Sat, 21 May 2011 17:22:08 -0800WeeblyTue, 24 Aug 2010 00:00:01 -0800http://www.sauceelation.com/3/post/2010/08/the-paper-route-part-2-knott-branch-landing-and-beyond.html

The Life And Times Of T'terman: The Paper Route - Part 2

                                          

Part 2
"The Paper Route"
"Knott Branch Lane and Beyond"

From "The Life And Times Of T'terman"
By
Otrie Barrett Jr

For the most part the houses on my route were all within the scope of my neighborhood, each house similar to the next and so on, but there was this portion on Knott Branch Lane in "The Forest Of Hilton" that was unusual. It was so unusual to me in every way that I named each house personally. This section didn't just have design variants like where I lived, but every house was different, unique, and the people seemed a bit eccentric too.

The first house on Knott Branch Lane, I named "The Nice Lady's House", well because the lady that lived there was so very nice. No matter what time I delivered papers she was already up tooling around. Frequently she would offer me hot chocolate and a break from the elements when I was delivering on cold or snowy mornings; and yes there were many face biting, extremity numbing freezing cold mornings in Virginia.

"The Underwear Man's House" next door was named so because one morning the  owner of the house startled me standing at his front door wrapped only in his jocks. Aghast, I uttered something sounding like "blaheh", and he retorted sharply, "you're late!" He was right! 6 am delivery for the weekday paper is late when most people leave their homes for work by then.

"The House That Cujo Owned", was named for this huge Saint Bernard dog that excelled in terrorizing me. I'd think ahhhh, this morning that drooling menace is inside, but he'd appear suddenly, stealth-like as a mountain of fur could be, waiting at the exit gate, the edge of his domain. It's as if he were saying to me, "I...let like you in foreigner, now...let's see what you got...paper boy". The owner insisted that their paper be placed on the front porch, and comply I tried. They claimed that their huge slobbering dog was harmless and would not bite me, but as you will see later through my experience, I had a precedence for throwing the paper anywhere I could.

"The Bird House" was named for this damp ivy laden house with terracotta roofing. Pigeons covered every inch of this house occupying individual sections of the roofing. The house smelled vile with bird droppings and urine, causing me to wretch each time. It was right out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie, and kept me wondering why the birds only liked to stay at there. All the other houses never had birds by the flock. One morning I was having a great serving experience. What I mean by serving is the manner in which I would take a paper out of my bag and deliver it to the front porch. Everything just seemed to be perfect this morning, as if I was a major league pitcher having the greatest game of my life. This fine morning being in the zone, and forgetting all about those nasty birds, I served a up paper that landed on their front porch with resounding force, pop and placement.  All of a sudden birds were exploding, shrieking and squawking from every direction, like my paper was a forceful reminder to them that winter was coming one day, and they better get prepared. Truthfully, those nasty pigeons scared the "tihs" out of me, but caused me to burst my seams in laughter moments later. I'm sure all of Knott Branch Lane heard that outstanding volley of sound, flight and laughter.

"The Hippy House" was named for this couple, a man who was and architect and his wife the fertile artist. They both had long fluffy red hair, freckles, and were very cool indeed, whenever they decided to answer their door. These soul mates were the kind of people you could hang with for hours and talk about any old thing, just any old thing at all. The house had a novel triangular shaped courtyard in the center, where the couple sipped tea and caught some rays. It was the most unusual of all the houses on Knott Branch Lane, consisting of angled doors, wild colors, and those two very groovy hippies.

"The Witch House" was named for a very dark gray house that had a frizzy gray haired woman inside that fit the description of the stereotypical witch. To collect money from her I had knock forever on the door, then just as I retreated from the door, she or her equally gray haired daughter would mysteriously answer with a look that told me I disturbed the head shrinking session. The Witch House was the kind of house that was shrouded in darkness even on a bright summer day because of the numerous thick crab apple trees on the property. Those fallen rotting crab apples made the yard smell heady like fermenting wine, as if they were a potion waiting to do the houses occupants extra bidding.


