The Bremerton Ferry

Wanda  I rolled into Grandpa's driveway with our little blue Subaru wagon neatly and carefully packed with our luggage, colorfully wrapped Christmas presents and our Siberian husky dog, Bogart, the Wonder Dog, at the time our only child. We saw the screen door swing open and there he was, ninety-two year old Grandpa Art coming out to greet us, I assumed. That is until I saw the shotgun.

“Get off my land!” bellowed Art as he lifted the gun to his shoulder with his huge, gnarled up hands both developed and damaged by decades of farm work, ship building and manual labor. The gun was shaking and so was I as I carefully stepped out of the driver's side.

“Grandpa, it's me, your grandson, Bobby. We came to take you to Dorothy's.” Unfortunately, wife Wanda had not noticed the weapon and had jumped out and opened the back door. Bogart jolted out and ran for the nearby fence. A shot ran out and missed poor Bogie by inches, the pellets sent up a puff from the newly fallen snow.

“Goddammit Grandpa, put down that gun,” I yelled in my best coach's voice. The sound of my words echoed through the Bremerton, Washington night air. I took three quick strides and got myself into the porch light aura.

“Who the hell are you, anyways?” simpered Art.

I was up on the porch by now and wrestled the gun from his hands. It took all my strength to do so.

“I'm Bobby and that is Wanda, my wife. We've been here before, remember? We picked dahlias from Grandma Marie's garden last summer.. Look what I brought you” I pulled out of my coat pocket an unopened pint of Four Roses whiskey, the cheapest rock-gut crap sold in the liquor store but Grandpa's favorite.

“Four Roses! Hell, I don't know who the hell you are but come on in.” He grabbed the bottle and disappeared into the kitchen. Wife Wanda came in after wisely putting Bogie back in the wagon.

“Jesus Christ, now I've really got to pee!” she whispered to me. “I told you to call him first you stupid dipshit.” She ran past me to find the bathroom.

Art had a glass out in his tidy, little country kitchen, added one ice cube and was pouring himself a good three fingers of the cheap whiskey. “You must be one of Billy's kids. What are you doing here? That girl better not steal any of my silver coins.” He drained the glass in one swallow and asked, “Want a snort young buddy?”

“Sure, I'll take a drink. Actually, I'm Dorothy's son and we are going to take you over to spend Christmas with all of us this year. Remember, she lives over in Idaho.” He handed me the glass with one ice cube in a Seattle World's Fair 1963 glass now twenty years old but still looking brand new filled to the brim with whiskey. He headed to the living room and I followed as memories exploded in my head of childhood stays in this always cold, scary house. A vivid one popped up as soon as I saw the cuckoo clock on the wall and remembered how that damn thing had frightened me so late at night years ago as I slept on the couch with too few blankets.

“It's time for Northwest Wrestling,” Art said with more than a little excitement in his voice as he flipped on the small black and white television, one he had probably had since the mid-sixties. He flopped into the rocking chair that was less than three feet from the tube and took a sip.

Wanda came out, took off her wool hat and shook her head and played with her hair. She went over to Art and planted a good kiss on his cheek. “Hey, Grandpa! Happy Holidays to you.” I looked over at this beautiful woman, my gorgeous wife and best friend and plotted how I was going to convince her to do the nasty with me in the freezing cold guestroom later that night. At least, that was my mission for tonight.

“Oh, hi, Dorothy. Why don't you make Billy's son and me something good to eat?”

“Yeah, Dorothy, get on it, would you?” I joked. Hey why fight it? thought I.

“Okay, Billy Jr., “ answered Wanda without missing a beat. She was looking around in the old fridge after flipping on the lights in the kitchen.

“Oh, great Scott, it's Pretty Boy Pat Patterson! He's me and Marie's favorite,” announced Art. It was flipping cold in the house so I went out on the outside front porch and started splitting kindling to start a fire. I could hear Grandpa yelling in the background; he took the fake wrestling very seriously it appeared.

