Storied Panache ment Indelibly Etched Upon Every Page Entry
….Scare me constituted a favorite dare when playing made up (and quite innovative) games (ELECTRONIC, gluten GMO FREE) in company with eithern or both of my beloved siblings (one older and the other younger put me nearly smack dab sandwiched between two sisters) back in the good days of my boyhood.
Little did I know then, that such a quintessential innocuous come on would find my fate in the most frightful, galling, and horrifying indomitable joyless living situation many decades fast forward from the above.
Thus this golden writing opportunity sponsored by Walter Mitty Paterson allows, enables, and provides me an opportune literary grist for the mill recollection of a fiendishly ghoulish hauntingly indelible jarring psyche kindling vignette I The Battle Axe And Her Henchmen.
Though mostly steeped in fact, the temptation to elaborate, fabricate, and prevaricate, could not be resisted with what constituted minimal effort, plus this Piece De Resistance gently implored slight exaggerations, hence this author feels obliged to categorize present short story as untrue and unfair to those whose wrath wound unseen winches (The Idler Wheel Is Wiser than the Driver of the Screw and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More than Ropes Will Ever Do – this latter courtesy of a studio album by Fiona Apple),thus Matthew (an heir to the sons of snoring Schnorrers), would squarely, honestly, and fairly quantify the following anecdote as fiction.
Reference to codifying, enumerating, and narrating sans as latter genre invites greater leeway to stray from factual absolutes, and embellish, garnish and sprinkle the most prominent features with a dollop of hyperbole.
Now complete with an informal professorial introduction of sorts, the moment suitable to launch into a generally casual affair, that encompasses a span of time per the first day of this twenty-first century up until….the very recent past.
Upon bitterly cold dawning hours of January 2000 (purported to be recorded as the lowest since the onset of keeping track of temperatures – lucky for us), the Harns family desperately sought a place to live.
Nelson Swartley (an independent and local realtor) politely informed us (meaning myself and the missus), our family lease would not be renewable.
Ever since l delightfully witnessed the birth of daughter number two, (whose existence this papa helped beget – and applied medically sanitized scissors severing umbilical cord approximately nine months after full-term gestation), rendered contractual non-binding obligation vis a vis violating capacity of this cozy one plus bedroom apartment a closed case.
Even though, Shana Aubrey barely tipped the scales at less than ten pounds of flesh (this bundle of sugar, spice and everything nice and pink, especially when adorned in bowed gewgaw getups, thy wife indulged as necessary precaution, that family, friends, and strangers immediately recognize biological gender of offspring without question), her welcomed debut immediately warranted a foregone conclusion to vacate premises.
The occupancy status found this young family suddenly unlawfully, and illegally exceeding the occupying capacity intended as one plus bedroom apartment in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania.
Thus, we reckoned to live temporarily where thine wife spent the majority of adulthood and vowed never to return sans Penn Valley premises.
Ironic how that funky fickle of fate functions.
This vacated slapdash tract housing unit (on a hillside made of tick key tack) built amidst a faux oasis of green (reigned thee Iron Maiden from afar by mum mean mother in law) easily and quickly transformed this residence as our own private Main Line Riker’s Island prison.
Thy chosen apt and fitting epithet (damnably affixed after barely setting foot within said domicile) after forced to pull up figurative stakes from previously named abode.
Since the recent death of her husband Billy the Kid (a rough and tumble bruiser from the bowels of South Philadelphia circa the close of World War I), (thence, whose afterlife settled him in Willoughby, the residence situated at 1148 Tree green Lane offered a cozily serene and lazily Edenic keystone hamlet tucked into totally tubular foothills of Penn Valley, Pennsylvania).
This applied the concept of idyllic brook haven and qua nook of quaintness seemed Plenti potentially plum perfect, where an imaginary Stratford Upon Avon converged for this bard arse to dabble as a scrivener Shakespeare wannabe strove to establish his claim to fame by trotting across Avast worldwide interconnected globe.
Aforementioned ramshackle pseudo ranch style abode made available cuz, A final decision where Sylvia would live unanimously decreed by the majority vote of two elder quintessentially rigid, snide twisted witchy war locked sisters of thine wife.
They made the final decision to relocate the moody blue re emotionally blackened (actually Caucasian) widow closer to the middle sibling, who resided in Paradise).
Authoritarianism overruled and overrode desperate pleas toward surviving Zion scion understandably forever in mourning (), to remove many sentimental Bric a Brac, damned memories and paraphernalia that filled (ceiling to floor), every nook and cranny of our then emergency address.