"The Rich Man's House", belonged to a dentist who I could never collect money from. He had nice cars, guest houses, tennis courts and pools, but not $4.75 on time every month. So, I tortured him by stealing his decorative and expensive tire air caps, and then returning them ever so often. It was a very silly thing to do, but sometimes I would even change his BMW caps for his Mercedes air caps. I was a bad boy sometimes!


"The Troll House" was a Hobbit sort of cottage, the last house on my route before I went home. It always seemed to have mist around it, ivy and succulents everywhere, and was constructed of stone and mortar; easily the oldest house around. I don't remember ever seeing the people who lived there but once. Sometime Mr Johnson would have to collect the difficult accounts. I mentioned the house had succulents, plants like aloevera, cactus and the like. I pinched off a strand of this one plant, took it to my house and it started growing like crazy. When our family we moved to Springfield, Virginia, I pinched off a small portion again and took it to our new house, where it grew just as well, then again to college. I even think my older sister Ingrid took some strands to California. The plant was virtually indestructible, like that alien plant in "The Little Shop Of Horrors".

"The Magnolia House" was name simply for the huge magnolia tree in the front yard. The house was all brick, painted white with black shutters, a classic. It had a low stone fence around the whole property. I used to pluck some of the magnolia blossoms and rub them on my skin for a lemony refresher. The Magnolia tree was great near the end of my route. When the sun began to rise in summertime it's wonderful fragrance sweetened all of Knott Branch Lane.

"The Red Man's House" was named for the owner of the house whose skin was always red as if he'd just been boiling with lobsters. The only time I was able to collect from this man was after his crazy dog bit me on both of my legs. My dad insisted that we get a veterinary report on the dog. After I collected almost six months due me,  three weeks later the man died. He wasn't that old. Maybe he was red all the time because he drank a lot. I don't know.

"The Great Dane House" belonged to an elusive man from South America. Trying to collect from him was terrifying, because you knew when he opened the door that monster dog was going to be there, and he just let that big Dane maul you.  Once waiting in this foyer, the dog came uncomfortably close to me, stepped on my foot, and wouldn't budge. You know that dog actually bruised my foot. It hurt for along time, but how could I say, ""hey man, your horse bruised my foot"

"The Beautiful Family's House" had five children, three daughters and two sons who were just beautiful. None of the kids were stuck up or pretentious, and the parents were just as humble. Everyone wanted to know them, after all they were beautiful. I remember breaking their front window twice with a news paper, and each time they were just as cool as jello. I learned how to replace widows working on that house. It didn't hurt to hear there beautiful daughters praising my handiwork.  Now who's pretentious?

"The House Of The Greek Goddess", Diona Amarantos was easily the most voluptuous, beautiful and mature looking girl in school, and she and her family just adored me. She was one of the top violinist in our state. To see her walk was a vision of gracefulness. Her mouth uttered only the positive, and her two foot long hair was a flawless wonder she took great pride in caring for. The house Amarantos had a low roof that I kept hurling papers on top of. Diona's mother insisted I kept throwing them up there as an excuse to spend time with them. Well, it was always nice visiting them, and the ten minute exercise always turned into an hour of laughter and fun, with milk and cookies, even spanakopita.

Blessing Boy©2007

]]>Sat, 12 Dec 2009 17:48:09 -0800http://www.sauceelation.com/3/post/2009/12/the-paper-route.htmlAs a young teen, experiencing the need for more freedom, I began to crave my own hard earned cash, because it was a lifestyle free from asking for it, and that felt great. I was a busy working kid throughout my entire secondary school life, which was 7th to 12th grade. I worked for Peoples Drug store, Montgomery Wards department store, sold chocolate, oranges, grapefruit, Christmas trees, did music gigs, mowed lawns, chopped fire wood, shoveled snow, and slung the best news paper in town, The Washington Post".

