A few years ago my dad, my brother, my six year old son, and I were riding down a particular Basin road very familiar to us – the road to my Grandma's house. All of a sudden my precocious son pointed out a mailbox and said "Man that sure is an old mailbox!" A short awkward silence ensued as my dad, my brother and I all looked at each other, wondering with awe why my son picked out that exact mailbox to comment on and then we burst out in laughter as the story behind it came back to our memories.
It all started just a few days after New Year's. I was seventeen and my little brother was twelve. We had been over at Grandma's house taking care of various winter chores; shoveling snow, splitting wood, feeding horses, and of course visiting with Grandma. While those were the obligatory reasons we were there, the real reason was to get leftover Christmas goodies.
Christmas at Grandma's house was a baking extravaganza; delicious home-made pies, cookies, fruitcake, divinity, peanut brittle and especially her famous fudge. There were always plenty of leftovers and this day was no exception. As we were leaving she handed us a round decorative tin filled to the brim with three or four different flavors of the sweet confection.
No sooner had we got into the car that we both began to sample the fudge. I was driving the only car my parents trusted me to drive in the winter – our 1974 Buick Electra 225, a huge seventeen and a half foot long, eight foot wide luxury liner we nicknamed "the Tank". After eating a piece or two of fudge, I put on my seatbelt and put the car in gear and slowly backed out of Grandma's driveway. The road was clear but slick and I kept it at a slow pace as I motored down the road.
As I drove however, I glanced over at my brother and noticed he was still generously helping himself to the fudge. So, being the caring big brother I was and not wanting him to eat too much before dinner (it had nothing to do with my own desire to hog my share of the fudge before we got home), I yelled at him to stop and reached over and tried to shut the lid of the tin. Instinctively, he yelled back and pulled it away. I was quicker however and stuck my hand inside the tin as he began to pull back. My brother, again on instinct slammed the lid of the tin down on my hand, trapping it inside and I could tell that he wouldn't let go of my hand unless I let go too. Angry now and determined not to let go of that tin of fudge, I reached over with my free hand and began to wrestle the tin out of his hands. He put up a good fight and was just as determined to not let go. Loud unkind words flew back and forth between us as the battle over the leftover Christmas fudge continued as "the Tank" kept rumbling down the road.
Large heavy cars from the seventies like that can't steer themselves however and as I was fighting with my brother, we hit an icy patch and "the Tank" took its own path and before I even knew it a loud "BANG-CLANK" brought me back to the reality that I was supposed to be driving. For a split-second that seemed to stretch on for minutes, we were weightless and I saw the red flag of a mailbox sail past my window – "the Tank" had gone airborne, and we had taken out a mailbox in the process.
We landed with a heavy thud and came to an immediate stop in a snow filled ditch. Quickly we assessed the situation as the car's engine stalled. Other than both of us being just a little more than scared, we were OK, not even a scratch or bruise. As we climbed out of the car and surveyed the scene I knew I was in big trouble. I looked over at my brother and didn't quite know what to say, we were still a little shocked. Then, all of a sudden my brother took of like a cannon shot and ran all the way back to my Grandma's house on a dead run. By the time I got there, Grandma – who thought I was dead – had already called my mom and dad and the County Sherriff. There was nothing left for me to do but to walk back to the scene and sign my ticket while the Deputy tried not to laugh out loud as she wrote me up.
Well, after my dad pulled "the Tank" out of the ditch I apologized to my Grandma's neighbors for obliterating their mailbox and promised them (not-so-gently coaxed by my dad of course) that I would fix it, right down to replacing the heavy diamond grating that had left neat machine-gun-like holes in the hood of my car. So, with the help of my dad, my brother and I did all the work and replaced that mailbox, the very one my young son had pointed out fifteen years later. I still don't know why he picked out that mailbox –whether it just coincidence or some silent memory transfer only Freud could explain – but it certainly made us all remember just how good my Grandma's leftover Christmas fudge was and how it made me do one of the most irresponsible things in my life.
