embarrassment

“My Mama Said!”

One of the most terrifying phrases to come out of the mouth of a a child is. “My mama/daddy said.”

A mom told her kindergartner, “I didn’t put a lunch in your backpack. You are going to be picked up before lunch.”

When the little guy got to school, he told his teacher,”I don’t have a lunch. I can’t eat at school.”

Four-year-old Hayley listened in on Mom and Grandma. Grandma realized she was in the middle of a story she didn’t want getting out. “Hayley, I don’t want you to repeat anything you hear us say.”

Reassuring Grandma she understood discretion, Hayley replied. “Don’t worry Grandma . Mama talks about you all the time and I don’t tell you!”

From a three-year old boy learning to potty from his dad. “Cool penis dad!”


The same boy exiting the bathroom:  “There’s a lot of turds in there!”


My three-year-old son advising his father:  Don’t let Baby Sister in the bathroom with you.  She’ll pull your penis.  Ain’t she rude!”


The same boy to an older deaf neighbor:  “YOU CAN’T HEAR THUNDER!”  Of course he’d heard this from his father.


From my daughter standing behind a portly lady in line at the grocery story.  I gave her a look and shushed her when she tried to comment.  The lady turned to walk away and my little one chimed out,  “I sure was nice not to call her a big, old, fat lady, wasn’t I, Mommy?


My niece:  “Boogers taste like pickles.”  I told my daughter and my little grandson spoke to himself, “I like that girl.”


I told my first grade teacher, “My mama said she wouldn’t take a sick dog to Dr. Jones.  She bristled, “I’ll have you know my father is a very good doctor!”  I couldn’t wait to get home to tell Mother.
 

Miss Tillie Tittilates the Heathen

imageMiss Tillie, my Sunday School Teacher held my attention like no other before or since, giving the class candy, bubble gum, and tiny little paper umbrellas if we learned our Bible verses. Mother thought she ought not to bribe us to do our lessons. I thought Mother ought to mind her own business. Miss Tillie had already taught Sunday School for thirty years by the time I had her in 1956. She still wore lacy dresses left over from her daughter’s high school days when she didn’t opt for gabardine suits with oversize shoulder pads from the forties. She showed up once a month with robin’s egg blue hair that faded over the next three weeks to a pale lavender. We always complimented her when it was at its brightest and she’d shyly say, “Can you believe I don’t even have to color it?” I couldn’t. She still wore seamed stockings long after the other ladies wore seamless. I always looked forward to seeing a special one with a mended run she wore every third Sunday. I got to know Miss Tillie before I was old enough to know she was a little wacko, so I admired all her differences.

Miss Tillie was so sweet I wouldn’t have wanted to misbehave. The naughty words in the Bible caused her a big problem. She couldn’t bring herself to say the bad words like lie, sin, Hell, and ass, so she made modest substitutions such as fibbing, doing wrong, the bad place, and donkeys. The lesson of Samson versus the Philistines was a challenge for her. Starting out fine, she described Samson’s great strength and glorious hair, reminding us of his obedience to God. Things were going well until the battle reached its zenith. With her modesty, she couldn’t possibly say, “Samson slew ten-thousand Philistines with the jawbone of an ass,” so after a great deal of obvious preparation and practice, she concluded the lesson with a flourish, “and so Samson picked up the assbone of a donkey and slew ten-thousand Philistines.” That lesson is still burned in my brain.

Clothilde: A Family Name Battle

I was almost named Clothilde. (KLO-TEEL.  It would have been a source of constant torment to be named Clothilde. (It wouldn’t have taken mean kids long to rename me Kotex.) Daddy tried to hang that horrendous name on my three sisters,too. No matter what heinous deed my mother may have committed or may commit in the future, I forgive her because she stuck up for me when it really mattered. Daddy was raised in North Louisiana during the deepest of the Depression, one of seven pitiful children always on the brink of starvation. His father either rented a farm or sharecropped when he couldn’t manage rent. He died young leaving a widow and family. Daddy didn’t speak often about his family’s situation, but occasionally slipped up and revealed the difficulties they suffered. They were a troubled family, economically and socially and moved frequently.

As an adult, Daddy patterned himself on Mr. Ward, a prosperous landlord he knew as a child. I am grateful Mr. Ward provided Daddy a good role model, except for one small problem. Mr. Ward had a lovely daughter named Clothilde. Her hideous name threatened all girl children in Daddy’s bloodline. He was set on Clothilde for Phyllis, his first born daughter. Normally, Mother acquiesced to Daddy in most things, but this time she put her foot down. No Clothilde!!!!! Daddy contented himself with naming the baby “Phyllis,” after an old girlfriend holding Clothilde in reserve for the next daughter. Three years later, I came along. “Clothilde” was the first word out of his mouth when he saw me. Thank God, Mother didn’t die in childbirth. Again, Mother stuck to her guns, so I got Linda. Daughter number three might have been his last chance. Even though Mother had had a long and difficult labor, she rose from her childbed, vanquished Clothilde, and named the baby Connie. Not expecting another opportunity, he lost hope. A little more than a year later, his fourth and last daughter joined the family. Hopefully, he asked Mother, “You wouldn’t want to name her Clothilde, would you?” Her name is Marilyn.   We thought that was the end of the story. Recently, my brother’s oldest daughter revealed the final chapter. “Mom told me something funny. When she was pregnant, Papa asked her to name me Clothilde.”

