How City George Got His Name

Meeting my parents

As the airplane touched down at the Canton Akron Airport, I glanced over to my boyfriend. “Remember, stay calm,” I said, patting his hand.

“I’m not nervous about meeting your parents,” George said with a confident smile.

“That’s good,” I said, secretly feeling sorry for him. I had put off introducing my boyfriend to my parents as long as possible. His doctor dad spent leisure hours sipping white wine while reading thick historic novels. While my road contractor dad spent his hunting, drinking beer and reading Field and Stream Magazine. There was reason to worry.

My parents met us at the terminal, which went okay. Bud and Ruth were on their best behavior. That disappeared the moment we pulled into their driveway.

“It’s so much better living here in Ohio’s countryside than where you live in San Francisco,” said Ruth, escorting us into the house.

The next instant, we looked out the front picture window and saw my very fit father running at top speed across the lawn. He was carrying a rifle. He had been a sharp shooter in the Marines. I hesitated to explain what he was doing.

My mother continued like nothing was happening. “Kids,” she said, “what would you like for dinner?”

I took one look at my boyfriend’s perplexed expression and said, “He’s after cats.”

“Cats?” said George, scrunching his eyebrows.

“Oh,” said Ruth with a wave of her hand, “people from the city dump cats in the country and they kill all the wildlife. But Bud knows not to kill the neighbors’ cat. Don’t want to cause bad feelings.”

“Oh jeez,” said George, his eyes now wide.

“Sure,” I said, “but he would like to kill that cat.”

“You’re staying in the girls’ bedroom, because the beds are excellent,” said Ruth. “Plus, it’s so much quieter here than where you live.” Both of these statements were in fact false. At night, the intense insect racket was deafening. The excellent beds had been purchased when I was five-years-old. The excellent mattresses had collapsed into solid planks of petrified foam.

The next day after a meaty breakfast, Bud invited George to go out for a bit of drinking and driving, followed by drunk target practice in the backyard.

My dad loved driving around Ohio’s back roads with a beer in his hand. Since it was against the law to sell liquor where he lived, my dad would drive to the next county. At the liquor drive-through, there was no need to get out of your truck. They just loaded cases of beer into the back and you were good to go. But not before Bud grabbed a few for the road like his favorite Red, White, and Blue Beer.

George, who tends to get car sick, managed to hold it together during the long hours crisscrossing the countryside with frequent stops at yard sales looking for junk to decorate Bud’s hillbilly shack. As a bona fide folk artist, my dad could work real magic with duct-tape, wire and a glue gun. When the two rolled back to the house, my dad got out his rifles and set up the empty Red, White, and Blue bottles. When I walked out to check on their male bonding, they challenged me to a shooting match, which naturally, I won, since I wasn’t shitfaced.

My mother went all out to make us the most meat heavy meals possible. When we requested a light vegetarian meal, she made us her vegetarian dish of green beans and potatoes, laced with gigantic chunks of fatty ham. As she bustled around the kitchen, it was best to keep out of her way. This my shocked boyfriend found out when she side armed him, sending him flying into the living room. Saying excuse me took way too long when my mother was on the move.

George started to have intestinal problems from drinking the water, or maybe from too much Red, White, and Blue Beer. Unfortunately, he made the mistake of confiding his condition to my parents. When he told them, I knew he had badly miscalculated their maturity level.

One night George and I went out to dinner by ourselves. When we returned, we were locked out. We rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. George tapped on the door. Nothing. We walked round the house to the outside their bedroom. My parents were snoring so loud, it was a wonder the neighborhood insects didn’t call the police. George tapped lightly. I hit the window as hard as possible without breaking the glass. They kept sawing logs like two busy Paul Bunyans. We gave up and crashed in their unlocked mobile home. Needless to say, Bud and Ruth were embarrassed the next morning. Which I guess was the reason they decided to have a little payback fun with George.

Twenty relatives were invited over for a big barbecue in the backyard. The event was well underway when my Aunt Mary took me aside and asked, “Where is George from? He sure talks different.”

“Oh, he’s from California,” I said. Not mentioning that besides having a large vocabulary, he was chatting with the women. Two facts that set him at odds with the men. They were all hanging in the hillbilly shack, drinking beer and telling stupid jokes.

After eating, we were all gathered around the bonfire when my dad started laughing, which got everyone’s attention. “You’re not going to believe it,” Bud cackled. “Turns out City George has a delicate constitution.”

“Yep,” Ruth laughed, “he keeps running to the bathroom. Our real good well water doesn’t agree with his big city plumbing.”

My parents and relatives roared with laughter, while George’s face turned bright red.

Later he said to me, “I’m so shocked that your parents would say that in front of all your relatives.”

“Yep,” I said, “now you know that the stories I tell are true. So cut me some slack when I’m acting bonkers, because believe me, I could be a whole lot crazier.”

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