Father Briar and The Angel

by Rita Saladano

  “There is already trouble in the Monroe and DiMaggio household,” he told his wife, while Julianna tried to eavesdrop while still doing a good job waitressing.

  “They were on their honeymoon in Japan, Monroe was asked to travel to Korea and perform for the American soldiers stationed there. The war is over, but we’ve still got boys over there, so the Red Chinese don’t try anything funny.”

  “You can’t trust ‘em,” Trig, every the daddy’s boy, agreed.

  “She ran off to do her duty for the USO, leaving her unhappy new husband in Japan.”

  Julianna’s heart sank. If Joe and Marilyn were already having problems, what chance did Cedric and Julianna have? Her grief was interrupted by Bjorn and his foghorn of a voice.

  “Yes, yes, gather around folks, gather around,” Bjorn gestured to the crowd that had filled his adorable, if a little dingy, café. “Come on don’t be shy,” he said in his heavy Swedish accent.

  “Today we have a very interesting showdown between two much respected pillars of the community,” said Bjorn.

  “Yes, and we have a bishop too!” said Ty with a cheeky look on his face. People giggled and chuckled.

  “I haven’t agreed to this, this is the first of I’ve heard of this, and I don’t appreciate you roping me into such shenanigans,” Bishop Dale said.

  The truth was, he loved it. It had been many years since he’d been a parish priest and he missed the attention and remained something of a ham.

  “The rules are as follows,” Bjorn paused and looked serious for he, too, relished the theatre of it all, “eat as much of the food as you can.” Bjorn smiled as he laid out his upturned hands toward the food that was laid out before him.

  Finally, it had come time to eat. Not just for Ty Olsen and Dale, but everybody. The newcomers were wowed by the aroma and variety of the food. Returnees were comforted by the fact that the food was always about the same. The trump card was Bjorn’s now-famous barbecue baby back ribs. Other staples were the homemade Swedish meatballs and the original orange baked chicken, which had been coated with Rice Krispies Cereal, which was fusion cuisine for foodies many decades before any such things existed.

  There were mashed potatoes, never the instant type but always homemade, and scalloped potatoes, but these were often from the Betty Crocker box, were always on the table. The salads are rarely the “good-for-you” type, but are instead the “good-for-your- taste buds” ones. This was long before the days of fad diets and “paleo menus;” these people ate like dinosaurs because they were, dammit! Jello and Cool Whip were the main ingredients in these desserts masquerading as sides, with fruit cocktail or pineapple or pistachio pudding as part of them.

  Oh, and how about the bread! There was a newly -acquired rotisserie oven which bakes many loaves of fresh bread and buns at a time. These are the frozen bread loaves. They cannot be made from scratch because the labor would be far too intensive, but are delicious anyway, especially when served right from the oven.

  Desserts are dolled-up puddings, chocolate dump cake or if the pie baker lady is up to it, there will be fresh fruit pies or maybe even banana cream. In season, rhubarb pie was the best.

  “The winner of this eating contest gets to donate $25 to the local charity of their choice!” the small crowd gasped in amazement at the substantial prize.

  “Is Ty’s Taxidermy a local charity?” Trigger asked, teasing his dad. He was sitting with Ramona’s family, so the pair was well-chaperoned, lest they leave the smorgasbord for more carnal hungers.

  “Bjorn has never given out such a sizeable donation for an eating contest before,” Mrs. Herbertson gasped.

  “And a substantial one at that. Oh what a wonderful man her is,” Ramona said in glee.

  “Gentlemen, you first must demolish the beef ribs, then the mashed potatoes, and followed by the tinned pineapples. To finish, you must drink two quarts of milk from Mr. Shacklesbury’s goat. Are you clear on the task at hand?” Bjorn smiled at the bishop and taxidermist who savored the gluttony to come.

  “We begin in… three… two…” Bjorn paused for several moments and smiled as everyone hung his countdown, “…one.”

  And the two men were off to the eating races.

