Only in Keswick

Written by Tony Vanderwarker

I have no idea where it came from but all of a sudden, while walking down the cereal aisle in the Giant, I had this impulse to buy a box of Sugar Pops.

“What? Are you crazy?” my wife said when I put the Pops in the cart. “You’re not eleven anymore, why in the world would you want to eat sugared cereal?”

I didn’t have a ready answer to her question so I just shrugged. Maybe it was a Proustian thing and Sugar Corn Pops were my answer to madeleines? Just as the taste of a madeleine made by his aunt took Marcel Proust, the French novelist, back to his early years. Was this a belated attempt to return to my youth?

As Annie started to return the box to the shelf, I grabbed it and said, “These are my madeleines.”

“Your what?”

“You know, Proust, he went for madeleines and they took him back to his childhood,” I said, taking the box out of her hands.

“C’mon, you’re no Marcel Proust and these are no madeleines, these are little sugared pebbles kids eat.”

I turned my back to her so she couldn’t get the box and that was when she realized people were staring at us. Two adults fighting over a box of Sugar Pops in the supermarket while talking about madeleines and Marcel Proust.

Seeing her drop her guard, I slipped the box into our open bag.

“You can’t let anyone see you doing this,” she huffed, stuffing the box down into the bottom.

The next morning, I went for the Sugar Pops and poured myself a bowl. Getting the milk out of the fridge, I saw a box of blueberries. Hmm, that might be tasty, I thought, shaking some berries on top of the Pops. I set the box on the counter and admired the front. I noticed “Sugar” was gone from the name but the box was as campy as ever. Big POPS in cherry red letters against a sunny yellow background, outlines around the letters so they seemed to shake and a big bowl of Pops below with waves of milk lapping over them. Andy Warhol would have been proud.

“So, Mr. Proust, we feeling eleven again?” my wife sneered as she came in and saw me chowing down.

“Not yet, just passing into thirteen, but by the time I’ve finished, maybe I’ll make it there.”

“I can’t believe you’re eating this,” she said, picking up the box and thumping it down on the counter. “Nine grams of sugar—this is crap.”

“With blueberries, its actually pretty tasty,” I said.

Now I’d gathered information in defense of my breakfast choice, so reading off my iPad, I said, “Listen to this–as Proust wrote, ‘No sooner had the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent on the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me—this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence.’”

“Precious essence—my ass, you’re getting a damn sugar rush from eating junk food.”

“Actually I did get a vision of the kitchen of our house where I grew up.”

“Right, and if you’re having visions I think you should see someone,” she said, with just the slightest tone of contempt.

Annie has given up now that I’m on my fourth box and am a regular Sugar Pops abuser. But just to minimize marital disruption, I stalk the cereal aisle by myself now, keep the box behind my back and quickly sneak it into the bag when she’s not looking. We do the auto checkout so she doesn’t notice the box until we get home and its too late. As she says, “As long as no one sees you, I guess it’s alright.”

And if you see Annie on the street, do me a favor and don’t tell her you know Tony eats Sugar Corn Pops. Things will be far better off that way.

By Tony Vanderwarker

It seemed to be a good idea at the time, We’d had success renting our studio above the garage through Airbnb, so when we decided to post our front house on the site, we figured we’d also put it on VRBO. Airbnb seemed to cater to couples renting for the weekend (hence the bnb—bed and breakfast) and our personal experience with VRBO was with larger groups for longer stays. So why not have two sources of renters?

We were delighted to see all the bookings, though we were surprised that most came through Airbnb. A few people worked through VRBO, but not many. That’s probably why Tony booked a lady from Wisconsin coming to Charlottesville for her daughter’s PhD celebration on Airbnb and the Annie signed up a group for a family get-together on VRBO.

Only two months later when the dates were approaching did we realize we’d booked both for the same weekend.  One group was nine and the other ten. No way we could put them in the same house. And if you canceled a reservation with either service, they would put a black mark on your listing.

So what to do? The answer was obvious—we had to move out of our house and so one group could move in. But where were the two of us and our four dogs to go? Our studio was booked for that weekend and our cottage was rented. Four houses on the farm and we had booked ourselves out of every one.

Fortunately, Sandy and Susan’s tenant had just left and they generously offered their cottage to us.

Here’s what you do when you have to move out of your house for three days so strangers can move in–according to my wife.

“We have to get padlocks to lock all our closets, construct an owner’s closet in the garage utility room to hold our silverware, drugs and valuables,” she insisted. The list was long but when she said we had to hide our underwear I objected.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said.

“No, it isn’t, the first thing people look at is your underwear.”

Somehow I had overlooked this aspect of human behavior.

“So if you won’t hide it, I will.”

The undies disappeared. As did everything Annie could get her hands on. She ran around for two days squirreling this thing here and that there.

