Another Country, Once My Own

John Clark musing about how one random thought can grow, and grow, hence this post. It all began, as many things these days do, in the heated pool at the Alfond Center in Waterville where I swim and and entertain the other swimmers most weekday mornings. In the midst of an exercise, I started thinking about Clabber Girl Baking Powder, and then what exactly did clabber mean. Here’s the definition: Clabber is raw milk that’s curdled. That got me thinking about other fictional personalities left behind by the ever-changing demands of advertising. Imagine, if you will, a dimension where they ended up after their promotional value waned. Herewith is an imagined day in Abandonedland.

It’s midmorning and Juan Valdez and Mrs. Olson are engaged in their weekly coffee contest, the loser being the one who makes a bathroom run first. Mrs. O has consumed seven cups of high octane brew to Juan’s five, but shows no sign of discomfort.

“Wasn’t it sad how the Clabber Girl, I can never remember her first name, had to rescue Betty Crocker after she went stir crazy at the baking competition last weekend,” said Juan.

The conversation was interrupted when a smirking Anthony Martignetti walked past, an arm around each of the Doublemint Twins. “Catch ya later,” He said, lust filling his voice. “We’re on our way to a hot meal, and I don’t mean spaghetti.”

Clara Peller was right behind them, pushing poor jaundiced Wolley Segap in his wheelchair while he mumbled and flipped through a tattered book like ones he’d proudly shilled in the old days. Clara, hands on hips, glared after Anthony, sneering, “That brat ain’t got near enough beef to keep those girls happy.”

Frank Bartles & Ed Jaymes, sat at the next table, whining about how they got no respect any more. “It’s like we’re the Rodney Dangerfield of the ad world these days, Ed said sadly, then brightened. “At least wine didn’t get hit as hard as whiskey did what with the on and off again tariff idiocy.

Buster Brown, who was sitting along with Josie The Plumber at the same table was also in a lamenting mood. “You think you have reason to complain, Nobody wants my shoes any more. It’s all fancy-ass things from designers with unpronounceable names like Laboutin, or sneakers with prices jacked into the stratosphere by punks pretending to be athletes. You never wouldda had real guys like Al Capone shilling footwear.”

“You think you got disrespected? Look at me,” groused Josie. “With all the extra bullshit and other crap being generated in Washington, not to mention in half the states, you would think I’d be in constant demand, but not a single call in years. Even worse, I’m stuck with a garage full of rusting tools.”

Just then a syrupy voice trilled from the gazebo. “Have any of you dear people seen Aunt Jemima?” trilled Mrs Butterworth. “We’re supposed to meet Mary Kay at lunch so we can try out her new pancake make-up.”

“No,” said Frank Bartles, “but I swear I saw Mr. Whipple put the squeeze on Sarah Tucker over at the inn last night. It shook up poor Uncle Ben something awful, being as how he has had such a crush on her all these years.

“Remember when Mr. Clean ran for mayor, promising he’d bring back morality? Guess his white tornado wimped out pretty quickly,” lamented Ronald McDonald. “I would have thought when Little Debbie was caught in bed with Mikey, folks would have been more upset, but all I heard from folks was ‘that’s Life.’ And if that wasn’t bad enough, the Morton girl was kicked out of high school last week for refusing to stop using salty language. I sure wish we could go back to the old days. I never did get to see the USA in a Chevrolet.”

Aunt Bluebell wandered through the crowd, handing out paper towels, particularly to those who had just come from the funeral. “Poor Marlboro Man,” sniffled the bellhop while puffing on a Phillip Morris cigarette, “Life just won’t be the same, and he didn’t even get to ride off into the sunset since the cemetery was in the other direction.”