Max's Intrepid Podcast

“And we’re live in the McLeod kitchen where we have Elouise McLeod, an elderly woman, wiping her blood-soaked hands on the white apron that covers her yellow dress dotted with tiny blue ducks. And leaning against the—”

“I’m not elderly! And you well know it’s tomato sauce, not blood on my hands. Though I might have your blood on my hands if you continue doing whatever it is you’re doing, Max.”

“Leaning against the kitchen table, is Dana McLeod, a sullen teenager, clad in blue jeans and tattered t-shirt, engrossed in her phone. Perhaps she it sexting her ‘boyfriend’ Damien—”

“I’m gonna punch you so hard in the mouth Max that you’ll be swallowing your teeth for weeks.”

“Dana! Don’t threaten your brother. Can’t you just…Both of you…be civil for a few hours? And who is this Damien person you’re texting with?”

“Sexting would be more accurate. Sexting is when someone sends sexually explicit words or imagery—”

“Get ready to swallow that microphone, Max.”

“Dana moves threateningly toward this intrepid reporter, dear listeners. Though she is scrawny, she fights dirty. Will freedom of speech be crushed with a desperate act of violence? Will Elouise intervene before blood is shed? Will—”

“Max, can’t you practice your reporting somewhere else? And stop calling me Elouise, I’m your grandma.”

“The frustration is evident in Elouise’s voice as she appeals to familial bonds. But never fear, this intrepid reporter will not be swayed. I will persevere in telling the unbiased truth, no matter the consequences.”

“I pay for that fancy phone and I can take it away.”

“In the interest of keeping this broadcast going, I’ll henceforth refer to her as Mrs. McLeod. Yes, that Mrs. McLeod. The mighty matriarch of what remains of the once-proud McLeod clan. She worked two jobs to keep a roof over her grandchildren’s heads, and pay for luxuries such as mobile phone contracts.”

“A phone isn’t a luxury, numbnuts, it’s a necessity.”

“Dana chimes in with what is surely a controversial opinion. Mrs. McLeod, care to tell the listeners what you think? Mrs. McLeod pauses, gathering her thoughts like wayward sheep. Her eyes peer toward a faraway horizon, as happens when she recalls her deprived childhood, growing up in the Great Depression. A heavy sigh...”

“For the twentieth time, I didn’t grow up in the Depression. I’m not that old! But, we were poor. I was the eldest of five children and our father wasn’t around. We lived in the country. The boondocks. The middle of nowhere, in an old farmhouse at the foot of the Allegheny Mountains.”

“Were you farmers?”

“We had a few acres of land, so we weren’t proper farmers. Just trying to grow food to feed a family of seven.”

“Seven?”

“There was Ma, my three brothers—Paddy, Peter, Paul, and my sister Lila and me and Uncle Bill, my mother’s younger brother. He fought in WWII and when he came back he worked as a mechanic of sorts. He was good with his hands, and could fix all manner of things even though he didn’t have any fancy tools.

Before he went off to war, he’d help around the farm, feeding the horses and fixing fences. I remember one winter, he’d come into the house, warming his hands by the fire, and asked if there were any diapers.”

“Mrs. McLeod smiles and half laughs as this memory. But we must know, why Diapers? Did the cold make him incontinent? Was he too lazy to use the outhouse? Mrs. McLeod shakes her head ruefully..."

“The diaper was not for wearing. He wanted a used one. A fresh pee-soaked one. Ma had saved one for him, as Paul was still baby then. He picked it up and used it like washcloth, rubbing it on his palms and the back of his hands. Claimed it moisturised and softened the cracks. Ha! That was before anyone knew about the benefits of uric acid!”

“Choice!”

“Dana has interrupted Mrs. McLeod’s compelling recollection by shouting as she scrolls furiously on her phone.”

“Sorry, Nanna.”

“Dana’s face reddens a bit, as the smallest inkling dawns. Might this be the breakthrough moment when she realises she’s a spoiled teenager living a life of relative ease?

“Shut your pie-hole, Max.”

“Evidently not. Nevertheless these threats to the media are unconscionable and I will not be silenced. Mrs. McLeod, please continue.”

“We didn’t have what people call the ‘mod cons’ back then. No phones or TVs, or even indoor plumbing. And it was so cold in winter, Lila and me would huddle to stay warm in the bed we shared, watching icicles grown on the inside of the window.”

“You didn’t have indoor heating?”

“Dana’s mouth hangs open in disbelief, and the phone drops to her side. Mrs. McLeod smiles, and slowly shakes her head at the astounding ignorance of today's youth.”

“No, Dana, we had a wood-burning stove, just off the kitchen. But it wasn’t enough to warm up the bedrooms, which were on the second floor. And we didn’t have Barbie dolls or Legos, or little plastic horses in little plastic barns. Though one Christmas Uncle Bill made dolls from cornhusks for Lila and me. We played with them when we could, but there were plenty of chores to be done.”

“Mrs McLeod wipes a tear from her eye, recalling the bittersweet time she spent with Lila..”

“I’m not crying, it’s these onions I’m chopping. Anyway, we had something much better than plastic horses. We had real ones. Two chocolate mares with white socks, Eleanor and Marigold, and one gelding, Flynn, who was inky black. I was the one who had the idea of charging tourists for horse rides. Not that we got that many passersby, but Uncle Bill helped me make a few signs. Horse and pony rides ahead!”

“A budding entrepreneur, is our Mrs. McLeod. How much did you charge?”

“Twenty-five cents for a ride ‘round the paddock. That was for the kids. We walked next to Marigold leading her in big circles. We charged a dollar for a ride on Ellie or Flynn. That was for the folks who wanted a bit more excitement. We took their money and helped them onto the horses and pointed them towards a path that went through the pine trees for a ways, which were nice and shady in summer and dusted with snow in the winter. Ellie and Flynn knew the way by heart, so the riders couldn't get lost. Well, except for that one time—"

“Mrs. McLeod’s reverie is broken by the doorbell ringing. But stay tuned, intrepid listeners, for the next broadcast when we tackle issues such as ‘Why does Dana have hobbit feet’ and….hey, ouch! Nanna, Dana’s pinching me!”