The Local Yarn 
Here is a line of correspondence from the past year that we felt would be of some occasional interest.
Feb 25th, 2004
From: Miss J. Thurston
To: Mr J. Dueck · RE: Important Question
Hey, Joel, the other day I was sitting around with a couple of the families, & the subject came up about a certain Mr. Potato Head.
You see, there are rumors that the construction unit brought this dear Mr. Potato Head with them on all their deployments, but no one that we’ve asked knows anything about it. Where did it come from? Did it really go on all the deployments? Did only constructive [sic] use it? What unit did it originate from??
SO, can you give me the story? All us curious souls would be greatly appreciative.
Thanks!
- Jessica
Feb 25th, 2004
From: Mr J. Dueck
To: Miss J. Thurston · RE: Important Question
Hello,
I am glad you asked. I had heard of this discovery while at the recent reunion, and am fully willing to put your uncertanties in this matter to rest. What follows is all I know of Mr. Potato Head’s sordid history.
It is undoubtedly true that the Mr. P. was the property of the construction unit. I found out about him soon after I joined in August 2001. His presence was known to all in the unit but not celebrated or “held forth” in any way. He was rarely discussed within the unit and never with anyone outside the unit. I didn’t get the sense that it was a big secret or anything; Mr. P was simply a fact of life, a feature of the landscape.
I am not sure who started the tradition. It may have been one of the [Unit 22] men, but it might very well have been earlier than that. If I recall correctly, it was during my time that the tradition started of markering (upon his eminent posterior) deployments and signatures of those who graduated. Or perhaps it was on the box. I can’t recall; which ought to be an indication of how rarely anyone bothered about him.
We kept him inside a nondescript wooden box, so as to preserve the sight of him from curious eyes, and to protect & contain his numerous detachable body parts. I seem to remember that Lt. Rankin had owned or made the box for one of his own tools, possibly a router. He went on every single deployment while I was in construction: Flint, Northwoods, El Reno, Holland…In fact, in every town where opportunity afforded, we would shop around for construction-type accessories for him to wear, but we never did find any.
On one occasion, Adam Fischer and I were sent, without any officer oversight, to the Dallas Training Center to help renovate some rooms for an interior decorating class. Although space was tight, we managed to bring Mr. P along in his wooden box. A couple of people asked what the box was for, and we mumbled something along the lines of “construction stuff” or “tools” …thankfully, no one ever found out. There were some close calls. Especially when we had to pack all of our luggage, tools and guitars into Danielle Weed’s little four-door car for the return trip. Space was really tight then (Danielle and Beth Pendergast both had luggage as well), and I know some on the staff were looking hard at that box and wondering what was in it that was so important. I don’t want to think what would have happened if they had opened it. We were very careful.
When on deployment, his box was stored under one of the benches in the van. When on campus, he took up his customary position in some honoured unit-member’s closet, where he remained in inviolate darkness. I do hope he is still kept in the box.
Mr. Potato Head’s self-anointed high priest was Marv Walker, which should not come as a surprise to anyone who knew him. At the mention of Mr. Potato Head his eyes would light up and he would assume an almost messianic assertiveness. I remember him admonishing me to uphold the tradition. I was not sure whether to feel honoured or burdened, but as I said, I did my duty by Mr. P., and kept him at our side through more inconveniences than most would have.
Alas, however, I cannot in all conscience claim full fidelity in this matter. It is true that Adam Fischer became first sergeant, not me, but in fact the 1st sgt has never traditionally held the responsibility for the box, so in fact no blame can be attached to him. It was my duty to see that either he was passed on to some worthy successor, or that a fitting end would be made of him, commensurate with his history and secret lineage. The fact that he has been found in a corner somewhere, and is probably now a plaything for staff kids, is an evil development for which I feel no small guilt.
Regards,
Joel Dueck
Feb 29th, 2004
From: Mr J. Dueck
To: Miss J. Thurston · RE: Important Question
Hello,
Attached below is the expected communication from Erick van Til on the subject of Mr. Potato Head. It should prove enlightening, outlining as it does the origins of the whole business. In the area of Mr P’s supposed secrecy, the letter makes it clear that he was never in fact a guarded secret, but by my time, the excitement surrounding his introduction to the unit had faded into routine understanding – thus my observation that he was rarely discussed.
