The Native Iowan

The day is sunny and warm. A soft sunlight filters through the oak tree in the back yard. A ginger cat lazes drowsily in the shade. An old plank picnic table leans precariously on the glistening lawn. Near by a shining metal barbecue pit gleams. Machined, silver legs. Bright red tray.

A garden takes up the majority of the small yard.

The dew of the early morning fog sits lightly on rows of regimented plants. The straight and stately tomato vines. Held erect with slim sticks. Beads of dew glistening like jewels in the sun.

The slight foreign looking eggplants. The youthful sweet corn stalks. The quietly exotic pepper plants. Lined and disciplined in the 20 foot by 20 foot patch. The tilled black loam in contrast to the brilliant green lawn.

Floating like a snared balloon, bright pink and slightly jiggling, Grandma’s rear-end catches the eye. Between the eggplant and the tomatoes. From a distance it looks quite unusual.

The stretch nylon of her “work shorts” blaze brighter (and bigger) than the day is shining and soft. She rises, sighs. Wiping her hands on her hips she takes a step to her left and bends again. She is weeding. Removing uninvited invaders from the carefully tended plot.

Grandpa, stands at the edge of the garden, leaning on a hoe. He appears to be surveying his empire. Smile of silent satisfaction rests on his weathered face. He pauses in his daydream to reach inside the front of his worn “Osh Kosk” bibbed overalls. He scratches his groin. His look of silent satisfaction widens as he scratches.

“Damn-it Grandpa.” The old man starts, looks stunned. His hand still down the front of his overalls. “I told you ta put shorts on under your work clothes. Everyone in town can watch you scratching yer self. Wish yu’d put yer damn shorts on before yu’d come out. Walking around half naked. Ain’t decent I say”.

Grandma has stood up. Both wrists propped on her hips, her fingers dirty from weeding. She has the “evil eye” fastened on the old man. She’s glaring at him.

“Gawdamnit woman. I told you wuz too damn hot to sweat through all that cotton. Man’s gotta have a bitta air, ya know.”

“I don’ care.” She says. “Gawd and everyone stand’n here lookin at you diddlin’ yer self. Ain’t decent I say.”

Grandma bends to continue her chore. A sly smile crosses the old man’s face.

“I’ll tell what ain’t decent.” He says. “ Look at you. Yer ass s’ big as that barbecue.  Ain’t decent ya say. Hell woman. I’ll tell what s’ not decent.”

The old woman’s agile movement belies her age. She is up and covers the three or fours steps between them like a pro athlete.

Face to face they stand. You call tell Grandma is not happy.

“What do you mean? What are you saying?” she near spits on the old guy.

“Like I said. Plain and simple. Me, I’m dressed proper. Don’ need no shorts. But you, hell woman, yer ass ‘s bigger than that barbeque over there. And them bright pink pants. Hell, woman, they look like theys been spray painted on.”

“Ain’t so. Ain’t So! Take in back. Now. You’re juz being mean. Cause I caught ya fingering yerself n’ all. Yer juz being mean.”

The old man smiles and shakes his head. He can tell the old woman is mad. “I’ll betcha that the barbecue over there is smaller than your ass. If I’m wrong I’ll wear shorts everyday, swear to gawd. I’m right, I’m right. Sounds like a fair bet to me.”

“Sometimes I do declare! How I spent all these years with you? Yer jus a mean old man. I do declare.”

The old man shifts his hoe. Slips his hand inside his bib and scratches a tit. “Sounds like a fair bet to me. You says not I says yas. You got nothing to lose. Hell, I’m the one who stands to lose anything.”

And so it is that we see grandpa walking over to the shed. He opens the door and enters. He returns a moment later holding a large, silver tape-measure.

“You didn’ have to get the biggest damn tape in the shed” Grandma says with a frown. You can see she is unconvinced this is a good idea.

“Jus wanna be sure it’ll do the job.” Grandpa says with a boyish smile.