  The downside of this evening is that there was no time for laid-back dining. The line continued way down the street and the usually-jovial owner is not so jovial if he notices a booth of people taking too long to eat. Any booth, of course, other than the one occupied by Ty and the bishop. Bjorn would bring coffee to each table but after long so long (not very long); he will bring the check instead of the pot. That is a big indication it is time to gobble up the last bit of ribs and hit the road. Of course, a hint for everybody but Ty and the bishop. He wanted them to keep gobbling.

  The crowd cheered and looked on in astonishment. The rate at which the bishop consumed the ribs was incredible. The sauce dribbled down his clothes but he carried on in spite of his embarrassment.

  “Golly, look at Bishop, he is really going through those ribs,” said an astonished Ramona.

  “Dad, on the other hand, doesn’t look so good,” Trig noticed.

  “My goodness…” he spat, the ellipses actually audible in his voice, “the spice… it’s unbearable.”

  The taxidermist, through watered eyes, strained to put the third rib in his mouth.

  “Bjorn, what on God’s good Earth did you put on these?” asked the bishop, eyeing the plate before him.

  “A bachelor farmer from down in Minneapolis sent me up some fiery new peppers,” Bjorn smiled in pride at his concoction. The crowd gasped in a mixture of amazement and concern at the taxidermist as he continued to try to cool down his mouth. More than a few jaws hit a few flannelled collars.

  “Milk... I need milk...”

  Bjorn opened the ice box and laughed at the taxidermist as he sputtered and spat.

  “Think of the cause. It’s a very worthy one,” said Bjorn as he passed the cooling beverage to the taxidermist.

  Bjorn loved these funny little pranks and he often pulled them on the unsuspecting. But he wasn’t always as precise in his execution and payoff of the jokes as he was in their planning.

  In this case, he’d meant to spice the Bishop Dale’s ribs. He loved Ty the Taxidermist and appreciated his endless business and good humor. Bjorn had been trying to make a not-so-subtle point about the gluttony of the Catholic Church and the greed of the clergy.

  And then things went further south of Heaven; the bishop started choking.

  “Yes, I wouldn’t worry, I…” The Bishop couldn’t finish his sentence. A cherry from one of the sweet and sugary salads had lodged itself in his throat. Everyone looked on, frozen in shock and horror.

  Everyone except for Bjorn. He was a man of action. The bishop continued to struggle, so Bjorn beat and thudded his chest.

  “It’s not working,” cried Ramona.

  “Dad, help him,” begged Trig, but Ty was still incapacitated from the spicy ribs.

  “Bjorn, do something!” As with all crises, the suggestions came from those who were too scared to carry them out themselves. Bjorn kept silent and paid no attention to their blindingly obvious and therefore frivolous commentary.

  He reached down to the slushy floor and grabbed Dale by the ankles. He couldn’t help but notice the gold and diamond ankle bracelet with a little dangling the man wore. With one effortless pull of his mighty arms he turned Dale upside down and began to shake him. The spectacle was ludicrous - a big Scandinavian man shaking a bishop up and down – but it was effective.

  While ludicrous, it was necessary. The Heimlich Maneuver wouldn’t be invented for another twenty years, so Bjorn solved this problem with brute force.

  After one last shake, the cherry sprung free from Dale’s throat and, after two bounces, came to rest in some fresh snow, just shaken from the shoulders of somebody’s coat. Trig couldn’t help but note it looked like a sundae.

  Throughout it all, the cook continued to perspire, give orders
to the help, and give encouragement to the weary dishwasher, who was often her husband. While Bjorn was the face and the mouth, his wife was the backbone of this operation, getting up early and going to bed late.

  About the only time the cook relaxed was on Sunday morning, when she sits down in her church pew, dozing off during the sermon. She preferred to stay back in the recesses of the kitchen and is rarely seen by the public, which was probably good because of the rib sauce on her apron and the sweat under her armpits.

  She is reputed to be the best cook around and she credits that to her two favorite ingredients: lots of salt and brown sugar. According to her, not the FDA in Washington, you can’t get too much salt in your food. And brown sugar is the secret ingredient in her ribs, orange chicken and other mainstays of her recipe box. Whoops! she didn’t believe in writing recipes down; instead, they stayed in her brain. Therefore, they would not be copied by future generations of cooks.

