A Chaucer’s Christmas #3

Interlude

                The story was met with claps and cheers. “I’ve never heard that one,” the girl who suggested Chaucer said. “But I like it. I’m going to keep it.”

The storm was still raging outside, but we were more relaxed. It was easy to see why. With hot tea in our tummies, and good stories in our ears, the raging of the storm was more distant and removed from us.

“Who’s next?” I asked, especially eager now.

“So, I am,” one of the guys said. He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how much of this is true, but this is what my grandfather told me.”

Story #3: Pineapple for Christmas

It is a tradition in our house to have pineapple on Christmas morning. I know, it’s a bit strange, but hear me out.

It started when my grandfather and grandmother were just married, before any of their kids were born. Now, I have to be clear, this is how my grandfather tells the story. My grandmother might tell it slightly differently.

He would lean back in his rocking chair, stretch out his suspenders (if he was wearing them), and say, “It started with at pineapple, and ended with a goat. And I’ll never forget it.”

It was the first Christmas Eve my grandparents shared. They were coming on up on their first Christmas, as well as their first anniversary in January. What they didn’t know yet, though, was that my grandmother was pregnant with their first child, my oldest aunt.

Looking back, my grandfather said he should have known. She had just started experiencing morning sickness, but they thought it was the stomach bug that was going around town. Along with that, she started asking for the strangest things to eat. Like, this morning, she turned to my grandfather in the morning and said, “I want a pineapple.”

“Pineapple, my dear?” he asked.

“Pineapple,” she said decisively.

“You mean crushed pineapple, in a can?” he asked, thinking of the can they still had in the pantry.

She shook her head, then said, “Fresh.”

My grandfather, being the kind soul that he is, said, “Okay.” Then he stood up from the kitchen table, put on his hat and walked into the frosty South Dakota Christmas Eve.

As you can imagine, South Dakota in December is not only freezing, it is also one of the hardest places to find a fresh pineapple. But my grandfather was determined.

The first place was Apulia’s, the local market. It was running on limited hours and limited staff, since it was Christmas Eve, but he was able to get into the building and get his hands and face warmed up.

“Good morning!” the cashier said with a wide smile. She wore a white apron with “Merry Christmas!” emblazoned across the upper portion. “How can I help you?”

“Do you have a pineapple?” my grandfather asked.

“Crushed, in a can?” the cashier asked.

“No,” my grandfather said.

“Dried?”

“Fresh.”

There was an uncomfortable pause, then she said, “Let me make a few calls to see if anyone has anything.”

As she picked up the phone (giving my grandfather a strange look as she did so), my grandfather wandered away to browse the shelves. In a couple minutes, she called out to him. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Ah, yes?” he asked, turning back to her.

“Well, there seems to be one last fresh pineapple at the Onida Market. They’re holding it for you, if you can rush over there.”

“Oh, thank you,” my grandfather said, and rushed out of the store. He got into his Jeep, and began the drive to Onida.

My grandparents lived in near Gettysburg, which was about thirty minutes away from Onida on a normal day. That day, my grandfather made it in twenty minutes.

He pulled into the Onida Market, and jumped out, his tires smoking. He ran into store, and grabbed the first worker he could find. “I was told you had pineapple here?” he asked.

“Crushed, in a can?” the boy said.

“No,” my grandfather said, “And not dried, either. Fresh!”

“Fresh pineapple? In South Dakota? In December?” The man was clearly dubious, but my grandfather knew what to do.

“Can I talk to your manager?” he asked. “Someone called them about a pineapple.”

“I guess,” the boy said. “Right this way.”

He led my grandfather to the manager’s office, where the manager, a plump man with white beard, sat talking with a tall, thin farmer with ragged overalls and a thin, wiry beard.

“This guy says someone called about a pineapple?” he said.

“Pineapple?” the manager and the old farmer asked in unison. My grandfather joined in as they opened their mouths to continue. “Crushed, in a can?”

The boy looked at their three part harmony in awe, but my grandfather cut it off by shaking his head. “Fresh,” he said.