Somehow, we managed to get our house completely guest-proofed, packed our bags, loaded up the dogs and moved out on the afternoon the guests we’re arriving.

As we pulled into the Rives’s driveway, Annie said “&%$#!<! I think I left a bra hanging out in the laundry room!. I was going to put it away but I forgot. How mortifying!”

“They’re probably showing it around as we speak.”

“You don’t realize how nosey people are, they look everywhere,” she huffed. News to me, another part of human behavior I’d missed. But after checking with a bunch of female friends, I was surprised to find it’s common knowledge that people poke around everywhere and have a thing about underwear.

We survived the weekend, actually had a nice time living out of suitcases in the Rives’ small but cozy cottage.

When Sunday arrived, we packed up, thanked Susan and Sandy and headed home. Fortunately, the renters had departed well before checkout time and the house was still standing.

We moved our underwear back in, took the locks off the closets, stripped the beds and retrieved our valuables from the garage.

The house was just the way we left it and our bank account was fatter due to the rental income.

There was only one thing wrong—my computer was missing.

“Okay, where did you hide my computer?” I asked her.

“Did you look in my armoire?”

“I’ve looked everywhere. The renters wouldn’t have stolen it, you have to have hidden it somewhere.”

“I honestly don’t remember doing that.”

“C’mon, Hon, it has my life on it. You were in a mad panic secreting everything away, you have to have put it somewhere.”

“I swear I remember seeing it right where it always is. I can’t recall having moved it.”

Four hours went by with the two of us tearing the house apart and still no computer.

Finally, “Aha!” she said and reached down and pulled my laptop out of a bookcase. She had filed it away on its side amidst a bunch of tall books, thinking no one would ever think to look there. And she was almost right.

“Thanks,” I said. “Next time, maybe you should write down where you hide stuff.”

Silence and a stern stare from the wife–some things are better left unsaid.

That afternoon, we tooled up to Walmart and bought this honking big calendar, entered all the upcoming bookings and swore neither one of us would accept another without checking the calendar to make sure the date was open.

Now everything’s back to normal and my underwear is safe in its drawer—and still unseen.

By Tony Vanderwarker

One fine morning back when we were living in Ivy, out of nowhere, my dear wife decided she wanted to bury me at Grace Church in Keswick as it was a family tradition to be married and buried there.

“Bury me alive?” I asked.

“No, Silly, when you die, it’s important to me to have you put in the ground there.”

“Is this something you anticipate in the immediate future?”

“Of course not, I’m sure you’ll live a long time. But when you pass on, I want to make sure I can have you interred there.”

“Don’t you find this a bit macabre?’

“No, not really, I’m just being practical. Have you thought about where you want to be buried?”

“Never, never gave it a second’s thought.”

“Well, I have and I talked to Miller (Miller was the minister at the Ivy Episcopal church; Miller Hunter was his name. Or was it Hunter Miller? I can never remember) and he said you need to be confirmed.”

“Whaa?”

“You need to go through the confirmation process in order to be buried in an Episcopal cemetery.”

“Sounds like a bunch of rigmarole to me.”

“Not really, it’s just a formality.”

“Do I have to wear a suit (I hadn’t put on a suit in four years)?”

“That’s up to you, there are some classes you have to go to.”

“Oh no…”

“Just six. You and Vandy will go together.”

I remembered taking a mandatory religion class given by the school minister at Andover that was holy hell. Boring, tedious, so mind numbing I wanted to run out of the room screaming. I’m not big on religion anyway. Had my fill of God at prep school where I had to go to church every day for three years; really soured me on the experience. Okay, so if you’re reading this and you are a religious person, that’s fine with me, it’s just not Tony’s thing.

“Uh, uh! No classes, not for me,” I protested. “I’d rather be burned to ashes or buried in a potter’s field somewhere.”

Anne trotted out the big guns: “It’s important to me, Tony, that you do this.”

“Sitting there listening to Hunter Miller is my idea of torture. “

“It’s Miller Hunter.”

“Whatever it is, he’s a great guy but he’s a bit on the tedious side, not known as the most captivating speaker.”

“Miller’s a sweet man.”

“Maybe, but frankly, I’d rather stare at the wall.”

“It’s just a couple hours a week.”

“Can I take a six-pack with me, maybe a thermos filled with Mai Tai’s that I can sip to get through the torment?”

“Of course not, it’s church.”

Shaking my head, I say, “You’re going to owe me for this.”

“Thank you, dear. It means so much to me.”

