

November 26, 2006 | Aunt Jean, Tuna

If you’ve been reading this blog very long, you know that Antique Daddy and I are both kind of obsessive compulsive. He is an obsessive wiper downer and I’m obsessive about orderliness. It would probaby be okay if we just limited this brand of craziness to our own house, but we don’t. And that makes us delightful house guests. If you want your bathroom linen closet rearranged and wiped down.

Over Thanksgiving we stayed with Aunt Jean who is in her mid-80s. Her schedule rivals that of Condoleeza Rice. The woman is busy and does not have time to be bothered with a misfolded towel or a water spot on the counter. Enter the Antiques.

The day after Thanksgiving, Aunt Jean hosted the annual gathering of the cousins. About 35 people descended upon her house like a horde of pimento cheese-eating locusts. Since we were staying with her, we “helped” her get ready for the gathering. By helped I mean that I arranged the sandwich tray so that it was symmetrical and Antique Daddy wiped down everything.

The next morning as we were eating breakfast, we basked in the glory of the success of the event. Aunt Jean agreed. “Yes indeed,” she said, “The party was a big success and I think we owe it all the fact that Antique Daddy unscrewed all the switch plates and wiped behind them.”

Zing! Oh to be so quick and snarky. I bow at her feet and pray that my son might have inherited some of her DNA. And that just a smidge might rub off on me by proximity.

Blackened Tuna

Tuna

While many of you were up at the bobo crack of dawn on Black Friday scoring iPods for $3.99 and flat screen TVs for $30, I was warm and cozy in my bed.  I was in Tuna and in Tuna the stores do not open before 10am for any reason. Whatsoever.

On the other hand…

When I got to the shopping district in downtown Tuna, I pretty much had the place to myself. And the merchandise, well, let’s just call it one-of-a-kind and leave it at that. 

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Who doesn’t want a Ronald McDonald head to accessorize that forgotten corner of the house?  I would suggest adding a cigarette to the the little screw coming out of his mouth for a bit of whimsey. 

I did meet a nice family of mannequins (whom I may introduce another time, they were really quite lovely and eager to pose for pictures) and I scored a big bag of vintage linens and aprons for just a few dollars. No, I don’t collect vintage linens and aprons.  I have no idea why I bought them.  The mannequins talked me into it.

Tuna Turkey

November 22, 2006 | Tuna

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Over the river and through the woods to Memaw and Papa George’s house we go!

We are off to Greater Tuna for Thanksgorging! I’ll be back here on Monday with more Tuna Tales. In the meantime, if you’ve missed the Tuna Chronicles, you can read them here.

Happy Thanksgiving y’all!

Antique Mommy

Socializing In Tuna

August 24, 2006 | Tuna

The fifth installment in a series that looks at life in a small town in Texas.

Never let it be said there is nothing to do in Tuna. Between the funerals and hospitalizations, the fun just never stops. Here’s a typical day:

6am - Get up. Read newspaper and check obituaries.

7am - Drive to Whataburger and drink coffee with the cronies. Talk about a) who died this week and b) who is in the hospital and fixin’ to die. Discuss what to eat for lunch. Describe in detail what you ate for dinner last night.

9am - Go home and bake a cake to bring to the hospital for the people in group b.

10am - Arrive at the hospital with cake. Joy ride in the hospitality golf cart. Try to get free medical advice from anyone wearing scrubs who happens to pass by.

11am - Reconvene with Whataburger cronies in the hospital waiting room and enjoy cake and free hospital coffee.

12am - Break for lunch at Aunt Clydes. Talk about what you would like to eat for dinner tonight. Round table discussion on what everyone ate for breakfast.

1pm - Go home and put on funeral leisure suit with clip-on tie and dress cowboy boots.

2pm - Attend funeral and post funeral feeding with cronies.

4pm - Meet cronies for dinner at Furr’s Cafeteria. Discuss what to eat for breakfast in the morning. Reminisce about what you ate for lunch.

6pm - Get home in time for Wheel of Fortune.

7pm - Call all the cronies to make sure no one died since Wheel of Fortune.

8pm - Go to bed.

The Tuna Social Committee

Hungy for more Tuna?  Check out Best of Antique Mommy.

How To Be A Rock Star In Tuna

August 1, 2006 | Papa George, Tuna

The fourth installment in a series that looks at life in a small town in Texas.

