I guess it was love at first sight: they got married the following week.  The old man, to show his affection for his new daughter-in-law, told Chuck he would spring for a wedding in the Hotel Astor (the very one we WWII vets remember for its long gone clock under which many a wartime date was made...).  Anyhow, a very large crowd showed up for the wedding.  And when the bill came in some weeks later to old George - there was the matter of some two thousand dollars worth of silver plated coffeepots... 

    Maggie's guests had stolen most of the coffeepots from the Astor's tables!  These events, of course, happened before I came onto the scene - but they were still fresh in George's mind and whenever Maggie's name arose in company (which it seldom did), the gravel would rattle and old George would deliver himself of the same sentiment no matter who was in earshot: 

    "That g-- d--- bitch!  I wouldn't give her the sweat off my balls if she were dying of thirst!". 

    Colorful.

    At risk of some disjointing in this tale - which I am not all that sure will actually impair it for all that (!) - I may have to relate some incidents out of order - chronological order, that is.  I had thought to spin them out more or less as they happened, but all this was nearly 50 years ago and I have only a failing memory to rely on now.  And  these all happened in a five or ten year span during which my path and that of the Rhines - father and son - intertwined... 

    Hence, since Maggie's father figures only one more time in these tales, I think I will maybe jump ahead a bit and relate this incident, though it actually occurred closer to the untwining of our respective paths. 

##

    Chuck and Maggie at the time were living in a Gatehouse as semi caretakers of the Whatmore Estate way up in back of  Greenwich, actually over in Brewster, NY.  I remember it was just over a hill from Lake Waccabuc or "Twin Lakes" I think it is sometimes called...  notable among other things, as the lake in which P.T. Barnum disposed of the remains of Jumbo - America's first circus elephant!  The "deal" that Chuck had smoked out was that if he and Maggie would provide some part-time services for the Whatmore family, then they could live rent free in the Gatehouse.  To Chuck  who lived as "cashless" an existence as his father (though for different reasons), this seemed a great opportunity.  He could continue to hold down his 9-to-5 job at the office, and get, as he put it, his  living free. Anyhow, the "deal" was that Maggie keep the "big house" for the folks and watch their kids for them, and Chuck maintain the "grounds". The various disasters of that time would fill a book! 

    Of course, there had been a "do" a few days after they moved in, for Maggie, in one of her first roles as Nanny, had taken all the kids (her brood and the owners') out on the lake in a boat - and tipped it over and like to drowned the whole passel of 'em!  Then Chuck came home later that same evening and took up duties as part-time gardener by raking up a bunch of leaves and burning them.  Before he was through, he had set the whole hill afire and burned acres and acres of expensive planted laurels Whatmore had set out.  The smoke filled the whole valley down below so thick the fire engines got lost on the way and couldn't find the entrance to the estate.  Chuck (later) related how up on the now clear, burned over hilltop he could look down on the engines racing madly around on the roads in the valley.. 

    But this inauspicious beginning had been  "smoothed over"  and the family settled in, as I say, sometime prior to the event I now relate... 

    Earlier this particular Spring, Whatmore - though increasingly leery of Chuck for reasons we shall see - had  pitched a proposition to him to the effect, that if he, Chuck, would provide  the labor, then he, Whatmore, would spring for all the seeds and plantings needed to plant a community vegetable patch that both families could use.  Chuck went for it - now he could not only "live free" - he and Maggie and the kids could also now "eat free". 

    How you going to lose? 

    Soon, he plowed up an old garden site on the grounds and planted  it.  All this, you should note, while holding down his job as an editor at  the publishing company's offices.  Soon warmed by the sun and watered by the gentle Spring rains of that long-gone year, the garden sprouted - and hard on this sprouting came the rabbits.  About this time, Chuck turned to me one day in the office and asked if he could borrow my .22 rifle to settle his developing dispute with the rabbits.  My rifle was my pride and joy - but on promise to take care of it, I loaned it to him. 

