CONFESSION TO A PRIEST


Oh Lordy, why does it always have to be so dark in here? And why can’t an old woman like me sit in a chair in the confessional, instead of two arthritic legs crackling away on a wooden kneeler? I could never understand the reason behind kneeling anyway. You try and tell me that God doesn’t hear the man praying for dry weather while on his combine, or a woman pleading for help while being chased by a bull?

Hmmm? Speak up please, I can‘t hear you. My last confession? Well, let’s think.

Father, it’s been about three months since my last declaration of guilt, but with that being said I’m not entirely sure if what I did was a sin at all, so hear me out before you send me off with a pile of Hail Marys.

To make a long story short, it had to do with the pickle competition last fall at the Grunthel Fairground. You know where Grunthel is, don’t you? Forty-two miles north…

No, you’re right, it doesn’t matter.

Now, my specialty is brine and every year for the past nine years in fact, I’ve never won an award for my jars. In 2006 I was offered an honorable mention but you might as well have tossed a cow pie right in my face. I was so humiliated. Honorable mention! That’s just saying you’re a glorified loser.

There’s also the pie competition that I would’ve been good in since everyone knew that I also make a tasty rhubarb and apple pie, but how could anyone compete with Mrs. O’Neil? She’d trudge along the railroad tracks with her diamond willow cane in one hand and a plastic ice-cream pail in the other. Picked her own blueberries and she was 96 years old for God’s sake! I’m sure all of the judges thought she’d probably drop dead of a broken heart if they didn’t give her a ribbon. Unfair competition is what I call it. Small town mentality.

Hmm. No… I don’t believe I used God’s name in vain. No, I don’t remember. What did I say? God’s sake? Well if I said it, so did you just now. So how can you condemn me when you clearly said it yourself? I’m sure there’s a lot more people saying a lot worse and they’re still walking the streets. Can we… oh for ‘goodness sake‘. Is that better?

So, I signed up for the pickle competition and there were four of us women this year. Fanny Marshall was on the immediate right of me. I can only imagine what her kitchen looked like, she was always so dirty and dumpy looking. Now I know I’m not one to talk about dumpiness with my weight teetering at nearly 200 pounds but I’m big boned so that makes a world of difference. Anyway, I knew immediately that she wouldn’t hurt my odds since her brine was always milky white. A certain turn-off for a pickle connoisseur.

And to my left, two chairs over, was Crazy Annie.

Well, I have to disagree with you Father. I am not calling her names. I‘m sure you mean well, but labeling that as a sin is just being nitpicky if I do say so myself. She is crazy, that’s a fact. I’m only stating the truth. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.

I’m not sure what her logic was, if any, but every year Crazy Annie approached the table with a quart sealer crammed with two of the biggest pickles possible; always two, no more, no less. They looked like two puffy green calf embryos, is what they looked like, if you could imagine that. Mind you, it was always a laugh because it’s part of the judge’s duty to taste all of the entries. When they’d cut into one of her pickles the spray of juice would usually hit the first row of spectators like a water fountain.

Yes, I realize that it’s inappropriate to laugh in a confessional, especially as loudly as I did, but if you could have seen the screwed up faces as they tasted…

Where was I now? Oh yes. Low and behold, who should pop up around the corner as I polished the outside of my jar, but Nellie Bomok. SHE’s the one who claimed the 1st prize ribbon for the last eight years. I’m not a vindictive person but God I hated her. Every year, she walked away with her nose so high in the air I’m surprised that she didn’t trip over her own two feet. Word has it that she took up with her neighbor Joe from down the street, and the flowers on his wife’s grave haven’t even wilted yet.

Any comment on that one Father? I didn’t think so. And in answer to your question, Yes, I’m almost finished. Well, halfway.

As long as I live, I’ll never forget that day. Nellie walked to the spot next to mine at the long table and flattened a starched red and white embroidered doily in front and placed her jar on top. How a piece of cloth was going to make her pickles taste better, I’ll never know but I have to say it looked quite well presented. I knew it was too late to run back home for a doily of my own, so I whipped off my apron and kind of swirled it around the jar and tied a bow in front with the two straps. I’ve always been a little competitive and there’s no harm in that.

Father… are you getting up? You can’t leave until I’m done. I‘m sure there’s some kind of rule about that. I don’t think the board would like it if I went to the next meeting…

Are you sitting again? Okay, good…

Well, to back the truck up a little, I should have mentioned that Nellie and I have been in the same cribbage club for years with several other widowed women, always taking turns at each other’s homes. Two days before the Grunthel Fair got underway, the game was at Nellie’s place. I excused myself to use the biffy and as I passed by her kitchen I noticed her latest batch of jarred pickles cooling on the side counter. Well, what I did next was kind of chancy but with such an opportune moment… I grabbed a jar and hid it under her back step, and I retrieved the pickles later when I asked to see her garden. I shoved the jar in my purse while she picked me some fresh plums from her tree and she was none the wiser. Then I high-tailed it back to my place, cracked the seal on the jar, tossed out a pickle and set a plump, juicy baby mouse on top. Then I sealed the lid with a tad of Elmer’s glue. If truth be told, I found the litter of mice in the spring and pickled one for a moment such as that. I’ve always been a bit of a planner.