Chicken-Killing Dog

A chicken-killing dog can’t be tolerated on a farm. When I was a kid, we had a young dog who started chasing chickens. Sadly, for Bowser and the chicken, before too long, he caught and killed one.

Mother didn’t want to traumatize the kids by dispatching Bowser to “live in the city” as opposed to city people who send their dog to “live on a farm.” So, she decided to traumatize the dog, by flogging it a few times with the dog chicken. fastening the dead chicken to Bowser’s collar

It took about three days of shame for Bowser to rid himself of that stinking chicken carcass. Bowser was a pariah, outcast from human and dog companions. Forever afterward, he cut a wide circle around anything chicken.

Charley’s Tale Part 4

Resuming the serial , Charley’s Tale . If missed previous episodes, check out this link.

https://nutsrok.wordpress.com/2024/06/14/charleys-tale-introduction/

That day was misery for Charley, sure everyone knew her humiliating secret. Not for the first time, she wished she had a friend to talk to, but had learned to guard herself carefully to avoid exposing herself to treacherous classmates.  Now that she had reason to be interested, she realized she’d heard girls giggling about “that time” and asking friends to “”check the back of my skirt.”  She saw Margie Smith slip quickly  into to gym teacher’s office and hurry to the bathroom and realized the reason.  She slogged miserably through the next couple of days, terrified she’d give her secret away.

During study hall that day, she projected how many days would be ruined before she was forty and decided she just wouldn’t tolerate the indignity.  Waiting till Cora went home for the evening, she emptied all the ice trays in the bathtub and lay in the tub as long as she could bear it, before washing her hair in the frosty water.  Hard cramps and a splitting headache rewarded her efforts.  She asked her father for some aspirin for the headache, avoiding mention of the cramps. Cora had apprised him of her situation, so he was prepared.

“Sure, Charley.  Can I get you a hot water bottle.? If you having cramps, that might help.  I only wish your mother could be here for you, now,” he told her.  It was so hard raising girls without a mother.  At least Cora was there for them.

Charley whirled and went to her room, mortified her father knew her humiliating secret.  “I don’t need a hot water bottle!”  Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged an admission of cramps out of her. Leaving the room in a huff, she pulled on her warmest flannel pajamas and went straight to bed with no sanitary pad, assuming she’d put a stop to her menstrual flow, thanks to Cora’s warnings.  She slept deeply and peacefully once she finally warmed up, but was appalled to awaken to blood-stained pajamas and sheets.  Charley felt betrayed by her own body and Cora.  She’d taken her warnings as a promise.  Ginny darted in her room, saw the causality and reacted with horror.  “Ginny, get out!  Now!”

“Daddy!  Cora!  Come quick!  Charley’s bleeding!”  She called out.

Charles started to rise from his paper and breakfast.  “Don’t!  I’ll go.”  Cora said.  “You’ll shame her.”  She trudged up the stairs.  “Ginny, you go on down.  I’ll help Charley.  She probably scratched the scab off a sore on her leg.  Scat!”  Ginny didn’t look convinced, but went to breakfast.

“Oh, baby, your pad musta slipped out of place.  Go get cleaned up and I’ll take care of all this.  Just run a little warm water in the face bowl and clean up with a washcloth.  You can’t take a bath now!  It’ll make you stop!”  Cora said “make you stop!” like it was the gtavest of all threats.

“No, it won’t!  I was trying to get it stoped an’ took an ice bath last night!  It didn’t stop nothing!  You was lying to me!” Charley’s mouth quivered with betrayal and hurt.  Cora, her hero and protector had let her down.

Cora was stern.  “Now, I know you hurtin’ an’ you hate all this growin’ up, but I been raisin’ you your whole life.  I ain’t never lied to you in yore life an’ I never will, but I ain’t puttin’ up with none of yore back talk.  They’s some things in life you gonna haf to put up with, like it or not.  Do you think I been livin’ this long an’ had everthing my way? I had to put up with the curse, an’ I had to put up with a man that drank and beat me till somebody cut up him in a knife fight.  I ain’t saying I missed him none, but it did leave me to raise three chillun by myself.  We ’bout starved till I got started doin’ for y’all.  Now, is you gonna git movin’ or do I haf to git yo daddy?”

