Meat Tales

My dad was a butcher.  Eventually he ran a whole grocery store around his meat counter, but he was Master Butcher. My dad could really cut you some fine Del Monacos, you know what I'm saying!

I grew up working at different jobs in my dad's grocery. I did check-out and carry-out, stocked items from baby food to Campho-Phenique, sorted and maintained produce, made doughnuts and wrote big, loopy Happy Birthdays on cakes.

I didn't work in the meat department, though. I think my dad didn't want me running the machines there. Particularly because we had witnessed the Freakiest and Most Screamingly Horrifying Injury in All History, there in our meat department. 

It was fairly early in my childhood grocery career when my Aunt Margaret, who had been working in the meat department for some time, got her hand pulled down into the meat tenderizer. 

Do you know what a meat tenderizer is, exactly? Here's like our store's meat grinder, top-down view. Think Swiss Steak. How it works: Steaks go between those blades and come out the bottom . . . "Swissed."  

So, okay, my Aunt Margaret's fingers went in between the blades and the machine kept pulling and pulling. Someone shut it off. (There must be safety mechanisms now.) When the machine stopped, poor Aunt Margaret was screaming. The blades had already cut clear up into her knuckles and a ways into the palm.

For this post, I looked at images of meat tenderizer injuries and decided not to post one. If you want to see, though, those are the search terms: meat tenderizer injuries.

My aunt had good movement and sensation in her hand (considering) within a few years of the injury. I have an image memory of her hands right after hospital:  swollen and with the fingers and palms riddled through with black stitches.

This may have influenced me in not becoming a butcher like the old man.

Like this, but dozens of these, all through her hand.

Squirrel Story (Warning: Graphic)

We had squirrels in our attic once. We hired a wildlife guy to get rid of them humanely. He hung cages off the eaves with the openings going into whatever tunnel squirrels run in up there. 

All went well at first. A squirrel would get caught in the cage and the guy would come speeding over in his truck and remove it to... well, to wherever. This went on for quite a few squirrels.


Then came an icy rain. That night, a squirrel got trapped in the cage, and huge icy water drops were falling fast and landing right on its head. <plink, plink, plink...>

The squirrel went through many mental and physical changes in the hours before the guy came. It wasn't quite dead when he removed it.

I looked around the neighborhood and people were standing at their windows, watching the squirrel deteriorate, there in the early morning hours. We sensed their strained attitudes toward us long after that.

Early Lessons, #5

When I was little, I knew a girl named DeDe Walmsley. You'd always see DeDe and her mother and little brother, ghosting around town together in subdued colors (gray, dark gray,... grey) with stricken (DeDe), mournful (her mother), and malevolent (her brother) looks on their faces. The word wraiths comes to mind now. I wouldn't have known that word back then.

DeDe's mother had immigrated to Byesville from Hungary after her children were born. Her name was Lujza, pronounced LOO-sha. Everybody in Byesville said Luh-WEE-shuh--closer to what we thought was a name.
 
The Walmsleys were Roman Catholic but not in the way the American Catholics I knew were. My mom said that Lujza came from the "Old Country." That could account for it. In hindsight, she did have an overpowering Vlad air about her. You just knew that Luzja Walmsley wasn't one for fun and games. Her children bore visibly the conditioning of strict Catholic confession and penance. It played out daily in their lives in the family home. 

So then, DeDe. 

DeDe was, in her own right, strange in appearance and demeanor. The former was due, in part, to the gray/grey swathes of material she wore where the rest of us little girls in town wore the light, bright greens and pinks of the 60's, with flower patterns and groovy stripes and swirls. 

As to DeDe's demeanor--so hard to describe from a child's memory. It seems to have so much more portent now. When I picture DeDe, I see her forever hanging back, sitting off to one side, at the fringes of every classroom seating chart, peering into a room from behind the door, standing at the back of every line. She is not just sad-looking; her mouth forms a small "o"--as though she is horrified but not at things present, only past and future. And she is judging: you wouldn't want to break any of God's rules (as we knew them then) with DeDe Walmsley looking on at what you'd done.

DeDe and I kind of knew each other, more than the other kids in our school knew DeDe. She often cast me a look through lowered lashes at school because we spent time together privately when I went with my dad to deliver groceries. For years, my dad, who owned the local grocery store, delivered people's groceries for free if they asked, and that included to DeDe's mother's great gray and dusty kitchen every week. I was usually with him, part of the journey home from school. 

We'd go in by the back door with the grocery bags. I'd go over by the kitchen stairs to talk to DeDe. She was always sitting on the steps, half-cloaked by the shadows there. There wasn't much to talk about and DeDe wasn't offering, but I was not the kind of child that let lack of content keep me from going on about something. I pulled out some topics on my mind and generally chatted DeDe up while my dad helped unload groceries. DeDe smiled some, and even snorted a little. I guess she thought I was funny and that's why she'd cast a glance my way at school. The interaction pleased me in its private and special nature.

But there was another, darker incident that involved me and DeDe and being back by those dimly lit stairs. It's what I thought of that led me to write this post in the first place. I can't put my finger on what brought it to mind though.

One time I went to DeDe's house with my dad, and DeDe wasn't on the back stairs. I looked around and saw her in a small room under the stairs, like a broom closet. I peeked in and saw that DeDe was standing on her knees, on the cement floor.

I inched closer and peered in. "Are you prayin'?" I whispered. 

She startled a bit. But without changing position she said, "No. I'm kneelin' on beans."

I leaned down and looked. It wasn't beans per se, looked more like cracked corn. ("Cracked corn is worse than just old beans or rice," DeDe told me later.  "Feels like glass and makes you bleed.")

I was bewildered. I'd never seen a punishment like this, but it was clear that was what it was. It hurt me to think about it. DeDe kneeling there--for how long?--like she felt nothing.

"What did you do wrong? What are you being punished for?"

DeDe thought a moment. Sighed. "I don't know. Lotsa times I don't have any idea." 
   

Earthquake!

One of those rolling, sickening earthquakes. I could see the walls shuddering. And the sound made it worse.

New England reported little or no damage over all, but here in Portland, Maine, there were some signs to be seen:

Postcard La mano poderosa, where it fell during the earthquake. (Location: tapu's kitchen.)

Wall from where La mano poderosa fell. (Location: tapu's kitchen.) X marks the card's original spot.

No injuries have been reported.