Here is a little folk story I put together based on the famous "Irish Oranges" episode between my grandmother and her cantankerous neighbours. If I told the whole truth and nothing but the truth, no one would believe it. So, I whittled the truth down to its bare essentials and took out all humour, hyperbole and exaggerations hoping to convey just the bare-bone facts of the case.
Enjoy,
Carl
Enjoy,
Carl
Irish Oranges
The Gnarly twins were spinsters, two hellcats with fiery
tongues so hot they could melt the horns off the devil and use the drippings to
sweeten their tea. A knock on the door by an unsuspecting salesman invited a
volley of insults that pelted the intruder down the porch steps and out the
front yard with his tail between his legs. Each wrangled with the other at the
slightest provocation—one remarked on the foul weather while the other chided
“Talk all you want, but you’ll never do damn thing about the sun or the rain!”
One complained of peach blossoms, hay fever and the fornication of bees while
the other shook her fist at the short-lived tyranny of Spring. Needless to say
the sisters never found husbands to brow-beat and goad into early graves so
they were left with each other, to lock horns from sun-up to sun-down. The sister
who screamed the loudest and longest won the argument at day’s end, until dawn
brought a new contest of insult heaped upon old injury.
By some odd twist, old-man Gnarly bestowed
the twins with the names Charity and Grace. Most just called them Gnarly # 1
and Gnarly # 2. The sisters did however, agree on a single topic—the 18th
Amendment of the Constitution and the total abolition of alcohol. They were God-fearing
Teetotalers who like Carrie Nation saw it as their mission to rid society of its most corrupt
vice.
One sister headed the local Temperance Society while the other the Anti-Saloon
League. With a Bible in one hand and a raised hatchet in the other, they
rallied the troops with stirring orations and gathered half of the town’s women
folk to crusade under the banner song “Lips that touch liquor will never touch mine”:
In a group effort they raised funds to erect in the town square a Temperance Fountain
as a means for men to wet their whistles in the noon day heat rather than quaff
the vices of John Barleycorn [1].
The centrepiece of the cast-iron fountain was a life-sized figure of the
goddess Hebe—the cupbearer of the gods—lifted by four dolphins out of whose
snouts spewed arcs of bubbling water. To show their fidelity to the temperance
cause, reformed drunkards, husbands and sons had to publicly “kiss the dolphin”
or suffer the consequences.
Across the street from the Gnarly twins lived
Granks, equal in age yet the exact opposite in temperament. She offered a kind
word to every neighbour or stranger who knocked on her door and no one ever left
the porch without a cup of tea and home-made sweets. Granks’ hospitality was put
to the test at least once a month when one of the twins blew their top,
stormed out of their house vowing never to return. A sister shot a bee-line to
Granks’ front door seeking refuge. Usually after a cup of chai, Granks offered
to read the tea leaves. The guest placed the saucer over the rim of the cup and
then held the saucer and cup between their palms as they flipped the contents
upside down; all the while, they focused on a soulful question—the answer to
which lay hidden amongst the leaves. As one of the best practitioners of this
art, Granks found in the rim of the tossed cup a hint of regret and future that
insisted life was too short to hold a grudge, so it was better make amends than to suffer the
eternal damnation of an unforgiving heart. By sunset, cooler heads always
prevailed and Granks sent the sister back across the street loaded with enough
strawberry tarts, ginger cookies and chocolate mints to sweeten the most
sour of dispositions.
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| Carrie Nation courtesy of Wikipedia |
The Demon Rum is about the land.
His victims are falling on every hand,
The wise and the simple, the brave and the fair,
No station too high for his vengeance to spare.
O women, the sorrow and pain is with you,
And so be the joy and the victory, too;
With this for your motto, and succor divine,
The lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine,
O mothers, whose sons tarry long at the bowl,
Who love their good name as you love your own soul,
O maidens with fathers, and brothers and beaux;
Whose lives you would rescue from infinite woes,
Let war be your watchword, from shore unto shore,
Till Rum and his legions shall ruin no more,
And write on banners, in letters that shine,
The lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine.
One sultry August afternoon, Granks sipped her
afternoon gin and tonic on the front porch steps. The gin was prescribed by Doc
Gibbley who believed that prohibition was more a disputed hypothesis than a law,
and that gin’s track record as a medicinal cure was without doubt. As Granks
lifted and drained her glass in thanks to Doc Gibbley, across the street
tempers flared again and the broiler blew its lid. Gnarly #2 flew across the
street and stormed up the porch screaming “Never again! Never again will I set
foot in that mad woman’s house!” This time she brought with her a suitcase, a Bible
and her favourite potted gladiola.
“Deary me,” thought Granks, “This looks
serious.” No amount of consoling or tea leaf divination could make the sister
reconsider. Granks offered the spare bedroom in the hopes that after a few days
the emotional tempest would pass. Well, the Gnarly sisters never had cause to
host a guest and so were unaware of the universal truth that after three days
guests and fish start to stink. In the case of Gnarly # 2 such truth would
prove utterly false—three days were whittled down to one. By evening’s end the
sister cast her critical eye toward a spotted table cloth, a chipped porcelain
vase and the dusty webs in the window corners. Rather than mount a defence,
Granks the perfect hostess, agreed the house needed a good tidy and asked for
decorating tips. It is when her guest complained of rheumatism did nerves start
to rattle. Granks kindly directed the sister to the medicine cabinet for a
soothing joint cream. Next to the balm, Gnarly # 2, spied a full bottle of gin.
