1950s Archive

Roughing it with Gramp: Part II

Originally Published October 1951

It was spring all the time. Spring when it was summer and spring when it was autumn; because I was very young and Gramp was very old and Mama was very carsick that spring of 1919 when we crossed America in our Model T. Yes, it was always spring, and always blowouts and no gas, unpaved highways and insects in the field. and Gramp's cooking when we couldn't find a good place to eat.

“Hell, boy, I'd rather singe my own food than swallow the stable stews of some of these black holes called hotels.”

“My shoes are all muddy.” Mama would say. looking at her high-button shoes, about which. years later, I wrote a Broadway musical play.

Emma, our brass-bound Model T car, was ugly but game and she pushed mud and ate brook water and shouted like a “bull in fly time.” to quote Gramp from his old journal that I have before me as I write.

We passed Lancaster and Hagerstown and were boiling down the Potomac towards Washington. I was sitting at Gramp's side, and Mama sat in the back on the bearskin robe and the camping stove and her dignity.

“Did Washington really toss a silver dollar across the Potomac?” I asked.

“Hell, yes, ” said Gramp, setting fire to his cigar. “Today you can throw it twice as far because the dollar is worth half as much.” Which shows you that jokes of this kind aren't anything new.

“Gramp, ” said Mama in her baby-talk voice. “I think I'm dying.”

“You need some food stuck on your pretty ribs, Sari, ” said Gramp. “Some pig side, some good beer, a mess of fried fish, and some potatoes boiled in sour milk.”

“Oh, that sounds much too much and dreadful, ” said Mama, who always liked to be called pretty even if she was really beautiful. “How far to Washington.?”

Gramp shook his head. “Who knows? These sign posts don't mean a thing they say.”

Emma snorted, her hood suddenly exploded into a column of steam, a gun went off, it seemed, in the engine, and we rattled slowly to a stop. Gramp cursed, got out. and lifted his driving jacket exposing the wrenches and lengths of wires and other inner car plumbing he carried in his back pockets.

“What is it, Gramp, ” I asked brightly, “the yokinfloster or the mikilacutty?”

“It sounds like the satic,” he said, lifting the big hood. I must explain that we didn't know the names of any of the motor parts and Gramp and I had renamed them. The yokinfloster was what put gas into the motor, the mikilacutty was something wrong with the plugs, and anything else that was wrong was satic. Satic was also a color, I found out. Anything that Gramp saw that wasn't just red or blue or yellow was satic, a special color. This may all sound whimsy-whamsy now, but with no gas Station for miles, no repair shops except a few converted stables. 1919 was a hard year for travelers who did their own repairs.

“Satic, satic!— the— —satic!” said Gramp, as he burned a finger on the hot motor. “We can't fix this— let's find a blacksmith!” We found a blacksmith and left him with Emma, while we went after food.

We had lunch in the Ramdon Rifle Range, which I suppose was one of those places where the embassy people came out from Washington to hit clay birds and drink the cocktail of the period out of coffee cups. A country speak-easy it was, I found out later.

A large Italian with a proud stomach let us into the club.

“You are de member?” he asked Gramp, who looked questionable with car grease and soot on his face and hands.

“Just became one.” Gramp pointed to Mama, “Will you show the Countess to the Indies’ room? She's in delicate condition.”

The Italian washed his hands with phantom soap and bowed.

“De Countess, her condition, of course, de Countess.” Mama was used to Gramp's tricks and she did need the privacy and the comforts of retirement, so she followed a far finger pointing to an oak door marked Powder Room …

I don't suppose many people remember these early-age speakeasy decors. It had a raftered ceiling, fake grape leaves and glass grapes, lots of booths with little checked table-clotlis, and a smell of beer over everything.

Gramp said, “We are in a hurry to get to Washington so just give us the best. The Countess will join us in good rime. You do serve food here, I suppose?”

The Italian set two raffia-covered Chianti bottles on the table and said, “De best Italian cuisine. Grind my own polenta, import the pomidoro; I don't use de local tomato pulp and the pasta,” he beat his belly with his fist, “I eat here myself.”

Gramp said, “Give me antipasto, just the pickled mushrooms, the anchovy filets, artichokes, red pepper, and fennel with the cold veal and a white Falerno, or a strong Torre Giulia.”

The Italian looked at the grapes on the ceiling, then at Gramp, and wiped his face. “I lie to you- To a man who knows all tbis, I can not keep up the lie. I have, however. the Lucca olive oil. I will try a risotto alla milanese for you.”

“With the saffron?” Gramp asked, winking at me.

The Italian lowered his head as if kicked. “Look, I am a liar … this is just a dump, a dive, I sell bad wine, needled beer. I will not fool you or the Countess, I have not even a fritto misto or a gnocchi, not even a shred of Gorgonzola or Pecorino. The best I can do is give you mine own lunch I am cooking out back, ravioli di polio.”

Gramp said it would do if the wine was not too bad, and when the poor man was gone, Gramp turned to me and said, “Let this be a lesson to you. Never talk big or fancy. Never use big words you can't back up. Or somebody will eat your lunch.”

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