February 2023 – Kathy Waller

Here I repost a sad story I first shared in 2010. I was composing posts when the keyboard went wonky. Twice. Risking inconvenience to readers, I put it online anyway. If you skip the wonky part, I’ll understand, but please read all of the un-wonky parts. There’s a book afterward.

To assist today’s readers, I start with an introduction and a couple of hints.

While I was writing, laptop keys stopped working–one at a time, in no particular order. No matter how hard or in which direction I tapped, they didn’t depress, and nothing appeared on the screen. I considered giving up, then decided to keep a-goin’. The next day, I called technical service, was told I could replace the keyboard myself, visited Radio Shack for tools, used them, nearly stripped a screw, called tech service, received a visit from a tech, got a quick fix.

An easily replaceable keyboard isn’t usually much to worry about, but in my keyboard’s case, there were extenuating circumstances, and I didn’t look forward to anyone poking around. I suspected something beneath the keyboard might be causing the malfunction. The tech might think so too. He might give me a look of reproof, even a mild reprimand.

I would have to stand there and take it, blushing all the while. My innate honesty would prevent me from saying my husband did it.

To learn why I’d have blushed, you’ll have to read to the end.

Hint #1 : A single e might mean tech. But it might not. An a might mean a, or not.

Hint #2: Under the keyboard–it wasn’t cat hair.

*****

Wa do you do wen your keyboard malfunions?

Wen my spae bar sopped working, I aed online wi Dell e suppor. e e old me I would reeie a new keyboard in e mail. I was supposed o insall i.

“Me?” I said. “Insall a keyboard?”

e e said i would be a snap. If I needed elp, e would walk me roug i.

I go e keyboard and looked up e insruions, wi said I ad o unsrew e bak. I jus knew I would be eleroued.

Bu I boug a se of srewdriers a RadioSak and flipped e lapop oer, remoed e baery, and aaked e srews.

e srews wouldn’ budge. I exanged a srewdrier for anoer srewdrier. I used all six. None of em worked.

I wen online again o a wi Dell. e e lisened, en old me o ry again.

I oug abou e definiion aribued o Einsein: Insaniy is doing e same ing oer and oer and expeing a differen resul.

“I wouldn’ urn,” I old e e.

He said e would send a e ou o e ouse o insall e keyboard for me. (I’m no dummy. Wen I boug e lapop, I boug a e o go wi i.)

Anyway, e nex day a e ame. He go ou is se of 3500 srewdriers, remoed e srews, ook off e old keyboard, and insalled e new one. He said I didn’ ave e rig size srewdrier. en e asked wa else I needed.

“I know you don’ ae an order for is, bu ould you wa me insall is exra memory a Dell e said I’m ompenen o insall myself?” He said e’d o i for me. I oug a was ery swee.

Anyway, i’s appened again, exep is ime i’s more an e spaebar. I’s e , , , and keys.

I’e used anned air. So far all i’s done is make ings worse. Wen I began, only e key was ou.

How an I wrie wiou a keyboard?

So tomorrow I’ll chat with my Dell tech and–

Well, mercy me. I took a half-hour break and now all the keys are working again. I wonder what that was all about.

Nevertheless, I shall report the anomaly. Call me an alarmist, but I don’t want this to happen a third time. I might be preparing a manuscript for submission. I’m being proactive.

But still–I’m torn. If I do need a new keyboard, I want a tech to make a house call. I don’t have the proper screwdriver, I don’t know what size screwdriver to buy, and I don’t want to tamper with something that is still under warranty.

On the other hand, I have to consider the worst-case scenario: The tech takes out his screwdriver, loosens the screws, turns the laptop over, removes the keyboard, and sees lurking there beneath the metal and plastic plate the reason for my current technical distress: rumbs.

e same, e earae, e disgrae a being found guily of su a soleism. e prospe is oo illing o spell ou.

Bu for the sake of ar, I sall submi myself o e proud man’s onumely. omorrow I sall a wi Dell.

***

Ella Minnow Pea: A Novel in Letters is a novel by Mark Dunn.

It’s “[a] hilarious and moving story of one girl’s fight for freedom of expression, as well as a linguistic tour de force sure to delight word lovers everywhere.”

“Ella Minnow Pea is a girl living happily on the fictional island of Nollop off the coast of South Carolina. Nollop was named after Nevin Nollop, author of the immortal phrase containing all the letters of the alphabet, “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.” (Amazon)

If I’d composed the passage above, I’d have written HILARIOUS in caps.

***

Image of keyboard by Simon from Pixabay

Image of screwdriver by Davie Bicker from Pixabay

Image of William David playing Bookworm by MKW

You may have seen some of this content in previous posts. Please forgive any repetition. I’m starting a new project and feel I should explain myself.

***

As I’ve said before, I grew up in the small Central Texas farming community of Fentress. In the 1950s and ’60s, most of the residents were old–elderly would be the polite term–but these were old. And interesting. They sat on porches and in living rooms and talked about cotton and boll weevils and playing dominos at Home Demonstration meetings. They talked about relatives and neighbors–sometimes imparting sensitive and pretty juicy information. And they talked about the past. Local history. Their history.

I listened.

Now I want to record as many of the stories as I can.

