The Case of the Disappearing Lard Bucket

I may be going to hell for this one, but if I go, at least you’ll all know why.

Let’s just say my grandfather was what they called “a piece of work.” Definitely a product of his time – a bit racist, a bit homophobic, thought he knew what was right and proper for his family at all times, and got completely baffled when he was inevitably ignored by subsequent generations.

And he was never wrong. Except when he was.

In other ways, he was quite advanced for his time. When my aunt got deliberately pregnant to marry the handsomest guy around, Pop told her she didn’t have to marry him, they’d raise the kid on the farm. Pop knew him and some of his brothers were bad news, but my aunt was in wuvv, so the wedding commenced. Luckily my aunt was made of stronger stuff than to let her husband grind her into the ground, both physically and emotionally. It was close at times, but she came through.

Like the time that I was playing with the cats on the patio, and the cats were losing their winter hair, and when I was done loving them all up, me and my sweater looked like we’d hooked up a generator to a snow globe. Imagine a white sweater, now multicolor, and every strand sticking out at crazy angles, because longhair cats and static electricity. Of course I had to look presentable later, my parents were going to pick me up for Some Shindig, why else wear a white sweater on a visit to a farm? So Grenny took me back to the pantry room, which tripled as mud and laundry room. I took off my sweater, and in my training bra, stood there while Grenny worked her cleaning magic. With the door closed.

Of course he would come barging in, demanding to know what we women were doing behind a closed door. Oh, the furious scolding he got for that one! Grenny hounded him out of the room, hollering, and I wished fervently that they’d taught me Penna Dutch, because I knew those were Interesting Words! I originally ran for the cubby that led to the basement to hide, but we talked when I got my sweater back on. I mean, I was showing less skin that if I wore a bikini, so not much harm done. Except to Pop’s ego.

Well, what about the time he forgot what day it was? There were certain days of the calendar year that were For Women’s Work, and Heaven help you if you interfered. Fasnacht Day, Sour Cherry Canning Day, Cookie Day, and Chow Chow Day were some of our holidays. Parts of the first floor would be rearranged to accommodate the assembly line that was all the women, three generations, taking over and cranking out all the food we could, to last through the year. Yes, we all have huge chest freezers to hold it all, and we carefully parceled the goodies out over the year.

Those special days, lunch was “we left deli meat and bread and sliced cheese in the fridge, but come in the back door and don’t hassle us.” Many of these things require some finicky timing (fasnachts come to mind), so you’re wise to stay the heck out of the way.

One Chow Chow Day, somehow Pop forgot. Now, normally, you’d think a person would realize when walking in the “front door” of the kitchen, seeing the activity, you could just like, you know, remember, ease out, and come in the back? Nope, not Pop. He stood there, getting in the way, and hollered, “Woman, where’s my lunch?”

Grenny was conditioned to obey. Her daughters wouldn’t let her. We all froze, staring bloody daggers at him, while my aunt (same one from above) proved she was most definitely her father’s daughter, and proceeded to teach him (like he was a five year old) how to use the microwave to make himself a hot dog, since apparently he was too thoughtless to make a lunch meat sandwich like all the rest of us. My aunt crowned it with “And now you know how to make your own lunch! You never need to ask again!” and sent him off to his chair in the living room to eat and watch the noon news.

Pop’s ears were so red, we could see the glow around the corner in the kitchen.

Or the day that I mused aloud, in all innocence, if we had any American Indian blood in the family lines. Pop, who was researching all he could about our family history, exploded. “NO! WE DO NOT! NEVER! WE ARE A HUNDRED PERCENT PENNA DUTCH ALL THE WAY UP THE LINE, SINCE WE CAME FROM GERMANY! NO! ABSOLUTELY NOT!”

Come on, Pop. Even at that age, I knew about the Swiss and English that married in. I just looked at him, standing there, covered in outrage, breathing heavily, and said, mildly, “Well, you could have just said yes and be done with it,” before going outside to play. Because I knew that if you’re making that much of a big deal about it, then the answer is, of course, a yes. Pop gaped like a fish, and was snippy with me for weeks. Worth it.

I got revenge twice.

I was the second woman in my family to go to college. Pop was very controlling about how my mom had to go about it, and I’ve described that before. But me? Over an hour away, towards Philly. I’m sure there were Words Said behind the scenes, about unescorted wimmin going to the big city, but my parents were very quick to shut that crap down, and not mention it to me. Because they knew I would also go off on them, and I wouldn’t be polite about it.

My parents made plans to pry my grandparents off the farm for a day, and bring them down to visit. So they could see the campus was not the den of iniquity and danger they thought it was, being “so close” to Philly. My grandparents did go on day trips, and even a few charter bus tours, and we’d all chip in and take care of the farm in their absence. But this was unusual, going so far outside their comfort zone.

There would be one hitch, and I was going to revel in it.

Like I mentioned, Pop was a bit racist. Growing up, and the farm being my day care, I’d heard enough to know that. And I challenged it, but it was useless – what did I, a mere woman child, and a granddaughter at that, know about such adult things? Well, I knew I had a boyfriend that they would meet for the very first time, and despite his almost pure English and Irish heritage, he’d inherited from his dad the incredible ability to tan as dark as any from a different continent if you so much as looked at him funny. And me, who makes fresh snow drifts look dirty, was dating him.

Heh.