If you ever find yourself in Texas, and you’re really hungry and you want good food and plenty of it, what you do is drive to the nearest small town, check the obituaries and then head to the church for the post funeral feeding. Wear an outdated and ill-fitting suit of clothes and look appropriately pitiful and you’ll blend right in. If you arouse any suspicion, you can always deflect it by complimenting the potato salad:

“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I know you. How did you know Bubba Ray?”

“This is the best potato salad I’ve ever eaten! Who made it?”

“Whell! (sniff) Erleta Winslow made that, and it’s okay, if you like your potato salad dry and bland like that, bless her heart and all. You wait right here (calling over her shoulder). Let me get you some of my potato salad. I make mine with a pinch of dill. Can I bring you anything else? Refill your tea maybe? Some pie?”

Before you know it, you’ll have four or five church ladies armed with bowls of potato salad fawning all over you. Small town people take their recipes very seriously and the church cookbook is the Who’s Who In Greater Tuna. The absolute worst social faux pas in Tuna is bringing store bought cookies to the church picnic. Your reputation would be forever sullied. Prayers like this would be offered up on your behalf in the ladies groups: Dear God, please bless poor Leona Fay. Either her oven or her mind is on the blink and we just ask that you restore her either way.

George, my father-in-law, is a Tuna rock star. He’s got so many recipes in the First Avenue Church of Tuna cookbook that they finally set a limit. Sitting in his den the other day, he leaned forward in his recliner and beckoned me towards him. Then looking over each shoulder, he whispered to me in a low voice and confided that he had submitted some of his recipes in my mother-in-law’s name to get around the limit. I might have gasped and clapped my hand over my mouth if I had understood what a scandalous thing this was. It wasn’t scandalous that George was blatantly swan diving through a church cookbook committee loophole, but that my mother-in-law goes to The Second Avenue Church of Tuna. So in my ignorance I said, “Oh really?”

Small town churches have a rivalry that goes far beyond that of Texas high school football, which is saying a lot, since both are considered religious activities. Being a Midwestern Catholic, I don’t really understand either. This became obvious when I attended the funeral of an elderly relative awhile back.

After the funeral, the family gathered in the basement of the Second Avenue Church of Tuna for the post funeral feeding. One of the church ladies sashayed by my table to refill my tea and asked me how my meal was. I told her it was wonderful, especially the potato salad, and thank you so much for doing this. Instead of just shutting up like a normal person, I asked her if the recipe was from the First Avenue Church of Tuna cookbook (Antique Daddy, quit kicking me!) which is so good and has so many good recipes (would you please quit kicking me?) I’ll bet this good potato salad came from the good First Avenue Church cookbook (stop with the nudging and the kicking dude) and maybe I could buy one while I’m here. In fact, maybe I’ll buy several for gifts, they’re just that good!

She stopped pouring the tea, slammed down the pitcher, looked me squarely in the eye and through gritted teeth hissed, “Whell! I wouldn’t know!” Then she spun around and marched off.

I turned to Antique Daddy who was leaning on his elbows with his head in his hands. “What just happened here, dude?” I asked. “I just complimented the potato salad. Isn’t that what I was supposed to do?”

He shook his head at my embarrassing blunder. “This is the Second Avenue Church of Tuna,” he said hanging his head. “We’re never going to get pie now.”

* * *

Hungry for more Tuna?  Go to the Best of Antique Mommy to see the whole series.

Keeping Time In Tuna

June 2, 2006 | Tuna

 
I never hate Wal-Mart more than when I am in downtown Tuna.

Across the country, small town Main Street has been decimated by the big hairy ape that is Wal-Mart and Tuna is no different. The old historic buildings that line Main Street, that once teemed with the life blood of the town — the Mom and Pop businesses — now stand as a silent, empty and decaying tribute to capitalism at it’s best, or worst, depending upon your point of view.

One thing I really like about doing business on Main Street in downtown Tuna is that there is no one standing at the entrance of the store handing me a little yellow smiley face sticker if I come in with a bag. We all know what those smiley face stickers mean: We don’t trust you. In Tuna, trust is the currency and a handshake is your receipt.

Awhile back, I had several watches (and by several I mean seven) that needed batteries replaced. What is more absurd than the fact that we have seven dead watches, is that neither Antique Daddy nor I even wear a watch most of the time, yet we feel that we need to have seven in working order in case there were to be some sort of wrist watch emergency.