My main source is my great-aunt, Bettie Pittman Waller, who moved to Fentress in 1902, when she was sixteen, the first girl in the newly founded community. She held the history of the town in her amazing memory. But, although she could recite the facts with textbook accuracy, her stories focused on people, old friends and neighbors, and the little dramas of daily life. Many stories were funny. As she spoke, Great-uncle Maurice–accent on the first syllable–the quietest and sweetest man imaginable–sat in his recliner, shaking with silent laughter.

I’m always open to additions and corrections and will make necessary adjustments. Cullen Myers Dauchy, Sally Barber, Ann Barber, are you listening?

These posts might not interest anyone but a small group who have connections to the town. But I’m going to record the the ones I remember before they’re lost, and this is the best venue I have.

Handbook of Texas, and excellent publication, offers the the basics, a few paragraphs, names and dates, just the facts.

And I pray I don’t step on any descendant’s toes. If they ever happen to read the posts.

***

To show I’m willing to air my own family’s dirty laundry along with everyone else’s,* I begin with a story about my Uncle Joe, my father’s oldest brother. I don’t think he would care, because he, too, was a great storyteller about friend and foe alike. And he didn’t mind being the main character.

***

Joe Waller, Rob Waller (first cousin), Graham Waller, Bill Waller, Donald Waller, ca. 1980.

Joe Waller was born in 1913, the oldest son of Frank Waller and Vida Woodward Waller. His mother died when he was nine; there were five younger children–Maurice, 7 years old; Billie, 5; Donald, 3; and Graham, 8 months.

My grandmother’s sisters wanted to take the boys, but each had several children of her own and couldn’t take all five.

So my grandfather and and the children moved across the San Marcos River to town. A room was constructed over the garage next to Grandmama’s (his mother’s) house for their bedroom. The boys were cared for by Grandmama and Aunt Ethel, my grandfather’s older sister.

This was probably when they became generallerery known as the Waller boys, a label that followed them the rest of their lives. Several women in town also described them as “the sweetest things.” I can attest to that.

Some time later–I don’t know exactly how long–my grandfather moved back to the farm, which was very close to town as the crow flies and just a bit farther by road. (But considerably longer when rain turned the road to mud or the river rose out of its banks.) My grandfather loved his sons, never a doubt about that, and saw them almost daily–he ate most of his meals at his mother’s house–but as a father, he followed a sort of laissez-faire doctrine, leaving most practical parenting to his mother and his sister.

When Uncle Joe was a teenager, he turned what family members termed “wild.” I gather that having a rather detached father led in part to rebellion. And like his brothers, he loved Grandmama, a sweet woman with plenty of experience in raising boys, but I suspect he clashed with Aunt Ethel; lots of people, including her siblings, did. She was eminently clashable. In addition, she doted on the younger two, who were still baby-cute, but was never kind to the three older boys; she wasn’t physically abusive, but love and kindness weren’t part of her bargain.

Anyway, Uncle Joe fell in with some local boys who were described as “wild.” Joe followed their lead.

(This is where the story veers from serious to ridiculous.)

One night they drove to Seguin, a small city about twenty miles to the west, got likkered up, and stole an anvil.

I repeat, an anvil.

Why would anyone steal an anvil? They’re heavy and, I would think, impossible to fence. And of little use to a bunch of teenagers.

They were caught and arrested and spent the night in jail.

The next morning, word came that the boys were in the Guadalupe County Jail. Their fathers gathered at the Waller store, where Uncle Maurice was working, to decide what to do. Uncle Carl, an older Waller brother, was there, too.

As the fathers conferred, Uncle Carl repeatedly put in his oar: “Leave them in jail. Just leave them there. Teach them a lesson. Leave them.”

Then someone mentioned that Carl, Jr., known as Bubbie Carl, was one of the jailbirds, and his father changed his tune. They must go to Seguin right now and get those boys out.

When Uncle Carl was agitated, he fidgeted with the waistband of his trousers. Aunt Bettie, who was among the observers, said she thought he was going to pull them clear up under his armpits.

I don’t know what happened next. I assume the boys were brought home and suffered familial consequences. Or some of them did. I believe my grandfather became undetached and meted out appropriate punishment. And then went out behind the barn and died laughing about the anvil.

The rest of the story, or part of it: The Case of the Anvil was Uncle Joe’s only brush with the law. He later worked in the Civilian Conservation Corps, then with a friend rode the rails to California, got a job, and married Aunt Laura. After eighteen years in California, he moved back to Fentress, built a house, became the postmaster, and in his spare time raised cows, one of whom he named Loretta. (They all had names.) He also had a Jersey milk cow named Two Spot (she sported two spots somewhere on her anatomy) who offered to hook everyone but Uncle Joe and my father. I was scared to death of her.

But more about Uncle Joe in a future post, which will include a section about his testifying before a Senate subcommittee. Purely informational. He wasn’t in trouble. Other people were.

***

*I don’t really know about anyone else’s dirty laundry.

***

I’ve already posted some Fentress stories. See

Dr. Luckett’s Babies

J Is for Just One Story and An Inconvenient Prayer

The Barber Pig

Fentress Memories (aka My Visiting [and Much Older] Worden Cousins, Who Had a Lot More Fun Than I Did, Because I Didn’t Blow Up Coke Bottles or Bring Home a Stray Dog That Was Foaming at the Mouth or Hotrod Down the Street with My Baby Cousin (Me) in Her Stroller or Anything Else That Would Have Gotten Me Shut Up in My Room Until I Was Thirty-Five)

Father’s Day 2021: He Made Us Laugh

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Image of anvil by nightowl from Pixabaye