Pain and suffering inflicted on prisoners of Isis doesn’t come close to what I endured for six weeks at the hands of Miller Hunter. He led off by describing the aim of the course to be “presenting a diet version of Christianity to make discipleship easy to swallow.” Instead, he fed me the high calorie version and it bored me to tears. He’d ramble on with endless tedium that reminded me of driving school or typing class, elevating simple mechanical stuff up to the level of geopolitics or brain surgery. The only perverse enjoyment I got from the classes was repeatedly hitting the DELETE button.

To add insult to the injury, the six students in the class were all teenagers. The only person who was more agonized was Vandy. He was mortified to be going through such an ordeal with his peers.

But the straw that broke Tony’s back was when Hunter Miller discovered I had not been baptized. And let me know I needed to be.

This was way more than I had bargained for. BAPTIZED! NO EFFING WAY AM I GOING TO SIT UNDER THE SPRINKLER SYSTEM AT THAT CHURCH. NO WETTING THIS BOY DOWN!

“What?” I asked Anne. “Do I stand up there with babies in little white dresses and wait to be doused by the minister? No way!”

“And you need to have three godparents,” Anne told me.

“What? Do I rent them? Or just pull them in off the street?”

“You pick friends and ask them if they will be your godparents.”

“Like who?”

“Oh, say Mickey and Joe, and maybe Dolly would do it.”

“Look, I didn’t sign up for this and it’s going way over the top.”

“Just ask them; they are all good friends.”

“It’s absolutely humiliating to have to ask people to be my godparents.”

“I bet they’d be honored to do it. All they have to do is stand there while you go through the ceremony.”

I bit my tongue, asked them and on that fateful day, I got up in front of the congregation in my suit with two babies on either side and took the water treatment.

After going through all that, what do I get?

I can look forward to being buried at Grace Church.

Goody, goody gumdrops! Can’t wait.

By Tony Vanderwarker

Okay, I knew we had it coming. My buddy Dylan got nabbed sniffing trash cans on Clarks Tract and had to spend the night in the slammer.

“Put me in with a bunch of low-life’s who barked all night,” he told me. “Don’t know what I did to deserve that.”

“They’ll call you for traveling at the drop of a hat, I guess.”

And then a couple weeks later, we went off the reservation again and some neighbors ratted us out. Masters came and picked us up, tut-tutting us and giving us nasty looks. When the masters got out the leashes, neither of us was surprised. All good things have to come to an end, we figured.

Hardest part was we had to watch the girls romp around free tracking all kinds of good scents and crapping wherever they wanted while we had to walk the straight and narrow, couldn’t pee on planters or dig holes in the gardens anymore.

Not that we were complaining – like someone said, “You don’t know what you’re in until you’re out of it.” In my book, a scrumptious bowl of tasty little pellets, all the water you want plus you get to sleep all day and get your ears scratched all the time – that ain’t all bad.

But little did we know what they had in store for us.

One day a bunch of guys showed up with a big red machine and set to cutting a slit in our fields. “Now what are they up to?” we wondered.

But we didn’t think anything of it; even when they put tiny white flags, marking where they’d cut into the ground.

The plot soon thickened. First it was these cheesy plastic collars with pokey little things that stuck into your neck and made you sweat to death. What was wrong with the old ones, braided jobs that let your neck breathe? They just junked them.

“Uh, oh,” we thought.” That’s when we began to get the idea it was so long to the good old days.

Next we know this guy shows up who plays up to Dylan and me so bad you’d think he was running for dogcatcher. All this “good doggie” stuff, giving us treats and acting like the two of us were Lassie come back to life.

Then he puts us on leashes and takes us out to the field. It was like in those cowboy movies where the mob’s got ropes and is all pissed off and they lead this bank robber out to the big tree? That’s kinda how we felt.

And we were right. First, just when we get close to the flags this thingy that’s got the prongs on it beeps.

“So? What’s the damn BEEP for?” A second later we find out. Get this wicked jolt that stops us dead in our tracks.

“Oucheeewawa! Talk about a pain in the neck.”

“Gol dang, that stang!,” howled Dylan.

As we’re backpedaling like mad, we trade deep doo-doo glances.

Look, I used to think the owners were nice people until they go Saddamm Hussein on us. Shocking us for crossing the flags – what the hell is this? We used to own this whole damn field. Now they got some line, one step over and you get fried. C’mon, we’re a couple of nice dogs, what did we do to deserve this? Okay, we wandered, we admit that. But does that warrant a mini-electrocution? “What if I see a herd of deer, do I have to pull up short at the flags? Jesus, what has this place turned into, North Korea?”

And like we’re stupid and love punishment what does Mr. Nice do next? Takes us away from the flags and then leads us back. I hear the beep again and then “OUCH! JESUS H. CHRIST, that hurts.”

Okay, I get the whole Pavlov thing. I’m not stupid. I’ll play good dog and won’t cross your damn line, okay?

