The mental image settled in and made itself at home. It sometimes tagged along with fence mending or cattle branding. The vision occasionally accompanied a strong cup of coffee while greeting the sunrise. It certainly enjoyed a cigar under the stars when the mind relaxed to appreciate a good memory. However, as the days passed, it became obvious this thought had no intentions of leaving until appropriate action occurred. And so, here Scott stood - in the courtyard - with an empty mustard jar in one hand and a spoon in the other.
During one of his grandfather’s prolonged absences, nine-year-old Scott first watched a launched spoon turn cartwheels through the air and land neatly in a salt-glazed toby. A more informal atmosphere ruled the Beacon Hill brownstone whenever Harlan Garrett was called away on a business trip. Laughter came easier, tunes were hummed louder and, in the twilight of the day’s end, games were played.
A long table constructed of wooden planks and sawhorses appeared in the Garrett’s small rectangular backyard on such an evening. The stoneware mug, sporting the caricature of a smiling patriot, sat at one end while two older men, the porter and the gardener, stood at the table’s opposite end. Seated on the back stoop, Winnie claimed the role as the designated referee with ScottyGarrett by her side. Spoons were examined, money laid down and, with a wee nip of the Jameson shared, the game commenced.
At the time, Scott wasn't interested in the rules, the betting, or the Jameson. Those considerations developed a few years later. It was the propelled spoon off two fingers resulting in a somersaulting, elongated arc with an accurate landing that captured his curiosity. This was obviously a skill every young boy should master.
The pestering began the next morning and by mid-afternoon Winnie gave in and handed over an empty mustard jar and a tarnished spoon along with an endless set of rules for Scott to follow. Do not practice in front of your grandfather. Only practice in your room. Studies come first. Never practice on the Lord’s day. No gambling. Scott politely inquired about the Jameson. Winnie’s reprimand lasted longer than the reciting of the rules.
Rows of lead soldiers stood at attention while the bedroom floor battlefield was cleared for the addition of a spoon catapult. During every free minute a day had to offer, Scott practiced his tossing technique to perfection.
Like every nine-year-old boy who thinks all his ideas are good ideas, Scott chose to unveil his newly acquired talent at an evening meal attended by one of Harlan’s business associates and his wife. Between the serving of cold oysters and the roasted duck, the young lad stood, held out his spoon for all to admire, placed it on his two fingers and launched the projectile gracefully into Mrs. Willowby’s crystal goblet of red wine.
Later, in his room, Scott pointed out to his grandfather the splash wouldn’t have been so bad if Mrs. Willowby was less generous when pouring her wine. The observation did not improve Scott’s fate.
Even though audience accolades fell short for what Scott considered fine dining entertainment, he continued to hone his spoon tossing skills - sharing his knowledge with George who also perfected the toss. Throughout their time at Harvard, an empty jar and spoon won the boys pub money. Imprisoned during the war, a dented tin cup and bent spoon helped Scott hang on to his sanity.
There was no denying it. Scott’s surprise matched Johnny's when the spoon landed in the empty mustard jar on the night of their kitchen raid. It had been years since his useless talent had been tested and he wrote off the successful launch in front of his little brother as a fluke.
And yet...
The idea to test the fluke theory continued to tease his brain. And so, here Scott stood - in the courtyard - with an empty mustard jar in one hand and a spoon in the other.
Setting the jar down at the end of his makeshift table, Scott glanced around to confirm his privacy before taking a stance at the opposite end. His checklist commenced - adjust hat - lick lips - calculate distance. Balancing the spoon on his two left hand fingers, he brought his right hand pointer finger down on the handle with a snap. A traveled arc and satisfying clatter signaled a perfectly executed toss. Seeing the spoon resting in the mustard jar, Scott pushed back his hat while a boyish grin spread across his face. “Well, I'll be damned.”
“How did you do that?”
The voice was all too familiar - no need to turn around. Instead, with his hat pulled back down on his brow, Scott headed to gather up the jar and spoon. “Kinsey Rose, I thought you were taking Buck for a ride.”
“I did. And now I’m back. How-did-you-do-that-show-me.”
The retrieved spoon waggled like a nun’s ruler in his hand in hopes of changing the discussion topic with an admonishment. “How many times have I told you not to sneak up on people?”
A matter-of-fact tone responded. “I’ve lost count.”
