Some Things Are Better Than Advertised

There are times in life when you have to see for yourself if a product recommended is everything proclaimed!

My Grandfather, Dad:

Dad Dickens or just Dad is what Kit and I called our grandfather.

He was a Vermonter through and through. When he retired he did what most Vermonters seem to eventually try at one time or another. Escape the bitter cold, snowy winters of that beautiful green country and repair to Florida for the season.

My grandfather lasted for two months when went to the Sunshine State that winter.

On his way back to Vermont he stopped at our place on the Jersey Shore.

His explanation for only competing half the season in Florida (although he’d prepaid the cost of his rental for the full winter season ) was,

“One damn nice day after another; drove me nuts!” .

Dad Bearing Gifts:

Whenever he could, he would bring a gift to his grandchildren. His visit on his particular pilgrimage back to Vermont included seeing two families: the Barrabees and the Thompsons.

Convenient because, at the time, both families lived across the street from each other. They were also close to I95, the most direct route from Florida to Vermont.

My cousin Kit and I delighted in the fact that we received some kind of trinket on special occasions — or for no occasion. That was always a big part of our anticipation of his visits. His stories backed by some object that we could keep.

A virtual souvenir.

We sat around in the living room of our house at the Jersey Shore; Dad Dickens on one side of the room Kit and I on the other listening as attentively as possible.

Really, we were waiting to see what he brought us on his pilgrimage back to the Northeast Kingdom from the south. Usually it was one gift each.

Both our mothers had coached us never to say:

“Wadja bring me?”

The height of bad manners no matter how long and drawn out his stories might seem to us.

“He’ll get around to it,” both my mother and Aunt Betty advised us.

Even at the tender ages of nine and ten we could tell when Dad was approaching the end of his narrative. . He was tiring or bored what ever the reason his seventy seven year old motor was slowing — it was approaching the time for gifting.

What Dad Brought Us This Time:

His first present to Kit was a mild disappointment.

It was a shake-up snow globe that had a itty bitty palm tree set up inside. When Kit shook it the white flakes suspended in water became activated and it appeared to be snowing.

Dad Dickens, as if convincing Kit of the worthiness of the souvenir chortled, “Get it, snowing in Florida? Doesn’t happen!”

Try as he might Kit couldn’t get interested. Just to be nice, he pretended to like the snow globe but I could tell he was disappointed.

I hoped Dad brought me something else. Maybe I could even share it with Kit.

From across the room, Dad Dickens boomed, “ No, no — I didn’t forget you Stink-finger (an endearing reference to me when he felt particularly loving)!”

He then proceeded to reach in his bag and take out a brown ball and rolled it the length of the room to where I was sitting. It stopped rolling by my feet.

What the heck was it. Hard as a rock with wispy hair; looked to me like a monkey’s head without a face.

Dad went on to say,” That thing is suppose to have milk in it and some white stuff that tastes like an Almond Joy!”

“Without the almonds,” he added.

They call it a COCONUT!

Hmmm-now THIS was something.

Dad left the next morning to finish his trip. Gleefully resuming his annual period of freezing in his beloved Vermont.

Florida was far in his rear view mirror and fading fast.

Kit and I woke up the next day richer by one snow globe and one coconut.

Within a week Ricky broke Kit’s snow globe on the sidewalk in front of his house. He claimed it was an accident but I think he wanted to see how it worked. Kit wasn’t too mad, he thought the whole thing was girly in the first place.

Now the coconut — that was a different matter!

Still sitting, observed frequently but rarely touched on the bureau in my bedroom, I started to question how the coconut worked.

Milk?

Tastes like an Almond Joy?

How does a thing so weird looking as a coconut be involved with something as delicious as an Almond Joy?

My favorite candy bar.

After another week of now boring visual study, I decided to involve Kit.

Makes A Coconut Work:

“Let’s open up the coconut and see what’s inside,” I ventured to Kit after school the net day.

I ran up the stairs to my room and grabbed it off the bureau.

Kit accompanied me running outside with him carrying a cup and a plate to hopefully capture the milk and Almond Joy stuff that Dad told us the coconut held inside it’s hard brown roundness.

I carried the coconut.

Kit suggested we follow Ricky’s successful path with his snow globe and smash the coconut on the sidewalk until it eventually cracked.

Try as we might, throwing the resilient coconut down on the sidewalk countless time did nothing to crack nature’s protective armor shielding that odd fruit.

Changing tactics, we ran it up the stairs to my room and threw it out the window — -it hit the street and seem to bounce but not break.

In my fathers workshop we tried squeezing it in his gigantic vice. Whacking it with a woodworking mallet didn’t allow us any insight into what was going on inside the stubborn coconut.

After an exhausting afternoon of frustration; I looked at Kit and he looked at me — we know what we were forced to do.

The railroad tracks ran through a small woods across the street. Kit and I spent a good part of our time after school and on weekends watching the commuter trains roar on by on their way to New York.

We had successful flatten any number of pennies. I had them all stored in an unmatched sock hidden behind my underpants drawer.

All of our activities involving the railroad tracks were not shared with our parents. Long ago they had made it plain that the tracks were off limits to Kit and me.

During heavy commutations times the trains whizzed by every fifteen minutes.

In our first try, we simply balanced the coconut on the track. The vibration of the approaching train caused it to fall onto the rock and soil track bed without a scratch.

Success:

I think Kit will be a nuclear physicist when he grows up. He always has answers to the technical problems that come up in life.

Kit suggested we take a small amount of dirt from the trackbed, pack it on the track and push the coconut into it.

Much as one does with an egg cup.

Mission accomplished.

As the 5:10 (the train Kit’s father usually takes came roaring on by) the coconut dutifully remained on the track and exploded upon impact.

Kit and I waited until all the cars passed and went dashing over to what was left of the mutilated coconut.

We had the plate and cup from my mother’s kitchen.

The closer we got to where we put the coconut on the track the less we saw of its remains.

There was a bit of moisture along with some hard packed white stuff stuck on the rails. Both were mixed with railroad bed dirt. Not nearly enough left of anything to put on a plate or fill up a cup.

We both had the same idea at the same time. Kit and I cracked heads as we both dropped down on our knees to lick the track.

We agreed:

The rail did taste a lot like an Almond Joy!