Mr Johnson my route manager for the Washington Post, brought me one hundred or so tightly bundled papers each morning around 4 am. The top and bottom of the bundle were covered with a heavy leather-like template from the Post printing presses. I used to always look to see if I got an original template of a collector paper like "Nixon Approves Double Day Light Savings Time", "Watergate Was A Diversion", or something like that.  Mr Johnson always put those plates on the top of the bundle, to protect the papers from winter frost and snow, and summer dew and rain. If I wanted to have fresh crisp papers it would be best to meet him as soon as his truck pulled up.

On Thursdays, I would have to spend extra time inserting the "style section". On Sunday mornings came the heavy comic section which included various advertisements, magazines and every thing but a copy of "War And Peace". Each Sunday paper was a least three to four adult fingers thick, no exaggeration. One particular Sunday morning I received my first double carrying bag, looking for a more efficient way to deliver my papers. The new double bag allowed me to carry papers in the front and back, so I slipped the bag over my head on to my shoulders and began stuffing it with the Sunday Post.

After managing to stuff ten Sunday Post papers in each bag, I looked like a true beast of burden, a Llama, or an Oxen carrying a harvest load to market. It was a lot of weight! Still, I wanted to add another factor into the equation. Now here's where things started to go south for me. I actually manged to mount my bicycle and was doing just fine, till one of my tires slipped on the morning dew, and down I went for the count. After accessing the damage, I determined I wasn't hurt, and tried to get up, but the load was much to heavy. One, two, three times I tried to break the hold of my stationary oppressor, but remained a boy pinned to the ground, like a thief from the movie "The Treasure Of Sierra Madre"; left in the dessert to rot in the broiling sun, or in my case, the morning dew and slug trails.

The papers were so heavy on my chest, I could barely scream for help, and it was early on Sunday morning to add and extra dollop of distress. I just lay there for a while hoping maybe someone would come to my rescue, but no one came. Then it dawned on me, why don't I start taking the papers out of the bag, and maybe I'll be able to lift the load. Although the papers were tightly packed and awkwardly twisted, that solved the problem. I decided the bike wasn't helping efficiency, so I left the twisted wreck and drove on.

    Time passed, I gained strength, and the once stiff canvas bag seemed to mold to my papers and body like a comfortable leather glove. The paper route was a lot more fun, and a serious bit of freedom for me. I loved the solitude of the early morning, and I began to get comfortable with chatting myself up as I worked. I became my own best friend, and looked forward to meeting myself every morning. The solitude also tested my resolve for things that went bump in the shadows of the early morning. I had to confront "the shadows", those who would disturb my solitude, and seek to plague me for years.

On Saturday mornings after my route was finished, I liked to take a stroll up School Street to Richmond Hwy, for a dozen delicious "Krispy Kreme" donuts to share with my family. "Krispy Kremes" was a fully automated donut factory, and one of the main attractions was watching the whole donut making process from the front window. The donuts went from mix to final product right before your eyes. Entranced, I would watch the Krispy Kreme army of donuts float on top of the hot oil, waiting for them to be flipped, so they could embark on their various glazing, powdering, coating and filling assignments. Some would move up ramps to get dusted with coconut and others advanced to be laden with chocolate sprinkles or nuts. Whatever donut you desired after the show, was guaranteed to be hot, fresh and tasty every time. Leak the news that the Krispy Kremes have arrived, and people from everywhere dusty cubicle, classroom, or office would come running for their morning donut fix. It wasn't unusual to see adults bring copious amounts of "Krispy Kreme" donuts to school functions, boy scouts meetings, church gatherings, and even military formations. Everybody...just loved em.

Weekdays after my route was finished would sometimes be a race to catch the bus to school, but I made it most of the time, and that gained me no small amount of respect from those students I passed on their way to the bus stop.


