Candid without Malice

Just as I arrived home last night the phone rang. It was our Café’s general manager, Miss Frances. “We have run out of propane,” she said, “gonna have to close the restaurant until we can get more delivered.” “Argh!” I groaned, looking at the clock and seeing that it was not yet 6:00 pm. “Give me a minute. I will see what I can do.” Something gnawed at my subconscious, but I could not get a handle on it.

 

Feeling the pressure and hoping that one of their trucks was still out and about, I quickly called our supplier and asked how soon they could get us more gas. I was frustrated that we would have to close, and upset that they had let us run out of such an essential element. I listened in as the secretary and driver discussed our situation in the background and overheard someone say, “Have they turned on and used up the backup tank?” “Argh!” again. That is what common sense had been trying to tell me. I apologized for my brusque manner and called Frances back. She had not known about the backup and was unsure as to how it could be switched. Steve was still at wrestling practice in Blanding, so I told Frances to get one of the cooks to help. “Those Reservation girls have been dealing with propane tanks and bottles all their lives; they will know what to do.” They did---problem solved.

The next morning, as I drove into the parking lot of Twin Rocks, I saw the propane truck trundling away in the opposite direction. “That was fast,” I thought to myself. I checked in with Miss Frances who said that all was well and that she was on her way to town to get realigned by her massage therapist and wouldn’t be back until around 11:00. I would need to let the staff in when they arrived and watch the kids until she returned. Because Frances enjoys sparring, we shared a raucous verbal exchange for a few minutes before she departed. After letting in the staff to do their prep work, I ran back over to the Trading Post to let Priscilla in. As Priscilla and I exchanged pleasantries, I received another call for help. The morning cooks were having trouble lighting one of the ovens and wanted me to give it a go. “Argh!” thrice. I have lit more propane pilot lights than I care to count and have developed a healthy respect for the “Dragons Breath” they can express. I have lost hide, hair, and singed a cornea or two through such endeavors. I always approach these interactions with great caution and apprehension.

I hustled back to the cafe and found Billy standing in front of the oven with his hands on his hips and muttering to himself. On the floor at his feet, near an open hatch was a cluster of spent toothpicks. “Why the toothpicks?” I asked. “Because we have no matches or lighters,” he responded. “Pearl lights a toothpick on the stove top and hands it down to me and I try to light the pilot, but it’s not working.” Letting myself down on my hands and knees, then lying on my side at the foot of the oven, I peered inside. I saw the incoming gas line which fed into the valve, pilot light thingy, then another gas line emerged from the other side arriving at an opening with a tapered nipple at the end. “There you are my pretty.” I said to myself. Then to Billy, I said, “Light me a toothpick and pass it on over please.” A dozen spent toothpicks later we were no closer to firing up the oven than before. “That must not be the pilot light.” I said looking up. The cooks just looked back, wisely saying nothing, nothing at all.

Leaning in closer and sniffing, I noticed a build-up of fumes, so I decided it might be best to turn everything off for a while and look for another port to get the beast lit. Since there was no flashlight available either, I went back to the Trading Post to borrow one from Priscilla. I knew she would have one in her large handbag of tricks. She did. While there, I complained about Frances not having had the propane delivery guy light the oven before he left, the manufacturer not placing the pilot light in its proper place, and the fact that I was yet unable to fire-up the darn thing. Priscilla passed me the flashlight and assured me that I would, soon enough, prove successful. “Just don’t blow yourself and everybody else up in the process,” she quipped as I turned to leave. “You know,” I told her, “you used to be the nicest, sweetest person I ever knew, but now…” “Well,” Priscilla shot back, “between Steve’s pointed barbs and your tendency toward sarcasm, it’s no wonder that I have picked up a few bad habits over the years.” As I went through the Kokopelli doors, I heard Rick making his way down the steps to join the team. Not wanting to get that quipster started, I left without comment.

I went back to the kitchen and assumed a bottoms-up position, while shining the flashlight under the oven. The fumes had dissipated, but I could still see no other avenue of lighting the darn thing. As I worked my way along the face of the oven, I was concerned that I might develop an acute case of the dreaded Plumber’s Crack. My shirt wanted to ride up my back and my jeans kept slipping down my hips. I was in a constant tug-of-war to keep from exposing more of my tail end than I cared to. Just then I heard Priscilla, who had come to stand right above me say. “Barry, if you are going to crawl around on the floor, do it with dignity.” “What do you mean?” I asked innocently, knowing perfectly well that there was a danger of flashing both under and over the oven. “Well, as you once said about a similar situation, don’t look now but there could be a bad moon arising.” I quickly bobbed up and reached to readjust my wardrobe. Just then Priscilla dropped the door to the oven. As my head came up, the door came down and we two connected in betwixt and between. “Dang it!” I cussed. “Well,” said my well-intentioned associate, “pay attention.” As I rubbed my noggin, Priscilla reached into the oven and removed the racks then the bottom panel. There in all its obvious wonder was the pilot light. We lit it in a flash and Priscilla walked away without another word.

Through the years I have discovered that Priscilla is a get-it-done kind of girl. Whenever I see her begin to tackle an issue, I recall the old Harry Belafonte and Odetta Holmes version of There’s a Hole in my Bucket. “Well fix it, dear Henry!” could easily be Priscilla’s personal slogan. From diligently working through a computer problem, to educating herself on how to change a water pump on her pickup truck, to deciphering tax forms, Priscilla will attack the issue and work it out post haste. Through these efforts, Priscilla has become an invaluable member of the Twin Rocks team and a huge asset to her family and friends. She is the matriarch of both and loved by all. Priscilla tells us that if we don’t stop writing these flattering stories about her that someone is going to attempt an end run. They will offer her more money in a more suitable situation and verdant climate. “Maybe Hawaii,” she says laughing in her merry way, “that would be difficult to turn down.” 

In this holiday season, those of us here at Twin Rocks wish you the very best of all things. We hope that you will learn from our many mistakes:

                #1. We now know that common sense and patience are the key to understanding. Avoid chaos at all cost.

                #2. If you, too, are forced down to the floor, do your best to remain (mostly) unexposed and strive to retain your dignity.

                #3. If it is your goal to bring light into the world, do it without the use of an accelerant.

                #4. Continually strive to learn, grow, and prosper. Assimilate the best, disperse the rest.

                #5. Above all else, we hope that you too are blessed with someone in your life who is tried, true, and candid without malice.