Jitterbug In Olcott Beach

For the first time in the history of ever Mojopost is featuring a guest blog by Jane Craptable, a 13 year-old pancake magnate and writer from Olcott Beach, NY. Business minded readers may be more familiar with Jane’s accomplishments as CEO of Dee Dah Dee De Dee Pancakes! (sing the name out loud, it’s more fun that way). Congratulations, Jane, for making it through my extensive vetting process. Welcome!

Jane would like to introduce you to her neighbors. SPOILER ALERT: Jitterbug IS his real name.

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As you may or may not know, I am Mojopo’s niece from the ever so famous Olcott Beach. Aunt Mojo sent me a blog idea and I was thrilled! She wanted me to explain to you what kind of folks we have up here.

First of all, there is a man in Olcott Beach named Jitterbug. He has been alive longer then anyone else I know. The only thing keeping him alive is the toxic Olcott fish he eats, and all the alcohol he drinks.

Jitterbug is African American. Whenever I whine about school he starts up with the "back in the day I wasn't allowed to go to school cuz I'm black" thing. I wonder if he hates some white people.

Do you want to know what Jitterbug looks like? He's about 6'5” but he's all hunched over with a cane. His face is fun because it always looks like he’s saying “ya know?” and talks like he's drunk, even when he is sober.

Jitterbug loves to hand out money. One time I hurt my arm and he handed me his wallet saying "You’re gonna have to pay the hospital bills!" Of course I did not take his money! You wanna know where Jitterbug is right now? In the hospital bleeding out of his anus from his drinking! He's gonna need surgery before he’s all right. I hope he remembered his wallet.

Next, I better tell you about some other crazy neighbors we have. Like Scooter Kid! The Scooter Kid is about 20 and he rides this scooter all the time – even to get his mail or when he delivers pizza! It drives the entire neighborhood nuts! He built that piece of trash himself and now he is in love with it.

Something else you should know is that the local school has just fired another pedo. Yup, just this week we had a teacher charged with "sexting", 2 or 3 counts of 3rd degree sexual abuse and stuff. Do I need to carry pepper spray to school now?

Olcott Beach has all kinds of people - gossips, old ladies and we even have couples that get drunk and break windows. There is a woman down the street who picks through our garbage, too. A few months back, a little boy tried to steal a gold fish out of the pond in our front yard. My mother told him she was going to call the police. I think she scared the pee out of him! Where do I fit into this place? I fit because I am weird, too, and I like that very much.

I bet I convinced everyone reading this to take a trip to Olcott Beach! I am sure they would have some fun! Jitterbug might be out of the hospital by then.





Ok, love you! Bye! xoxoxoxox

We Only Look Small

If an alien took a photograph of the Milky Way you and I would best be viewed in a microscope. Feeling small? Don’t, it would be a mistake. Cheer for the alien who had the inspiration to look closer. That person is going to help you make this life matter.

Yesterday I tried to write a blog about news I had missed while I was out of town. I never felt what I was writing because my mind has been settled on Olcott Beach and my father dying. I had this crazy idea that I should try and type something mainstream-ish in order to be a part of the on-line community. Like I used to. Much of my work is based on improvisation so I tried to react to the present. I’ve heard that it is important for grieving people to get back on track but I can tell you for certain that this process has a mind of its own and little regard for timetables and blog traffic.

The truth is that I want to wave at the alien with the microscope. Something important has happened in my life and I am eager to connect with other people. My experience is not unique; we’ve all been through things so why not go through it together? However, I have learned that everyone has an exclusive story that the big picture fails to show. We are as rare as our own fingerprints and not everyone has the time or patience for a better look. I’m making more time because I know better now.

If you’re wondering where I am going with this it has to do with torture. As many of you know, the US government has tortured some of the men accused of masterminding 9/11. This revelation has affected me.

I know what it is like to see a parent tortured and I can’t forgive my father’s doctor or his disease. I doubt I ever will. Likewise, those men in jail (as awful as they were) probably have children who will remember the inhumanity their parent endured. Torture perpetuates hatred. Real hatred, always echoing and violet in color, feels impossible to eliminate. For that reason alone I know that torture is never correct. Torture deflects humanity. It overcomes reasoning.

Compel yourself to take a closer look at the world. Decide that there are better ways to do things.

I'm No Dr. Doolittle But...

Sally, did I tell you about the time all the woodland creatures in Olcott Beach came out to make sure my Dad was dead? Yes, I am on the real. A hawk with full-grown possum in its’ clutches stopped by Mom’s house, a swan flew over the porch and a coyote met me at the door. “Is it true? Is the coast clear?” the coyote asked me. “Yes, but Mom kept four rifles. Don’t get cocky,” I said. My father was a hunter – I anticipated their inquiries by land, sea and air.

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It was weird. There I was calling relatives about Dad dying and the animals kept dropping by. I think the scent of meat and cheese platters being delivered to the house was making them crazy. Has anyone in your family died? People love to give you food when it happens, and let them. The urge to carb-load when grieving is insane.



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Back to the animals – specifically, coyotes. Ever since Dad died coyotes started biting the crap out of people (the link is here). It’s like they coordinated their efforts and had a schedule! The coyote that came to Mom’s door ran away after I told him about Dad, but everyone I met at the post office was bitching about their rabies shots. Boy-howdy, they were so pissed. One guy was mad at me because the coyote did not bite me, too. “You’re next!” he warned. I can hardly wait because I am delicious. Mr. Coyote should be so lucky.

The hawk with the possum was flat-out wrong. Talk about showboating! Sure, it was impressive. How many times have you seen a hawk hanging onto a fat, fresh possum in front of your face? OK, but the Hammertime footwork and gang signs were over the line.