]]>Wed, 09 Dec 2009 18:11:07 -0800http://www.sauceelation.com/3/post/2009/12/elbridge-barrett.html
I am reminded of my great friend and mentor Elbridge Barrett my grandfather. He was as strong as an ox, a wiry but kind man, and everybody just loved him, I mean everybody. In the south in the 70’s, racism was very clear and present, and people still assumed roles. Still, rich white folk in Galveston, Texas paid my grandfather well to maintain the exterior of their homes. From rich to poor, people would yell out loudly to my grandfather whether he was walkin’ by or driving the truck, "brother Barrett, how yew doin’?" and he’d always say, "yessa, just fine!" They all had a profound respect for him! He still remains in my heart one of the coolest men I’ve every known. He was popular, strong, dark, and could pop a muscle as shiny and hard as a bowling ball. He’d eat eggs, bacon, toast and coffee for breakfast, then light up the one cigar that would last all day. He was a mans man.

I used to work with him during his retirement years when I was a young teen. Summers I would go to work with him landscaping, professionally manicuring lawns in the broilin’ hot Texas sun. We’d wake up at 5:30, eat a hearty breakfast, pray, load the truck with all the gear, 3 mowers, lawn edgers and such, then go to "Seaside Plant Nursery" to get all the shrubberies, and orders for the day. At twelve years old, this was real mans work! But, my grampa said to me on the first day, "Work like a man, get paid like a man". And, after a full day of hot work in 1973 he put $47 US dollars in my hand. For a teen in early the 70’s, I was practically rich after my first day of work. What an encouragement! Now, I know that’s what he meant to do, but I’m still stoked about it 35 plus years later. Not everyday was such a cash payday, but it was close enough to keep the memory of those years sacred to me. I cashed in well from learning so much from him.

During lunch time we ate very simple food. He would stop by this shop and get a summer sausage. It was like a big salami that he would cut with his knife and place a slice on a square white cracker. I can taste it now, umm. We’d also carry a big metal jug full of ice that melted as the day went on, with three metal drinking cups.  Oh, the water in those cups was so very cold it would take your breath away. Elbridge Barrett would pour a cup and drink it down in no time, water dripping from the sides down his chest. He’d finish with a satisfying guttural growl "awghhhh, now that’s good water". It was an awesome sight every time I saw him drink from those cups, each time like an advertisement for cold water and it’s goodness. It still plays like that in my mind. Even in my son Hanan’s mind, the story of his great grampa Elbridge drinking cold water on a hot day was still an awesome visualization!

My grampa went to hang fulltime with Jesus at 84 years strong, but I still feel like he’s hangin’ out with me. What an utterley cool man, full of the spirit of God! The coolest thing is, so very many people have been impacted by him through me and don’t even known it. That’s a living legacy for you! I think I’ll go write the book now.

Stay tuned for more of "The Life And Times Of T’terman"


Blessing Boy©2007
]]>Wed, 09 Dec 2009 17:44:20 -0800http://www.sauceelation.com/3/post/2009/12/first-post.html
Mrs Murphy was a short, twiggy, slightly bugeyed, firecracker of a woman who lived across Diamond St from my grandparents Elbridge and Hannah Barrett.  She took a few drinks and talked loud, but mostly she was famous for her Gumbo, which she would cook right out in the front yard. Back then neighbors really new how to make a good party. I remember "MizMuafee" shoutin' out to my grampa one forth of July morning. "Elbridge...Brotha Bahrit...get me suma dem baby blue gumbo crabs when ya comin bak, da sweet wuns and sum shreeump. Imo cook a gumbo! I need dat ritzo sawsidge too." As you are reading this, you are benefiting from years of the translation process, because at the time MizMuafee was talking to my grandfather, I really had no good idea what she was saying to him, but I knew it was going to taste real good.

Those were some seriously fun times in Texas. No one seemed to be worried about a thing, the way I remember seeing it through my eyes. They were the days when I could eat a much meat as I wanted, drink "soda water" to my hearts delight, and bang firecrackers till I was tired of them.

Now Elbridge Barrett had a green thumb, and his back yard was a serious garden, with everything you'd ever want to eat. He had pecan and fig trees, plum, pear, lemon and orange trees. There was okra, kale, turnip and mustard greens galore. He grew tomatoes, potatoes, peppers, peas, beans and more. All that goodness would come from the back yard to the dinner the table. From field peas to black eye peas, the south was and still is wondrous place for food.  