In light of his gentle and subtle remarks on the matter of Mr. Potato Head’s continuance within the unit, I willingly defer to Sgt. van Til’s obvious desire that Mr. P be allowed to continue as a mascot for the ALERT construction unit. I would only caution that he be treated in the original spirit of his joining with us; from what I hear, the unit seems to have missed the “incognito” aspect of his original contract, which Sgt. van Til describes below. Otherwise, having Sgt. van Til’s approval, I find the idea of Mr. P’s continued mascot-hood through the ages a pleasing prospect.
From Sgt. Erick van Til, Feb 28th, 2004
To: J. Dueck, re:Remember Mr. Potato Head“Joel,
“Thanks for the e-mail about Mr. P. It was very entertaining and I must admit that I had failed to recognize that Mr. P was still in circulation after I left.
“I will tell you mostly the beginning of the P story since it is that part of his life that I actually had a part and hopefully it will do to fill in any holes in your collection of info on the P case.
“Mr. P joined the construction unit during a routine Saturday town trip to Longview in February 2001. We (we being members of units 19,20, and 21) were at the Salvation army amusing ourselves with the usual plethora of do-dads that one would find in an establishment of its nature. One of the unit’s members, a Mr. Fields, was pleased to discover a Mr. Potato Head complete with all body parts and a box. Right there in the store, Mr. P became the newest member of the construction unit. The details of his contract were discussed during the subsequent van ride and from there on it, he was one of us.
“Mr. P was to be housed in the room of whichever pair of roommates had the cleanest room during Saturday inspections. He was also to be taken on every deployment that the construction men were a part of, carried incognito in his nondescript wooden box. These stipulations were carried out and Mr. Potato Head enjoyed a safe and most welcome stay during my tour of duty as 1st Sgt. of the unit. Apparently from the things you have told me, this tradition continued when Mr. Fischer took my post and I do hope this has become a pattern to this day, though I must say I suppose it may not have. All the same, for the time that he was with us, Mr. Potato was a noble and worthy mascot for our unit and his lifestyle reflected the morals we held dear: endurance, stalwartness, and, above all, stability. It was an honor to have him with us.
“Allow me to humor you with two more P stories before I go my way.
“The first was more of a short travesty than a story. During a certain week early during the P era, Mr. P was staying in the room of the aforementioned Mr. Fields and a certain man named Pings. By all signs he was having an enjoyable stay. This was my thought until I stopped by the room by chance and found Mr. P not quite himself with his feet where his eyes should have been and his feet where his arms normally found their place. He looked a mess. Apparently a member of another unit found Mr. P during a vulnerable moment and sought to ‘rearrange his face.’ Mr. P, being a man of peace, chose to take his disgrace rather than to lift a (now missing) finger against his malefactor. After reprimanding his unfaithful guardians, I saw that Mr. P was returned to his original state and replaced in his box. This was the first and only attack on Mr. P during my watch over him.
“The second story takes place during the annual March Madness basketball tournament held at ALERT. During the 2001 event, the construction unit’s team had found themselves in the final game. The gym had been set up in its full glory and the game became the Saturday night event. There was even an announcer. The game began with introductions of the team’s lineups. Everything seemed to be going as basketball introductions normally go until the crowd heard the announcer, a Mr. Nathan Crouch, say this: ‘Weighing in at 16 ounces, standing 11 inches tall, all the way from the Playskool factory, it’s…’ and you know the rest.
“I hope this info lays to rest your questions about our little man. Thank you for your interest in the matter. I must say that it has brought back a great deal of good memories. I am obliged.
“Yours Faithfully,
Erick van Til”
That Spc. James Fields of Unit 21 was the originator of this tradition came as a shock to me, like the surprise twist at the end of a novel. While he is undoubtedly intelligent and sensible, I did not think of him as capable of anything really zany beyond the occasional pair of mismatched socks. It just goes to show how hard it is to really judge a person’s character, even after prolonged and harsh exposure.
Regards, etc.,
—JD
“If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.”
— George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950)
This, for me, was something new:
“Pet peeve: While many people think a steep learning curve means something is difficult to learn, what the term actually means is that the rate of learning is quick, which ought to mean that it is easier, not harder, to learn. Steep is good. Tell a friend.”
That makes sense.
Gaudete, gaudete!
Christus est natus
Ex Maria virgine:
Gaudete!Deus homo factus est
Natura mirante,
Mundus renovatus est
A Christo regnante.Ezechielis porta
Clausa pertransitur
Unde Lux est orta
Salus invenitur.
