Dead Cow in Aisle Three. H. Mel Malton

I didn’t want to usher little Bryan into the next world before his job was done, and I certainly wasn’t ready to meet the Big Guy myself, seeing as I was very likely on his “Send to Hell” list.

      “You’ve been thinking about this a lot, haven’t you?” I said.

      “I was just wondering if the man you and Dad saved got to meet Jesus,” Bryan said.

      “He didn’t mention it,” I said and immediately regretted my tone. Bryan’s face fell, and he remained silent until I pulled into the parking lot at the A&P in Cedar Falls.

      “We have to pick up a few things for our barbecue,” I said. “Hamburgers and hotdogs okay with you?” Bryan became a normal little boy again, much to my relief.

      “Can I get a chocolate bar?” he said.

      “I don’t see why not,” I said. I sent him off to locate a bag of charcoal briquettes while I poked around in the meat bin. I don’t eat a lot of meat as a rule, not because I’m vegetarian, but because I don’t have a refrigerator. Instead, I keep my food cold with an old fashioned icebox, fuelled by big blocks of ice cut out of the beaver pond every winter and stored in a straw-filled ice-house at the back of the cabin. The icebox keeps things reasonably cool, but meat doesn’t keep for very long.

      Bryan was fascinated by my place, as I’d expected. I showed him how the icebox worked and where the ice was stored. He seemed amazed by the concept of ice being kept solid in straw and sawdust in the middle of summer without electricity, just as I had been when I first tried it. I explained how I used propane to work the small, two-burner stove and how at night I lit oil lamps and candles. Bryan had never seen a wood stove before, which I thought was peculiar, and I explained the theory behind wood heat as well as I could. He wasn’t too impressed with the outhouse, but was more than happy to work the hand pump when I needed a bucket of water. After about an hour of explaining and justifying the details of my lifestyle to this twenty-first century child, I was beginning to feel like a pioneer museum exhibit.

      Bryan sat at the kitchen table, cracking peanuts and watching me mix ground beef with onion, egg, oatmeal and spices for the hamburgers.

      “Wrestling is on right now,” he said, nonchalantly.

      “Sorry?”

      “The World Wrestling Foundation. You know, wrestling. It’s on right now. I usually watch it.” His tone of voice was kind of hopeful, as if he were asking permission for something.

      “Wrestling is on what, Bryan?”

      “On TV, silly,” he said.

      “Uh-huh. And how does television work?” I said.

      “I dunno. You know. You use the remote and press the buttons. Like a computer. You turn it on.”

      “It uses electricity,” I said. “Remember, I told you I don’t have electricity here.”

      Bryan was flabbergasted. Gobsmacked. The tour of Polly’s cabin had been entertaining in its way, I suppose, but he was getting bored and was hankering for an electronic fix.

      “You don’t have a TV?” He was thoroughly incredulous.

      “Nope. No phone, either.”

      Now he was looking at me as if I were an alien species, which was probably not far from the truth.

      “Everyone has a TV,” he said.

      “Not everyone. Look, why don’t you help me make the hamburgers? It’s sort of like clay—you roll it into balls and then mash them down into patties.”

      “Okay, I guess. But I’d rather watch wrestling,” he said.

      “Or you could draw a picture. I’ve got lots of art supplies in the corner,” I said. He gave me a look of pure contempt.

      “I only use CorelDraw,” he said, “or Adobe Illustrator. You need a computer and electricity for that.”

      Parenting? Count me out.

       Nine

      Special occasions call for special service! For your Big Day, let Kountry Pantree provide the very best in catering to suit every budget.

      —An ad in the Laingford Gazette summer wedding supplement

      Half an hour later, the hamburgers were ready to go, keeping cool in the icebox, and Bryan had finally condescended to try out my best pastels on a sheet of construction paper. He was creating an action scene from his unwatched, sorely lamented wrestling program, and he obviously had a genuine gift for drawing. At the top of the page, he had drawn two burly wrestlers on a tall blue stage, grappling fiercely. Down below, a spectator was showing his disapproval by mooning the contestants. It was pure satire, and I loved it.

      “Oh, it’s easy,” Bryan said when I complimented him. “You’re pretty good yourself.” I was working on the sketches for my Kountry Pantree meeting.

      “I like the cow best,” Bryan said. “What are those other ones supposed to be?”

      “That’s a gopher, and this one’s a goose,” I said. “A Canada goose.”

      “The goose looks like E.T.,” Bryan said. “Sorry, but it does.”

      “You’re right, and it would be hard for a person to fit into that costume anyway.”

      “You could make the person inside put their arm up in the air,” Bryan suggested, demonstrating. “The arm could be the neck and their hand could be the head part.”

      “How clever of you,” I said. “That’s exactly what some puppeteers do in plays.”