The purchase of waterless cookware deserves more attention in view of the problems it caused. The actual door the salesman knocked on was not ours. It was my Uncle Parnell’s where we’d spent a couple of days . That morning, we were to journey on to my maternal grandmother’s, a trip Daddy had put off as long as possible. While he would have never given in to his impulse to shoot Grandma, I don’t think Daddy would’ve grieved too deeply had he backed over her. At any rate, I’m sure that salesman was thrilled. The spiel went on for hours. Daddy would talk to anyone who’d listen, determined to ferret out a shared acquaintance. Eventually, the salesman caught on and acknowledged a nebulous connection, realizing the sale hung on it. Daddy bought that damned cookware, a three-hundred -seventy-five dollar purchase, at a time when his net pay was a bit over a hundred a week. Mother was furious, first at the delay in leaving for Grandma’s, then at the outrageous purchase, not knowing the full disaster that was about to befall.
The salesman, who we forever afterward referred to as Mr. Pots, told Daddy Mother should launch a career selling waterless cookware, an idea Daddy quickly seconded. He’d always felt Mother could contribute more if she’d just “get organized.” She had nothing but leisure with five children, house and farm chores which included milking a cow, gardening, and food preservation. In her spare time, she sewed everything she and the girls wore. I don’t know why he’d put up with her laziness that long.
Mother hit the ceiling. “I am not selling that mess!” Her rotten attitude dashed no one’s hopes. The upshot was, Daddy invited Mr. Pots to come stay with us for a week or so and induct Mother into sales. Mr. Pots eagerly accepted, glad to find a man who could bully his wife lining his own pockets.
A week later, Mr. Pots showed up, laden with Daddy’s cookware. Daddy was appalled and embarrassed that Mother stuck to her guns, after he’d set this up for her benefit. Mr. Pots moved into my unfortunate brother’s room. Daddy gave Mr. Pots a list of possible victims and Mr. Pots was off, without Mother as his protege. There wasn’t a lot of warmth in our home that week. Daddy was furious he hadn’t been able to force Mother into sales. She’d failed him. Mother was was enraged that Daddy had once again proved himself an insensitive ass.
Everyone was glad to see the last of Mr. Pots. Eventually, the cookware was paid off.
In her never-ending mission to make Daddy’s life miserable, Mother raised objections when Daddy wanted to move one of his sister, her dead-beat husband, and her horrible twins onto their place. His plan was to buy them a mobile-home, set it up, install utilities, under his name, of course, since their only income was Bubba’s disability check. The good news was, the happy couple could now afford rent sent they’d married and Bubba was getting extra income by acquiring her minor children. The bad news was, Hubby was running from the law because he hadn’t paid child support for his own children in years. They needed to get out of town fast since his ex-wife had finally located him and there was a warrant for his arrest.
This is a stock photo of woman milking a cow. I can promise you Mother never smiled like that when milking.
I wrote of my my mother, Kathleen’s laundry list against her cousin’s Robert Gordon and Wayne Perkins just the other day, mentioning her intention to tell Robert Gordon what a hellion should she ever met him again, even if he were Pope. It’s fortunate she never had that little conversation with his partner-in-crime, Wayne, since she found herself in need of his friendship one day early in her marriage.
My mother found this hilarious letter among her things today. My grandmother was in a foul mood when she wrote it. I recalled this weekend like it was yesterday when I read the letter. Grandma was nosy. If she’d been an animal, she’d have been a ferret. She like to get right behind Daddy, quizzing him about his business and his family. “How come your mama moved off the Henderson Place? Seems like she was set up real well there. How come Ella May and her husband separated? They looked like they were doing good?” If she didn’t get enough answers, she picked us kids. “When did Suzie get married?”
Daddy was “the Boss.” God put him in charge, so we didn’t have to worry about what God wanted. If we had any questions, we could go straight to Daddy. He always had a Bible verse at the ready to back him up, if needed. Most of them sounded suspiciously fresh-coined and self-serving, lacking book, chapter, and verse. Not having memorized the entire Bible, it was hard to prove they didn’t exist, like the one that forbade men to milk cows, “You cannot take what you cannot give.” Please. You didn’t have to be a heathen to see through that one. Actually, Daddy anticipated our needs, requiring no effort on our part. Permission to visit a friend, attend a school activity, or socialize had to come from Daddy.
In my family of “Mixed Nuts” Cousin Corwin was the winner, hands down. When he was about twelve, he and his twin Kelvin got in a little “dust up” with the police, so it seemed like a good time to get out of town. Aunt Essie called Daddy, asking if the twins could come spend a few days. Now if the image “twins” brings to mind thoughts of “barefoot boys with cheeks of tan,” think again. Kelvin to all intents and purposes, could have passed for normal, but Corwin was nuts. At five foot eight and two hundred and sixty pounds, he was physically intimidating. His pale blue eyes blazed with madness. He ripped through a fried chicken like a chain saw. Mother had to double the amount she normally cooked the minute he arrived.
Nutsrok 