At the Beach with Ruthie
by
Susan Okaty
Ruthie scrutinized the chalkboard menu on the outside wall of the Snack Shack. ?What?ll you have, Daniel?? she asked the small boy at her right. His body glistened with suntan oil.
?I want a hot dog with sauerkraut and bacon,? he said in a thin, nasal voice.
?I don?t see that on the menu, Daniel.? Ruthie squinted at the pink chalk letters and thought they should have picked a better color. ?They got chili dogs, cheese dogs, chili-cheese dogs, bacon dogs, kraut dogs, but no bacon and kraut dogs.?
?But that?s what I want, Grandma. If they?ve got bacon and kraut in there, why can?t they put them together?? He stood on tip-toe and peered over the counter.
?Good question, Daniel. If it were my place, I?d give you anything you want. But it isn?t, so you got to choose.? Ruthie sighed. ?Life is full of choices. Kraut or bacon, Daniel??
?You could ask, Grandma. Daddy says you can?t find out anything if you don?t ask.
?All right, Daniel, but remember no is an answer.? Ruthie had to yell through the window to be heard over the fan. ?How come I can?t get a hot dog with sauerkraut and bacon??
?Ma?am?? the girl asked, confused.
?My grandson wants a hot dog with bacon and kraut. How come he can?t have that?? Ruthie pointed at the chalkboard.
?No problem,? the girl said, smiling. ?I can make him one of those.?
?It should be on the menu, then,? Ruthie said. ?How much more is the bacon??
?Forty cents, Ma?am.?
?Forty cents for a few scraps of bacon? Never mind. Just the sauerkraut.?
?But Grandma, I like bacon,? the small red-haired boy said in a soft nasal voice.
?It?s not kosher anyway, Daniel.?
?I?m Methodist, Grandma.?
?As if I could forget,? Ruthie muttered. Ruthie looked down at the small boy. He kept shifting from foot to foot on the hot boardwalk. He had something shiny in his hand. He kept turning it and squeezing it tightly. He looked up at her with deep blue eyes imprisoned behind thick lashes.
?What you got in your hand, Daniel?? Ruthie asked.
?I found this penny on the boardwalk.?
?That?s good, Daniel. If you keep every penny you find and don?t spend them, you could be a millionaire one day. But why do you keep squeezing it??
?Well, Daddy said you get great pleasure out of pinching pennies, but this doesn?t seem like any fun at all,? Daniel answered.
?Oh, Daddy says I?m a penny pincher, does he? Well, I?ll show him!? Ruthie yelled through the Snack Shack window, ?Go ahead, throw those bacon bits on that hot dog!?
Indian Burial
by
Susan Okaty
Before we burned the toads, I wish we?d known how the dead give shelter to the living. I learned that lesson when we decided to get rid of a dead tree that had disgraced the back yard for several years. Memories hung in its hollowness ? bare arms reaching high to snatch Indian beans, the imprint of the rope from which the tire swing dangled. Now the tree impeded the path of our croquet wickets, provided a haven for termites, and offered no shade but the shadow of its trunk. It was time for it to go.
We debated the best way to approach the demise. Lacking a chain saw, my husband, George, tried to use his band saw instead. After ruining the blade, he abandoned that idea. Next, he tried his axe and chipped away at it Saturday after Saturday, but after pitting the blade with little damage to the tree, George decided that wasn?t an option either. We left it alone for a while after that, figuring it would eventually keel over in the next strong wind. But neither zephyr nor blue norther could have its sway with that old tree. I guess its anchor to the earth had fingers we couldn?t see. George decided that fire was the last resort.
It would be an easy task, he explained when I expressed my opinion on the dubious wisdom of his decision. His plan was to infuse the trunk with charcoal lighter fluid, have his trusty hose ready, and let the ensuing inferno ?engulf that sucker.?
?But what if fire only kills the bugs that are eating it slowly?? I inquired. ?We?d be left with it hard as a rock.?
?You mean petrified?? he asked.
?Scared to death,? I replied.
Our boys decided to come out and see the conflagration. The four of us stood like druids around the hollow pillar and George doused it with lighter fluid. When the match was struck and applied, the holocaust was less spectacular than we had anticipated. Blue and yellow flames licked at the mottled bark rather than swallow it whole. We watched as fire settled into a quiet blaze.
It was then that we saw them, specters arising out of the smoke, glazed eyes glistening, broad and flattened bodies frozen by fire. We realized that we had unwittingly given the toads an Indian burial, burning them along with that rotted tree stump. Dozens were coming from underneath the tree where they had made their home.
?Anyone want frog legs for dinner?? Matt, our nine-year-old offered, giggling nervously, trying to dispel the horror of the scene.
Ben, three years younger, wailed, ?They?re toads, not frogs,? and sobbed. My husband hosed down the toads, but it was too late. Many of them had begun curling as we watched in amazement, not able to turn our eyes away. When we were sure that no more toads were coming, we sat silently watching that old tree burn, sickened to think what we had done.
Eventually, after a month of Saturday burnings, the tree became soft enough to yield to George?s axe, and it was removed. The image of that first burning, though, could not be erased. Who would have thought it was so hard to kill something that was already dead?
That was many years ago. Our boys are both grown now and have moved away, the croquet wickets have long since disappeared for lack of players, and a rose garden now graces the spot that old tree occupied. But I still think of that Saturday afternoon and the lesson it taught me. Even when things die, they maintain a certain connectedness with the earth; serve a usefulness even in death. My mother has been gone eight years now, and I still feel her presence and influence in so many ways: in my zestful approach to life; in the way I cherish my husband; my love for the Lord, and oh, for my love of singing. I hear her voice when I tell my own daughter, ?You are so precious to me.? Just like that tree, my mother?s roots go deep. I wish I?d known before we burned the toads.