APRIL 9, 2024 – (Cont.) My daring ventures into Rathbuns’ house occurred over several times during my youngest years. Those were still the times when we could follow Mrs. Rathbun from the street all the way up the long driveway along the side of the house to the back and the only accessible entry. As the years unfolded, the entire width and length of the driveway became the final resting ground for countless old toilets, bathtubs, wash stands, kitchen sinks, hot-water tanks, and miscellaneous pipes that John and Arlan had pulled and replaced in the course of their plumbing business. Their antique sedan wound up marooned in the garage at the far end of the driveway, while on the crumbling apron there was just barely enough room to park the old brown pickup off the street.
My central impressions of the inside of the house were the same on every visit: the cats, the wood-burning stove, the filthy kitchen floorboards, above all, the stench—a potent combination of onions and cat pee. I was also fascinated by the matching ruby-colored decorative pitcher and glasses on the tarnished silver tray. Forgotten by time, the glassware was covered with dust and rested on a table next to a window. I remember noticing billions of dust particles floating upon the sunrays that penetrated the grimy windowpanes and landed on some of the little decorative knobs of the glasses, setting them faintly aglow. It was a hint of cheer in an otherwise dark and dispirited setting.
I also noticed that the cats had free reign of the place, and a favored spot seemed to be the stove top. Mrs. Rathbun didn’t mind, and she spoke to her felines with the same affection that she distributed freely among us kids, as she handed out hard candies from a dish on the kitchen table. I never ate the candy but not because I lacked a sweet-tooth.
Early one summer evening she led us into the front room where I was surprised to see John and Arlan seated, watching TV. It was no ordinary television but a high-end console that doubled as a hi-fi stereo. On one wall were floor-to-ceiling shelves loaded with books. This scene challenged my assumptions about the Rathbuns. Maybe they weren’t so poor after-all. I’d never seen such a fancy TV set up—and mind you, our family didn’t own a television of any kind. The number of books on the shelves told me that beneath the junk and jungle outside and the dust and dirt and pungent odors inside was a much bigger story than we kids had been reading from the more noticeable evidence.
Over time bits and pieces of that larger story would appear. One of the most amusing fragments was John Rathbun’s bookkeeping system, discovered innocently one evening by Fred Moore.[1] Moores lived in the beautiful residence directly across the street from Rathbuns’ haunted junkyard jungle. Some weeks before Fred’s discovery, he’d called upon John Rathbun to fix a relatively minor plumbing problem, which, ol’ big-headed plumber John addressed proficiently and efficiently.
Pleased and impressed, Fred told John to send a bill, which Fred said he’d pay right away. The bill never came, and one day after work Fred walked over to the old house to settle his account. Fred later gave my parents and me an account of his exchange with John:
“How much do I owe you?” Fred asked John.
“How ‘bout five?’” said the old man.
Somewhat embarrassed by John’s apparent deep neighbor-discount, Fred said, “You’ve gotta take ten” and handed him a twenty. John then led Fred through the odors of the kitchen, past the ruby-colored pitcher and glasses, and down the narrow corridor to the TV room. There John pulled a book off the shelf and fanned the pages. As Fred reported, the volume was filled with fives. The ancient plumber then pulled another book off the shelf and again flipped through it. Voila! It was filled with ten-dollar bills. John removed one, gave it to Fred and restored the book to its slot. Finally, he removed a third book from the shelf—one full of twenties—and deposited Fred’s Hamilton. (Cont.)
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
[1] The reader might remember Fred not only from this current series but from the critical role he played in my blog series last fall, The Story that Made Them Cry.
2 Comments
Before Arlan got his new teeth, he frequently took me to the symphony at Northrop, at my mother’s request. He always dressed up in a clean, pressed suit with a crisp, white shirt and tie. He always acted like taking this preteen to the symphony was the highlight of his week. The one night he couldn’t drive was when Igor Stravinsky was conducting. I really wanted to go but couldn’t find a ride.
Both John and Arlan were so kind to us kids. They let us hang out with them while they worked and answered our endless questions.
Liza, that’s absolutely AMAZING–Arlan taking you to Minneapolis Symphony concerts at Northrop! Outside of our family, I don’t know ANYONE who got to see Arlan as a kind, interesting character. — Eric