[lit-ideas] Re: Soup Story
- From: David Ritchie <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Tue, 17 Aug 2004 16:00:57 -0700
I have been catching up on how old you all are, the odd habits of Robert
Paul's rocks, what beautiful babies your relatives produce. I now offer a
story.
Stephen would have been appalled at the outset. The most he carried
personally when traveling in his VW Eurovan-- a vehicle that was designed to
carry, as they say in sales nowadays, up to "everything and more"-- was a
spare pair of trousers, an overshirt, wellies with a full archeology of mud
on them, a small library, tapes of Alasdair MacIntyre or Shelby Foote. So
if there were already a grave--Stephen's ashes are now on their way to
Amherst, MA, where his parents lie--when he saw how, with my trusty Rieker
anti-stress sandals, one daughter, several bags, tennis rackets, bagpipes,
blue bottles of water, snacks, sailing shorts, video camera, foamy practice
dance floor, bon bons, gifts, I loaded the old grey SAAB for the Stephen
Straker Memorial Roadtrip... he surely would be fulminating in it, stirring
up the earth with wild gestures.
We figured we'd thought of everything, but of course we err'd; we forgot to
appease the car gods--I'm told the drill is to offer them your first born
goat. We were pretty much fine until we left the city for the second time.
Reaching Seattle safely, we had headed for Emily's choice of what to see,
and spent a fine long hour wandering among market stalls and cops on horses.
Emily bought an icy drink from the very first Starbucks; I got a Pike's beer
at the brewery. We ate spicy mussels, fresh from the bay.
Then the SAAB started as usual and slipped into gear as usual, but the
engine revved wildly and we went nowhere. "Funny," I thought in my Peter
Cook voice, "funny." Eventually we got going, and once on the freeway, we
made good progress, traveling towards Monroe, where a cheap room waited.
Still O.K., we checked in and tooka dip in the jacuzzi, before beds. The
morning plan, after bomplimentary bontinental breakfast, was that Emily
would practice dance while I drove across to a "Foreign Car Repair" place I
could see from our best Best Western window. In the car park or parking
lot, the car balked like a shy horse, protesting with lots more unnecessary
revving. "Funny..."
Foreign Car Repair checked the topped up fluid, which was now black, and
sent me back across the highway to Greek Chorus Transmissions. Everyone
there came out of the shop to discuss what kind of gearing a SAAB has, and
whether the engine normally comes out of the top, or the transmission just
drops out of the bottom. Someone called the dealer in Seattle, who said that
it didn't matter anyway... because no one on the whole West Coast has a
replacement.
The nearest second opinion was in Everett, about twenty miles away. To the
Chorus', "Five miles is as much as she'll do," we limped off, counting each
foot under tire a distance not slogged. In E. the news turned terminal.
Even their experts said the gears were cooked, would cost two thousand
dollars or more to rebuild...if anyone could find or make parts. "Habitat
for Humanity" got what was left of my faithful old car.
In a rented Ford, with much stuff transferred and re-packed, we continued
north to Stephen's memorial service where a hundred and fifty colleagues
gathered. I read a piece about our busman's holidays, and then the revised
wake poem. Friends from first grade and high school spoke of his fun;
colleagues, of his teaching. Family spoke wonderfully. Would that we could
all be so honored. Music, food, booze helped distract from the fact that
the Faculty Club was impossibly hot, too hot for pipes. I tried to play
outside, but only later, when it was cooler, miraculously managed "Amazing
Grace."
Stephen liked the joke about the prostitute who goes to old people's home
and offers folk "Super sex." He would wave feebly and say, in the guise of
the man in the joke, "I'll have the soup." Now I've found out what happens
after that joke finishes. It turns out that the old man, Stephen and my
SAAB 9000 all finally end up on a desert island, with a rural Greek Chorus
and a slipping transmission. Along comes this big shaggy dog...
David Ritchie
Portland, Oregon
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