“I came in with the kindling and got a bundle going. I went out to get some larger pieces. Art was out there with me. “No, no, no! Not that stuff. Get some madrona over there, it will burn all night.” He pointed with his finger that looked like it had been broken in a half dozen places over the years and was at least eight inches long. I went over and all the pieces were hefty and needed to be split into at least quarters in order for them to fit into the firebox of his wood stove. I grabbed one and put it on the huge chopping block and took a mighty swing. The ax stuck and I was wrestling around with it on the floor of the porch trying with all my might to get the thing out.

“No, no, no! Jesus Christ, are you a damn city boy or something? You got to use the maul not the ax. That madrona is hard when it dries out.” He took a sip of whiskey and pointed to the maul in the corner. I took his advice and put a different piece on the chopping block. I swung it with all I had and the thing just bounced off the wood which felt like a piece of granite. I swung again and the same thing happened.

“Jesus Christ, have you got a screw loose? Can't even chop a piece of wood? Here give me that damn thing.” Art said with disgust in his voice. Now, let it be known that I heated my own home with a cast iron stove, and cut and split at least three cords a year myself for most of my adult life. But I had never encountered madrona. He grabbed the maul and handed me his glass. He spun the enormous hunk of wood around and took a blow. The thing split perfectly in half. He grabbed one half and with one hit split it again. He picked up the other half and did the same to it. He left me there humiliated and I loaded up my arms with the bounty and was putting in a piece into the fire box when Wanda came out.

“Hey, Art, the only things I could find were some canned pears and a bunch of TV dinners and pot pies. “

“Yeah, I'll take three turkey dinners and one pot pie.” Art answered. “Them pears are Marie's and taste like candy. I guess you can open them.” He was back focused on the wrestling.

Grandma Marie had died suddenly while working in her garden this last August. Art had stumbled down to the nearest neighbor when he had become panicked when Marie disappeared. The neighborhood couple both came up and searched and found her dead, her body hidden by the six foot high  prize-winning dahlias she was famous for at the county fair each year. They had been married for 76 years and spent the last fifty on their little farm that used to be on the outskirts of town but was now a green twenty acre dot surrounded by four-lane roads, the new Silverdale Mall and a new housing development.

We ate the TV dinners, Wanda took Bogie for a couple of walks and then put him back in the car. The wrestling ended about the same time the whiskey ran out. I tried to tell him about the plans for tomorrow but he was not comprehending that we were heading out for a big trip the next morning. Instead, he started spinning stories about how he had been a champion ice skate barrel jumper, bull rider and how he had built lots of ships during World War II at the local ship yard. His last story of the night was about how he and Marie had  married in Wolf Point, Mountain and how he had ridden his horse up to the Indian Reservation and visited the Indians there. “They was just like real people, “ he declared before heading to his bedroom and slamming the door. We heard his snoring minutes later through the walls.

We quietly got Bogie into the bedroom and crawled under the covers. It was freezing cold in the back bedroom but the bed had on four of Grandma's homemade quilts which pinned us to the clean sheets. My earlier plan of having some fun with my gorgeous wife seemed unreasonable now. Luckily, she came to the rescue as I returned from a quick trip to the bathroom. She murmured in a sexy voice:

“Oh, Billy, could you warm me up some?” and she grabbed my hand and put it down her moist panties.

“Doing it in Grandpa's house, seems so nasty and forbidden, so go ahead, Billy, but hurry before my husband catches us.” were the golden fantasy words she whispered in my ear. I swore I heard harps in the distance and then the damn cuckoo clock chimed in.

The Trip

Okay, the car was packed, the sky was clear and I was relaxed and contented as a Holstein after morning milking. I was ready for the 400 mile trip east in our little Subaru wagon. The snow forecast didn't bother me as long as we were driving in daylight. We would have to shoot Snoqualmie Pass but I had new tires and the Subaru was a great snow car. I saw no problems with the trip other than catching the nine o'clock ferry to Seattle. That was important.