Merry Christmas from the Dapper Fellows –
Mr. Albert Gravesend
Mr. Joel Dueck
Mr. Edwin Nathaniel Dowdley
Mr. Wasserman
Mr. Alexander Epp
“The law, in its majestic equality, forbids the rich as well as the poor to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal bread.”
— Anatole France (1844-1924)
Roger stared glassy-eyed at a sea of cordless drills, & gripped his wallet. He’d just stopped by the hardware store to get something for tightening loose doorknobs and things, and before he knew it, he was seriously considering a two hundred-dollar drill.
Our hats are off to those little small-time newspapers: the ones that they give away for free at the gas station, and that consist mainly of advertisements and news of extremely limited interest. Wherever I travel, I always grab one from somewhere. I keep telling myself I should write a letter to the editors of these unsung publications, letting them know they’re doing a great job reporting the same events year after year, and that I only found four or five spelling mistakes.
But this one is the classic, a letter to the editor reprinted from the May 24, 2004 edition of Ely Echo’s North Country Angler. Ely is a small town in Far North Minnesota, and I snagged this copy of the Angler at the outfitters before setting out on a canoe trip in the Boundary Waters last spring.
We read it over the fire one evening on an island in Gabbro Lake, and howled.
(To get the full, unfiltered effect, you can view the original letter.)
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“Dear Editor: “Fresh caught freshwater fish has such a great subtle taste, although I appreciate breaded varieties I have always preferred my walleye, bass, and panfish without disguise, well, a little butter and lime or lemon is sort of ‘make-up.’ |
Looks at camera: We’re talking about fish. |
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“At the Viking Manor we fed a lot of people a lot of walleye. We pretty much followed the recipe that I developed back in the 1960s as a guide for Widjiwagan, although at Widji we only had lard. Carbs were preferred as four barrel and in a muscle car, and cholesterol was not (yet) a word in a spelling bee. |
Relevant information, this, if a bit hard to parse. The scene is now set for: a fish recipe. |
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“My recipe for melt-in-your-mouth walleye is to get an iron skillet, heat it up a bit and add enough butter so that the fillets will not be covered (this is not a ‘fish boil’)…” |
Got that? Not a lot of butter. Just enough to not cover the fillets. |
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“…Add a little vegetable oil (to keep the butter from scorching), heat the mixture until just before it boils and add the skinless fillets skin side up (if the oil spits you got it too hot). Yes, sides matter.” |
Don’t be caught napping! He is gearing up for the most artful one-line non sequitur you will ever see in your lifetime: |
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“Keep in mind that while I learned to cook on a wood fire, do not scorch the oil.” |
There. My mouth hangs open. I am speechless. |
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“When the fish starts to curl, flip it over and remove the skillet from the heat. The fish will continue to cook.” |
Yes, comforting to know that the skillet won’t instantly become stone-cold. |
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“For those who want sautéed almonds, take some of the butter mixture from the skillet after you flip the fillets, place in a small skillet over low heat, add sliced blanched almonds, stir and turn off the heat.” |
Somebody call PBS! |
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“At the Viking Manor not all walleye was prepared drenched in butter, for many customers broiled or baked was the preferred option. The beauty of walleye is that while breading or cooking oils could complement the flavor, even those patrons with unsophisticated pallets enjoyed the nuances of Walleye au Natural. Not raw, but prepared in a reflector oven or on charcoal or under a broiler. “The beauty of those methods is that the fish cooks in its own juices, the result being an even more delicate flavor.” |
Patrons? Nuances? Unsophisticated pallets? You do realize this is northern Minnesota you’re addressing? |
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“Now that I live on the East Coast…” |
WHAT?!? |
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“…I have a larger variety of species of fresh fish and shellfish available, and continue to create recipes using various herbs and spices. However, I still favor fresh caught walleye for the delicate taste.” |
How diplomatic of you. |
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“My experience has been such that I have learned that the most elaborate presentation is just that, a presentation. Sauces and garnishes are really in a class of table presentation, like china or silver. While they add to the experience, ultimately the primary course is what matters.” |