This move (into the hinterland of Lower Merion) purportedly intended to be a brief tenancy (attested to so-called gentleman’s’ agreement), which as the sands of time spilled forth became the casus belli of ceaseless besieging, bruiting base bare-knuckle skirmishes soon after the day we felt unwelcomed, yet nonetheless decamped within hoity Mainline.
Do to accumulative cloudy, dowdy, howdy duty fifty shades of gray, an irrevocable nonclear voyance viz zit summoned forth what would presage to validate expert Gypsy insight, knowingly malevolent oppression, quaking sturdy uber vintage crystal balls.
Jewish tradition included a common practice for said heirlooms to be bequeathed to next of kin, whereby spouse strongly nee vehemently expressed absolutely NO interest to bear the burden of (literally) heavy-duty collectibles sustained since the dawn of gauzy past, and now merely weighed down the body politic like an Albatross.
Little could we foresee the blitzkrieg, cannonading, incessant strafe carpet bombing bloody onslaught from the generation of vipers soon after schlepping our selves, precious progeny cargo and other sundry and various trappings thee aforementioned dwelling offered convenience to yours truly.
At that time, (this writer) attended CHI Trade School in Broomall, Pennsylvania (where distance and travel time to and from vocational facility reduced by half since this change of address, clearly more agreeable) every other aspect of this move served as fodder for gristmill.
Warfare modeled on the Rogue’s gallery torture chamber became manifest soon after hunkering down within the said tract housing unit.
A fusillade fired off reporting volleys of character assassination bombarded this soldier of misfortune and clearly implicated for being a non-Jewish schlemiel inducing endless economic doomsday after Abby found herself gifted with our second child.
Proximity to the trade school, nor convenience to many markets we (thy robin to this Batman) did nothing to ward off plaguing round testing invincibility of low casted acidity.
The general scenario unwelcome committee likened (gnome hatter the unmatchable venality to grenadier glaring gilt garbed Gestapo), the gang num bored Three Musketeers lobbed us with scathing wrath, vocalized venality, especially visited upon this singular quintessential opportunistic man.
Aside from an initial aversion, collusion re expulsion and general glowering iridescent, kindling mandating ostracizing, we experienced a most pleasant welcome to the neighborhood.
Competition to maneuver and co-opt ample living space (amidst detritus of personal possessions faintly traced back to the Bubba Zayda of the spouse) presented a formidable challenge.
No doubt, we would more easily thread the eye of a needle with a camel, than establish any détente with the trio of trolls.
These belongings in question seemingly harked back to the days of Adam and Eve, and housed spirits, who unwittingly found us objects of convenient derision, humiliation, and home invasion.
Call me ludicrous, but some intuitive sixth sense surmised me to suspect such dust-laden antiques practically evoked dour, hour sour sentiment seeing homebodies upset the status quo of dust on the saddle.
Oft times, this then younger papa emitted a yowling yikes toward thine two precocious progeny (the eldest potty trained at that time, while thine youngest still nursed) to refrain against raucous, querulous, and playfulness audibly detected by the haunted ghosts of Masons as distinctly heard via mine inscrutable hearing.
No doubt, this dada recognized harsh, ghoulish, and fiendish, voices that did scare me emanating from swath per plethora of possessions.
Though we swiftly styled the harried tailored abode into a vague approximation fit for humans (ideally ones fitted with a whirled wide spider web crawler. oxygen tank, gas mask, et cetera), that James ne sais quois hominess, a grim Pyrrhic victory to profess appreciation of competing against clutter and the residual hoarded heap of barely afforded breathing room.
Stagnant air one outstanding trademark of home sweet home. Each season offered a variety of the theme of gasping for other than stale and stagnant oxygen. Winter wrought bough for wreaths of breath with barely a noticeable inside temperature and greater than that outdoors.
A gas heater in tandem with choking ducts epitomized freezing gallantly, hardening icing over collective soul and esprit de corps, we bundled in countless layers like innocent and poor souls in a dank, dark and dreary insane asylum.
Pioneer days of yore upon the American prairie homeless companions mirrored within the survival of the fittest rubric.
Similar to how friggin, frigidly froze (off our Bee Gees), fiction fez rubbing bodies together to generate natural frisson found us marginally stayin alive.
Just as the cold fueled feuds, some six months later, immediate sweltering sweaty bodies slid past each other.
Though no architect, this maven of comfort realized shortcomings and shoddy craftsmanship.
No matter countless months per each year, we weathered the icy draughts of polar vortex blasts before the onset of spring quickly forced us to acclimate to poor ventilation, and concomitant curse from constant comets of humid zones wherein most rooms of the house remained off limits.
Oft times, this entire kit and caboodle huddled in the master bedroom, which housed the sole air conditioner.
