Literally Reruns – So Are They All by Mitchell Toews

We could tell something had Leila all riled up. We could hear her howling at the moon. We turned the music up and hoped for the best. This is what we found next morning on the steps outside the LS dungeons.

I’m going to cuss. But only for a minute.

I think it’s a goddam shame that most people are ignorant of the past. I also despair because the fuckheads who bring us the news are incomprehensibly stupid. Go and fetch up Wolf Blitzer’s appearance on Celebrity Jeopardy! a few years back. They’re pretty smart at Jeopardy!; they know that celebrities are even dumber than their fans, so the questions to the answers are most definitely remedial. Yet a sonofabitchin’ house plant would have scored better than Wolf Blitzer did; for a houseplant would have remained at zero, whilst Wolf found a way to finish in the red.

Senseless, unfocused rants (as that displayed above) form in my mind whenever I encounter a sweet spirited tale of the past. The current overrush of useless information and images is like a gritty wind which scrubs names off tombstones before they are even etched. The faster life goes the cheaper it gets.

Damn…I’m running out of steam…Once again I see myself about forty years down the road standing off the thought police in my mobile home for as long as I have bullets and white lightning.

Anyhoo, Mitchell Toews is a fine chronicler of the past. He shows a keen memory and has a gentle yet unsentimental touch. So Are They All, is one of my favorite stories by this author. Check it out and you’ll certainly feel the same.

Q: 2020 marked Cornelius and Rosa’s hundredth wedding anniversary. An imbecile (such as Wolf Blitzer) would ask something like “What would they make of today?” Instead I wonder if you believe that the present is always so conceited that there’s a belief that the people in the past couldn’t cut it today? (Seems to me that Rosa would do just fine on social media, because she’d have interesting experiences to relate. Also, feel free to rant loosely, incoherently, as I seem to be doing.)

Q: Yes, A. Let’s play Jeopardy! Answer to the question is: Simply the finest thing ever to come out of the bakery.

Leila Allison

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So Are They All

Mitchell Toews’ responses.

Q: 2020 marked Cornelius and Rosa’s hundredth wedding anniversary. An imbecile (such as Wolf Blitzer) would ask something like “What would they make of today?” Instead I wonder if you believe that the present is always so conceited that there’s a belief that the people in the past couldn’t cut it today? (Seems to me that Rosa would do just fine on social media, because she’d have interesting experiences to relate. Also, feel free to rant loosely, incoherently, as I seem to be doing.)

A: Present time conceit — it’s reverse logic in a way, isn’t it? The past did not have some of the technological advantages we count on today. From penicillin to phones with more computation ability than every abacus ever made, in the history of the abacus. However, to all those past generations who somehow muddled through, shouldn’t we acknowledge their persistence and raw, gritty endeavour? Imagine an ice cream truck from Fred Flintstone-era Bedrock… scraping along on pre-wheel stone blocks, equipped with (I’m guessing) AM radio only, and shitty reception during a thunderstorm, I’ll bet. Or Einstein, who — try as he might — could not Google “Theory of Relativity.” Nor could 14-year old Philo Taylor Farnsworth check out the “How to Invent Television” YouTube video. Alas, the past is wasted on the pastors. Did I say that right?

 Q: Yes, A. Let’s play Jeopardy! Answer to the question is: Simply the finest thing ever to come out of the bakery.

A: What is: quite possibly, my mom, who is depicted in my Hartplatz fiction as Justy Zehen. Her finest John Wayne moment, or maybe it was a Sarah Anne Curzon moment, came when our little bakeshop was invaded by a crew of grifters. The head bad guy was dressed in drag (this is historical fact — check Wikipedia, like you just did for Ms. Curzon) and they drove the poor teenage clerk mad, hectoring her with rapid-fire complaints and order changes and flimflammery. Finally, Justy snuffed like a Hemingway bull, marched in her size 4 Keds to the bakery door, pulled out her keys and locked it tight! “No one is leaving this bakery until every last BAKED GOOD is put back or paid for or they’re going to have to deal with Matt (she pointed at her 12-year-old and equally diminutive son, Matt, aka Mitchell in real life) and ME!” The account was settled to mutual satisfaction and no blows were exchanged although Justy did pass sneering Low-German judgement on the anatomical appeal and the fashion choices — a knee-length Poodle Skirt — worn by the in-drag con man. Her comments translate roughly as: “Those are calves only a cow could love!”