by Janet Mitchum
I was asked to rerun one of Janet’s old stories, so here it is. It was written 20 years ago.
Guess who’s out of town? That’s right. He’s gone again. He asked me to run one of his old stories, but I just couldn’t do you that way. Having to read Rusty’s tales once is almost like punishment, but having to read it again, just seems cruel. One of Rusty’s favorite sayings is “It’s easier to get forgiven than it is to get permission”, so I thought I might take this opportunity to do something that I’ve threaten to do for many years now. I’ve decided to see if I can sell Rusty.
I’ve had plenty of time to think about this, nearly thirty years, in fact. But just running an ad that reads “For Sale: Husband. Cheap,” would probably not get too many responses, although, it does say a lot. It either implies that he is cheap, or that he’s for sale cheap. In Rusty’s case, both apply. Why, you may ask, would I sell him so cheaply? Well, how can I put this? Rusty is not the brightest Jack-o-Lantern on the porch, but he and the other pumpkins share the same features. The insides of their heads have all been scraped clean of anything useful, they all have silly grins on their faces, and they each have a little candle inside that flickers to let you know that there is someone home. I’m not saying that he completely dumb, but he does some of the dumbest things. Let me give you a couple of examples.
A few weeks ago, the weather turned off cold, and Rusty had come home early. When I got home, I walked into the house and smelled just the hint of burned hair, so I knew Rusty had built a fire in the fireplace. I walked into the den and there was Rusty in a chair he had pulled up in front of a roaring fire. He had his nose deep into a motorcycle magazine.
Rusty, as you may know, has a hearing problem. He was on a crew that fired a cannon back when he was in high school, and did not take the precautions as he was told, to protect his hearing. That, and the fact, that he has fired guns since he could walk, has left him with some hearing loss. It does not bother him, as much as it does me. He has hearing aids, but most of the time he either forgets to put them in, or just doesn’t think about it. The reason I bring this up, is that he did not hear me come in.
I was asked to rerun one of Janet’s old stories, so here it is. It was written 20 years ago.
Guess who’s out of town? That’s right. He’s gone again. He asked me to run one of his old stories, but I just couldn’t do you that way. Having to read Rusty’s tales once is almost like punishment, but having to read it again, just seems cruel. One of Rusty’s favorite sayings is “It’s easier to get forgiven than it is to get permission”, so I thought I might take this opportunity to do something that I’ve threaten to do for many years now. I’ve decided to see if I can sell Rusty.
I’ve had plenty of time to think about this, nearly thirty years, in fact. But just running an ad that reads “For Sale: Husband. Cheap,” would probably not get too many responses, although, it does say a lot. It either implies that he is cheap, or that he’s for sale cheap. In Rusty’s case, both apply. Why, you may ask, would I sell him so cheaply? Well, how can I put this? Rusty is not the brightest Jack-o-Lantern on the porch, but he and the other pumpkins share the same features. The insides of their heads have all been scraped clean of anything useful, they all have silly grins on their faces, and they each have a little candle inside that flickers to let you know that there is someone home. I’m not saying that he completely dumb, but he does some of the dumbest things. Let me give you a couple of examples.
A few weeks ago, the weather turned off cold, and Rusty had come home early. When I got home, I walked into the house and smelled just the hint of burned hair, so I knew Rusty had built a fire in the fireplace. I walked into the den and there was Rusty in a chair he had pulled up in front of a roaring fire. He had his nose deep into a motorcycle magazine.
Rusty, as you may know, has a hearing problem. He was on a crew that fired a cannon back when he was in high school, and did not take the precautions as he was told, to protect his hearing. That, and the fact, that he has fired guns since he could walk, has left him with some hearing loss. It does not bother him, as much as it does me. He has hearing aids, but most of the time he either forgets to put them in, or just doesn’t think about it. The reason I bring this up, is that he did not hear me come in.
