My Brother was a Neanderthal Mennonite
by John W. Miller
One early morning when the fog was extra heavy, Johan Messer ran into a Neanderthal. All of a suddenly in the middle of a Swiss mountain path there one stood. They were both surprised to meet each other, but maybe not. The first thing that came into Johan head was to run, but then he thought what would he say if someone asked him, “What do you say to a Neanderthal you happen to meet on a foggy morning in Switzerland on the side of a big mountain? Of course, you ask him what tribe?”
For a moment, both stood there until Johan saw the Neanderthal smile.
Johann grinned, raised his hand, waved, and said, “Hi, I’ll Johan Messer, what tribe or you from?”
Johan wanted the Neanderthal to know he didn’t have a weapon in his hand. It worked.
The Neanderthal ginned back, did the same wave, “Neal Neanderthal, species Mennonite, trained as a subspecies Powwow Doctor.
Now Johan wasn’t about to ask Neal what’s a Powwow Doctor. The shock of the “Mennonite” was enough, since he thought they were extinct from Switzerland years ago by the John Calvin Cro-Magnon tribe. However, Neal was a friendly cuss and they talked all morning.
Johan, “Have you lived around here very long.”
Neal, “Well, to tell the truth, quite a while. I guess you could say a long long time, but some times they stretch it a little, about 100,000 years.”
Johan is floored. He mumbled under his breath, barely moving his lips, “This dude really is one. It’s not someone dressed up in a hairy costume. I got to make him think I’ve met a Neanderthal. Now don’t get nervous, but this is one hairy dude.”
Johan, “Like your fur coat, but don’t it get a little hot in this weather?”
Neal, “You’uns gets used to hit after a while. Ever seen a naked Neanderthal?”
Johan, “No, don’t believe I have lately.” Johan laughed, “But you can’t keep up with the Jones’s in that outfit. It’s not the way you live.”
Neal, “We ain’t tryin’ too, believe me! We lead a simple life. We don’t cotton to all them there wild party, like them Cro-Magnon, even if they is taller than us.”
Johan, “I’ll say you do! I don’t believe I could get along without no movies, no excursions, no secret societies, horse races, and county fairs. But it’s different with you. I jest couldn’t do it, especially loosing Christmas celebration.
Neal, “Everything is much easier if you’uns don’t knows, includin’ circumcision. That’s thu trick, not knowin’, along with them surprise parties, picnics, and especially with that there Christmas thing with all that rushin’ and lookin’ for a parkin’ place. They even got the date wrong.”
Johan, “Well! You have a point there, including circumcision. But tell me, how you got out of paying taxes. That‘s the trick I want to learn. At least you don’t have to vote or stand in lines. Maybe I ought to become a member of your tribe.”
Neal, “It’s easy, not payin’ taxes, but you would never make it in our tribe. You’uns not enuff hair, you got a little nose, and to tall like them son of a bitchin’ Cro-Magnon bunch. You would be bumping your head all the time. Anyway, payin’ taxes has a back lash.”
Johan, “Neal, I believe I hear a little county in your dialect.” And Johan grinned. “But what’s the back lash from paying taxes?”
Neal, “Yeah, I like talkin’ county, better than them there grunts. Back lashes is when you have to ask fur some type of relief or a government handout, a perk. We don’t ask for anything. Leave us along. We aren’t mad at nobody or need any relief. That what you’uns gets from payin’ taxes, back lashes.”
Johan, “Now that’s the mystery I’ve wanted to ask you. How do you keep from getting mad at someone, turn the other cheek? Is it a rule? “
Neal, “No, we don’t turn no cheek. Aw! I guess you could call it a rule. There’s something about a ‘Franconia Discipline’ in our history, whoever he was. We jest don’t gets mad. That’s why we ain’t got no lawyers. Ever seen a Neanderthal Judge?”
Johan, “Come to think about it. I never met a Neanderthal lawyer or Judge. That tells me why you never sue anybody, no lawyers!” and Johan laughed
Neal, “That’s right! And we don’t believe in buyin’ insurance or runnin’ for any office, especially with something to do with thu government. They are’s nosy enuff.”
