It’s the Crate Bumpkin, Harley Crown - The Final List

  Initially, the room was in stunned silence following Buford’s pronouncement that he wished to serve the Lord via a midlife career change, then the chaos descended.

  “Now you’re my favorite son!” squealed Granny Crown, hurling herself into Buford’s arms and clutching him in a rapturous manner, leaving hamburger-grease streaks on his already sweat-drenched shirt. Then she paused and leaned back to ask a critical question. “Wait, have you ever had sex? They have an issue with that.”

  Buford sighed, not so gently removing Granny’s tentacles from around his waist. “Of course I have, Mother. How do you think we had seven kids?”

  Granny was not fully convinced. “Well, there was never any real PROOF they were yours, so I was never completely certain, especially since Betty has that reputation, and none of those kids look like me, which doesn’t seem possible, with MY dominant genes.”

  Of course, Momma Crown did not take this kindly. “WHAT reputation, Mother? This is news to me.”

  Granny glanced briefly at Momma Crown, then turned her still-hopeful eyes back to Buford. “People talk, Betty. People have always wondered what happened the night of the Zucchini Festival when you and Tommy Thomas went on that hayride alone.”

  Momma Crown let loose a sigh containing as much exasperation as she could pack into it. “Mother, we were NOT alone! There were at least twenty other people in that hay wagon! And Buford and I didn’t even start dating until years later.”

  “Well, you two sat away from everyone else in the wagon, and it was dark. Those are ingredients of the devil. No telling what you did when no one was looking. Or maybe they were looking and you found this appealing in a perverse manner. Once you’ve sinned, it’s a short tumble to hell.”

  Momma Crown practically leapt out of her chair and approached Granny. Momma noticed, with barely-concealed satisfaction, that Granny cringed slightly before recovering herself and pretending to check on the stuffed peppers sizzling in the oven. “You are a bitter, old woman, Mother Crown, and you are completely out of your mind!”

  Buford cleared his throat. “Betty, let me take over.”

  Granny Crown looked at Buford with gratitude, her once-again adoring eyes filled with assured salvation. “You’re such a good son, Bufe, stopping that horrid woman from-”

  “I’m not stopping anything,” clarified Buford. “I’m finishing it. Tell me, Mother, why do you suppose that I’ve chosen this particular moment to join the priesthood. Any ideas what might have happened recently that could, shall we say, cause me some concern?“

  “Why, I would have NO idea,” said Granny, edging slightly away from her glaring son, a move which certified her guilt in the developing inquest.

  Buford continued. “You are right, in that people talk. And most of the time it’s you doing the talking. And right now, I’d like nothing more than to go somewhere where people don’t talk, especially YOU. I’d like total silence, maybe for the rest of my life. And the only way to assure that type of solitude is to join an order of Jesuits who take vows of silence. And we get to live in a monastery, where the powers of Jesus will keep you and your hell-mouth out.”

  “Oh?” asked Granny with fake tremulousness, blinking her overly mascara-coated eyes with hummingbird rapidity. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Well, I just had a nice little chat with Mrs. Ferbisher. You know, the old nosey woman in that bridge club of yours? Where you and she and probably a whole coven of cackling harpies make up stories to impress one another.”

  Granny Crown gulped.

  “Mrs. Ferbisher, purely out of nothing but concern for my welfare, asked me if it was a good idea that I be working so hard outside considering my erectile dysfunction.”

  Granny made a small keening noise, similar to those heard in National Geographic specials before small prey breathe their last. Out of desperation, Granny sought any means of escape. “Buford… should you be saying such words in front of the child?”

  “It’s okay, Granny,” piped up Harley. “I know what erectile dysfunction means. It’s a kind of dinosaur.”

  Momma Crown jumped in. “That’s right, Harley, it’s a dinosaur. Now tell me, Mother, why you would be talking to anyone about Buford’s dinosaur? And choose carefully before telling your next lie, because I can assure you that Buford’s dinosaur has no problem whatsoever DOING IT’S JOB!”

  The doorbell rang, which was a really unfortunate happenstance for anyone wishing to see potential domestic bloodshed.

  “That must be the Fishbeins,” Granny Crown practically screamed. “I’ll go let them in.” She did a body roll over the kitchen counter and hit the ground running.

  “I’m warning you, Mother,” Momma Crown hollered after the fleeing form. “The only words you know right now are ‘welcome’ and ‘please have a seat’.”

  “Oh no,” sighed Harley. “We ran out of time and didn’t finish my list.”

  “Not just yet,” comforted Momma Crown. “We still have a few moments. Read Momma the rest of the names while I finish up with dinner.”

  Harley smiled. “Great! Okay, next we have…”

  And now, dear reader, I stop pretending to be Harley, and I offer up my thanks for the rest of the folks who have been supportive over the last year and a half as I tried to get the blogs up and running. I can’t possibly mention everyone, of course (there are over 2,000 folks on the Facebook fan page) but I’m going to try and hit the key players. This is risky, in that I’m sure I’ll accidentally leave out a critical supporter or two, which is a sad thing, but I’d rather take the chance than do nothing at all.