On the 4th of July at Elbridge Barrett's' house he would wake up early and start a fire in the barbecue pit. He had one of those big oil barrels cut in half, one side the pit and the other the lid. It could hold an amazing assortment of meat and vegetables, like corn, grilled onions and peppers. There was beef brisket, ribs, red hot sausages, chicken, and even a goose. Neighbors would come from various places, saying, "brotha Barrett, please put dis on yo grill"

Shonuff, MizMuafee's gumbo was a sight to behold. Imagine a wood burning fire in the front yard of a multi-pastel colored low rise southern shack, that looked more like a children's play house than anything else. On that glorious fire was a huge pot filled with my first but still the best tasting gumbo I can remember. All other gumbos have paled in comparison since then. After MizMuafee got the spices and flavor stock going she started to add the goodies. I can really taste this gumbo as I write. God gave me the taste that goes right to my waist. Muafee added in chunks of fish, shrimp, chorizo sausage, onions, celery, okra, garlic, corn, carrots, and the star of the show, the flavor kicker, the piece de resistance, sweet baby blue crabs...hand size...sugar sweet, baby...blue...crabs. She may have even tossed in a couple shots of that whiskey she was drinking too.

After cooking for what seemed too long to me, it was finally ready. The smell was so divine, I was gonna eat those crabs despite the fact I was a bit afraid of them while they were crawlin' around in the truck. Now, to eat gumbo properly you certainly cannot be in a hurry, in my opinion. You need to make plenty of comfort space if you have it, then savor and ladle yourself up some gumbo into a large wide bowl. Dig on down to the bottom of the pot to get the goodies, but please don't hog my crabs. Prepare yourself a crab shell plate, and make sure to have toasted French bread with garlic butter. Get yourself a bunch of napkins, then load up some pork rice and field peas. I suggest you drink peach ice tea or the southern classic, ice cold lemonade. After this first course, you go take yo sef  a breather, or go on down to the store to get a couple bags of ice, cuz your gonna need em. The barbecue will wait, you're off all day long anyway, so relax, enjoy, dig in. If you should choose to plop down in front of the television, or go pray, remember you got more eatin' ta do, so don't fall asleep.

Remember I mentioned that my "Daddy Elbridge" had a lemon tree in his back yard. We've all seen lemons, those nice lemons you buy in the grocery store. They're pretty aren't they? However, you have to use so many just to make a mere few gallons of lemonade. Why not try the fruit from my Grampas lemon tree...the one from Jurassic Park. This tree of mouth puckering fruit burst with lemons the size of grapefruit. I remember saying, "nice grapefruit Grampa", and his reply was "this is Texas, those are lemons"! You surely could make a couple gallons of lemonade with one lemon from this tree.


My next course is simple and basic to 4th of July eating. It's portable and goes well with anything cold to drink. Although the heat from it may tingle your mouth, the flavor is sublime. Grab yourself a large soft bun, and poke a red hot link pork sausage in between. Get a couple "grape crush" soda waters from the cooler and follow me. We're gonna blow up some stuff.

"Black Cat Brand" firecrackers on the 4th of July in the 70's in America were every boys dream. To be blowin up stuff all day and experimenting while the adults had their groove on was great fun. But this very last thing I'd like to share with you is one of the prides of Texas for sure. I would always help my gramma Hannah make the pride of all southern desserts, piping hot peach cobbler. It's so very simple, just layers of dough, peaches, sugar and butter cooked till bubbling hot and slightly brown. On top of that bubbling goodness, add a big delicious scoop of the Texas' own "Blue Belle Ice Cream", vanilla bean of course.  Lord Jesus, Father in heaven, this is surely the ice cream I'd serve you. It's simply the best tasting ice cream in the world, and with that peach cobbler under my belt, I think I heard something about cheddar cheese burgers coming off the grill.

Stay tuned for more anecdotes from "The Life And Times Of T'terman"

I thank my parents and grandparents for providing me this excellent memory. I thank my Lord Jesus for protecting me all the days of my life.

Blessing Boy©2007

Otrie on FaceBook
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