By Fred Prout
This was supposed to be a Christmas story from Ratcheds. Maybe I can morph into that after I vent my spleen over newly disclosed events.
Recently I saw an announcement that cuts to the core. Just a minor notification. No fanfare. We were not supposed to notice until it was too late. But I did see it . The manufacturer of Cheetos is planning on removing the decades old vibrant orange coloring from their product. NO MORE ORANGE HANDS. ORANGE MOUTH. ORANGE SHIRT. OUTRAGEOUS!!!
Okay, back to Christmas.
The big table at the Ratcheds Senior Center. The usual assortment of local characters. We’re done. Finished. Finito. The thirty foot spruce at our senior center is beautiful. We outdid ourselves. The eight foot faux (French for Fake) polyethylene tree indoors, done. Tinselled, garlanded and ornamented. Miles and miles of lights aglow. Star on top. Reindeer, nutcracker and inflatable Santa. D.O.N.E.
Shirley Knott Shewill Knott and her sister Summer Knott working the blender. Making egg nog. Shirley’s a little heavy on the nog so hers disappears pretty quickly. A mellow glow emanates from one and all.T Rex (fka Thomas King) gets the coffee pot started. We have to go home sometime after all. For now, a toast from Watson Furst. “L’Chaim”. In any language, good health to all. It’s hard to describe the emotions in the room. A job well done. A minor sense of emptiness as the collective effort of a difficult task completed circles the room.
Harry Wartzenal is the first to break the spell. “I’m beat. I’m going to finish this delicious egg nog and go home and get to bed. I’ve been working so hard on all this decorating I went right to bed last night. Woke up with a nasty case of the hungries so I staggered out to the kitchen to grab a snack. Saw that Tilda or I left a slice of bread on the counter so I put some peanut butter on and took a big bite. It turned out that it was a damn SPONGE. Spit it out and staggered back to bed. Tilda keeps calling me Sponge Bob.” Appreciative laughter fills the room.
Major gut punch. Our festive mood just took a huge hit. Faces going from smilies to frownies in a millisecond. Bonus Diaz ( a late in life baby) just came over to give us the news that one of our own died a few hours ago. I know you’re supposed to say ‘passed away’ but old dogs and all that. Our little community is made up of a tremendous variety of colors and flavors. Our differences are wide and respected. We are tight knit and everybody is important. Please, just give me a minute… Reporting on a loss is the absolute worst part of this job. We get to know each other and then we lose them. The older we get the more this happens.
Peter was a long time member of our community. Among many things he was a bagpiper of enormous skills. I don’t know if any of you have ever tried to just make a sound with one of those things. I have and it was damn near impossible. He always showed up for any and all occasions. Sometimes invited. Always welcome. Art show, Peter played. Full regalia of the Scotch Guards. Skreek skrawk and right into lilting music . Beautiful melodies. Farmers market. Peter was there. Wandering around town. You heard Peter. One time there was an outdoor wedding. Peter stood thirty feet away, waiting, and played a Scottish battle march as the bride and groom left the altar. Seems like it was prophetic.
Many years of being one of the many who helped make life better in and around Ratcheds. Creating smiles. Helping make life a little more enjoyable for all of us. A break from the ordinary. Tomorrow is Sunday . We expect and fear silence in town. A Sunday this close to Christmas with no Peter. Just the suffocating silence of our loss. Silent tears.
Wanda breaks the silence. “I just had an idea. I’ll go to his house and get the pipes. Raise a hand if you’ll join me in marching silently through town to pay tribute to Peter. “Unanimously all hands go up. A quick mental count and I think we can get over a hundred people. Wanda volunteers to lead the group through town. She will carry the pipes. Chief Muldoon will take care of the traffic. Since it’s almost Christmas, maybe we will hear echoes of Silent Night. Played on a silent bagpipe. Well, almost silent.
Life is funny. Not Ha Ha ,but, you never know what twists and turns it will take. We are delivered many treasures in life. Many of them go unnoticed. Maybe forever. Maybe not. We need to pay more careful attention to the gifts we receive. Pay them more value. Peter was a gift. Too many times we did not unwrap and appreciate him. Kilt swirling, fingers fluting and cheeks puffed out beyond belief. He was a treasure. A gift. No longer. But, wait a minute, some gifts become even bigger after life. They become memories. Of the sweetest kind.
A Christmas wish for you. May you hear nothing but the sweetest echoes of your loved ones. Living or not. May the music last forever and, maybe, for the first time, always in tune.
Fred
Timber Valley is saddened by the passing of William (Bill) O’Hara of Lot 8 on December 1, 2025.