Wrong is the Spelling

 

 

I can eat just about anything, except meat brought home from a grocery store. For pork and beef, I need a real butcher shop. And, in my book, a simple ownership of the business isn’t sufficient; the top guy must exhibit a professional connection to every piece of protein grub he sells. Once he earns my trust, and I earn his, the transactional relationship quickly morphs into friendship. As we well know, there’s a world of difference between the two.

 

Having had mostly fond memories butcher-wise, I must admit one notable exception. During the early days of my stay here in the sticks, me and the owner of the local meat shop became fast friends. Rucksack, that’s the butcher’s nickname, he runs a very fine operation, ranging from the best sweet Italian sausage to a dream of dry-aged bone-in ribeye.

 

At one point Rucksack felt comfortable enough to share a secret of his. “Found a great side gig. The pay’s good and it’s a nice diversion from life’s monotony.” He took off his apron and showed me the XL warmup shirt he was wearing: GOOD HUSSLE  = GOOD LIFE.

“Rucksack, the correct spelling is HUSTLE not HUSSLE. True though, the t is silent.”

 

He clammed up, and since then all our conversations have been strictly meat-focused.

 

Shouldn’t have pissed him off with the spelling. I’ve found out from reliable sources that Rucksack, owing to his intimate knowledge of mammalian anatomy, has been moonlighting for the State.

 

Published in spillwords on April 29, 2025

 

 

 

 

 

My Irish Grandpa

 

Every time my grandpa, my mother’s father, visited us he always brought a crate of fruits or vegetables, whatever he just harvested. I remember I was in second grade when he came by with the crate and asked how I was doing in math.

 

“Twenty-six plus six is one,” I said.

 

He loved it. He was half-Irish, which made me one-eight Irish. Not much Irish, many would say, but we had our own history.

Centuries earlier expulsion waves brought tens of thousands from the Emerald Isle to our part of Central Europe. They were refugees but had standards high enough not to stop in France or Germany.

 

The Irish worked hard, drank hard, and intermarried with the tossed salad of Austrians, Slovaks and Hungarians. Now, after several generations, only a few know or care about having a few pints of Celtic blood. The others have been reduced to marvel why their last name is Kenedi or Onel. One thing has endured, though, and as a result all the good townspeople become Irish once a year.

 

Legend has it, when news arrived from Ireland about one of the more productive massacres by the British, a painting of the Madonna shed tears of blood. On the day of anniversary the faithful go to the cathedral to kiss the picture, luckily covered by glass and wiped down after each smooch by a church servant. The blood drops are faded brown, still visible enough so only the most cynical atheists would dare question the miracle.

 

“The blood stains will miraculously disappear the day Ireland gains total independence,” my grandpa whispered to me, standing in the long line.

 

Years later, after I flunked out of college the first time, I visited him. I knew he was not well, still it was surprising to find him sitting in a rickety armchair late morning. “It’s pneumonia or a bad case of influenza. Stay away, it’s probably contagious.” Then he wanted to hear about my plans for the future.

 

I said I was going to join the Sinn Fein since Gerry needed more volunteers. He sighed and rolled his eyes, “What for?” A frosty response from a man who had the Starry Plough banner on the wall next to the crucifix.

 

I said, “I’ll go to Belfast or Derry and shoot the entire magazine of my AK-47 into a bunch of English soldiers.”

He waved. “Then what?”

 

“Then I reload.”

 

He waved again. “Go tell your grandmother to boil up water for tea. That with a spoonful of honey, and in a couple of days I should be back to my vigorous self. Then you and me, we’ll be on the beach checking out the young broads in their string bikinis.”

 

Even though most family members spoke little or no English, and our combined Gaelic vocabulary barely amounted to a dozen curse words, Irish music was playing during the wake. “That was one of his last wishes,” my grandma told us. I nodded. “He was very proud of his heritage.” Grandma rolled her eyes. “No, this is for your benefit. He told me, find some Irish songs for that crazy mac soith. He believes he is Irish.”

 

Published in Every Day Fiction on March 17, 2025