But what really pisses us off is that the girls don’t get collars; don’t get zap class. Like they can wander the whole damn farm, chase deer wherever they want. I mean isn’t gender equality a big thing now? Where are their damn collars? And they act all huffy about it, looking down their noses at us like we’re common criminals, which pisses us off even more. To make matters worse, the owners are acting all smug and proud like they’ve taught us a thing or two.

What’s next? So if we pee on the floor are they going to put us on the chain gang and make us break rocks? I mean, jeez, what’s this world coming to? If I could vote, I’d be voting for Trump, I tell you that.

So now we’ve got our doggie playpen. No matter where you go, if you hear the beep, you’d better do a quick 180 or your nervous system will get a zap that will pretty much wreck your day.

So that’s the deal these days at Chopping Bottom. Not the way it used to be, I’ll tell you that. As Dylan and I say to each other, “It’s not a dog’s life anymore.”

By Tony Vanderwarker

Okay, I know. Every year that creeps by adds to the pile. But there are other insidious and nasty indicators that you have to be on the lookout for, otherwise they will sneak up and bite you on the you-know-what.

The unseen conspiracy to rub your nose in the fact you’re over-the-hill begins with the mandatory public declamation that you have entered geezerdom. The first time I went through it I almost came apart at the seams. It was seven years ago, just after I turned sixty-five, when I took Annie to see Slumdog Millionaire.

Now I’m cheap, right? You know that. So I wasn’t going to resist getting a senior discount, even though it meant I had to come out of the closet in front of a bunch of strangers.

“Hi, what movie would you like to see?” the lady behind the glass at the theatre on the Downtown Mall asked.
Here’s where I had to come clean. I answered, “One adult for Slumdog, and one…” Here’s where my jaw started to tremble, “suh, suh, suh, een…” It’s the first time I’d said it and I could barely get it out. “Suh-suh-een,-yor,” I stuttered.

And then as she handed me the tickets, she had to broadcast it. Speaking into her mike for everyone on the Downtown Mall to hear, she shouted, “One adult, one SENIOR for Slumdog.”

I took the tickets, feeling an impulse to duck my head into my coat collar and run, but instead I had to march past the entire line of people who were giving me the unmistakable look that said, “He may not look it, but that guy is OLD!” What to do about it? Shell out the extra two bucks and keep the secret to yourself.

Another way we’re singled out and made to feel close to croaking is with the barrage of drug commercials that run on the news. In between snippets of late-breaking events are endless commercials selecting different parts of your body, pointing out what could be wrong and stuffing a remedy in your face. Do they run these commercials during Monday Night Football or on The Dating Game? Hell no! They run them only on the shows that you watch. Since you don’t have to pick up the kids from soccer or drive them to school, you are a sucker for the morning or nightly news. They know that and they are going to endlessly bombard you.

You watch in morbid fascination as they present new diseases you never knew existed that could strike you dead in seconds. “Oh gosh, I didn’t know I could get that.” Or, “I’d better keep my eye out in case I start seeing those symptoms.”

So you go from ghastly news footage of a car bombing in Beirut to a drug that relieves intestinal blockage. Or from bloody victims of a school shooting to someone with nasty red boils on his face while the announcer threatens, “If you’ve had chicken pox, you could develop shingles,” and end up like the hapless fellow who looks like his face just went through a Cuisinart. The commercials come at you like slugs from a Gatling gun, you begin to wonder what’s worse, the calamities going on in the world or the diseases you could get and die of?

And just when you start thinking, “Jeez, I better ask my doc for a prescription,” the announcer comes on to tick off a raft of terrifying side effects. Sure, the drug might cure shingles or blast through your gut block, but it may also cause heart failure when you’ve never had a problem before, fatal bleeding, chronic lung diseases, shaking or sweating, itching rash or trouble breathing, an allergic reaction that may be life-threatening – the list goes on and on.

After a flurry of these ads, I’m turned into a quivering mass of anxiety, wondering, “Do I have this? And if I take that drug for it, will I get those horrible side effects?”

As you begin to come unglued, to relieve your anxiety the network cuts to the scene of the latest home invasion in some small town in Texas where a whacko broke into a trailer and slaughtered a family of six.

As they haul bodies shrouded in sheets out the door, they cut to a commercial break where you learn about a drug for ulcerative colitis that starts you thinking, “Gee, I did have a bad stomach ache a couple days ago, do I have that?” But then they hit you with the complications: blood or nervous system problems, new or worsening heart conditions, shortness of breath, swollen ankles – it’s enough to send you sprinting to the bar.

The moral of this story? Never watch the nightly news. Choose reruns of Sesame Street and The Three Stooges instead. Big Bird never gets elevated blood sugar and while Curly may get hit over the head with a hammer, no way he’ll ever get ulcerative colitis.

Watch them and you’ll feel a lot younger.