god-damned fudge

I had company over Thanksgiving. Fellow blogger Texaco was in town to escape the Idaho winter and check out the sights of sunny Palm Springs. Cabazon dinosaurs, Alexander homes, walking tours of historic downtown commercial spots, all of the mid century madness that one little town can offer.

On the last morning, he admitted that he had never tried a date shake. A quick look at Chowhound, and off we trotted to the Palm Springs Fudge and Chocolate Shop on Palm Canyon, just across from the Historical Society. There we indulged our craving for Date Shakes (which are awesomely delicious but headache-inducingly sweet) and were also offered a sample of home made fudge, which is their other specialty in some 40-odd varieties.

I was reminded of my college days in Flint. It was the late 1970's and the City of Flint had bet the bank on a downtown redevelopment including a brand new Hyatt Regency Hotel, major expansion of the downtown U of M campus, Windmill Place Food Court, and last but not least a Roush Development called Water Street Pavilion.

Roush was well known by then for their Festival Marketplaces- a series of downtown retail spaces which opened to fanfare, but as we later learned, seldom succeeded financially. We held out high hopes for Flint's version when it opened.

Because of its close proximity to the University, I was a frequent visitor. A giant structure with walls of glass, the focal point upon entering was a Fudge Shop where young employees made fresh fudge daily in front of a glass wall. And more than that, they sang. Out loud. I recall their youthful enthusiasm on my first visit. "Homemade Fudge! We're making Homemade Fudge" they gleefully sang out.

In the same manner that the Festival Marketplace failed to catch on, the fudgemaking seemed to become less joyful and more like drudgery as the season wore on. "More Fudge", they glumly sang by winter to a much slower beat. "We're making more fudge".

By spring they were venting their anger. "The God-Damned Fudge" became the song of their labors. "We're making the God-Damned Fudge". It had the tone and timbre of a funeral dirge, and most certainly did not inspire one to try their wares.

On my next visit, there was no singing, only glum little faces rolling fudge on the marble tables in total silence. The Fudge Shop closed shortly thereafter, and the entire marketplace dwindled to bankruptcy, and was sold off to the University of Michigan in 1991.

And as hard as I try to recollect, I don't think I've had any god-damned fudge since.

wheel covers

Mother's car has been stored since her passing. Dad and I brought it home to clean it up. It's a classic 1985 Cadillac Eldorado that I sent her from California years ago. It's still in very nice rust free condition, with only 47,000 miles. It looks tres elegante except for the wheel cover. The right front wheel is bereft of its wire spoked spat. And therein lies a tale.

It was a summer evening in later August, 1981. Warm and humid with more than a slight possibility of rain, I was top down in the 76 Eldorado convertible, the one I rather kidnapped from Dad and took to school. A deep mocha brown with tan leather, I nicknamed her Molly. Molly Brown. Cute. I know. On this particular evening, we were headed home about midnight with the top down on I-75. The moon shone onto the hood as the Cadillac crest led the way. As I took the exit ramp, I hit a deep pothole in the dark. The entire car shook and I saw the right front wheel cover sail off into the tall Michigan grass. I stopped and searched for it in the dark, but to no avail.

My grandmother Kate was still up when I got home. She said I looked upset and I explained to her about the wheel cover. Kate, who never drove herself, knew how much pride I took in Molly's appearance. Always clean. Always. She told me not to worry, that things would look better in the morning.

Next morning both Kate and Patsy were up early. When I came down for breakfast, Kate asked me to come out to the garage. Laid out on the floor were at least a dozen chrome discs, from every make of car one could imagine. Buick, Oldsmobile, Pontiac, Ford, and yes, Molly's color-matched wheel disc with the Cadillac crest.

Kate and Patsy had driven over to the freeway exit and combed the grass to retrieve the wheel cover before I woke up. Not knowing exactly what it should look like, they took them all. I don't recall what we did with the others.

Last night I was out seeing some friends. It was a warm night, humid after a summer rain with the possibility of more. I was headed home about midnight on I-75. The moon shone on the hood as the Cadillac crest led the way. As I took the exit ramp, I thought of them and the summer night so many years ago.

I wonder if they were there too.