The Sonny Porche Saga

Where does the Embassy Wife come from?  And what did she do on her summer vacation?  I am sure these are questions burning in the breast of nearly everyone out there.  So, let me tell you what Embassy wives are likely to do on their summer vacation out in the Other Side of Rural, Texas.....

Eight grandchildren.  Three children, three in-laws, and 2 grandparents.

Sixteen people under one, four-bedroom roof.

Our minds working as one, my sister, sister-in-law, and -self proclaimed that we would be remodeling Sonny's house for future use as a camphouse or overflow sleeping area.

Before I tell you what, exactly, a remodel involves, let me tell you about Sonny's house.  The metal numbers tacked up over the door lead me to believe it was built in 1954, probably by my grandfather.  A Mr. Rice lived there at the beginning of my consciousness.  Some time after he died, Sonny Porche (pronounced 'sunny porch', of course) moved in with his mama.

Sonny was in his 60s when I met him.  He wore brown plaid shirts with plastic mother-of-pearl snaps; pointy toed, shiny, high-heeled cowboy boots; and a plastic straw cowboy hat with a pink chicken feather in it.  He paid my parents minimal rent for the two-bedroom house, and some of the most memorable moments of my childhood were the days he'd come to pay the rent.  He usually brought his friend Cordell, who also wore a plastic straw cowboy head perched firmly on his head, but I rarely had a chance to see more of Cordell than that because no matter how hot the day or how long Sonny stayed visiting with my parents, Cordell never left the truck.  He sat in the truck -- motor off, windows up -- parked in the sun.  And in the heat of a South Texas summer, surviving just 30 minutes of that was a feat that even my young mind recognized as nothing short of miraculous.  But Sonny was usually there a lot longer than 30 minutes.

For example, there was the time Sonny helped my brother Michael 'fix' our go-cart.  (I can't believe now that my parents let us ride that thing -- without helmets! -- but, boy, was it fun, and I have the scars to prove it!)  Sonny examined the recalcitrant machine and decided the problem was with the spark plugs.  So, my dad being absent at the time, Sonny stepped in as the man of the situation, and took charge by grabbing a screw driver.

"OK, fella.  Give 'er a pull!"  He called, sticking the point of the screwdriver into the point of the spark plug.

"But, Mr. Porche, I'm not sure that's a good idea."  Michael was a bit more cautious.

"Naw, this'll fix it up.  Let 'er rip!"  He said, indicating that Michael should pull the starter cord.

So, Michael dutifully yanked the starter cord.

I wasn't there, but to here Michael tell it, Sonny's arms and legs flew out in different directions, his gold front teeth sparkled blue with electricity, and his pink chicken feather went up in a puff of smoke.

When he'd picked himself up off the ground, fanned himself a few times with his smoking hat (which he then replaced firmly on his head), Sonny picked up the screwdriver again and re-applied it to the spark plug.

"OK, son," he said, his voice quavering slightly,  "Yank it again."  He clamped one hand on top of his hat for safety.  "But this time, pull it real slow."

And through all this, Cordell never left the truck.  

Maybe he was smarter than we thought.

(Tune in next time for the "Guns 'n Roses" installment of the Sonny Porche saga.)