“Well, it continues to be impolite and downright annoying.” The wagging spoon stopped with a realization that curiosity also continued with its chewing on the odds of another successful launch. This is my own decision. It’s not like I’m caving in to her.
Observing Kinsey’s dog with a bone expression shaded under the brim of his old hat planted on her head, a resigned sigh escaped. Who am I kidding? “Once more. That’s it.” With a reviewed checklist and proper posture, a catapulted spoon hit its mark.
“Extraordinary!” His little cousin’s breathless reaction was barely audible.
Her childlike awe was reminiscent of the jar of fireflies they had caught in George West’s vineyard and it brought a smile to Scott's face. “We come from a long line of Garrett spoon-tossers.”
“Teach me!”
“Now wait a minute.” An impending rabbit hole was detected. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Why not?” An imaginary soapbox joined the discussion. “Are you saying you're more of a Garrett than I am?”
“No. I didn't say that. It’s just that -”
“Are you saying I can't do it because I’m a female?”
“No! I’m definitely not saying that!” A teasing comment seemed appropriate. “Even if I am thinking it.” The stinging knuckle punch to his upper arm validated his bad judgment.
“How can I teach my children the Garrett Spoon Toss if you don’t teach me? The tradition will die!”
“Kinsey…” The rabbit hole grew deeper.
‘Ah, ScottyGarrett. Will ye be explainin’ to me why a nine-year-old young lad is more important than a nineteen-year-old young lass when it comes to learnin’ the fine art of spoon tossin’?’
Not now, Winnie. God’s calling your name - he needs a few halos polished.’ Flipping the spoon upward toward the heavens, Scott caught it on its return trip back to Earth with a decision. “All right. I’ll teach you.”
Several minutes were dedicated to demonstrating the proper stance, an accurate aim, the feel of a balanced spoon on two fingers and the all-important snap of the index finger to the handle. “And remember, Freckles - you didn’t hit the target the first time you shot the Yellowboy. So don't unpack the pout when this spoon doesn't land in that jar. Understood?”
“Of course. Honestly, Scott. I believe we're all adults here.”
“Right.” A raised eyebrow and a smirk suggested doubt. Two mature adults trying to toss a spoon into a glass jar as if the salvation of the world depended on it. All grown-up, indeed.
One could only guess what influenced the toss - Kinsey’s determination, Winnie’s pull with the good Lord or perhaps simple dumb luck. Although there was no mistaking, when the spoon hit the inside of the mustard jar with unquestionable precision, two mature adults transformed into a couple of enthusiastic children.
“You did it!” Scott threw his hat up in the air.
His little cousin followed suit - releasing her hair with tangled confusion. “I did it!”
Standing over the jar holding its intended prize, the cousins’ overlapping statements resulted in a conversation more tangled than Kinsey's curls. “The first time - can’t believe it - Garrett natural - did you see that arc - incredible - spot on -”
Silence.
“Kinsey.” Taking his cousin by her shoulders, Scott locked eyes with the seriousness of a revival preacher about to save a wayward soul. “Honey. You need to do it again. It’s a moral imperative.”
With a brush of a rogue curl from her forehead, dignified decorum was restored. “Yes. Of course.” A bite of her lower lip hinted hesitation. “What if I fail?”
A smile and a wink instilled confidence. “You won’t.”
Returning to the launching end of the table, the student assumed the stance of a seasoned spoon-tosser while her mentor looked on - both focused on the jar and the anticipated snap of the -
“There it is!” Teresa’s startling declaration sent the spoon tumbling off Kinsey's fingers and to the ground. The cousins watched their intruder march to the mustard jar and snatch it up. “Maria’s looking for this!”
“Excuse me! Please return that jar to where it belongs.” A slight annoyance weaved through Kinsey's words as she retrieved the dropped spoon.
“Well, that’s what I'm trying to do, Kinsey.” Teresa’s inflection was one of a mother speaking to a confused child. “It’s a mustard jar which belongs in the kitchen and I'm returning it.”
“I'm afraid you don't fully understand, Teresa, the importance of that jar remaining here...where it belongs.” Slight annoyance gave way to a hint of condescension. “Please put it back.”
A slight smile crossed Teresa’s face. “I can understand your puzzlement, Kinsey, considering the jar’s proper place is in a kitchen.”
