Come Here, Bucko

Whew, boy. Here we go again. And right in the middle of the laid-back holiday season. So here’s what just happened.

I was sitting in the living room reading. Back in the good ol’ summertime I started making ice cream. The first few batches convinced me that I had much more to learn, so I’ve read several books on “the art and science of the scoop” (as one book puts it). As I read this morning, I quietly plotted my next gastronomical adventure. When I heard a vehicle turn the corner, I would look up to see if it might be the delivery of the loose leaf rooibos and cardamom pods I ordered to try as ice cream flavors.

A voice from the basement interrupted my revelry. “Come here, Bucko,” she said. “Here. Right here! Right now!”

She had my attention at “Bucko.” That is almost always a precursor to trouble. Bad things. I shuffled down the stairs to where she stood beside the sewing table.

“So, in September, you gone and done that Sewing Goodness nonsense. Remember?”

I nodded. A simple acknowledgement was enough in the moment.

“And what did you do with the yardage? Remember that part?”

I hesitated because of an intuitive awareness that I might not remember that part exactly as expected.

“Well, let me remind you. All of those nice pieces of fabric that would have made delightful quilts for the children, the kids facing serious illness in the hospital, did any of them make it to my sewing table?” She looked straight at me. “Come along with me, now. I’ve got an important point to make.”

My lips parted as I started to reply, but she kept on talking.

“Okay, slow poke, I’ll answer for you. No. The answer to my question is no. You gave all of the good stuff to your friends. And what did you have left that you brought home to me?”

I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I’m aware enough to know when the train is about to leave the tracks and I could get squashed when it rolls over.

“I’ll tell you what. The scraps. The fabric with large sections cut out, somebody’s leftovers from a dress project. Itsy bitsy pieces, too. Scraps, I tell you. Sewing Goodness, my foot. All I saw was Sewing Detritus.”

By this time her hands had settled on her hips. Before she said the next sentence, she leaned toward me — “Thank you very much,” she growled.

I noticed she was working her jaw, but I chose not to mention it.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself? This is a proud moment, don’t ya’ think? Giving your wife of 44 years the scraps.” She dabbed at her eyes. “You would have made your mama proud. Real proud.”

I was listening, carefully, and noticed all of the times she asked for my response. I’m never sure what to do or say in these kinds of situations, so my response time was longer than what would have been optimum.

“So, here’s the plan,” she continued. “You remember that Scrappy February thing? Boy howdy. We’re going to do it again. This time we’ll call it Happy Scrappy Holidays. Got it? Happy Scrappy. Everybody’s gonna have a good time!”

That reminded me of the song about happy days are here again. I started to hum the tune. She cocked her head to the side and glared at me. “There’s a time to sing,” she said with a deliberate, measured rhythm, “and a time to be silent. Any clue as to which is the right thing for this moment?”

Once again, she asked a question but didn’t seem to really want my response. So I started thinking about what flavor of ice cream I’d make in my next batch. Basil cinnamon? Butterscotch infused with Chinese five spice?

“Pay attention,” she ordered. She let out a deep sigh. “This is going to hurt me more than it will you,” she said. Somehow, I doubted it, but remained silent.

“So every day between Christmas and New Year’s, I’m going to use up as many of the scraps you dragged home in September as I can. Unlike some people I know” — she looked at me straight on — “I have a job, so I can only do this during my vacation.” She emphasized each syllable of va-ca-tion. “And this time — not like in February — you’re going to keep up with the quilting. Got it?”

She motioned for me to come closer to her and the tote in which we keep quilt tops ready to be quilted. “Count the quilt tops waiting for you to mosey down the stairs,” she commanded. “I know it’s hard for a musician like you to count past four, but maybe all that eggnog you had yesterday loosened the cranial levers enough for you to get to ten. Okay, so I just answered for you. You’re welcome. As of this moment you’ve got ten quilt tops expecting your appearance. So you’re already behind. Comprende, mi amigo? You gotta keep up with me.”

I tucked my chin, lowered my eyes, and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

“For the life of me, I don’t know what in the world you do when I leave the house of a morning. What do you do all day?” She shook her head.

Disbelief? Disgust? I wasn’t sure.

“So,” she continued, “I gotta step in with some badly needed guidance. By New Year’s Eve you’re gonna show me an empty bin. You gotta do the ten quilt tops I’ve already finished plus whatever I make between now and then. Good lord, I can’t believe I’ve come to this in an attempt to get rid of the scraps you bring home.” She let out another sigh.

“And I’m serious about this, Bucko. You know how disgusted you get with folks doing fireworks on New Year’s Eve? Well, you’re really not going to like the fireworks you’ll see if there’s even one lonely quilt top in that bin come midnight on December 31.”

I started wishing for something as simple as being sent to my room. It happens, but not this day.

“One more thing. Here’s the deal, you’re going to let folks know what’s going on. On Facebook. I remember last time when you complained about feeling like I was shaming you. You call it shame; I call it accountability. I’m the one doing the talking — you haven’t said much — so accountability it is. Got it?”

Well, my friends. Welcome to Happy Scrappy. And pray for peace on earth and good will to the likes of me.