High-Kaflootin
High-Kaflootin
My Gran was… different. She was by her own admission a Kentucky hillbilly. A sixth grade education and a tough childhood left her more than a tad short in the sophistication department.
Gran helped the family make ends meet by waiting tables in downtown Cincinnati and every night she would climb off the No 6 Rosedale bus, walk the short walk home, and then collapse on one of the white enameled wooden chairs that crowded the tiny kitchen.
“Ohhhh, my dogs are barking, “ she would say as she pulled one shoe off followed by the other. Then after rubbing her aching feet she would dip into the pockets of her white uniform and scoop out coins by the handfuls. The quarters were first to be stacked in stumpy silos of ten. Then the dimes and nickels and finally the pennies. This was the 50’s a dollar tip was a huge deal so the crumpled singles were always last. These were brought to the table with a little ceremony that involved smoothing them across the table’s edge.
From the numbers of stacks I could tell that Gran was a very good waitress.
Gran was also the best when it came to telling tall tales as we rocked gently back and forth on the porch swing so perfect for warm summer nights.
But what Gran did best was to love me unconditionally. I could do no wrong… in her eyes.
So it should be no surprise that while on a business trip to Cincy, I wasn’t going to miss a visit with Gran.
“Scott, we’re all going to dinner… we’d love for you to join us.” The client called nearly the instant I entered my hotel room.
“I’d love to but this is where I grew up and I can’t miss a chance to visit my grandmother.”
“Bring her along!”
So, I did.
‘Picked Gran up right on time, offered her a wing (arm) and helped down the front steps. (It was an ‘occasion’ and ‘occasions’ require the use of the front door.) And she was pretty in pink…. Polyester. Food stains no doubt from the previous ‘occasion,’ nylons rolled as far up each leg as she could reach, near-blue hair that had been sprayed into submission, and enough perfume… we’re talking both quantity and variety… that I knew it would be windows down no matter what the weather.
“Do I look alright?”
“You look gorgeous.”
“You know, I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of all your high-kaflootin friends… are you sure you don’t want to go alone? Where are we going?”
We went to a wonderful restaurant aboard a former river boat now docked on the Kentucky side of the brown Ohio river. As we left the car with the valet, Gran grabbed a wing, pulled me close, and with teeth tightly clenched muttered, “Oh, lordy! This really is high-kaflootin. I think I’ll just wait in the car!”
Once inside I introduced Gran to my client causing her to hug my arm even closer. She did let go long enough to look at the menu whose prices started at “This is more than I spend for groceries in a week!
There was a “tall Tom Collins followed by a second and it seemed as if one could get used to the high-kaflootin lifestyle. Gran was a geriatric Cinderella, not thinking about midnight. When ‘the ladies’ excused themselves to the powder room Gran was towed along in their wake.
Back at the table, Gran appeared even rosier beneath her already heavy rouge and powder. But it wasn’t the powder nor was it the Tom Collins making it’s appearance.
It was something else.
Gran pulled close and through once again clenched teeth said, “I’ll tell you when we get to the car.” And that was all she said until I tipped the valet and launched the rental car towards Rosedale.
“You’ll never guess what was in the ladies restroom!” Gran was reared back in her seat proud to be unveiling a deep, dark secret. “It was man (pronounced with a minimum of two syllables!) And all he was wearing was a little black thing no bigger than a napkin and bow tie! Nothing else! He was handing out towels!”
My Southern Baptist upbringing was sounding an alarm which turned off the instant she finished the though: “So I gave him a tip! Put it right there in that little black thing!”
And then she roared. Almost all the way home. At times she was barely able to catch her breath. She was trying to tell me something but it was blocks before she was able to wheeze…”I think I’ll invite my Sunday school class to have lunch there after church! And wait till they go to the ladies room! Won’t that be high-kaflootin?
• What could you do to wrap a high-kaflootin experience around doing business with you?
• And on a personal note: who do you love unconditionally?