When I took my comatose watch collection to a local jeweler in the metroplex to have the batteries replaced, I was astonished by the degree to which they could over-promise and under-deliver a simple service. After several attempts and as many phone calls to get the jewelers to perform the requested service, I tired of their excuses. I finally retrieved the dead and dying watches and brought them home where they would be more comfortable and I could mourn them privately. I happened to mention this to George, my father-in-law, and he suggested that I bring them up to Tuna to the Main Street jeweler, whom he described as a “good ole’ Baptist boy.” So that’s what I did.

When I walked into the Tuna Credit Jewelers, it was like stepping back into time 50 years. The hardwood floors creaked and dipped where countless feet had worn a path to the front counter over the course of more than 100 years. Behind the counter sat the owner, whose father and his father and his father before him had probably sat in the same cracked green leather chair. Most of the merchandise looked as though it had been there for at least that long.

I told the man that George had sent me. “Oh, George, of course,” he said with almost no inflection. I explained to him that I had some watches that needed to have batteries replaced and I handed them over the counter to him. He peered at me over his bifocals, blinked a couple of times and then said, “Okay.” They say that a lot in Tuna and I like that.

Then he asked me if I would like to wait. It was my turn to blink. I was thinking about the jewelers in the metroplex and how they kept my watches for a week and then another week and I was pretty sure I didn’t want to wait that long. Then I realized he meant wait, like for twenty minutes. I said, no I had to go see Floydine down at the bank and I would come back later. He nodded knowingly and again he said “Okay.” And then I waited for him to write me a receipt for my precious seven watches that I was entrusting to a complete stranger.

We stared at each other for a few awkward seconds like a couple about to kiss for the first time. I stammered nervously and waved my hands in a gesture that made it appear as though I were waxing an invisible car.

 ”Um, do you think, that maybe, I could have a receipt? For my. Um, you know. Seven. Uh. Watches? If it’s not…. toomuchtrouble.” He looked puzzled. Perhaps because all of a sudden English didn’t seem to be my first language.

He quickly scribbled something on one of those generic pale green reciept pads, tore it off with great precision and handed it to me. I folded it twice and stuffed it into my pocket without even looking at it as a display of trust. I did not want to risk insulting the stranger now in possession of my seven stupid watches.

As I headed down Main Street, I pulled the receipt out of my pocket and looked at it. On it was written “watches” punctuated with a little smiley face. I guess that’s about as official as a handshake and that’s good enough when doing business in Tuna.

Eat Tuna

May 23, 2006 | Tuna

The second in series that takes a look at life in a small town in Texas.

People tend to think there is no culture in a small town, that there are no restaurants, no theater. Well, there is. It just so happens that the live theater is in the restaurants. Just not in a dinner-theater sort of way. And not really on purpose.

Once again, we find ourselves in Greater Tuna, where my in-laws live. There is a restaurant there that can probably best be described as a shed. Only not that nice. The tables are covered with well worn red and white checked oil cloth and none of the chairs match. The painted floor creeks and slopes slightly and a screen door bangs and then springs back to bang again as people come and go. A rickety ceiling fan whirs and rocks overhead. The cacophany of white noise all works together to create a certain ambience. It has a hand painted sign out front that reads “Aunt Clydes” and the place is run by Aunt Clyde herself. On any given weekday, the place is surrounded by cars and golf carts parked in all manner as people make their way from near and nearer for the local version of the power lunch, or what they call “shootin’ the breeze”.

Aunt Clyde is a motherly black woman with a large presence and generous bosoms, which overflow the sides of her apron. The bib-overall wearing men can’t help but to steal glances at all this womanly glory and even the women take a second look. Aunt Clyde speaks as though she is about out of breath, in a kindly raspy voice, yet she has a natural air of authority about her. Make no mistake Aunt Clyde is in charge of the place, so don’t even think about acting a fool or she might come over and swat you upside the head with a menu and fire off a warning to “Stop actin’ like a fool!”