    Maggie's father, in distant Tennessee, lost his job about this time (I  recall, for some reason, he was a molder in a tire factory).  Broke and out of work, it  seemed the charitable thing to do to bring him North - so soon he joined Chuck and Maggie and their dog (also named "Maggie" - as Chuck wanted everyone to clear out when he uttered as few   words as possible - as was his style), and the  "kids" - two or three in number.  At this time I don't recall their number exactly: I do recall they were always in dirty underwear and tear-stained faces. 

    The  itinerant father much approved of the "truck" growing in his daughter's door yard (just like back home on the Ridge).  Soon, he was the unofficial harvester of the garden and saw  to its watering and building of scarecrows and other necessities - freeing Chuck for his more pressing editorial duties.

    Long awaited that year were Chuck's melons: he had planted  about a half acre of them (the garden was huge!).  That is, we all awaited them, the Whatmores, Chuck's family, and the office staff, for on harvest days, Chuck brought huge bushel baskets of peas, tomatoes, squash and leafy green provender of various sorts and laid them out in rows in the cloakroom.  Here he did a thriving  business - all sub rosa (or perhaps I should say sub squash!) with the publication staff.  (As might be imagined, this eventually got out of hand as to who owed what and how much, and who had credit and who didn't, and pinching  and 'sampling' of fruit, and not a little pilfering, and what not all with attendant quarreling and disputes in the halls... till the Old Man issued a dictum closing the open-air vegetable market on the company  premises).  And that was that. 

    Meanwhile, back at the homestead one fine morning, none other than Mr. Whatmore himself strolled down to view the melon patch, and being much impressed by what he saw, he entered to select a juicy specimen.  Just then a nasal, foreign, mountain twang rent the air: 

    "Naow - jes' you hol' on thar, Mistur.  What all air you a-doin' in my melon patch, anyhaow?" 

    Taken aback, Whatmore turned to behold a ragged, scraggy denizen from Dogpatch, USA apparently delivered direct to his grounds and now advancing menacingly upon him with a rifle in the crook of his arm! 

    Before he could say a word, the scraggy figure had cocked the rifle and fired a shot in the air!  Deciding he was late for a board meeting in the City and the melon could wait, he withdrew precipitously, as they say - from his own melon patch!  He made a mental note to take this matter up with his Caretaker, Mr. Rhine on the very next occasion when that worthy put in an appearance.  Harumph! 

    And so he did.  And so did Chuck convey to his father-in-law  the facts of life about the place, and that the garden and all its truck - were really Mr. Whatmore's and that while all appreciated the time and work he had put into making it prosper, he really must defer to the landowner whenever he came down from the Big House to pick a melon or two in his own garden.  And that it would seem should have ended the matter. 

    But it didn't...  As I can testify from personal experience.  Not knowing of this turn of affairs, I had driven out to see Chuck the next day and as I walked up to the house I noticed a very peculiar thing: there were watermelons piled along every windowsill - upper and lower stories!  Maggie - in the usual wrapper and bare feet, answered  my knock and ushered me in. Chuck it seemed - was not at home.  But just as well, thought I - for if he were there would be no place for him!  For every square inch of that house was packed solid with watermelons: piled like cannonballs on the living room floor, on the beds upstairs, in the bathtub - everywhere! 

    To my raised eyebrow, Maggie replied:

    "Oh, that!  Those melons...!  They're nothing.  Pop picked them early today...".

    I inquired as to why so many.

    "Oh," said Maggie, "I dunno - he and Chuck and Mr. Whatmore had some discussion yesterday and the way I thought it was left was that Pop was not to be so protective of the melons anymore - or something like that.  But I dunno - Pop got up early this morning - he's kinda peculiar you know - and he went out and picked every melon in the patch and brought them all in here - to guard them he says.  He's at the upstairs window - with your rifle.  He watches out for crows up there...". 

    She continued.

    "I kinda wondered 'guard them from what' - but you know Pop.  (Pause) You want some ice tea?  Chuck's not here right now - but he'll be home soon.  Do you think he will mind - about the melons....?"