With true temperance conviction she grabbed the devil water and poured it down
the sink; all the while whispering the scripture from 1 Peter 5:8: “Be
sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a
roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.” Later Granks went to the cupboard for
an evening bracer, only to find the bottle empty and quickly reckoned that her
guest was to blame. Spite pushed hospitality aside and a little venom spilled
into her thoughts, “Sister, you are in need of an attitude adjustment, and I
know just the thing to deliver it!”
The next morning the sister’s joints flared up again. Rather than offering the balm Grank’s said, “Now Deary, creams will not do. I have just the thing,” and she brought from the kitchen a bowl of oranges. “I’m going to let you in on a well-kept secret. When my bones crack and ache I eat one or two of these blood oranges and the pain stops. It’s a true miracle. You see they grow from a special tree out back that’s been grafted with a ‘Branch of Grace’ from the Irish orange tree Citrus sanctus sinensis—once blessed by a lock of Saint Patrick’s hair, I’m told. Here, let me peel one for you.” Within minutes of eating the fruit, icy cold fingers tingled with warm blood and a little sunshine crept into the joints and bones.
The next morning the sister’s joints flared up again. Rather than offering the balm Grank’s said, “Now Deary, creams will not do. I have just the thing,” and she brought from the kitchen a bowl of oranges. “I’m going to let you in on a well-kept secret. When my bones crack and ache I eat one or two of these blood oranges and the pain stops. It’s a true miracle. You see they grow from a special tree out back that’s been grafted with a ‘Branch of Grace’ from the Irish orange tree Citrus sanctus sinensis—once blessed by a lock of Saint Patrick’s hair, I’m told. Here, let me peel one for you.” Within minutes of eating the fruit, icy cold fingers tingled with warm blood and a little sunshine crept into the joints and bones.
“Why Granks the pain has left! I feel, I feel, like a stroll around the block!”
“Good idea, let me grab a bag of oranges
and a blanket to take with us. We’ll have a little picnic down by the park.”
Upon return, the trip ended gaily in front of the Gnarly residence with the two
arm-in-arm whistling “Home Sweet Home.”
“Well Granks I think it is about time I
make amends,” Gnarly #2 said with a giddy laugh. “I can’t even remember what
the fight was about. I’ll be over to get my things later tomorrow.”
“Oh Deary, I’m glad I could be of some help.
Come by any time and please share the rest of the bag with your sister. Remember
two oranges a day will keep the aches at bay.” For the next month Granks
supplied the sisters with baskets of the fruit along with abundant pastries and
sweets.
Irish Oranges? Its far easier to find snakes
in Ireland than an orange tree. To save her sanity, Granks took a hypodermic
needle (once used on Uncle Joe’s farm cows) and filled those oranges with a
good dose of gin! A little gin in orange juice—not very moral but it certainly
did reconcile the sisters and bring peace to the house. As Doc Gibbley says,
“What gin can not cure there is no cure for.”
Unbeknownst to Granks, the twins promoted
the miracle fruit by sharing it with other members of the temperance
sisterhood! Even worse they convinced the county agricultural minister (a
fellow Teetotaler) that such a precious tree must be promulgated. They asked
Granks if he could take grafts off the “Branch of Grace.” Granks said she
didn't mind adding, “We’ll have to wait till Autumn after the fruit falls” yet
she shook with fright when she said it. Her “polished truth” had now swelled
into a big fat lie, multiplying daily with each new taste of the Irish Oranges.
Granks wailed, “I should have told the truth from the very start, even if I had
to make it all up!”
Granks stumbled over the dilemma for well
over week until she was so fit-to-be-tied with worry that she could not sleep a
wink. Granks knew it was just a matter of time before the cat tore itself out
of the bag—what a mess! Then Doc Gibley knocked on her door. The good doctor
decided to make a house call when a patient of his asked for a prescription of
Irish Oranges. He quickly learned of the miracle fruit. “Seems like Granks has
opened her own folk apothecary—this I must see for myself.” As soon as Doc
mentioned the oranges, Granks collapsed into his arms sobbing. She confessed
the entire ruse.
“Oh Doc it will be the ruin of me for sure.
The sister’s have Temperance members on every church and public school board.”
“Now Granks take it from me, there is no
good medicine without a bitter taste. I know you live by the Golden Rule ‘Do
unto others’—all rules have exceptions and in this case, believe me, its those cantankerous
Gnarly twins! Your secret is safe with me but the tree must go! I know you love
that tree. I love it too for all the orange marmalade you've made me from it through
the years. Didn't the fruit win the Blue Ribbon at the county fair three years
running?”
“Not three but four! Oh Doc Gibbley it’d be
a sacrilege to cut that tree. My grandfather planted it in thanks the day I was
born. Surly, there must be a way to save it?”
Doc Gibley pondered the conundrum from all
sides. “Granks did you say that the oranges came from a single ‘branch of grace’?”
“Yes, a single grafted arm that grows only
the Blood Orange.”
“Then there is a chance to save that tree
yet—minus one branch. Bring me a thin wood chisel and a hammer. Be it a bone or
a branch, I mend them, and if need be, break them on occasion. We’ll disguise
the break as if it were a windfall.” Weeks later when the sister’s arrived with
the minister, they found the Branch of Grace bent and splintered.
“Deary me!” cried Granks. “Was it the
wind?”
“Fraid so Mam. And it’s a cryin’ shame too.”
replied the minister. “There's no chance for a graft now.” A miracle faded
before their eyes: the brown leaves curled in the hot sun and the once green
fuse drained to grey, and with it, the knowledge of the good and evil of Irish
Oranges.
Copyright 2013 Carl Callaway