“Wait, did someone call about this ‘pineapple?’” the manager asked, making air-quotes in the air.

“Yes! That’s me!” my grandfather said.

“See, Earl, I told you,” the manager said to the old farmer. “Ain’t no one who’s gonna call about a ‘pie apple.’ ‘Pie apples’ ain’t even a thing.” As the old farmer threw a dismissive gesture, the manager turned to my grandfather. “Sorry. Old Earl here thought she was talking about an apple pie. We have a fresh apple pie saved for you, if you want it.”

“No, I don’t,” my grandfather said, getting heated. “I need this for my wife. It’s our first Christmas together, you see, and she asked for a pineapple this morning. I don’t dare go back without it.”

“If you need a pineapple,” Old Earl said, speaking slower than any molasses that would have tried to flow in South Dakota that December, “You could try Old Man Norris.”

“Oh, yeah,” the manager said. “He has that greenhouse that he grows all his exotic fruit in.” He looked my grandfather in the eye. “I’ll warn you, though, Old Man Norris is a bit strange.”

“That’s fine,” my grandfather said. “Just tell me where he lives.”

“I’ll take you there myself,” Old Earl said, pushing himself to his feet. He moved as slowly as he talked.

“That’s not necessary,” my grandfather said, but Old Earl waved a hand.

“No, no, I insist. Old Man Norris is my great-uncle.” Looking at Old Earl, my grandfather began to wonder if he was going to visit a gravesite. But, Earl seemed earnest enough, so he followed him out to his old Ford truck and climbed in the front seat.

“I’ve been meaning to go visit for a while,” Earl said. “I need to drop off some of my fertilizer.”

My grandfather expected Old Earl to take his time with his truck. Instead, Old Earl punched it into reverse, flying out of the parking lot faster than my grandfather had pulled in. “Now, this is more like it,” Earl said, his slow words contrasting with the world rushing past them.

My grandfather held on for his life as Earl sped across county roads, which suddenly ended. They bumped along a gravel road, which quickly turned into dirt. My grandfather sympathized with my grandmother’s nausea the past few mornings, but he retained his breakfast.

They sped into Old Man Norris’s driveway at breakneck speed, skidding to a stop in front of dilapidated barn that looked like it hadn’t seen paint since the late 1800’s. The house looked like an old one-room schoolhouse, turned into a livable shack. Next to it was a beautiful, clear greenhouse.

“Is that you, Earl?” a creaky voice asked. My grandfather looked up at the house again, and saw a man who looked almost exactly like Earl, but older and more craze-eyed.

“Sure is, Uncle Norris,” Earl said, climbing out of the truck.

“Finally come by to give me a Christmas present?” Norris asked.

“Well, now, not quite,” Earl said, half-turning back to the truck. “This young man is looking for pineapple.”

“Pineapple, eh?” Norris asked, creaking down his front steps. “Crushed, in a can?”

“Fresh,” Earl and my grandfather said in unison.

“Hmm,” Norris said. “I should have some right in the greenhouse. Come with me.” He wobbled his way to the greenhouse and pulled the door open. Earl motioned for my grandfather to follow, and at the speed of a snail, they entered the greenhouse.

“Now, where did I plant it?” Norris asked himself. “It should be right here, next to the lettuce.”

My grandfather looked at the area he was referring to. Long, pointed leaves remained, but there were no pineapples to be seen. “It looked like someone already harvested them,” he said, then added, “Not that I know anything about pineapples.”

“It does appear that you’re correct,” Old Man Norris said. “I think someone has stolen my pineapples, Earl. I gotta call the police!”

He began to run toward the door, but even at full speed, he wasn’t much faster than a derelict horse pulling a buggy that was missing one of its wheels.

My grandfather was thinking how disappointed his wife would be when Norris suddenly slapped his forehead. “No, wait a second! I just shipped them off with someone this morning. If we rush, we might be able to catch them!”

“Fantastic!” Earl said, then slapped his forehead, too. “Except that I’m almost out of gas.”