The swan thing was cool, but only because Mom had been complaining about never seeing a swan up close. It started weeks ago when we heard that swans were roosting in the marina parking lot. The day the swan flew over the porch I put Mom into the car and drove her there. At last she saw a swan! It was taking up most of a handicapped parking space. I pulled up next to it, careful to hang Dad’s handicapped placard from the rearview mirror. “Well I’ll be darned,” Mom said, “he doesn’t seem disabled at all.”

These were odd experiences but I kind of liked having all of those animals stop by. It was in improvement over the flies. The last time I saw Dad alive there were flies buzzing the screens of his window at the nursing home. Flies in Western NY in March? I wondered if it was a sign, if I should cancel my flight.

Last but not least I should mention the cat. It came walking down the street one night while I was sitting outside looking at stars. I sat at the end of the driveway and it looked so much like my Dad’s late cat, Pistol Pete. I laughed in spite of myself because the cat sat down and stared at me for the longest time when I told him how much he looked like someone I used to know. Then off it went, under the neighbor’s steps and out of sight. It was not until the next morning that I realized our neighbor has solid cement steps that nothing can crawl inside of, and I had a very happy cry. My Dad’s nickname was Tom because he loved tomcats best.

Back To Olcott Beach

Hello, folks --

I’m going to be in and out of pocket for a few weeks because I’m going back to Olcott Beach. My father is sick and it would be a good idea to come around. I’ll be staying with Mom.

Mom does not have cable or Internet access, mostly because she thinks each are the Devil’s work (“idle hands, blah blah blah”). I’m thinking about packing gin in my bathrobe.

In the event I find a stray Internet signal on Althea Street, I’ll let you know. Other times I will drive through the woods over a dirt path to my sister’s house and plug in there, as time permits. Mostly I will be hanging out with Mom and the rest of my family, visiting Dad in the ICU. It’s going to be like this for as long as it needs to be.

Until I get back, gorge yourself on the Tubes and think good thoughts. Thanks much. OK bye!

Your Pal,
Mojopo

Fat Lady & Debbie

A woman of tremendous size moved into a small house across the street from my parents as spring was turning into summer in 1975. My mother baked a berry pie and took it over to this woman after she moved in, to welcome her to the neighborhood. I tagged along because that is what children do – they follow people everywhere. I had every reason to believe that the new lady on the block could be as spectacularly weird as the lady down the street who wore a blue winter coat all summer long and stored a million Kotex boxes on her front patio. Turns out, my instincts were right. Our new neighbor was out of her mind.

Our new neighbor met my mother at the door. “Who are you?” she said. She was wearing an immense black bra and a giant red beehive hairdo at the time. Just a bra and a hairdo. No underwear, no shoes, and no robe. In her left hand, she had a long leather bullwhip. In spite of this, my mother never missed a beat and said, “Welcome to Althea Street. I baked you a pie.”

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My Southern mother was the neighborhood’s one-woman welcoming committee. Even when a large bottomless woman met her at the door with a bullwhip in her hand, my mother never misplaced her manners. “Mom, why does that lady have a whip?” I asked. My mother said nothing, but she did move back a step or two.

The woman looked suspicious but she seemed disarmed by my mother’s kind offering. She stepped outside her screen door, took the pie and said her name was Linda, but that everyone called her Fat Lady. My Mom asked, “Should I call you Linda or Fat Lady? I’m Ruby. People just call me Ruby.” My mother smiled tightly and started backing away, pulling me with her. Fat Lady called out, “Hey! You should meet Debbie. Debbie, come here!”

A puny man with a beak for a nose emerged from behind the dark screen door. “That’s my boyfriend, Debbie. Ruby baked us PIES, Debbie. We’re gonna like HER!” He shook his head and smiled, and I noticed he had red welts all over his body. “Mom, “ I said, “that guy looks beat up.” My mother shushed me, and said that we had to be going. From that day forward, we tried very hard to stay out of Fat Lady's way.

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The world is painted in vibrant colors when one is a child. When I trace the edges of my memory the colors leap out at me, they remind me of what I have seen in a tiny town on the edge of big, blue Lake Ontario. Looking back, it’s no wonder I couldn’t wait to wake up every day when I was a kid, to look out the window while I ate my toast.

I remember that Fat Lady moved away in September, only a few months after she and Debbie moved in. Something about a check kiting scheme and prison. Debbie went to jail himself a short time later, because he got drunk and went on a crazy Peeping Tom spree. It all went to hell when Debbie was caught rummaging through Mrs. McAvoy's drawers. She attacked Debbie with her hands, took him down to the floor and took a bite out of his ankle. He got away and ran to hide on our porch. No one knows why our porch seemed like a logical hideout for Debbie, but there he was. Thankfully, Mrs. McAvoy had called the police earlier, and so the police were able to track Debbie around Olcott Beach by the trail of ankle blood that led to our door.

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Fat Lady gave my sister her bullwhip before she left for prison that fall. She also squared away her outstanding bill for newspaper deliveries with my sister, the neighborhood papergirl, by throwing Debbie against the side of their house. When he was down and dazed, Fat Lady took his wallet, emptied it and handed a wad of crumbled bills to my sister. We said thank-you and ran away.

Our sleepy little neighborhood never quite adapted to these people and we talked about them for years. What makes this oddity endure in my mind were the colors these people came with – the black bra, the fiery hair and the purple welts on a pale little man. Punctuating this memorable impression is the sound of a bullwhip echoing off the side of avocado colored vinyl siding, across my mother’s flower garden and through our window screens.