Art was up at around five am and I got up with him. I asked him if he needed any help in packing his stuff and he just shook his head and went about his morning routine. He started a fire, went out to the chicken coop and came back with some eggs. He scrambled a bunch and ate them after covering them with maple syrup. He then started up his old chainsaw that had no muffler and could be heard for miles away. He disappeared in his pickup and I heard the saw in the distance. I guessed today was his wood cutting day. Wanda got up at around seven and was walking around with Bogie when Art showed up from the upper field with his truck filled with newly cut wood. He saw our dog and said, “What the hell is with that beast running around here? I'd shoot that damn thing if you wasn't around. I hate dogs.” Wanda took the hint and locked Bogie in the back seat. She came in and Art was watching some old Three Stooges reruns and drinking coffee. He saw her and said, “Marie always made me pancakes after I cut wood.”

“Grandpa, we have to catch the ferry at nine. I don't think we can have pancakes this morning. We have a long trip.”

“How can I make it all the way north without some damn pancakes? We could stop and get some down the road. I have a hankering for pancakes.”

I looked at Wanda. She shrugged and went to work. We were eating pancakes and the clock was ticking. The old man ate at least a dozen of them and took his time to savor each bite. It was now 8:10 and I hoped that there wasn't going to be a big line at the ferry. He burped and handed his plate to Wanda. He came back with two suitcases, wearing a leather coat and a matching hat with ear flaps covering his gigantic ears.

“I'm ready to head north to Billy's place. I got to start the Plymouth.” He was in the garage before I could blink and had his old mint conditioned 1958 Plymouth  Fury started up. He took the wheel and backed out of the driveway.

“Grandpa, you're going with us, in our car. We don't need the Plymouth.” I didn't think it important to correct him and tell him we were heading east.

“Bullshit, I'm only going north in the Plymouth so hop in. But first I have to check the oil.” He opened up the hood of this green boat of a car with wide fins and nearly bald tires. He checked the oil and then took off hiking toward one of his out buildings. The time was now 8:30 straight up.

“Now, what?” I asked Wanda. She just shook her head. “I guess I could drive and follow you.”

“I can't drive that thing over the pass, it's snowing up there and there is no way to keep that on the road in this weather. And he wants to fucking drive!” I said as I felt my blood pressure rising to near critical levels.

1958 Plymouth Fury--Art's was Green

Art came back with an old can of oil and proceed to move at the speed of slug to put the oil in. I gave up. “Hey, Grandpa, can I please drive the Plymouth? I always liked these big, old cars.”

“I don't know, you'd have to be careful, Marie and I bought it brand new.”

“Oh, I will, I promise. You wouldn't happen to have any snow chains would you?”

“Yeah, I'll get them. There up in the shed.” To my horror he took off toward his tool shed again. The time was now 8:45 and we were not going to make the nine o'clock ferry. I went in and got some paper and made some calls. The next ferry was at noon. That put us in Seattle at one. Two hours to make the pass and then four hours to make it across the state to Idaho. But the weather report showed snow so it could be snow all the way. It was going to mean at least three hours guiding the Plymouth boat through the snow in the dark and if it got real hairy then six hours wouldn't be a stretch. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

We got on the ferry, me driving the Plymouth and Wanda and Bogie following close behind in the Subaru. To my surprise, Grandpa was startled when the ferry started up and told me that last time he had been on the ferry was over twenty years ago. I tried to convince him to come upstairs but he said he couldn't leave the Plymouth unattended so we sat in the car with the wind just howling and the waves smacking into the boat. We got clear out of Seattle with no real problem but it started raining like crazy as soon as we started up the start of the pass. Forty miles later, the rain had turned to huge snow flakes and the wipers could scarcely keep the window clear. I could only go thirty miles an hour. Art started mumbling about an hour into the trip. It became like a computer loop.

“I ain't never going north again. We're in a damn blizzard. This is like snow in Minnesota. I was a champion ice skating barrel jumper, you know. Marie wouldn't have never let me go with this guy.” He would look back and see the blue Subaru and say, “Well, there she is, still there and with that damn dog. I'd shoot that dog, if they weren't around. I hate those damn dogs.” He would then pause and roll down his window and the snow would blow in. He would roll it up and then start the whole routine over again.