Then boyfriend, now hubby, and I sat in the lounge, staring down the hill. The visitor’s parking lot was on the far side, and they would have to walk around the running track and up to our dorm. A nice, pleasant walk. So we could see them coming from a long way away.

I will always remember the look on Pop’s face when we met them outside the dorms, hugging them, introducing them to boyfriend. Pop’s eyes flicked to my face, and I silently dared him with all I had to say something. Anything. His eyes flicked to my parents, and they also had the same face. But I will give him full props, he gave in to the inevitable. He had the grace to shake hands with no attitude, and he was at our wedding.

Even stubborn old coots can learn.

Well, sometimes.

Which leads me to the conundrum, the dilemma, the consternation, that was The Case of the Missing Lard Bucket.

My grandparents got older, and as such, had to change their diet. When you work on a farm, you work hard, and there are days when five thousand calories is nothing and leaves you looking for more. Up at dawn, out in the fields, in for lunch, out again, dinner at five, chores and milking and cleaning and chickens and rabbits and feed and tractors and repair, then relaxing to do it all again tomorrow. But when your son is doing more and you’re doing less, and you’re moving slower, you have to change the ratio.

And then there’s Pop. Did I mention stubborn?

Sure, tell him that he can no longer have his pancakes and waffles and gravy and sausage and bacon and sometimes even a slab of fat fried up crisp…

Grenny mostly cooked with Crisco, a vegetable shortening. But as she tried to change the diet to be a bit healthier, the more Pop craved fat, and demanded she start cooking with lard instead.

Of course there was still a giant can of lard in the kitchen. All farms around here have one. You butcher, you have lard. Cogito, ergo fry. For some recipes it’s still the best thing to use, and Grenny would dip into it occasionally. But now, for everything?

You can taste the difference. We were invited up for dinner.

Mom took one taste, and Lost. Her. Stercum.

We all knew the diagnosis. We knew Pop couldn’t handle this. So Mom hollered at Pop, Pop’s ears got red, and Mom ordered Grenny to go back to Crisco.

That lasted as long as it took for our car to leave the premises, and Pop ordered the lard meals again.

It didn’t last long. Hollering at Grenny was not a thing that was done, because we knew she couldn’t say no when Pop ordered her to do a thing. Grenny’s new glasses for her new prescription? Pop said they looked stupid and to never wear them, so Grenny hid them. Mom had to get her another set, and pay for it out of her own money, and hollered at Pop again. Yes, we were a hollering tribe; it was the only way that we women could maybe get through the thickness that is a Penna Dutchman’s skull. And he was quite deaf, even more so when he chose to be. Well, that, or a brickbat upside said skull, and that was even more Frowned Upon.

So, a new plan of attack was devised.

We visited all the time. We only lived a half mile up the road. So, when one or the other of us was talking with them somewhere other than in the kitchen (which was unusual), then the loose person would zip into the kitchen, grab the lard bucket, and whisk it away to parts unknown.

See, we couldn’t steal it. That would be Wrong.

But we could move it.

In the game of Hide the Lard Bucket, I was champion.

Mom, her sister, her brother, they were still kinda… well, I wouldn’t say wimpy, but they’d grown up in that household, Fear of Pop when he hollered was still ingrained in them. Me? Nah, I’m good. So Pop’s kids would hide it nearby – in another room, upstairs, in the ground cellar off the patio.

Pop would make Grenny go find it, and off she’d go and hunt till she retrieved it. And Pop’s cholesterol would skyrocket, and the doctors would be upset, and it was just a no win.

So when I hid the lard bucket, I did it well, and it was well and truly hidden. And I would inform both Grenny and Pop, and I would tell them don’t even bother sending her for it, she couldn’t find it.

And she didn’t. Ever.

Pop would make his kids find it. Fourteen buildings on the property. My aunt and uncle would curse my name to high Heaven when it was their turn to hunt; Mom would just sigh and say “He’s at it again, can you let me know where it is? I’ll give them a week, then hide it again.” And I would.

Eventually Pop gave up with very ill grace, because I was a champion hider. We weaned him off of his need for such fatty foods, and he ate healthier, and his cholesterol returned to normal.

And I went back to college, and hid the lard bucket one last time, and told them I took it with me.

I didn’t. But I also never told them where I’d stashed it.

Eventually Pop died, and we had to take care of Grenny round the clock, because her dementia was so bad she couldn’t be trusted to live alone. But she didn’t want to leave her home of seventy-plus years, which is understandable. We continued to honor her wishes, even as her memory was taken away, a decade at a time. But we loved her, and though she didn’t recognize us anymore, she knew we were there to help her, till even the memory of the old familiar farm house faded, and it was a stranger’s home to her.

And then she was gone, and we got the place ready to sell.

My uncle finally found the lard bucket while cleaning out the butcher house, hidden in the back of the ashes. I heard the commotion from the kitchen, and we gathered to see my uncle sitting on the cold cement floor, hugging that can like he’d gotten a piece of them back.

We were all laughing and crying at the same time, but we’d never admit it. Damn onion ninjas, sneaking into our grief and memory.

I’m sure Pop is still ticked at me. I see him in dreams sometimes, and he’s still giving me That Look. And I give it right back. I loved him, flawed as he was, but I loved him all the more when he’d change his ways. Stubborn? Hard-headed? Acting more like a donkey’s backside than normal? Yep, but after all, I am Pop’s granddaughter. I inherited that stubbornness with every meal, and being a woman in a male-dominated society, I knew I could match and best any of them.

And I did.

One lard bucket at a time.