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 |   Tales from real life |
| Well, if they're not true, they oughta be! |
I suppose I should be grateful to Bertha Bartell. She was my wife's grandmother and, coincidentally, my dad's neighbor when he was young. The elder Bartells moved away before I was born, after a family named Gardiner bought their farm. I didn't meet granddaughter Debra until we had classes together in high school. Her father, Edward Bartell Jr., had a small truck farm about 15 miles from the original Bartell homestead. We rode separate school buses from different directions and met in the middle. I was the class clown and Debbie was a band geek. I thought she was kind of a prude and she thought I was kind of conceited. We didn’t really talk, but I enjoyed her blushing dismay when my friends and I teased her. We didn't start dating until we were both in college, and even then, I didn't make the connection that Deb was related to the old battle-axe that I'd heard stories about. Most people knew Bertha as a somewhat unpleasant woman, sharp-tongued and frugal to a fault. She’d been a schoolteacher before marriage and never seemed to enjoy the role of farm wife. Bertha ruled her family as a strict matriarch and paid little attention to the granddaughter who shared her birthday. My dad liked to tell a story from one summer when he joined in to help Edward Sr. put up hay. It was common back then for neighbors to gather together with equipment and teams of horses. They'd move from farm to farm and help each other with the big job of cutting and stacking the hay. The men worked hard, and they expected to find a hearty lunch at midday. There was often fried chicken with potatoes and gravy, fresh garden vegetables, or even a roast ham. Dad said they were disappointed at the Bartell’s house. Bertha served them a platter of fried eggs and little else. The first guy in line dished up three or four and then Shorty Thompson took a half dozen. He looked at the nearly empty platter and then glanced around the table at the remaining four men. It didn't take a mathematician to see that there wasn't enough food. Shorty felt embarrassed at taking so many eggs. And, according to dad, he broke them all up with an exasperated "Well, fug around Willie, ain't ya got any more eggs?" It was a line I heard many times when dad thought someone was being overly cheap. Things finally clicked for me after I proposed to Debbie and Bertha sent my new fiancée a letter advising against the match. “Oh, your grandma is that Bertha.” It was a long letter with a detailed list of the faults and failings of 'those Fishers'. She explained how her brother, Debbie's uncle Pete, was always arresting them for drunkenness and other petty crimes. To be fair, some of my uncles and cousins did enjoy 'whooping it up', but an actual arrest was rare. Their ‘crimes’ were so minor and from so long ago that no one else even remembered them. Pete Larsen wasn't even Sheriff anymore. Bertha closed her letter with a dire warning that the Fisher boy would never amount to anything, and our marriage would certainly come to a bad end. Well, with a challenge like that, Deb had no other choice. She had to marry me, if only to prove her meddling grandmother wrong. And the letter didn't really upset me, I enjoyed telling Debbie my dad's egg story. Bertha was in a rest home then and her health didn't allow her to attend the wedding. Deb felt duty-bound to buy Bertha a box of mints and insisted that we interrupt our honeymoon to visit her. I smiled and played along like a good husband should. There was no mention of the letter, no apology forthcoming, and little thanks for the mints. It was my first and only meeting with Bertha, and all I remember is being greeted with "What, no wedding cake?" We probably would have married anyway, but that letter really sealed the deal. It's been more than 44 years, Debbie's still waiting to see if I'll amount to anything, and I'm still grateful to have her. Thanks Bertha! |
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