Johan, “I remember when they got on you about school. You thumbed your nose at them. Told’em your kids didn’t need to go pass the eight grade, gonna be farmers.
Neal, “We told’em it was none of their damn business to tell us what to do on our land. And we ain’t joinin’ no Army!” Neal laughed.
Johan, “Well, it’s for sure you don’t have any unemployed rate. Everybody works!”
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Neal, “I’ll bet you never ever seen a poor Neanderthal did you?”
Johan, “Come to think about it, I never did. They always had money. I even heard about one, a millionaire. But I also heard something about your Preacher-men.”
Neal, “What dids you’uns hear?”
Johan, “It’s fixed.”
Neal, “What’s fixed?”
Johan, “The way you select them, it’s fixed!”
Neal’s long black hair stood up on his hairy broad back sticking out his protruding elongated forehead looking though those swept back black eyes behind those flared wide nasals in that wide Neanderthal nose, but didn’t appear mad or upset. Johan thought he could make him mad, too make him show some fight by insulting one of his Preacher-men. But there was none. It was true, you jest can’t make a Neanderthal Mennonite mad. They will not fight.
Neal, “What does you’uns mean, fixed?” looking cool as a fresh block of ice.
Johan, “You know? That trick with the piece of white paper in the Bible.”
Neal, “What in the world are’s you’uns talkin’ about?” looking confused
Johan, “Aw, you know when you have selected the candidates for Preacher-men. You makes the final selection with a piece of white paper in a Bible. They set the candidates down in front of a bunch of Bibles. One of the Bibles has that white piece of paper. The one who chooses the Bible with the white piece of paper gets the job and without pay too boot.”
Neal looked surprised, “Where in this here world did you’uns hear that? Have you sneaked into one of our meetin’? Are maybe somebody told you all this. This is crazy!”
Johan, “Well, when I was told all this, I thought what a good way to fix an election. So, I just assumed someone had probably done that…”and Johan’s voiced trailed off and he looked embarrassed. Neal begins to laugh.
Neal, “You’uns got part of it right. That idea of a fix came out of that silly good tax payin’, votin’, buys insurance, fightin’ minded, line standin’ citizen’s head of you’uns. We got the same old uneducated Preacher-men. That’s where I got my Powwow Doctor Training, from them.”
Johan, “I wasn’t going to ask you about that Powwow Doctor stuff, but since you mention it, what in the hell is it?”
Neal smiled thru all that hair hanging down in his face, “Can’t tell you’uns. It’s an old Neanderthal secret. But it has to do with swearin’ and takin’ oaths which we never does.”
Johan smiled, “I thought you didn’t believe in secrets, magic, and oaths.”
Neal, “We can’t takes oaths. That’s why you’uns never ever see us on a jury, or testerflyin’ for or against someone. Did you ever meet a Neanderthal policemen, traffic cop, or bill collector?”
Johan shook his head.
Neal, “I didn’t think so. And you’uns won’t. We just don’t put our hair bodies in position to judge our neighbors.”
Johan, “There’s something else I want to ask you. What about those clothes that is so simple, black, and gray. Don’t your women folks get tired of those dull colored furs?”
Neal, “You’uns gots it’s all wrong. That’s them Amish Neanderthal. Next time you’uns opens up one of our graves you’uns will see the same fur coat she gets married in that we bury her in.”
Then Neal laughed, looked up, saw someone running our way, and said, “Here comes one of them son of a bitch’en Calvin Preachin’ Cro-Magnon, gots to go, Brother.”
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John W. Miller was raised in Tennessee near “North Hell’s Kitchen.” Served in the U.S. Marine Corps as Staff Sergeant and later as Lieut. Colonel in the National Guard. He graduated from the University Of Tennessee School Of Dentistry. In addition to General Dentistry, he became a Professional Custom Golf Club maker. He makes his home in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife, Joan Seigenthaler-Miller. He enjoys writing fiction novels and short stories with the dialogue written in a soft mountain dialect. His first novel, The "Curse of Satan’s Collar", was published in 2008. The novel spans the period from the 1770s through the 1920s. There is some historical fact, some fiction, and a whole lot of embellishment, which is just part of mountain stories. |
Thanks for the story John, got to love ol' time politics... J. Wolf