Rusty is always jumping out of nowhere scaring me, so I thought I’d give him a dose of his own medicine, but I was more subtle. I walked up behind his chair and bent down and kissed him on his bald head.
“AAAAAAHHHHH!” He yelled, and then threw his magazine into the fireplace. “OH NO!” he screamed and then reached into the fire to rescue the magazine. “YEEEOOOW!” he exclaimed, as he pulled the burning bundle out. Then he dropped it on the hearth, and proceeded to stomp it out. Unfortunately, he had pulled off his boots, and so he was in his stocking feet. “YEEEOOOW!” he yelled again. There’s one thing I can say for Rusty, what he lacks in sense, he makes up in persistence. He finally put the magazine out. Then, he turned and looked at me. His eyebrows, and lashes were singed (from starting the fire), and one of his socks was smoldering.
“Guess what?” I said. “I’m home.”
“What are you tryin’ to do?” he asked. “Give me a heart attack.”
“How many times have you scared me over the years, Buster?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Well…., uh…., I did it out of love.”
“Right,” I said. “By the way, how did you singe the hair on your face?”
“Well that’s your fault, too.” He replied.
“My fault?”
“Yeah. That stupid bowl of kindlin’ on the table there wouldn’t get the fire goin’, so I threw in a cup of Coleman fuel and it flashed up.”
I looked around at the bowl he was talking about. “You idiot,” I said. “That wasn’t kindling. That’s a bowl of potpourri.”
“Those leaves and stuff?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it smelled funny anyway.”
“Brother,” I sighed.
I guess, if I’m trying to sell him, I should tell you some of his good qualities. He loves kids, and kids seem to like him as well. He likes cats. He is one of the few men I know who likes cats. We do not have cats, because I’m allergic to them, but he does like them. But his real true love is dogs. Rusty is a dog lover, no doubt. If he sees a truck parked somewhere with a dog in the back, he will pull in as close as he can, get out, and go play with the dog. He’ll scratch, rub, wrestle, and talk baby talk to the dog until the owner shows back up. Then he’ll talk to the owner, until the poor person will have to feign illness to get away. Rusty then stands there and waves at the dog as he leaves.
This affection for dogs is not always a good thing. Take our daughter Michelle’s dogs, for example. They both adore Rusty. She has two miniature Dachshunds, named Callie, and Chili. These dogs are as different as night and day. Callie is moody and bossy, and Chili, well Chili is a lot like Rusty. He is just happy-go-lucky, but has about as much brains as an acorn. They get along famously.
When Michelle goes out of town, we keep Callie and Chili. A few months ago, we had them for a few days while Michelle was gone. Rusty had gone grocery shopping (which is a story all by itself), and had bought some Cajun boudin. He cooked it up, got out his hot sauce and crackers and started eating it. I cannot stand to look at the stuff, much less even think about putting it in my mouth, so I was not in the kitchen to see what was happening. Unbeknownst to me, Rusty was feeding Chili pieces of boudin from his plate. This was a No No. We do not feed the dogs from the table. Well, I don’t, and Rusty doesn’t either, if I’m in there to watch him.
It seemed that the boudin must have fermented in Chili’s little tummy. I did not mention that the dogs sleep with us. They crawl down and bury themselves under the covers. I had just gotten comfortable, when I heard a noise from under the covers.
“Wudn’t me,” said Rusty. In just a second, we were engulfed in a cloud of.. of…UGH, that just seemed to hang there. Callie, who was under the covers with Chili shot out like her tail was on fire. I grabbed my nose, turned on the bedside lamp, and threw back the covers. There was Chili. He was sitting there with a silly grin on his face. I looked over at Rusty, and I swear, he had the same stupid grin.
“Must have been the boudin,” he smiled sheepishly. They both spent the rest of the night camped out in the den.
Well, after reading back over this, it’s pretty clear; I’ll never find a buyer for Rusty. I not for sure I could even pay someone to take him. Oh well, I guess I’ll hang onto him a little longer. One thing is for sure, there’s never a dull moment when he’s around.