  And don’t worry, we’ll wrap up the tale of the Crowns in just a bit. (Skip down to the bit about “Okay, back to the story” if you don’t care to peruse the mushy part.) And here we go…

  To Suellen Hale Young, one of the first folks outside my immediate family and friends who became a champion for the blog, and helped start things rolling. We graduated a shocking number of years ago from Broken Arrow Senior High. And a shout-out to other folks from that time who have come back into my life, much to my great happiness:  Margaret Laws (Margaret the Strong), Gala Freisberg (who still makes me laugh), Debra Sparks Meeker (who gives me guidance in a special way), Connie Jordan Register (On va a la plage?).

  My re-discovered sisters, Mindie Dodson, Kellie Fox and Terry Hentschel-Wichelhaus. Jon Powell and Alan Mauk (dudes, we should have hung out more). Tammy McLean Pounds (love it when you call me “darlin”, even if you call everyone else that), Regina Miller-Fierke (deep thoughts, great discussions) and the incomparable Kate Todd. (Let’s shave the cat!)

  My newfound Facebook family:  Bex Swartz (I never got mad that time, by the way), Anne Sumner (the “good” kind of New Yorker), Michelle Phillips (always there, always supportive), Sandra Fitzgerald (ditto), Tricia Penolan (another great New Yorker), Cathy Keibler (your warmth is evident and appreciated), Brandi Suzanne Rogers (another one of the first supporters) and Wylie Joe Summerlin. Can’t forget Susan Heckler, Mike Shain, Douglas Redecopp and Stella Arcane Mage Hayek.

   And here’s a big, long list of others who pop up from time to time with comments and likes (yes, I see you). I’ve alphabetized this by first name, so you can just skim for your shout-out and then jump ahead:   Audra Hughes, Bambi English, Barbara Lindsay, Becky Arnett, Bill Borges, Brian Barrett, Carmen Dunnington, Charyse Crawford, Chele Hunt, Christopher West, David Ribbe, Deborah Megivern Foster, Doug Moore, Dusty Taylor, Ellen Sherman, Gretchen Doss, Hadi Hussainu, James Morris, James Scott, Jennifer Daniel, Jennifer Ray, JoeyandAngi Williams, John Carney, Jojo Stephens, Judy Pilder, Katt Heinemann, Laura Austin, Laura Evatt McCoy, Lauri Lundy Moreno.

  Linda Dillworth, Lindsay Reddin, Lisa Da Cuckoo Finch, Lisa Gasway, Lisa Jo Gage, Marcia Reid, Maria Schulte, Mari’ Antoinette Allen Hamilton, Melanie Reeves Alexander, Melba Malone Weaver, Merlene Dorner, Pamela Adams Holman, Pattie Bell, Pritchard Hoggard, Rebecca Kay Gary-Ingersoll, Rebekah Barthuly Soikkeli, Rhonda Bryant, Rianne Capron, Robert Willard, Roman Hisses, Sean Heggan, Stacy Cotone Peters, Steve Sells, Suthern Barbie, Tami Bottoms, Teresa White, Teretha Pass, Tyrik Parker, Valerie Every, Valerie Jay, Victoria Sharp and Victoria Taylor.

  And finally, much love to my mother, Dee Taylor, who through all the times of good and bad and ups and downs, has always loved me, and to my partner, Terry, who still sometimes thinks this whole blog thing might not be worth it, but let’s me play anyway…

  Okay, back to the story:

  A bit later, the Crowns and the Fishbeins finally sat down to dinner.

  “So,” said Ida Fishbein, serving herself a surprising portion of pea salad, “why are you being so quiet this evening, Beatrice?”

  Granny Crown glanced furtively at Momma Crown before answering. “Oh, Ida, you know how I get a little peaked sometimes when the seasons change. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

  Ida paused, a dab of mayo on her chin. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you peaked. In fact, I’ve never seen you NOT dominate a room with just a Bible verse and some subtle hints of blackmail. Something extraordinary must have happened after you left the ‘Jesus and Bagels’ meeting this morning over at the Hyatt.”

  Momma Crown grinned broadly. Spearing another stuffed pepper, she shared some news with messy-chin Ida. “Oh, Beatrice has a new outlook on life. Lots of things have changed.”

  “Beatrice?” asked Granny Crown. “You always call me Mother.”

  Momma Crown continued beaming. “That’s one of the things that has changed, Bea. Another new development is that you will start helping out with all the meals, since I pay for all the food despite you having tons of your own money, yet you come over every night and don’t do a damn thing but eat it. I believe Harley is ready for you to make dessert.”

  Harley was leary, because Granny Crown interactions often ended in tears, or at least door-slamming. “I am?”

  “Yes, you are,” said Momma Crown. “What would you like?’

  Harley considered. “Ice cream?”

  “Perfect! What flavor?”

  More of the Harley thought process, then: “Butterscotch.”

  Granny Crown gasped. “The child can’t be serious. It will take ages for me to make homemade ice cream, and there’s no such thing as butterscotch ice cream.”

  Momma Crown smiled coldly. “Well, Beatrice, you claim to be such a marvelous cook, I’m sure you can manage it. Now get your ass in the kitchen and don’t come back unless you’ve got a nice bowl of butterscotch ice cream for your favorite granddaughter.”

  “Well,” said Ida Fishbein, using her napkin to daintily wipe away the smidge of mayo she had finally discovered on a her chin. “I believe this is the best meal that Beatrice has ever eaten.”

The End.