See, this is what I love about the small-town paper. They’re dying for material to print. Their letters-to-the-editor aren’t potshots by political snipers; they’re rich and panoramic, with multiple levels of meaning. You can just see what happened to this fellow. He used to live in northern Minnesota and go camping and fishing like a normal person. Somewhere along the line, though, he moved out to the East Coast, and began to fancy himself an elite gourmet critic, and before you know it he’s classifying sauces and garnishes. He probably feels guilty about moving east, though, and he’s trying to soothe his conscience by this effort to connect with his past. |
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“The fanciest table setting of fine china and floral decoration, accompanying the filet served with a perfect sauce and wine of the proper vintage, does not measure up to my memories of sitting at a USFS campsite on Basswood in the early July evening of 1969.” |
Somehow that sentence is like a small set of balance scales with a Newholland tractor on either side. |
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“It was a trip I had taken many times, so I left the Kodak camera behind, somehow I knew that the camera of my mind would capture and save that which was important. Thirty-five years later I have merely to close my eyes and I can return to the time that I sat there, on the shore of Basswood lake.” |
See? You can just see the guilt just dripping off of all those clichés. Guilt from moving away from his roots, to the east coast of all places. Guilt from betraying his very nature with all those nuances and sauces and garnishes. Oh, to return to the purer, simple pleasures of nature! But it’s too late, Mike. You made your choice. There’s no going back. |
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“I can relive the total sensory experience of eating walleye accompanied by reflector oven baked (sweet) cornbread and Basswood water from a tin cup, while aware of the visual transition of the sky as night approached, immersed in the quiet heaviness that guides the late afternoon into the darkness of evening, accompanied by the call of loons.” |
And the grand finale wraps it up. You sit there and wait for one more burst of fervent prose, and it takes awhile to realize that he’s fired his last shot and it’s time to grab the chairs and go home. |
—JD
ADDENDUM — This post was the subject of a reader complaint, to which I responded publicly (due to the complaintiff’s having left an incorrect return address).
"There is only one difference between a madman and me. I am not mad."
—Salvador Dali (1904–1989)
More notes from the aboard the *Regular Vein*.
It usually comes as a shock to people when they first get out on the water, when they realize that they can only stay dry and get where they’re going by harnessing powers they have no control over.
In other words, they have no idea what they’re doing.
There was a time, when the crew of the Regular Vein was extremely green, that everyone’s faces were rather long and everyone’s skin was thinner than cheap bacon.
“Get going!! Move your raggy body!!”
“Get your fangs out of my neck! Here’s your halyard, snake!”
The ship was bumping and lurching around the harbour, in full view of the whole town.
It was sunny, windy, and cold, and the waves kept knocking about in all directions while the ship waffled around. A few of the weak-minded sailors envisioned that maybe somehow by pure chance they could bring the boat out of the harbor and dash her on the rocks somewhere, in a more private setting, and have done with it.
The first mate was standing by the helm, grinning broadly as always. No one had yet seen the captain. The Port-Sands Mariner, who had evidently stayed on from a previous crew (and perhaps one or two before that one as well), was trying to steer the ship. But the wind was coming into the harbour at a bad angle, and to have to tack back and forth with a bunch of know-nothings was a very bad business.
From aloft in the rigging, the sounds drifted down of a crew coming together as a single cohesive unit, learning to work as a team.
“Can’t you see it’s tangled there in amongst that jib-thing?”
“Can’t you see I’m working on it you fatheaded hypocrite? And it’s not called a jib-thing!”
“Well why don’t we print a stack of labels and plaster them all over the whole unhappy boat and then maybe we’ll be able to satisfy your unnatural thirst for jingo!!”
“You have to learn to communicate! We’ll never get anywhere if you don’t communicate with me!”
One wide-eyed and particularly know-nothing new sailor, named Foget, was scurrying about in a state of quasi-desperation, trying to help, if he could, by sheer activity. He noticed a loosening knot and went to tie it; then one end of a rope swung down from somewhere above and he tried to figure out who had dropped it and whether it had been on purpose; then he tripped over a step.
“Coming about!” yelled Port-sands.
Foget did not hear him, however, and as he stood up, the boom swung around from behind and struck him right overboard.
