Burglars--Burglars! Mom Horning Story #3
In the basement
of the house where I grew up was a room called “the Fruit Cellar.” White papered shelves on three sides were
stacked with glass jars filled with perfectly packed fruits, vegetables and
pickles. Jellies topped with paraffin
and scalloped covers were arranged by color and varieties. (Catsup and relishes had their own
spaces.) On the door side of the room a
large stone crock held homemade sauerkraut.
Crocks of corned beef or fat layered fried pork appeared on “inspired”
occasions when one or both parents said, “do you remember” or “shall we try to
make” a childhood favorite.
And then there
was the year when the Hires Root Beer Company advertised their extract on the
radio. “Make Grandma Hire’s Root Beer in
your Own Kitchen.” “For less than a
dollar you can make enough for a party.”
“Anyone Can Do
It,” they said. “How Great,” we
said. We had bottles, caps—and we Loved
Root Beer!
On a Saturday
morning my sister and I were assigned the task of assembling and cleaning
materials. We were also to be the
“cappers” with a device that crimped the metal lids onto the bottles. (It was a two person job: one to hold the
bottle in place, the other to put the cap on and operate the sealing
lever.) We eagerly awaited the brew our
parents were concocting in the kitchen from tap water, sugary yeast and the
extract. Mother ladled the liquid from
the pot through a large funnel into each bottle. By late afternoon, our work was
finished. Shining brown bottles, enough
for a party, were arranged on shelves in the Fruit Cellar. We were promised a picnic to which we could
invite friends, possibly the following Saturday, featuring our very own
homemade Root Beer.
The rest of the
weekend passed uneventfully. When we
went to bed on Sunday, our thoughts had already turned to activities for school
the next day.
Sometime after
midnight, we were shaken awake by rattling walls, loud bangs, and we tumbled
from our beds to the sharp pings of breaking glass. Mother screamed, “Burglars, Ollie,
Burglars!” Pop grabbed a large black
umbrella from his closet and dashed out into the hall. Mother had a handful of Hat Pins. My sister and I were told to get under our
beds, but holding tightly to one another’s hands, we followed our parents from
room to room, shouting and clicking on lights.
The
ear-splitting noises continued. Now we
felt the explosions vibrate under our bare feet. Something—Somebody—was in the basement. We paraded down the stairs, growing bolder as
each bang was punctuated by the smack of Pop’s umbrella against the wall, and
loud squeaks from Mother exhorting us to be quiet.
Suddenly it was
quiet. Too quiet. Whoever—whatever, was the cause of the terror
was probably “lying low.” The lights
showed us something dark—oozing from under the Fruit Cellar door. A strong smell—Ripe—Feral—filled the
air. Pop slammed open the door, aimed
his umbrella, pulled on the light chain, and let out a screech! Jumping up and down, swearing, blood dripping
from his feet, he motioned us to move back.
Broken glass was everywhere.
Sticky brown root beer puddled the floor, dripped from the ceiling,
festooned the walls. The yeast had done
its expanding best. Each bottle had
blown its top. We had Had a
bang-up party. All for less than a
dollar, just as the Hires ad had promised.
Below: 1. Hires Root Beer Advertisement 2. Grandparents in 1950's
Transcribed by G.M.Horning
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