Speaking of the menu, there is one, but Aunt Clyde doesn’t read or do math, so it doesn’t really matter. You just tell her what you want and she’ll tell you if you can have it or not. When you are finished eating, she’ll tell you what you owe, and that largely depends on her mood. Your meatloaf might cost you $3.29 whereas mine might be $4.48. Everyone pays whatever Aunt Clyde says they owe and no one forgets to tip. If you did, word would get around fast and let there be no doubt, small town people protect their own. If you like meat loaf, mashed potatoes, lemon pie, sweet tea and the like, there’s no better place to eat in any city of any size.

You just can’t get that kind of dining experience at Chili’s.

Banking in Greater Tuna

May 20, 2006 | Papa George, Tuna

Although I really enjoy living in the metroplex, sometimes when we visit my in-laws who live in a small north Texas town, I realize there are certain aspects to small town living that I really appreciate. Like banking.

Awhile back, when we were visiting Tuna I decided that I needed to cash a check to facilitate my Main Street antique shopping. I parked right in front of the building and walked right up to the teller whose name was Floydine. As I was fumbling around in my purse for three kinds of ID, I informed Floydine that I would like to cash a check. She asked me if I had an account there and I said, no, but George is my father-in-law. And she then said — and get this - she said “OK”. And she cashed the check without blinking or even writing anything down. She didn’t even ask to see my ID. She just said OK. Because I knew George. And she knew George. When in Greater Tuna, it’s good to know George.

My bank in the metroplex, where I’ve had an account for 25 years, won’t even cash my check before photocopying my drivers license, taking a blood sample and finger prints, even though my check has their name on it. Even though they have had my money for 25 years - they knoweth me not. They have lots of college grads running around in khaki pants and polo shirts to prove how casual and friendly and “all about people” they are, but they don’t actually do anything helpful, like banking.

I thought of Floydine and her quaint little Main Street bank the other day as I stood in line behind a velvet rope awaiting the privilege of giving the 1st National Bank of Khaki Pants my money. As I waited, I made use of my time by filling out their little customer satisfaction survey. And since they asked for suggestions as to how they might improve their customer service, I wrote:

1) How about adding banking services?
2) Hire Floydine.

Christmas Dementia

January 5, 2006 | Antique Crazy, Sometimes Tart, Tuna

Tomorrow, January 6th, is the Feast of the Epiphany. For Catholics, and perhaps other denominations as well, that is the official day to take down the tree. The link suggests that as a family, we take a leisurely day and take down the decorations and then sit around a lovely meal I prepared (What? When I wasn’t undecorating?) and talk about what we enjoyed most about the Christmas season. Yes, I will do that — just as soon as I get back to the mothership.

Anyway, yesterday I finished the 2-day long task of taking down my tree and decorations. By two days, I mean two toddler-days. You can arrive at this number by taking 16 waking hours and subtracting the amount of time you do not have a toddler attached to your mid-thigh which is roughly equivalent to 3 hours and 15 seconds — if you include naptime and the time he locked himself in the closet and I left him there, I mean played hide-and-seek with him.

Here are just some of this years holiday decorating stats:

Number of boxes hauled out of the attic: 37 and counting
Number of trips made up and down the stairs: 57
Number of times I said I will buy no more ornaments: 7
Number of new ornaments purchased: 9
Number of ornaments broken: 2
Number of decorations that escaped packing: 1 - so far.
Number hours spent decorating and un-decorating: Embarrassed to admit
Number of times I vowed to have a simple Christmas next year: 1.5xday/30 days = 45

In spite of these startling statistics, around mid-November, Christmas Dementia will set in again. I forget how much work it was to haul and install all the Christmas glory. Like an old boyfriend, I only remember the good times. I look forward to unwrapping each ornament and reminiscing about when we first met. The second hour of unwrapping and reminiscing, love turns to like. The third hour like turns to tolerate. Four hours and 15 trips up the stairs into the attic, I’m throwing ornaments on the tree from across the room, hoping that at least one will stick or better, meet it’s death. But as I stated in a previous post, all the holiday glitter and glam delights the little boy and makes it worth it the effort. For approximately 30 days.

Then, somewhere around December 26th, I have my own epiphany. The Christmas induced dementia disolves leaving me with a sparkly hangover. My 37 boxes of old friends suddenly seem too high-maintenance. I decide I need to set some boundaries with them. And their boundaries are in the attic. And this is when I firmly state, for the 46th time, that next year we will have a simple Christmas with only a few decorations.

Here’s one last statistic:

Number of days before Chrismas Dementia sets in: 313