Off the Editor’s Spike: What now?

Editor’s note: For nearly 20 years this newspaper featured the musings of Freida Marie Crump, the pseudonym for award-winning humorist Ken Bradbury, who succumbed to cancer in 2018. But his insights on life live on. The following, published in 2014, offers food for thought to this very day.

Greetin’s from Poosey.

It’s sort of like losing a family member. An irritatin’, pain in the neck relative, but kin nonetheless.

Aunt Booley was some sort of shirttail relation from California who for reasons I never fully understood, came to live with us for a couple months when I was young. Up until that time, my young mind had just assumed that all of my relatives were cut out of the same sane Midwestern cloth. Aunt Booley, time would prove, was cross-stitched.

She commandeered the master bedroom and would read the Bible into the late night — aloud. Very aloud. She insisted on a special diet that to me seemed based more on excessive cost than health needs. I’ve never in my life seen milk gravy with chicken crackin’s on a diet menu.

Aunt Booley would reach down and give me a Dutch rub every time she entered a room. I was too young to hit her back and besides, Dad told me this was a sure sign of affection. This led me to wish that Aunt Booley loved somebody else instead.

The old gal had a knack of takin’ every conversation hostage and even my kindhearted mother started resortin’ to white lie excuses to leave the room once Aunt Booley took command of the evenin’.

All this would be have been tolerable had it not been for Ralph, her 400-pound collie dog. At least he looked to be every bit of 400 pounds. He was also a grouch. Aunt Booley would say, “Oh don’t mind Ralph. He’s nearly blind.” This did not help.

Ralph would sleep between Aunt Booley’s room and the bathroom. The men of our family resorted to tinklin’ outdoors of a night while the women somehow rode out the flood in misery until Aunt Booley would rise and remove that ugly dog from its guard post.

Aunt Booley finally packed up and moved on to irritate another branch of the family tree. We all breathed a sigh of relief as the bag went out the door. But here’s the strange thing: we sort of missed her. In spite of the obnoxious behavior, her selfish lifestyle and the loud scriptures at midnight, Aunt Booley had provided a sort of amusin’ diversion to the everyday goings on around our home. We didn’t want her back, but we did miss her.

I feel that way about the passing of this year’s political campaign. In spite of its irritations, I sort of miss all the hubbub.

Hardly anybodys’ called all week. No “Good evening, this is the International Right to Life Committee asking you to support George Bush for President. As you know, George Bush…” Not even a decent, “This is the Americans for Al Gore committee. Unless you want to turn America backward, we urge you to vote for…”.

Reminds me of havin’ my teeth pulled. Sure, it’s nice to avoid the dentist but I still yearn for the days when I had somethin’ tough to chew on.

Our Sunday School class is left with nothin’ but the scriptures to discuss. The boys down at the coffee shop sit and stare at each other as if one of their confab had just died. Our Ladies Aid Auxiliary Guild’s meetings have been cut down to practically nothin’.

Reminds me of what Louella Mixer told me once. Their last son had headed off to college and after 27 years of havin’ kids around the house, she looked across the kitchen table at her husband Floyd and said, “Now tell me again. Who are you?”

Herb and I have found ourselves with little to talk about. For the last couple of months we’ve digested the Presidential candidates along with our mornin’ toast. Now we have nothin’ meaningful to argue about.

Yesterday I came within two blinks of givin’ the old poop a compliment on his new seed corn hat, but caught myself just in time.

Once his candidate or mine gets himself elected, the whole thing becomes one-sided. The party out of power has free reign in the criticism game for the next four years. Playin’ defense is no fun at all.

I’ll miss those third-class pamphlets in my mailbox tellin’ me that if we elect the Democrats we’ll be assured of four more years of all the right stuff — uh..except for that other stuff, of course.

I’ll miss those little slips of paper stuck under my windshield remindin’ me that Jesus was not only a Republican, but that he owned a handgun.

Like Aunt Booley and Ralph, the campaign did make life interestin’ if not exactly enjoyable. Makes me give serious thought to a two-year Presidential term.

You ever ’round Poosey, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.