"When Do We Eat?"

Pauline, on the trip to La Paz, 1972

“Pauline was a saint; if it weren’t for her and Robert, I would never have made it. Pauline saved my life!”

Widowed at 32, mom to four children under the age of 7, with a fifth baby on the way, it’s a wonder Margie didn’t just pack up and move her and the kids back to Wisconsin, and the shelter of her Mama’s home. That was certainly what her parents wanted her to do, way back around 1960, give or take.

Instead, Margie picked up the pieces, put one foot in front of the other, and moved on, with a little help from her friends. It’s not surprising that our family opened its doors up to our neighbors from four or five houses up the street. At the time Margie’s husband was killed in a car crash, there were already eight of us siblings, with number nine not due to make his appearance until years down the line.

What was another five kids here and there among friends?

When Margie and her oldest, Tommy, decided to embark on a road trip from SoCal up here to our mountain, it was to renew old friendships. Having reconnected via face/book a few months ago, I was flummoxed. Margie, 93 years young, knocked my sandals off by being able to make the road trip up here to North Mendocino County in the first place. 

The south-facing side of the Fellowship Street house. I know
the year was 1967, because that's the year I painted the house,
by myself, and was paid the lofty sum of five dollars.

She wanted to shift the credit to Tommy, from San Diego, who was instrumental in making the whole thing happen. Tommy is the oldest of the siblings, around four years younger than I am. The reason I was shocked, is because a road trip of such proportions would be impossible for me, one that I would never consider taking. 

Nonetheless, Margie and Tommy were slated to stay in Robert and Pauline’s mountain chalet, recently remodeled by my brother Matt, and his business partner, Keith. They were going to be on-farm Sunday afternoon through Tuesday morning, and they were flexible.

Returning from Willits on Monday morning, the first thing I did was stop in at the Big House, and touch base with the travelers. Of course, I wanted them to come visit my spot; we just had to work out the logistics. When I put forth this proposition, and asked what they thought, Tommy said simply that they had made the journey with the intention of spending as much time with O’Neill’s as possible. 

Papa, on vacay...

We agreed they should come over and spend the day, while I prepared a simple meal from whatever I could scrounge up on the mountain. By the time they arrived an hour later, I had scored two frozen chickens from the HappyDay Farms freezers, and was in the process of defrosting them, while putting on a large saucepan with potatoes from Irene’s farm, freshly scrubbed.

I had put painting on hold, and was content to peel and cut up potatoes, dice a few stalks of celery and some pickles, and boil a half-dozen eggs. I diced an onion, (forgot the olives) and all in all made a decent potato salad. The secret to good potato salad is the pickle juice and yellow mustard that gets added at the end, along with the black pepper.

It took me half the day to pull it off, but it didn’t matter: Both Tommy and Margie are easy. There was a comfort level in place, a half-century and more in the making, that allowed us to pick up the conversation as though we had only seen each other last Christmas. I mention Christmas, because I specifically remember one Christmas when our families gathered at the Fellowship Street house and had dinner together.

Front: Laura, little Tim, JT, Mark, Robert, and Pauline;
 rear: Kevin, Brian, Noel, Eric, and Matt, on the back right.

To seat at least sixteen people, and probably more, we had added card tables galore to the big dining room table, and the effect was incredible. When almost all was in place, with everyone expectantly waiting for action, there was a lull during which some last minute preparation was still unfolding.

Needless to say, I was on the point of fainting from starvation, a common enough state of affairs for a kid who could polish off four sandwiches at lunch, in record time. At one point I let it all hang out in the form of an agonized look in Mama’s direction. “WHEN DO WE EAT?” my expression must have screamed.

To my complete horror, at that instant, Margie caught my look out of the corner of her eye, and keeping her face directed at her own plate, commented dryly, “I think the natives are getting restless; maybe we should say grace and get cracking.”

I was mortified that somehow my indiscretion would be communicated to Mama and Papa, but I needn’t have worried. Margie was not going to spill the beans.

Front: Noel, Robert, Matt, Laura
rear: Tom, Mark, JT, Eric, Kevin, and Brian

As we romped from memory to memory, Monday, the subject of the storm drain came up. This was a twenty-four foot deep, by ten foot wide trench, dug for the purpose of burying cement pipe that was eight feet in diameter. In retrospect, it seems like overkill for a region that averages twelve inches of rain a year, but what do I know?

The drain system ran perpendicular to Fellowship Street, and paralleled our one acre parcel, running along the southern edge of the property. So close was this formidable trench, that I could stand on the shed roof in the back yard, and look down into the trench, the bottom now thirty-two feet below, due to the added height of the shed.

For a short time, as work progressed, the end of the trench was right alongside our property, so we kids were able to wait until workers went home, and then scramble down the side of the dirt and into the cement tunnel itself.

I should say some of the kids went into that tunnel-not this kid. I thought you had to be certifiably nuts to venture farther into the tunnel where you could no longer see the entrance, and I was having none of it. 

On the other hand, as Tommy and I compared notes, we found ourselves reminiscing about the house that Margie had bought with insurance money, and how much time I used to spend there. Across the street and back behind the houses, was a gully lined with eucalyptus trees, paradise for kids.

Ironically, a long way down the gully, there was another culvert, this one going beneath a street, and one that was far more manageable than the one 24 feet underground. I felt marginally better for being able to make it through this “tunnel.”

Front: Noel, Pauline, Robert, JT, Laura
Rear: Kevin, Tom, Eric, Brian, Mark, and Matt

Tommy talked about coming to dinner at Papa’s house, and the barbecue rotisserie, gently rotating with [at least] four cut up chickens being cooked. Papa did not mess around and we were allowed to eat chicken until we were stuffed. 

As I got older, my friends were always encouraged to join us at the dinner table, and they loved it. There was something about being included in dinner plans, simply because you were there, that tickled my friends immensely. They liked just being one of the tribe, and I think that’s how Margie’s kids felt.

Well, my guests certainly must have felt at home with my serving barbecued chicken, just like the old days, and we chatted until it was time to say good night. Margie asked great questions about the farm, and I relied on HeadSodBuster to answer them, simply because I couldn’t.

Front: Laura and Izzy, Matt, Robert, Pauline and Mark
Rear: Kevin, Tom, Brian, Eric, JT and Noel

When they departed Bell Springs, Margie and Tommy were heading over to my brother Brian’s house, in the Central Valley, before eventually heading back down south. When they left, I felt good, knowing that Margie had been given the opportunity she desired, the chance to get one more “dose of the O’Neill’s.”

Robert and Pauline weren’t there physically, but spiritually, I’m sure Margie would agree, they were very much there, just as they always were. Especially when the going got tough.