My grandfather slapped his forehead, too, but for an entirely different reason.

“There’s not a second to waste,” Old Man Norris said. “I’ll get my goats.”

“Goats?” my grandfather said weakly.

Old Man Norris didn’t say a word, but instead moved faster than my grandfather expected. He wobbled his way into the barn, and began to energetically throw open the stalls, letting out a herd of goats. All of them fell into two lines behind him.

“Come on, Dasher! Come on, Prancer! On Vixen!” Old Earl said, chuckling at the goats.

Old Man Norris led them to a toboggan-like sleigh hanging from the wall, and pulled it down. The goats, apparently having been trained for this, all positioned themselves in two lines in front of the sleigh. There were about twenty in total, and Old Man Norris went through each one, attaching a harness and guide-lines. After a second, Old Earl went to help him.

“Well,” Old Man Norris said to my grandfather once he was finished. “Let’s get you a pineapple.”

They left Old Earl behind, citing too much weight, and set off across the snow-dusted hills. Old Man Norris came alive, driving the goats like Santa Clause driving his reindeer. It was all my grandfather could do to keep on the sleigh. He was fairly certain that if he fell off, he would die.

“How – do – the – they – go – so fast?” my grandfather asked, each word punctuated by a bump in their path.

Old Man Norris looked down, his eyes alight with a fire that surprised my grandfather with its intensity. “Cabbage,” Old Man Norris said, enunciating both syllables. Then he looked back up and said no more.

My grandfather turned away, his eyes wide. All he wanted was a pineapple – he had gotten much, much more than he expected.

Time seemed to warp around them. My grandfather didn’t know if it had been thirty minutes or three hours, but finally, they pulled up to the on-ramp for the interstate.

“Did we beat him?” my grandfather asked, stumbling off the sleigh, trying to keep his balance.

“Yes,” Old Man Norris said. He pointed down the road. “Here he comes now.” Without a word, the old, wizened figure stepped into the road, holding out a hand to stop the truck. The driver, thoroughly confused, pulled over to the side of the road, just in front of the man and his goats.

“Norris?” the driver asked, rolling down his window.

Old Man Norris and my grandfather walked up together. “This young man,” Old Man Norris said, patting my grandfather on the shoulder, “Is in need of a pineapple.”

The driver blinked. “Fresh?” he asked.

“No, crushed, in a can,” my grandfather said sarcastically. He threw up his hand. “Fresh would be great, thanks.”

“Okay,” the driver said, looking at Norris. “Uh, how much should I charge?”

Old Man Norris shrugged. “How should I know?”

“Let’s just say 32 cents,” the driver said. “That should cover everything. “

With a smile, my grandfather handed over the money and accepted a fresh pineapple.

The driver, a confused expression still on his face, rolled up his window and pulled onto the on-ramp to finish his delivery.

Old Man Norris took my grandfather back to his house, slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Well, I gotta check on my papayas. Have a merry Christmas, son.”

Old Earl drove like a maniac back to the Onida Market, where the store manager, who was locking up, met them outside. “Ah, you got your fresh pineapple,” he said. “Probably the last one in all of South Dakota.”

“In both Dakotas, most likely,” Old Earl said. “Well, I gotta get gas.” He slapped my grandfather on the shoulder. “Merry Christmas, son.”

My grandfather waved goodbye, then got into his own car and drove the thirty minutes home. He walked into the house as snow began to twist in lazy descent from the sky. His wife met him, looking him up and down. “Where did you go?” she asked.

“To get pineapple,” he said.

“Crushed, in a can?” she asked.

He shook his head, producing the pineapple from underneath his coat. “Fresh,” he said.

My grandmother’s eyes lit up in delight, and she threw her arms around her husband. “Merry Christmas,” my grandfather whispered into her ear. All the frustration and drama of the day slipped away with the hug. For his wife and her hugs, my grandfather realized, he would travel to the world’s end on a sleigh pulled by goats.

Because nothing can stop true love.