This is not a “commentary” style post that will encourage you to think or change an opinion. It is simply a vignette — a MOSTLY true story from my childhood. It is intended to make you smile. Please remember that this story occurred when I was a middle school student and thus the events were filtered through the brain of an early adolescent. (I know what a terrifying place a middle school brain can be!) Additionally, this story is told through the lens of time — decades, in fact. For these reasons, it is a MOSTLY true story. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. The names of the guilty remain — they will simply need to claim their “shame.”

Brandied Fruit

My second mom was a high school teacher who sponsored the Future Business Leaders of America club. One year her FBLA debate team had proven their salt and were qualified to go to Nationals in Houston, Texas during the month of April. And so our tale begins, in truth, a few months before she headed to the city.

It was in the fall at dinner one evening when Momma started talking about Randy, the high school janitor. It seems that he had gotten the brilliant idea to make homemade wine – peach and cherry wines to be exact. Apparently, he had read just enough about the process to make him dangerous. He “followed” the directions to prepare the fruit, mix the contents, and bottle the precious liquid. He corked his bottles and set them in a cool, dark pantry to ferment – just like the directions almost said.

Late, the evening before we heard the tale, Randy and his wife Susan, were in their living room when they became the victims of a drive-by shooting. As they sat on the couch, gunshots echoed through the frame of their small house shattering glass in the windows. Flashbacks of Korea filled his mind as he pulled Susan onto the floor until the shooting stopped. Finally, twenty minutes or so after the first shot, the shooter gave up and moved on down the road. Randy pushed Susan back to the floor with strict orders to stay-put as he set off to reconnoiter. Imagine his surprise when the bullets actually turned out to be exploding bottles of wine forcing open pantry doors while broken glass impaled walls, corks bounced around the room, and purple mixed with orange goo leached across the floor.

Our family enjoyed a good laugh and dad got “that look” on his face, the one that said we could all be in trouble now.

The next night dad placed a gallon jar on the counter near the pantry. He told us to start collecting fruit that was left over from various cooking projects – he started with some sliced peaches from dinner. Over the top of the fruit, he poured a bottle of brandy, closed the lid – not tightly, you understand – and let it sit. Dad was convinced that Randy had failed at making wine because he had over-pressurized the containers. Since dad wasn’t a wine drinker, he thought brandied fruit would be just the ticket. Over the next few months we added all kinds of fruit to the jar: fruit cocktail, pineapple, strawberries, grapes, cherries, apples, apricots, and still more peaches. And yes, occasionally, another bottle of brandy was added.

In the spring, Momma and the FBLA girls had gone to Houston; my brother was working at the candy factory and would be home very late after his shift ended, and I had cooked dinner. I think that dad’s one solace that evening was in knowing that he would finally eat some of his precious “brandied fruit.” (I’ll never know why he chose that particular night.) Dishes were done, we had relaxed, and he called me to the kitchen, told me to get a couple of bowls while he pulled out a brand new carton of ice cream. He dished up the treat, walked over to the counter, opened “the jar,” and with his blue eyes sparkling, ladled a generous helping of fruit onto our ice cream.

I ate; he savored.

A little after midnight, my stomach churning, I ran to the bathroom and proceeded to rid myself of every bit of ice cream, brandied fruit – and what remained in my stomach of my supper. I would creep back to my room only to sprint back to the bathroom. The gauge read empty, but still my body systems tried to pump even more from the tank. The one delight I felt about knowing that my father had given me food poisoning was hearing his footsteps run from his room to his bathroom too – all night long.

There was no work and no school for the oldest and the youngest in the Arndt house the next day. I began talking to him again when Momma got home from Texas a few days later. Thankfully, she was wise enough to NOT ask where the brandied fruit had gone