Irish Oranges for a X-mass Day

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

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.

Carrie Nation courtesy of Wikipedia

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”:

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.

 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.

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.

“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

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[1] John Barleycorn is a personification of malt liquor.

The Stowe School of San Luis Obispo

My father Harold D. Callaway and his brothers and sisters were all taught in a one room school house. His sisters attended the Irish Hills school circa 1920 while in the late 1920's Harold along with his older brother Woody and Bill attended the Stowe School house located on O'Connor Lane in San Luis Obispo. Their Schoolmarm was Mrs. Stone. Here is a picture of the class circa 1929 as well as a few of Harold's recollections:

(In the picture above is Woodrow Callaway, leftmost figure, back row; Bill Callaway, rightmost figure back row; Jerry Shipsey, leftmost figure, front row; Harold Callaway, second from the left, front row)

The Stowe School, on O'Connor Lane, was about 1 ½ miles,from our house and we would walk to school everyday. Howard Williams rode a donkey to school. His family lived on the O'Connor ranch and worked for the O’Connors. Sometimes, we would take a bunch of carrots and tie them to a stick and hold them in front of the donkey, so that he would move forward. Howard would give me a ride home back to 'This Old House' that is now a restaurant located on Foothill Boulevard.

 Mrs. Stone was our teacher. She taught phonics (poetry) and this was the first time we learned the line, “Jack be nimble Jack be quick. Jack jump over the candle stick.” We also learned many poems like Longfellow's Village Blacksmith:

Under a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

The first thing in the morning was math. Followed by spelling, reading and history. I was a very poor speller but the rest of the subjects were very easy for me. In the 5th grade we had to write a history of the U.S.A. starting from the landing of the Pilgrims.We learned many songs as well. In the mornings Mrs. Stone played a pump organ while we sang the anthems of the day. 

Each student brought a carrot, onion or a potato to class to which was put in a  pot that sat on the wood fire stove. Mrs. Stone added in a few spices and by lunch we'd all have a delicious stew to eat! Sometimes during lunch she read out loud a few pages of the Classics.  She read us chapters from the Count of Monte Cristo or The Tale of the Green Knight from the Legends of King Arthur. Tales like that of Sir Launfal rang true to me and conjured up visions of the grail’s quest. I pondered these stories in a deep way and what it meant to give a helping hand every now and then. I remember  one especially that of Sir Launfal- while the grail quest he met on the road a naked wretch of a leper begging for a little food. Revolted by the sick creature, he pushed the old man away,  Then taking pity he threw him his cloak. Later in a dream, the Lord revealed himself as the leaper who beseeched the knight for help. The dream voiced:

Its not what we give, but what we share,--
For the gift without the giver is bare;
Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,

Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me." 

Some of the students who attended the school with me were Bill and Woodrow Callaway, Jerry Shipsey, Anita Salmina, Norman Alberti, Maxine Alberti, Howard Williams, Herbi Williams, Francis Nunes, John Nunes and the Jespersen Twins.

Mr. Jespersen was the school trustee. Mr Byrd was the superintendent of schools. He would come once a year and give us a state test. Our score was always 3-4 grades higher than any other school. One of the reasons we progressed so fast is that each class level always heard the lesson above it. By the time you graduated to the next grade you already knew the lesson!

  

The Lost Bottle: As Told By Harold D. Callaway

When my sister Alice was born, my parents were given two beautiful bottles of whiskey with matching gold-leaf inscription that read: "Sunny Brook The Pure Food Whiskey" with emblems of the 1910 CA State fair printed at the top. The liquor was used for festivities and as well as a medicine (i.e. a few drops on the gums helped calm a teething baby and a few drops for the mother helped smooth out the nerves).

Well, Floyd Faber (he was papa’s nephew and Aunt Frankie’s son by Buntz) was at the house one day and said to papa, “Let me have one of the bottles and I will take it into town and have it refilled at the tavern" (back in those days good bottles where scarce to come by, and so you would bring it into town and have it refilled directly from the oak barrel at the bar). Papa gave it to him and on the way home the weather was getting a little nippy as he rode his horse along, and so  he began to take a few nips from the bottle. He ended up drinking all the whiskey and  throwing the empty bottle away! For years when mama would get mad at papa, she would remind him how he gave away her precious gold-leaf whiskey bottle- his only defense was hang his head in silence.

Over forty years passed and then my father passed away- he was gone about five years I think. Well, I was coming up Vachel Lane on Old Highway 101 in the Model-T Ford when a voice came in my head shouting, “Go get your mother’s bottle!”. I stopped the pick-up right there, and went over to the S.L.O. creek where the county had just put a big cut in the bank. I climbed into the creek, I looked up, and there under about thirty feet of rock and sand was the neck of a bottle sticking out. I climbed up the bank and dug around the neck of the bottle and extracted it from the fill. It was the exact twin to the other bottle lost so many years ago! I took it home, set it on the table and said, “Mama, papa just sent you back your bottle.” At that moment, there appeared a big smile on mama’s face as warm as sunshine.

Rachel Jane See's Morning Prayer

Recently on a visit to San Luis Obispo, I found a photo of Rachel Jane See in the family archives- the great matron of the Callaway Family who married William Dudley Callaway and had many children. Grandma See along with her father Joseph See and adopted brother Jake See were some of the first settlers to inhabit See Canyon, a place that now bears the family name. Also I was given by my cousin Diana Domenghini a prayer that Grandma Rachel liked to recite as she rose each morning:

Father I thank thee
that this night
in peace and rest
has passed away
and that I see
in this fair light
the Father's smile
that makes the day.
Supply our wants
our sins forgive
and make us happy
when we die.

The Life and Times of Jake C. See

The story of Jake C. See is the stuff of legend during the early days of the California frontier when San Luis Obispo was cow country―a time ruled by cattle ranchers and the cowboy way where the vigilante’s rope and the law of the gun prevailed. This particular story originated with Rachael Jane See whose family adopted the orphaned Jake while crossing the Great Plains by covered wagon train on the way to California. It was then told to her child Georgia (Callaway) Ruda who then passed it onto her daughter Georgia (Ruda) Martines who, with the help of her daughter Diana (Martines) Domenghini, transcribed and illustrated the story in 1968.

Jake C. See was the quintessential American cowboy―a mountain of a man with a wide handle-bar mustache and sparkling, clear eyes; his cheeks and sharp nose were chiseled by decades of wind, rain, and dusty trails until his face became as burnished as the leather boots he wore; he was bow-legged from constant horseback riding, donned a wide-brimmed Stetson hat and a bandana, wore a gun on the hip, and when riding carried a 100 foot riata―the use if which he was famous for. Con­sidered the “Robin Hood” of the West by friends and the devil incarnate by the rest, in 1880 was eventually arrested and convicted of sheep rustling but served only two years of a four year term in San Quentin Prison after local residents petitioned the governor for his early release. He ran unsuccessfully for Sherriff of San Luis Obispo County in 1918. The paper reported that Jake died of influenza in the same year but a new book by Diana Domenghini tells of a different demise and colorful life.

For more information about the book see: http://www.lulu.com/product/file-download/the-life-times-of-jake-c-see/12476280?productTrackingContext=search_results/search_shelf/center/1