© T. Scott Gross 2007
My Gran was… different. She was by her own admission a Kentucky hillbilly. A sixth grade education and a tough childhood left her more than a tad short in the sophistication department.
Gran helped the family make ends meet by waiting tables in downtown Cincinnati and every night she would climb off the No 6 Rosedale bus, walk the short walk home, and then collapse on one of the white enameled wooden chairs that crowded the tiny kitchen.
“Ohhhh, my dogs are barking, “ she would say as she pulled one shoe off followed by the other. Then after rubbing her aching feet she would dip into the pockets of her white uniform and scoop out coins by the handfuls. The quarters were first to be stacked in stumpy silos of ten. Then the dimes and nickels and finally the pennies. This was the 50’s a dollar tip was a huge deal so the crumpled singles were always last. These were brought to the table with a little ceremony that involved smoothing them across the table’s edge.
From the numbers of stacks I could tell that Gran was a very good waitress.
Gran was also the best when it came to telling tall tales as we rocked gently back and forth on the porch swing so perfect for warm summer nights.
But what Gran did best was to love me unconditionally. I could do no wrong… in her eyes.
So it should be no surprise that while on a business trip to Cincy, I wasn’t going to miss a visit with Gran.
“Scott, we’re all going to dinner… we’d love for you to join us.” The client called nearly the instant I entered my hotel room.
“I’d love to but this is where I grew up and I can’t miss a chance to visit my grandmother.”
“Bring her along!”
So, I did.
‘Picked Gran up right on time, offered her a wing (arm) and helped down the front steps. (It was an ‘occasion’ and ‘occasions’ require the use of the front door.) And she was pretty in pink…. Polyester. Food stains no doubt from the previous ‘occasion,’ nylons rolled as far up each leg as she could reach, near-blue hair that had been sprayed into submission, and enough perfume… we’re talking both quantity and variety… that I knew it would be windows down no matter what the weather.
“Do I look alright?”
“You look gorgeous.”
“You know, I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of all your high-kaflootin friends… are you sure you don’t want to go alone? Where are we going?”
We went to a wonderful restaurant aboard a former river boat now docked on the Kentucky side of the brown Ohio river. As we left the car with the valet, Gran grabbed a wing, pulled me close, and with teeth tightly clenched muttered, “Oh, lordy! This really is high-kaflootin. I think I’ll just wait in the car!”
Once inside I introduced Gran to my client causing her to hug my arm even closer. She did let go long enough to look at the menu whose prices started at “This is more than I spend for groceries in a week!
There was a “tall Tom Collins followed by a second and it seemed as if one could get used to the high-kaflootin lifestyle. Gran was a geriatric Cinderella, not thinking about midnight. When ‘the ladies’ excused themselves to the powder room Gran was towed along in their wake.
Back at the table, Gran appeared even rosier beneath her already heavy rouge and powder. But it wasn’t the powder nor was it the Tom Collins making it’s appearance.
It was something else.
Gran pulled close and through once again clenched teeth said, “I’ll tell you when we get to the car.” And that was all she said until I tipped the valet and launched the rental car towards Rosedale.
“You’ll never guess what was in the ladies restroom!” Gran was reared back in her seat proud to be unveiling a deep, dark secret. “It was man (pronounced with a minimum of two syllables!) And all he was wearing was a little black thing no bigger than a napkin and bow tie! Nothing else! He was handing out towels!”
My Southern Baptist upbringing was sounding an alarm which turned off the instant she finished the though: “So I gave him a tip! Put it right there in that little black thing!”
And then she roared. Almost all the way home. At times she was barely able to catch her breath. She was trying to tell me something but it was blocks before she was able to wheeze…”I think I’ll invite my Sunday school class to have lunch there after church! And wait till they go to the ladies room! Won’t that be high-kaflootin?
• What could you do to wrap a high-kaflootin experience around doing business with you?
• And on a personal note: who do you love unconditionally?
© T. Scott Gross 2007
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