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Who’s Crazie Now?

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I just got back from a week in the Rocky Mountains at a resort where, I swear, time has not changed in 50 years. My husband asked if they had a Wi-Fi Cafe nearby. Not only is there no wi-fi, there’s no cafe. There is certainly no cell phone service and the one ancient pay phone only worked a few hours every other day. Personally, I loved it.

I even got to spend some quality time with a few of the following residents of Crazie Town.

The Older Sister – who, I maintain, interpreted the following road sign even sillier than I did. “No Snowplowing Between 7pm-7am.” I decided it meant people shouldn’t be using their own snowplows during this time. My sister decided this meant that when you’re skiing you can’t use the snowplow move after 7pm. I believe I will rate our decisions as “Double Doh’s” since Older Brother explained it meant that during a snowstorm, the roads would not be plowed after 7pm.

The Husband (not an original resident, but has been around long enough to receive dual citizenship) – who gave new meaning to the expression “haste-makes-waste.” As we walked out to the picnic table with the rest of the meal, he was asked to add grapes to the salad before he brought it out. Many minutes later when no salad or husband arrived, I returned to the cabin to find him still in the kitchen. He was inspecting each and every grape on the vine, only removing the undamaged ones. He placed the perfect grape in the middle of a dinner plate where he carefully sliced it exactly in half, only then depositing it gently on top of the lettuce.  I have to admit, it was a delicious salad.

The Niece – who couldn’t quit giggling every time we said we were “Going to the Poudre.” The Poudre River runs through the area where we stayed. It is pronounced, by the locals, as “Poo-der” which is, evidently quite close to “Pooter” which is a word I won’t explain to you.

The Older Brother – who unsuccessfully tried to hide the fact that within minutes of wandering over to the “Pooter” river to inspect the velocity of the rushing waters, fell in. Was he hurt? Who knows. Our only concern was that thereafter, any bonehead move would be dubbed “Doing a Mike.”

The Nephew and his Wife – they’re newlyweds so, let’s just leave them out of this, okay? Well, maybe just one thing. Homemade pie? I know it’s not a competition but on my night to cook I made spaghetti with bottled sauce. On their night they made Juicy Lucys (look it up) and for dessert a homemade four-fruit pie. Four fruits? Really?

And what about the Mayor of Crazie Town? Well, let’s see. I packed two humongus suitcases – 49 pounds each – filled with every essential a Crazie person would need. I used my husband’s travel golf bag to bring two collapsable lawn chairs (in case there aren’t enough chairs at the resort), a set of sheets (I can’t very well sleep on theirs can I?) and two large furniture throws (who wants to spend a week in plaid couch hell?) In the other suitcase I packed hiking boots, several pairs of sneakers, sandals and my clothes, which included all the white t-shirt I own (and are now covered in every kind of stain known to man), a sketch pad, colored pencils and book titled Drawing for the Absolute Beginner (in case my writing career never takes off), and my laptop (which I never even opened.)

And we’ll end with the icing on the cake. because even though I packed my own travel coffee mug, once there I decided to purchase a dust covered “handcrafted” ceramic one for $20 (which I forgot to bring home).

Who’s crazie now? Huh?

P.S.  Do me a favor would you?  Share the Crazie with a friend.  Thanks!

The Crazie Town Constitution.

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Teacher, Teacher, I declare. I see someone's underwear.

No, this isn’t a picture I discovered on the internet. I found it in a box of family photos. It’s my Aunt Betty Lou in front of the house where she grew up…the house where I grew up.

I call it Crazie Town central…where our residents work hard to conform to the constitution formulated by my grandparents’ generation.

There are a lot of stories about Great Uncle Fats, but this is a favorite.  He was driving a grain truck so overloaded, that when he tried to go up a steep incline, the front tires lifted off the road.  He rolled the truck back down the hill and when he got the vehicle moving forward, had his eight-year-old nephew slide over to drive while he crawled out of the still-moving vehicle to sit on the hood.  According to the child (my dad) it worked.

The odd shape of Crazie Town’s borders can be attributed to the fact that when my Grandma Irma inherited her share of her father’s land, Great Uncle Henry had a fit.  He “yelled so loud, you could hear him all the way down Kansas Avenue.”  When his screaming didn’t work, he opened the lawyer’s window and threatened to jump.  Even though it was barely ten feet to the sidewalk, his sister conceded and gave him the extra acres he wanted.

On important holidays, Mom drove into town and picked up Great Auntie M.   She had a mole the size of an olive on her nose.  She thought coffee was bad for you so she sipped at a mug of hot water with cream and sugar the whole time chain smoking packs of cigarettes, always careful to slide each one into her foot-long gold-tipped  cigarette holder before she lit it.

My Dad and his generation proudly continued the cultivation of their eccentricities.  Instead of walking out to his mailbox each day (a distance of 20 yards) Lewie got in his car and drove.  He wore glasses but they were too tight on his head so he would clamp them on the outside of his ears.  In his later years we built him a new home with central air and a thermostat he loved to play with.  In the summer I’d walk in to see him sitting in his rocker in front of the TV wearing sweatpants and a flannel shirt.  In winter I’d likely find him in shorts and t-shirt.

It’s looking hopeful that the next generation will carry on with our Crazie Town traditions.   A friend of mine recently reminded me of the story of her last visit to the farm.

“Remember when your nephew ran through the house with a flaming propane tank?” she asked.   Of course I do.

We were preparing for a bonfire, even though it was a little too windy to do so safely.  My nephew planned to start the fire with the flame from a hand-held propane torch, which he wisely lit inside the house.  Unfortunately the tank had a leak so flames shot out from the side.  With everyone screaming directions at him he finally sprinted out the back door and tossed it into the pasture south of the house.  Of course, the grass caught on fire.  He hurried back to the house and grabbed the hose.  He dashed toward the fire but was yanked off his feet when the length of hose ran out twenty-five feet from the flames.

I can tell you, as the Mayor of Crazie Town, that was a proud moment.

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