Father, are you still there? Okay… it’s just that you’re awfully quiet.

So, when the day of the competition came along, I packed two jars of pickles in my basket, one was mine, the other was Nellie’s. And off to the fair I went. As luck would have it, Nellie was chatting with Crazy Annie at the table, so I leaned over and in my friendliest manner, asked Nellie if I might admire her pickles. I placed her jar in front of me, and while her back was turned, I switched the two. I knew that Nellie prided herself with her annual picture in the Grunthel Herald, as she held that damn ribbon and smiled like a Cheshire cat. It was about time that I wiped that smile right off her face. Mind you, I felt bad for a minute, but fair is fair.

Then the contest began. Fanny, Crazy Annie, Nellie, and me, our heads bobbed behind our pickle jars. The crowd was thick, and Ben the photographer from the Grunthel Herald was positioned front and center. Crazy Annie’s jar was opened first. There was a murmur amongst the three judges as they decided which pickle to remove from the brine. All breath was halted as the trio nibbled the limp, hollowed form. Crazy Annie just sat there grinning from ear to ear; she looked prouder than a peacock.

Yes, I realize you have mass to hold…. so I’ll try and talk faster.

Next was Nellie. My heart thumped away like a drum, I must say. And the angel on my shoulder wondered if I should have done what I had done. Ben stepped forward and focused his camera, Joe from down the street stood up from his front row seat to see better, children asked to be lifted onto their dads’ shoulders, women stopped talking and stretched their necks to peer over the people in front of them. Everyone in town was anxious to see if Nellie would win nine straight years in a row.

One of the judges took a jackknife from his back pocket and ever so gently pried and nudged the seal to pop. I stood, and was on the tips of my toes by this time. I wanted to be the first to see the bloated little white bugger floating on top of her blasted pickles. The lid came off, a fork was submerged, a portion was removed, sliced on a china dish. All three judges slowly sunk their teeth into the crunchy…

Oh for the love of God, I’m in the confessional booth here. What kind of church is this when I’m on a time clock? Stop knocking. Father will be out soon. Go pray for patience.

Or, I guess I could finish this story up later since it seems like I’m causing a ruckus out there. No? You’re sure? You want to hear how it ends?

Well, they chewed it up real good and all of them nodded with approval. I was sick, literally sick. There wasn’t a rodent to be found, only pickles. Then the judges stepped sideways to my area and I thought, could I have… did I mix up the two jars? I grabbed my apron from the table and wiped my brow, dabbed at my neck, and lowered the cloth down the front of my dress and swiped under both my armpits. Maybe that wasn’t the most attractive thing to do but I was sweating like a pig by that time. I’m telling you, I didn’t know what to do next.

Each judge held the sealer way up high, rotated the glass and looked for clarity. They seemed to be quite pleased about the added blend of baby carrots, garlic cloves, and dill weed. Out came the jackknife again, the pop of the top and I almost keeled over backwards. There was the fleshy blob lying on top looking like a curled up anemic pickle.

Well, Nellie’s eyes widened like saucers and being as dramatic as they come, she screamed to high heaven and pushed the jar clear off the table. Pickles, brine, carrots and garlic were everywhere. And well, the mouse landed on Mrs. O’Neil’s lap. It took a moment for her to figure out what happened with her poor eyesight and all, but she was more than a little disturbed when someone yelled out it was a dead mouse, a hairless one at that.

Well, to shorten things up a little, Mrs. O’Neil had a stroke later that day and died that very night. No one but me knew the eyeless bloat was meant for Nellie, but the whole town blamed me just the same.

I said, “How long did you expect her to live? How many more blueberry pies did you expect her to make? She was 96 years old for God’s sake!”

But now, here I am two towns over, trying to start a new life. Me at 82.

Here I thought I was going to be famous for a day at least, and instead, all hell broke loose. I must say, my picture was in the Grunthel Herald but it was taken when I held my auction. I had to sell most of my belongings since I‘m now living in a furnished basement suite. Most townspeople only came to gawk. Boxes of my stuff went to the Salvation Army. Nobody bought my pickles.

Yes, I know that wasn’t very funny…

Anyway Father, that’s about it in a nutshell. And to say my piece, I don’t think I should have to say penance since I feel I’ve suffered enough by having to move to this godforsaken town of hillbillies. Everyone is so unfriendly. And not the most intelligent bunch to say the least.

Father… Father… are you there?