Scott raised an eyebrow. Considering their distinct personalities, he assumed there would come a time when Kinsey and Teresa would butt heads - jealousy over a beau or maybe the desire for the same pretty dress. But an empty mustard jar? Not on the list. But now, if he was reading the girls’ body language and tone correctly, it had just been penciled in at number one.
“Teresa, I don't expect you to comprehend the seriousness of your interruption.” Kinsey’s smile struggled to maintain sincerity as she gently removed the jar from her adversary’s hand and placed it back on the table. “This is a tradition deeply rooted in the Garrett heritage. Scott said so.”
“Hold up, there, Freckles. That’s not exactly what I -”
“Spoon tossing? A Garrett tradition?” Teresa placed her hands on hips and dug in. “I’ll have you know the O’Briens were tossing spoons into a hearty stout during the 1700s.”
As Scott’s eyebrows rose to this latest revelation, Kinsey’s brow knitted in a scoffing rebuke. “Is that a fact. Well, in the 1600s the Garretts were successfully tossing silver spoons into crystal goblets while dealing with rough seas as they sailed on the Arabella to the New World.”
“Whoa. Kinsey. Grandfather never mentioned -” A gallant effort to correct the little Garrett historian ended quickly.
“Well, Miss Furlong,” Teresa’s voice reached a new octave. “In the 13th century, the O’Briens tossed spoons into sheepskin vessels while leading the Scots in the First War of Scottish Independence against King Edward I of England!”
Scott crossed his arms and shifted his stance to ponder not only the battle of the Scots but also the spoon controversy currently unfolding. Turning his head slightly, he spied Johnny stepping up alongside. “Let me guess, little brother. You're a direct descendant of Don Juan.”
“So I've been told on a few occasions.” Johnny squinted and leaned in as if viewing a three-headed rattlesnake. “What are they supposed to be doing?”
“I believe they're trying to argue.”
“Over what?”
Scott rubbed his chin and took a moment to reflect. “From what I can gather their heated discussion is based on whose ancestors first tossed a spoon into a mustard jar.”
Johnny nodded as if his brother’s statement made perfect sense. “These spoon-tossin’ relatives...how many years do they go back?”
“Well...so far no one has mentioned Adam and Eve.”
As the heated discussion took on the characteristics of a verbal brawl, Johnny expressed concern over the welfare of those involved. “How much longer are you going to let these little banshees scream at each other? Brother, I gotta admit - they’re givin’ me a headache.”
“Agreed. Time to put an end to it.” Placing two fingers in his mouth, Scott’s shrill whistle brought silence to the battlefield. “Thought you’d want to know, ladies. Johnny just said you two magpies couldn't hit the side of a barn with a spoon.”
San Joaquin Valley
Lancer Ranch
A child is a curly, dimpled lunatic. - Ralph Waldo Emerson
I am convinced Emerson, as a child, was an accomplished spoon-tosser and could still hit a toby in his advancing years.
This afternoon, the four of us - Johnny, Teresa, Kinsey and myself - were lunatics. By God, it felt good and, in my opinion, a healthy experience.
Over the last month or so, Teresa and Kinsey have been dancing around the tension building between them. Teresa considers Kinsey a “spoiled flibbertigibbet”. Kinsey finds Teresa a “mothering enabler.” Teresa shakes her head over Kinsey's disinterest in domestic skills. Kinsey rolls her eyes at Teresa’s indifference to the women’s suffrage. Luckily, it was a simple mustard jar which brought on a heated argument that could be later laughed at and ease their friction. Two distinct personalities slowly understanding what it means to be “sisters” and the challenges it can present. Challenges that aren't so different from what two brothers can face.
I had heard little brothers make excellent sacrificial lambs. It’s true. Being the big brother, I offered mine up to reunite the two females in our family by providing them with a common cause - beat him at spoon tossing. Of course, Johnny happily provided the taunts and teasing expected from a brother as Teresa dusted off her skills and Kinsey perfected hers. The afternoon’s competitive games were peppered with additional ancestry tall tales - including the Spaniard in Johnny’s family tree who introduced the spoon to the New World when sailing with Hernán Cortés.
The mustard jar did return to its proper station in the kitchen at the end of the day. And between the servings of roasted potatoes and smoked ham, a silver spoon was successfully launched into my father’s crystal goblet of red wine. It’s a fact. A big brother never outgrows accepting a dare from his little brother.
~ S.
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