It's All Relative by Wade Rouse Read Free Book Online

Wednesday.”
    And it was here, when he said “Ash Wednesday,” that he let out a boisterous belly laugh, a guffaw more devilish than godly.
    My father smiled like the Grinch. He knew instantly my theory was right.
    Game on
, my dad’s eyes seemed to say.
    â€œWanna help me get this fire started?” my father asked the preacher, laughing. “I always have trouble getting one started. I think I need an expert on fire and brimstone.”
    The minister chuckled heartily and slapped my dad on the back.
    Now, my dad was an expert fire builder. If
Survivor
had been on back in the day, my dad would have kicked Richard Hatch’s big behind. And yet he stood back as the preacher lowered himself in front of our massive stone fireplace, with a hearth big enough to serve a picnic on and a grate large enough to hold a pickup. Within minutes he had built a roaring fire, and also inhaled more smoke than Susan Blakely in
The Towering Inferno
.
    â€œI’m so sorry!” my dad said. “I must have forgotten to open the flue.”
    The minister turned and coughed. He looked like Nipsey Russell.
    â€œCould you point me to the bathroom?” he asked.
    My father winked at me.
    My mom, a very smart woman, already knew what was happening. “Ted!” she whispered, as she did in church. When he walked away, she turned to me. “James Wade!”
    But the minister walked out with a freshly washed face, and my mom had no choice but to serve the pot roast, carrots, and potatoes she had carefully prepared.
    â€œI’d be honored if you would say grace,” my mother said to the minister.
    But before he could open his mouth, my dad said, “I’ll do it!”
    â€œThat would be a nice change of pace,” the minister said.
    â€œGood bread, good meat: Good God, let’s eat!” my dad said.
    My mother gasped and stared at my father as though Linda Blair had rotated her head and puked pea soup on the preacher.
    â€œDoes the job, doesn’t it?” my father said, nudging the minister.
    â€œWell, it all smells so wonderful,” said the minister, adding something along the lines of, “I just love a slow-cooked pot roast on a cold winter’s night.”
    As my mom served the minister, my dad followed up with, “And who can eat pot roast without ketchup?”
    The poor preacher didn’t stand a chance as my dad handed him an upside-down bottle. “Hit it smack-dab between the five and the seven! That’s how to get the goodness out!” my dad commanded.
    Smack!
    Plop!
    Scream!
    As planned, the preacher looked as if he had been shot, as if Damien himself had exacted revenge with an iron gate.
    â€œExcuse me, folks,” he said once again, heading to the bathroom.
    â€œTed Rouse!” my mother whispered.
    â€œAn eye for an eye!” my father replied.
    â€œOh, Ted!” my mother said, strangely excited. “You do know your Bible!”
    â€œNobody screws with our family,” my dad said.
    It was all very Mario Puzo in the Ozarks: Family came first.
    We attended a bitterly cold Easter sunrise service a month or so later, and our family was among the first to receive blankets from the minister. My dad wrapped his arm and the blanket around me, happy our theorem had been tested and proven, and it was then I realized I’d just had a religious experience, a higher calling, if you will, a moment in my life that bonded me to my father more than church or watching football or Three Stooges movies.
    Nobody screws with our family
, I thought as the sun rose over the little park.
    And, though it was frigid, I felt very warm indeed.

VALENTINE’S DAY
Cupid’s Stupid
    A l Capone’s St. Valentine’s Day Massacre was significantly less brutal than the one I endured as a child in my rural elementary school, where it was tradition for kids to make their own Valentine’s mailboxes and then walk around the room personally