by Freida Marie Crump
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Greetin’s from the Ridge.
She was six foot one, weighed in at over 200 pounds and she crushed my box of Ding-Dongs with a single blow of her battleship hip.
If it’d been my new cookware collection or even the walnut wall clock I’d purchased for Herb’s sister, things’d been different but it was our box of Ding-Dongs, and for Herb that was the last straw. When it comes to his Ding-Dongs, Herb loses all sense of reason and yesterday his patience flew out the door of the Kal-Wal store and nearly landed him in jail.
The lifelong saga of Herb and his Ding-Dongs could be the subject of a dissertation in abnormal psychology. When we go overseas, Herb takes two boxes. Like blood pressure pills, he’s gotta have one in the mornin’, another before bedtime and if the simple act of stayin’ awake in the afternoon is too much strain on his decrepit old system, then it takes a Ding Dong at about four to revive him. For Herb, the Ding-Dong is more than lump of fluffed-up sugar and chocolate, it’s his calling…some days his reason to live.
Aside from the fact that the Ding-Dong is aptly named to suit Herb’s disposition, the little pastry has much in common with the old coot.
It’s shrink-wrapped (Herb should be), consists of nothin’ meaningful (Herb incarnate), and is mostly sugar, fat and air (Herb’s exact chemical composition.)
The lady who came chargin’ down the retail store aisle yesterday had little idea that she was about to chug sidelong into an old man’s consumin’ passion. Since she looked like her name oughta been Matilda, I’ll assume it was. The S.S. Matilda came chuggin’ around the disposable paper products bend and was headed for the hard candy island just as Herb was placin’ his Ding-Dongs into our shoppin’ cart.
When Herb shops with me, it’s sling this and fling that, but once he gets his hand on his hallowed Ding-Dongs, it’s a ceremony that’s as close to Papal as a Baptist can get. He’ll carefully lift the package to the fluorescent light to check for any signs of Ding-Dong dinks or cracks, read the expiration date (they keep for about twelve years), then steal a glance at the other Ding-Dongs on the shelf, carefully weighin’ out the merits of his most blessed of purchases. There’ve been times I’ve heard him quietly hum "Come Thou Font of Every Blessing" as he lowers it into the cart.
The Ding-Dongs had almost reached the nest of bread and toilet paper that he’d created in the bottom of our basket when Matilda’s hips came carvin’ out a four-foot swath down the aisle. I’m still not sure whether she bumped the cart, the shelf, or the old man bendin’ over to pay homage to his chocolate grail. I do know that Herb’s head went flyin’ into the Ding-Dong rack and his precious cakes lay crushed against the Northern Tissue.
Things would have gone better if he wasn’t already disgusted at havin’ to shop with me, and would have been less tense if it weren’t the Christmas season. He was already mad when he walked into the store and if it weren’t for the promise of fresh Ding-Dongs in aisle fourteen, he’d of stayed in the car and we’d all have had a more pleasant day.
But in his current state of derangement, Herb rose up like a Woolly Mammoth, half petrified but awakened in the wrong century. He struck out at the nearest pliable object, which had the unfortunate chance to be Matilda’s ample and animated left rear bumper. It was more reflex than premeditation but Matilda, assumin’ that she was bein’ attacked by an elderly Baptist in the midst of the snack food section, retaliated with an equally spontaneous elbow to Herb’s lower jaw, ‘causin’ his dentures to erupt like a hot banana in a clenched fist, landin’ atop a display of Dentine Mint Gum captioned, "Have You Had Your Blast Today?" By the time the store manager came tearin’ down the aisle, there were Ding-Dongs all over the place. Matilda had Herb in a death-inducin’ headlock while his free hand flailed through the Twinkie display, slammin’ Matilda’s hip with every snack food available to the average American consumer.
The distraught manager desperately looked at me for explanation. I sighed then explained to him, "I don’t know either one of ‘em. Where do you keep your denture cleanser?"
We pried the combatants apart with two mops and a death threat, then Matilda went chuggin’ along her merry way, invigorated by the battle and with only smudge of chocolate on her left knee to betray her ferocity.
Herb sat in the back seat all the way home, poutin’ as he munched on Ding-Dongs. I hate Christmas shoppin’. I really do.
You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.