As days lapped into weeks, then months swam past, the twelve-month anniversary marking conditional stipulation grudgingly allowing this clan to hunker until….divine intervention occurred, an inordinate impetus incurred from the curled grotesque Elivs lips, and sharp teeth of Three Louse cut tears.
They leveled one after another legally bound sanctioned legalese gobbledygook concocted writ (evincing recapitulation immediate and unconditional surrender without the luxury of any truce approximating an Appomattox peace treaty).
The nemesis of Syl, Oct, and Gay (names slightly changed to protect this innocent chap) voiced being unconcerned that no options existed for us to live elsewhere, thus we dwelt among heaps of hoarders (where even the mice became hunchback), and walking as dead souls with bilious spirits (carping ad nauseum) as ungrateful malcontents, we greedily overstayed our welcome.
We stalled for time and dug in our heals.
A constant verse plaintively wailed that we (or explicitly this scrivener) happened to be bleeding the matriarch dry as a bone.
No matter what I experienced profound panic interwoven with extremely debilitating anxiety (aye serum eyes a biochemical condition and congenital predisposition), there prevailed a presumed credo that the man of the hearth = the gluten-free NON-GMO breadwinner.
Quite often (and spoken with vicious bitter) got angrily spluttered toward this older married male to bite the bullet, grin and bear writ, man up…these pernicious, opprobrious, nefarious, malicious, et cetera disallowed unconditionally acceptance sans personal idiosyncrasies (linked in shortcomings to something of a schizoid disorder, which psychological assessments administered by one prestigious psychologist named Paul Sacks.
Barrage name calling reiterated for self-pleasure (of the demonic delight of dem damnable dames), an essence that this corporeal embodiment represented an abominable doofus, execrable goofus, and horrible incubus overrode an honest to goodness lament from this generally affable, congenial, equable gadabout individual. Thee above supposedly constituted mine Kempf strengths.
Ha!
The chutzpah, moxie, and nerve of three self-anointed bartered brides would one day come back to haunt them. Though the mother queen of mean passed from this terra firmae about a half dozen years ago, the seed planted within me noggin to expunge pent-up sentiments via composing a thinly disguised fictional account of exemplified by such band members, song lyrics and book titles such as:
a. blood, sweat and tears
b. a hard days’ night;
c. remembrance of things past;
Signature musical and literary motifs (near infinitely jesting with comic relief) like a chucked wagon wheel spinning misfortune, the whoosh of bats out of hell, or beat it asap whipping the air
supply with raw bits of rabid redux tried to dislodge us from Warren of peace attempted to score points in minds of these iron maidens.
Atrocious, bellicose, hellacious and poisonous appliqué refused to adhere to this domestic denizen and dependents, who got whipped into a greater emotional frenzied lather with doggedness to dig in figurative heals from such bellicose, devilish such as them arctic monkeys driving us along the highway to hell, surreptitiously committing dirty deeds done dirt cheap.
Unbeknownst to this contemplative, earth-linked, googly-eyed snap-chatting, twittering angry bird man (who gestures Hi5’s to passing hotmails and yahoos), unknowingly brewed corrosively fermented, indelible lamented, ominously rented
Havoc wrought per wrecking ball within his five foot and ten-inch frame.
Despite threats (peppered with a string of colorful epithets) to demand our ousting, the prospect for this chap (with an intermittent employment track record between extensive gaps), and his recent bride (whose resume evinced sterling positive details pre-computer age), she wanted to remain a stay at home mommy.
Aside from my sporadic work stints, an immediate surge of adrenaline coursed thru my five foot and ten-inch body upon anywhere within an interviewing precinct.
Anticipatory anxiety thwarted a futile effort to remain calm, cool and collected.
Thus me own silent spring sprang (robbin) most inopportunely spewed forth-soaked underarms and palms of hands.
No doubt skin pored dripping incessantly, a non-verbal body language that bespoke nervousness and uneasiness, and top that off with attire more suitable for a rock concert, no surprise an unfavorable first impression evoked to compromise consideration to be hired.
Self-speaking silent pep talk given (in league with deep breathing exercises) while en route to interview an approach relaxation that imperceptibly reduced such psychic tumult. Salient strengths rarely communicated. Nervous physiological symptoms such as vertigo, sweaty palms, palpating heart, moving like a mechanical dog conspired to spell disaster.
Demands to get a haircut, a principle point long story shortcut to an obvious critique when browbeaten, hectored, and “lectured” as the root cause of ill luck securing gainful jobs.
Agreement with paying minimal attention to appearance (cuz this establishmentarian) did (and still doth) newt intend to impress anybody and reviles jumping thru figurative hoops to land secure a paycheck.
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