“Now bend yerself over and let me measure.” He says as he extends the tape out and holds it stretched between his arms.

“No you don’.” Grandma counters. “You measure the barbecue first.”

Grandpa walks over to the barbecue. Disturbing the sleeping cat he takes several measurements. He’s making a show of it.

He rises holding the tape in front of him. His thumb and forefinger mark the chosen measurement. “ Dead on thirty-three inches.” He declares. “Now ben’ yerself over and lets get a reading.”

Grandma looks very uncertain. Her earlier anger has fled. She has lived with this old joker for over fifty years and knows when she has let her self be led into a set up. “Now, now. I ain’t so sure..”

“Bend yerself over now. Let me get a good measurement.” He is walking towards her with the tape held straight in front of him.

“I don’ know. Damnit. How d’ I let you talk me into this?” Grandma slowly bends over. Taking up her straight legged, bent at the hips weeding posture.

Grandpa advances. He’s holding the tape like a probe or an uncertain weapon. “Now don’ you be passin’ any gas while I’m about this measuring.” He chuckles. His smile, now that Grandma can’t see his face, is broad and beaming.

“Jus be getting on with it, damn you. I can’t be standing like this forever.”

“Be patient. Too damn early for the neighbors to be watching any way.” The old man says as he manipulates the tape.

He has his finger and thumb on the thirty-three inch mark. He raises the tape to Grandma’s ass. He lets out a long slow whistle.

“Hell-fire woman. Hold still now. Quit wiggling it, will ya. Looks like you got the barbecue beat all to shit. I do say. Hmm… I’ll have to call thirty-four and a half if’n it’s an inch.”

The old woman is up and mad again. “Give me that damn thing. You’re jus an ol liar is what you are. Give me that thing.”

She snatches the tape from Grandpa’s hand and proceeds to try to measure her own bottom. She tries to hold the tape flush with the side of her left cheek and find the right side with her thumb. The old man watches with a pleased look on his face. Grandma brings the tape up, adjusts her glasses and tries to read the measurement near her thumb.

“Told you.” Is all grandpa says.

“Ain’t right. Ain’t t’ truth. I bent the tape. Here, lets get a real measurement.” She says this as she walks to the picnic table under the oak.

She puts the tape out on the bench seat. Locks the tape into place and delicately (as delicately as possible) sits on the tape. She marks one side with her right forefinger. The other with her left.

“Now what does that say? Smart ass.”

The old man leans close, looks at her left finger and says “ fifty four, no fifty five inches.”

“No, damn you. I gots some over here that don’ count. Subtract whats over here. There’s seventeen inches over here. What’s that make it? Mr. Smarty.”

“Well, fifty four minus 17 is, hmm, that’s be 36 inches. Hell-fire, woman. My measurement was smaller.”

“I wuz sittin. I wuz sitin. It makes it bigger. Spreads it out more, ya know. Here, let me stand up. You measure as I stand.”

With a great show of resignation the old man takes the tape-measure as Grandma stands and pulls her quite ample self into as small of a linear posture as possible.

Without a word he measures grandma’s rump. He does it quickly. Shows her the result without looking.

“thirtyfour inches.” She reads. “Thirtyfour inches.” She snatches the tape. Waddles over to the barbecue. Measures and measures. Walks around the apparatus at least three times. With a sigh of resignation she tosses the tape-measure onto the picnic table.

“Damn you, you ornery old cuss.” She says as she turns on her heel and stomps into the house.

Grandpa keeps his face passive until the screen door noisily slams shut. Once safe from Grandma’s wrath he allows himself a broad smile and a low chuckle. He addresses the cat. “Bigger n’ the barbecue. Hell. I thought I was gonna lose. Was jus funnin’. Now she’ll be pissed all day. Thirtyfour inches… hell fire…”

He laughs low and long as he collects his hoe and resumes his surveying posture.