The driving conditions on Snowqualmie Pass

No other conversation, no matter what I tried. The radio wouldn't work, I was starting to get nearly hypnotized by the incessant snow and the wind picked up to make things even more fun. The boat was really influenced by the wind and I had to be on constant alert to keep from swerving. It started getting really slick and we finally got to the summit of Snoqualmie Pass. It was five o'clock and pitch black. We had at least six to eight hours left. I pulled off and kept the beast running. I got the chains out and fooled around with them using the headlights of the Subaru to see under the car. I nearly got them hooked several times. Finally, it was obvious that these things were not the right size. So, I had burned another 45 minutes idling up there on the pass. Luckily, traffic was light as there was a weather warning out. I took a deep breath and started down the east side of the Cascades. Straight downhill now for at least sixty miles and gas was becoming a concern as this old vehicle was probably only getting 15 miles to the gallon and there were no stations for at least a hour that would be open.

Grandpa kept up his loop of saying the same things, complete with a rolling down of the window each time as I slid down the mountain's steep curves. My knuckles were white and I finally couldn't stand it and had to have a cigarette. I got a smoke going, which helped some. It also broke the loop or rather added a new part to it. He started sharing how he had smoked roll your owns while herding sheep and how his mean wife had made him quit smoking forty years ago. This helped some.

I got the Plymouth down the curviest part of the east slope and the snow actually stopped. I relaxed a little and even picked up the speed to 45 miles per hour. I was lighting another Old Gold when it happened.

I took my eyes of the road for just a second, to focus on the cigarette lighter. We rounded a long curve and a gust of wind caught us. I tried to ease it back but the next thing I knew we were spinning, spinning and spinning. Luckily, I was too shocked to hit the brakes which would have been a fatal error. We did two full three sixties and then one of the fins clipped the guardrail just right and straightened us out. Grandpa Art yelled out, “Ride 'em cowboy, yeee-haaaaaa! “ and started laughing and slapping the seat. “Hey, boy, do that again!”

Wanda had eased by us slowly trying to avoid us as we spun. She found a turn out and pulled out and let us pass. She was back following and we got to the Columbia River about nine o'clock where it was clear and cold with snow on the ground and road but none falling. I put on the blinker at Vantage, a little stop with two restaurants, two gas stations and one motel. I pulled into the motel and went and told Wanda that I couldn't go another mile. We got a room and Art sat on his bed fully clothed mumbling his loop of things. Instead of rolling the window down, he would open the door and the wind would blow in a bunch of snow. I finally had enough.

“Grandpa, let's go get a shot of whiskey. We went over to the little store and I got some cigarettes and he surprised me by buying a pack of Tiparillos, which are little cigars with a plastic tip. He lit one up in the bar and I ordered us shots of Jack Daniels. He sipped on it, smoking away for the first time in four decades and polished off a steak eating every morsel and almost licking the plate. The bartender came over and asked if we wanted another drink. “Yeah, but I want some good whiskey, this time. Got any Four Roses?” Remarkably, they did.

****

We made it to Mom's house the next afternoon with Grandpa now a chain smoker, and a pal of Bogart's after Bogart licked his face when we returned to the motel room after jumping on his bed late that night. Art loaded up Bogart in the back seat of the Plymouth and gave him little pats all the way home. Wanda told me later that Bogie had started barking and howling when we went into the spin. She swears to this day he knew we were in trouble. I will never forget hearing Grandpa yelling with delight—Yeeeeee Haaaaaaa. The only real adventure of the day on the still slick roads was when Art put a still burning Tiparillo in the front pocket of his Pendleton wool shirt. I noticed the smell before seeing the smoke coming from his pocket.

We had several other adventures before he passed on at age 95. The best ones being talking with the cops after he blew out the back window with the shotgun of a teenage couple's car parked out on his side road and how I had to search the town after he ran away from the rest home but didn't remember to bring his false teeth with him the last year of his life.

Oh, and I flew with him home after the holidays which is yet another story.

This is the first of the  Christmas Stories, I have been working on for years. Stay tuned for one a day until Christmas. I have the spirit this year.