As he fell into the water, he heard Port-sands’ disgusted voice. “For the love of Pope Alexander! Hit another one right over the blasted fence. I’m batting a thousand today. Why can’t they just keep their eyes open…”
Foget’s eyes were indeed open as the water came up to meet him, and he plunged into the cold blackness. In fact, his eyes would not close. He was naively surprised to see how black the water was, when it looked blue from above. He was head downwards and in horror for a moment he stared at the bottomless emptiness yawning up at him; then in a panic he began to struggle furiously, mindlessly. He caught a glimpse of sunlight, but then it was gone again, as though the muddy world was flying by and he had missed his stop.
Then his hand grabbed something and tightened around it; and he was jerked forcefully into the air, into the realm of the living.
He had just become re-accustomed to the clarity of the air, and of the cold wind on his wet body, when he reached the deck of the ship. He came face to face with the first mate, who was hauling him up, grinning.
“Your eyes are pretty big, Foget, but not big enough it seems.” Foget could only stare at him and shiver.
“This ship has a system. I suggest you use that head and figure it out before you get another ducking. We don’t wait until the next port to get rid of unneeded extras, and the water only gets deeper from here.”
His kind smile was belied by the harshness of his words. Foget never forgot them. And ever afterwards, whenever he saw that great smile, far from being encouraged, he felt vulnerable and watched.
They did eventually make it out of the harbor, and at night the wind died down, and the hands whose watch was over were very grateful to go and hide in the forecastle. Sleep hard, not well, sailors! Things are always hard before they are easy, and there’s no going back to your boyhood bunk bed with the cracked yellow paint, and the Cream of Wheat breakfasts.
—JD
“Human beings are the only creatures that allow their children to come back home.”
— Bill Cosby (1937–)
This last Monday, I was working on a deck. My nail gun double-fired, and somehow I managed to fasten two of my fingers together with a three-inch ringshank nail.
My only regret now is that I didn’t take a picture. But, then, I haven’t yet got the bill for the emergency room.
I always wondered what it would feel like. There was no blood, just a long nail going right through the middle of my fingers and a dull pain in my bones. The worst part of it was the thought of what it would take to get it out. I imagined the doctor putting his foot on my hand and reefing back on the nail with a pliers, and that I’d be able to feel that ribbed nail grating against my bones.
What eventually happened was that the doctor inflated my digits with some kind of numbing agent, till they were about double their normal size. Then he jerked the nail out and let my fingers bleed for awhile, medieval-style.
Fall is a beautiful time of year, said the meteorologist on the evening news, and Irene sighed and agreed. How did he always work it out so that the fall colors would peak on a weekend? It was just so perfect. But every year it went by just a bit quicker.
You notice them at Menards, these guys of middling height with jeans and a cap and a cell phone and a certain kind of subtle swagger: a general contractor. A builder. Someone who makes things happen and has the tools and the phone numbers to do it.
I guess they probably don’t actually swagger. But they don’t browse thoughtfully and aimlessly through the aisles like the normal people do. They know what they need and they know right where it is: in the back of the store, second aisle from the end and two thirds of the way down on the lower shelf. And it’s even odds whether they’ll be talking on their Nextel two-way while they stump purposefully along.
Do-it-yourselfers like to spend time in hardware stores and lumber yards; it’s kind of like going on a safari, a pleasure trip through a foreign yet familiar world, a chance to do some exploring. Maybe pick up a Black-&-Decker drill for tightening some doorknobs.
Contractors, on the other hand, go to lumber yards when they have to. If a contractor is in a lumber yard, it is because somebody goofed.
You drive in there and find a place to park, and the place is swarming with other guys in pickup trucks and jeans and cell phones. Each one with his own tools, his own way of doing things, his own names for everything. Everyone trying not to meet each other’s gaze. You get what you need and get out of that parking lot, back out to your own territory, the engine in your pickup (or station wagon, in my case) warming with every stroke.
Out on those back roads, you have plenty of space, and plenty of time to work your cell phone. You grab the weather report over the radio. You try and write things down while you drive.
When I was just starting in construction, I took every single tool I bought – every screwdriver and pliers and everything – and put a band of green electrical tape on it. Because construction workers are God-fearing and honest, and they have such a solid hardcore work ethic that, in order to get the job done, they will grab the nearest tool, even yours, without batting an eye. You have to love that kind of dedication.
Still, on occasion a tool is lost, a casualty of progress, my unique verdant brand notwithstanding – and it’s off to the hardware store. Somebody goofed. Oh well. That’s what lunch hours are for.
—JD
“The goal of all inanimate objects is to resist man and ultimately defeat him.”
— Russell Baker (1925-)