  Such are the minor tragedies of small town life.

  Finally, the closed sign was put up, the line disappeared, the crowd left belching, saying that was a “darn good” supper, and make plans to return again soon. The owner counts his money, helps his co-owner, again, his beloved wife and cook, clean up. Then they headed home together to hit the hay.

  Such are the small joys of small town life.

  Chapter Thirteen: The Sod Busters Come to Town in a Cloud of Snow and Sin.

  The winter had been so long and arduous that Father Briar had taken the decision to host an unseasonal but wholly necessary social dance in Farmer McGuillicuty’s barn in order to raise community spirit.

  Cabin fever, although a bit of idiom, of slang, is very real. It is the claustrophobic feeling that one experiences in an isolated or solitary location and when stuck indoors in confined quarters for an extended period if time. Extreme irritability and restlessness are common, and dark feelings and depressions can violently manifest themselves over petty irritants and small problems.

  One therapy for cabin fever may be as simple as getting out and interacting with your friends and neighbors. Cedric and the rest of Brannaska knew this well and so he was organizing this big get-together to keep everybody happy and healthy. It was also nice to see his parishioners having fun and interacting outside of a strictly church setting.

  And he hadn’t organized any old ordinary barn dance. The Hoosier Sod Busters were going to be playing!

  The Hoosier Sod Busters were famous across the land due to being one of the regular bands on the popular radio show, “The National Barn Dance Hour.” A long-running staple of small town Saturday nights since 1933, it ran from 6:30 p.m. to midnight. The show featured famous bands and turned obscure ones into stars. Regularly featured acts included Gene Autry, The Three Little Maids, The Williams Brothers (featuring future “Moon River” crooner Andy Williams),the awesomely named Arkansas Woodchopper, and of course, the Hoosier Sod Busters. The announcer was Jack Holden and it was once sponsored by Alka-Seltzer.

  The barn had been a hive of activity in the hours before the dance got underway. Cedric, along with the help of Julianna and a few parishioners, applied the finishing touches.

  “This place looks wonderful, I know its February, Cedric, but this almost has the feel of summer about it,” beamed Julianna as the volunteers made the finishing touches to the barn’s interior. She leant toward Cedric, but he moved away.

  “Jewels,” he said, worry in his voice, “we can’t have the locals seeing this. They might suspect something,” he whispered, so as not to draw attention to himself and Julianna. She sighed.

  “Yes, you’re right,” she looked around the barn, dejected and hoping to see something or someone to cheer her up.

  “I’m tired of living a lie,” she wanted to shout, “I’m tired of skulking around in the shadows, my goodness, it’s almost as if we should be ashamed for loving and enjoying sex. These are urges, I might point out, He must have given us. What kind of God would do that? and what kind of people are we to take such guilt with seriousness?”

  This felt scandalous and she put such thoughts aside for the moment while she wandered around the barn, looking for somebody to chat with. “Julianna, this is a barn dance. Have some fun! This is hardly the time or place for deep discussions of theology.”

  “That’s it boys. This place looks fantastic. The Hoosier Sod Busters have never played in such a nice looking barn, that is for sure.” Cedric raised his hands in the middle of the barn at the glory of it all. Bunting crisscrossed the wooden beams, a fine buffet had been laid out and several braziers were placed around the periphery of the building so as to keep the cold at bay.

  “Yes, you gentleman all did a fine, fine job,” a voice from the makeshift stage echoed throughout the cavernous room. It was the lead singer of the Hoosier Sod Busters.

  “Alas, they are turning up!” said Julianna as she peeped through the barn door.

  The locals and were amassing in droves for this was a special event. Barn dances were rarely, if ever, held during the winter and no sane person from Brannaska was going to miss the dance or the great band that’s for sure.

  They pulled up in their Fords and their Chevys, nearly every vehicle a truck with big chains on the tires to give them better purchase on the snowy roads, trying their best no to skid and slide in the slush. Brannaska, for its harsh winter climate, still had a certain appeal. The oaks were stripped of their leaves but still retained some skeletal beauty as their bare branches were coated with a translucent coating of ice.