So this year as you are sitting around enjoying those Christmas leftovers on a cold January small town Friday night, savor the sweetness and goodness of it all but just remember, if you are driving down an icy road, don't fight over the fudge.
It all started just a few days after New Year's. I was seventeen and my little brother was twelve. We had been over at Grandma's house taking care of various winter chores; shoveling snow, splitting wood, feeding horses, and of course visiting with Grandma. While those were the obligatory reasons we were there, the real reason was to get leftover Christmas goodies.
Christmas at Grandma's house was a baking extravaganza; delicious home-made pies, cookies, fruitcake, divinity, peanut brittle and especially her famous fudge. There were always plenty of leftovers and this day was no exception. As we were leaving she handed us a round decorative tin filled to the brim with three or four different flavors of the sweet confection.
No sooner had we got into the car that we both began to sample the fudge. I was driving the only car my parents trusted me to drive in the winter – our 1974 Buick Electra 225, a huge seventeen and a half foot long, eight foot wide luxury liner we nicknamed "the Tank". After eating a piece or two of fudge, I put on my seatbelt and put the car in gear and slowly backed out of Grandma's driveway. The road was clear but slick and I kept it at a slow pace as I motored down the road.
As I drove however, I glanced over at my brother and noticed he was still generously helping himself to the fudge. So, being the caring big brother I was and not wanting him to eat too much before dinner (it had nothing to do with my own desire to hog my share of the fudge before we got home), I yelled at him to stop and reached over and tried to shut the lid of the tin. Instinctively, he yelled back and pulled it away. I was quicker however and stuck my hand inside the tin as he began to pull back. My brother, again on instinct slammed the lid of the tin down on my hand, trapping it inside and I could tell that he wouldn't let go of my hand unless I let go too. Angry now and determined not to let go of that tin of fudge, I reached over with my free hand and began to wrestle the tin out of his hands. He put up a good fight and was just as determined to not let go. Loud unkind words flew back and forth between us as the battle over the leftover Christmas fudge continued as "the Tank" kept rumbling down the road.
Large heavy cars from the seventies like that can't steer themselves however and as I was fighting with my brother, we hit an icy patch and "the Tank" took its own path and before I even knew it a loud "BANG-CLANK" brought me back to the reality that I was supposed to be driving. For a split-second that seemed to stretch on for minutes, we were weightless and I saw the red flag of a mailbox sail past my window – "the Tank" had gone airborne, and we had taken out a mailbox in the process.
We landed with a heavy thud and came to an immediate stop in a snow filled ditch. Quickly we assessed the situation as the car's engine stalled. Other than both of us being just a little more than scared, we were OK, not even a scratch or bruise. As we climbed out of the car and surveyed the scene I knew I was in big trouble. I looked over at my brother and didn't quite know what to say, we were still a little shocked. Then, all of a sudden my brother took of like a cannon shot and ran all the way back to my Grandma's house on a dead run. By the time I got there, Grandma – who thought I was dead – had already called my mom and dad and the County Sherriff. There was nothing left for me to do but to walk back to the scene and sign my ticket while the Deputy tried not to laugh out loud as she wrote me up.
Well, after my dad pulled "the Tank" out of the ditch I apologized to my Grandma's neighbors for obliterating their mailbox and promised them (not-so-gently coaxed by my dad of course) that I would fix it, right down to replacing the heavy diamond grating that had left neat machine-gun-like holes in the hood of my car. So, with the help of my dad, my brother and I did all the work and replaced that mailbox, the very one my young son had pointed out fifteen years later. I still don't know why he picked out that mailbox –whether it just coincidence or some silent memory transfer only Freud could explain – but it certainly made us all remember just how good my Grandma's leftover Christmas fudge was and how it made me do one of the most irresponsible things in my life.
So this year as you are sitting around enjoying those Christmas leftovers on a cold January small town Friday night, savor the sweetness and goodness of it all but just remember, if you are driving down an icy road, don't fight over the fudge.
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