  The conifers stood like upturned pure white ice cream cones. It was a calm night; the moon was full and reflected the snow, illuminating everything as though there was tiny magic and little miracles in the air. The stars shone brightly and the Big Dipper was prominent. The sky had a glowing sheen to it; it was not the usual obsidian-hued blackness.

  “Good evening, Father Briar. I must say I like what you have done with the place, the spread, the warmth, oh and I shall be looking forward to the live music. God has blessed this night. Three cheers for Pastor Briar!” said Ty Olsen.

  Trygve Olsen was at his side, showered and shaved and looking chaste, at least to Father Briar’s approving eyes. He was hoping the teen would behave himself tonight. Behave himself, but have a good time. Cedric loved to dance, and he was good at it. He was looking forward to sneaking a dance with Julianna, and who was he to deny Trigger that same joy?

  “Oh yes, three cheers to the magnificent Pastor Briar,” Gosha clapped, sarcastic and snide, muttering to a nearby farmer who looked then scurried away.

  Cedric wandered over to talk to one of his favorite parishioners. The old man was sitting in the corner of the barn and with an intense scowl on his face and a corncob pipe between his pursed lips. He was Paul Livingstone, an elderly pig farmer and deeply religious man.

  Julianna made her way to the opposite side of the barn. She wanted to get as far away from his as possible, and she wanted him to see her doing so.

  “How are we doing tonight Brannaska? Thank y’all so much for coming out in this cold, we sure do appreciate it. We are ready to Bust some Sod, are you?”

  The band was firing up and so were the dancers. Everyone turned to look at them.

  “Divine intervention does exist,” Cedric thought to himself as he wiped the sweat from his brow with his pocket square.

  “By the grace of God, who is ready to party tonight?” asked the lead singer, Lester Weeselstrom as he strummed his guitar. The crowd cheered and began to dance.

  The Sod Busters opened up with their first song.

  They were everything advertised and more. The tinny AM radio of the day didn’t do their sound justice; live they filled a room with a huge and happy sound; fiddles and banjoes and guitars and drums and a variety of folk instruments all came together in unison to create a dance groove that moved everybody with a pulse, and even a few of the old Norwegian farmers who thought they’d been dead for years got a jolt of adrenaline and their hearts started racing.
/>
  The barn walls were silhouetted by moving bodies that cast their shadows amidst the warm orange glow of the brazier light. Bellies were being filled people were dancing, and much revelry was being had as the Busters kept sawing away. Everyone seemed happy; everyone, except Julianna and Cedric.

  “I must say, the baked ham is rather delicious. Father Briar, you really have done well with this spread,” said Misses Olsen, ruddy cheeked and with delight as she stood by the table surrounded by her family and warmed her hands by the nearby brazier. Trigger had behaved himself and Cedric was proud of the lad, but Julianna was once more glaring at him, as he’d paid no attention to her all night.

  “Yes, he does well to satisfy everybody doesn’t he? Everyone that is except me, Mrs. Olsen.”

  “Ha, well this is a fallen world, don’t forget Julianna.” Cedric laughed, nervous and angry, trying his best to paper over the cracks.

  “Is everything alright Julianna?” Mrs. Olsen asked. Trig looked around the barn, hoping to spot Ramona, but had no luck. Julianna didn’t acknowledge Mrs. Olsen’s question. She tried not to cry.

  “Oh, whatever is the matter, Julianna?” asked Mrs. Olsen.

  Cedric was somewhat in luck for a few farmers had snuck in some hooch in their hip flasks and had passed it around to several of their friends. He snuck off to admonish one noticeably inebriated dancer.

  “Yeah, we are on our grand tour, we’re Busting Sod and breaking hearts all across America!” shouted the lead singer of the band. The crowd was raucous; it was a real barnburner of a night, metaphorically speaking.

  The townsfolk who remained inside (some had gone out to their cars to cool down, to neck, or to check the weather updates on WCCO) were worked up into a lather. They had never partied like this before. Out of necessity, the women had all dressed themselves in thick nylon and woolen stockings. Sweat poured down their bodies. The men couldn’t resist themselves at the sight of all these dripping women, oh, the raunchiness of it all!