“I’ll get ready.  I didn’t mean to be sassy.” Charley backed down.

“I know you ain’t meant no harm.  Just stick an extra pad in yore pocket an’ come down to breakfast.  Ginny an’ yore daddy are worried ’bout you.” Cora told her.

“Be down in a minute.”  Charley gave Cora a question city hug.  “I know you ain’t never lied to me.

Scary Words

Scary things I’ve heard coming out of my kids’ mouths:

To a messy neighbor:  “My daddy said you need to clean that mess up!”

To my dad: “Climb a weed, Papa!”

Comment as portly lady turns to leave checkout line:  “I was good not to call her a great big old fat lady, wasn’t I Mommy?”

To the dentist who encouraged her to floss:  My mommy won’t buy me any floss.”

Loud protest when I tried to shush my daughter in a restaurant: “He is so a fat man!”

In a grocery store:  “My mommy took my money to buy groceries.”

To the neighbor man:  “My mama’s ta tas are bigger than yours.”  Go figure.

To a kid who had been hitting him:  “My mama said I have to hit you.”  Whack!   There was a little story behind this.

To a visiting relative:  “My mama is tired of you sleeping here.”

To an elderly relative: “You smell like pee.”

To a relative:  “My mama hates your mean little dog.”

My young son to his grandma:  “Not by the hair on YOUR chinny-chin-chin!”

Worst of all:  “My mama said…….”

It’s been a while

Bud and I have been together for 73 years. This is our first photo together. I am the baby on right in fitst row. He is the little boy behind me. The photographer has us facing the sun, so we are shielding our faces. I remember always being posed facing the sun. Who know the rationale behind that?

Bud’s mother came to help out when I was born. She often said she should have pinched my head off when she had a chance. Live and learn. Our families were friends, so we grew up playing together. He was a nice boy, never mean to girls, so I always liked him.

He first started coming to visit on his own when I was seventeen. Our family was generally confused as to whom he was visiting. My sister and I thought he was interested in her, so I went to my room and read. I was always looking for a chance to read, anyway, since Daddy kept us really busy on the farm. My brother thought Bud was coming to see him.

The matter was further complicated since Bud had bashed his left thumb with a 24 lb. hammer . The doctor pushed the ball of his thumb back in place until it was approximately thumb shaped, stitched it to his nail, and splinted it. One week to the day, while he was still splinted, a sprocket fell on his right foot, breaking it. Consequently, he was effectively disabled on the right and left side, though his job kept him on, probably out of guilt. He didn’t feel much like a suitor during this period.

The next week, he pitched his crutches in the back of his truck on the way to the doctor. They blew out. He retrieved them but one had suffered the loss of a rubber tip, not optimal for a lame guy with no grip due to a smushed thumb. Bud managed to hobble in the doctor’s door before hitting a slick tile. One crutch went one way, one the other. Pulling himself up on receptionist’s desk,he inquired “Is there a doctor in the house?” It must have been horrifying to the staff who were trying to remain professional.

So, he did finally live through the indignities of his injuries. All the while, I got a good bit of reading done while Phyllis and Bill courted him. I suppose I was inadvertently playing hard to get. When he eventually got off the crutches, he asked me out. I don’t know which of the Swain kids was most surprised, me, Phyllis, or Billy.

We got married two years later, while we were still in college.

Kathleen Carries On Part 10 Or Peel It Off

Long ago in a land faraway, no decent woman, no matter how svelte, would have been caught going without a tortuous girdle. Mother was a decent woman. Just before embarking on a train trip to visit her family in Texas, she updated her wardrobe with the latest in girdles, a latex model interspersed with tiny holes for ventilation. After struggling into it on the morning of her departure, she was gratified to notice it was all its designers had promised. Her backside and belly were flat as a board, just as she’d hoped. Moreover, the girdle fit snugly without lines to show through her sleek skirt. Though she craved a backside and belly flat as an ironing board, she felt a curvy bosom was just the look she needed, an easy fix. Sliding foam rubber falsies into the empty cups of her new bra, she looked good!

Rounding up her six-year-old and three-year old daughters and eight-month-old baby, she slipped into her new patent leather high heels so Bill could take her to the train. It felt wonderful knowing she looked so shapely.

The long train trip was an intimidating prospect for a mother traveling with three little ones. Her diaper bag, travel bag, and purse were stuffed with bottles, snacks, toys, books, drinks, lunch, and changes of clothes for the little ones. The little girls helped with the parcels and bags, but Kathleen was constantly on the alert for their loss. The high humidity and heat made all of them miserable. The baby whined and the three -year-old fidgeted. Kathleen drank and ate as little as possible to keep bathroom trips to a minimum, but naturally, the girls made up for it. Six long hours later, her folks met them at the depot. The grandparents joyously relieved her of the children and her burdens. Because the fierce heat had dehydrated her, she’d only had to relieve herself once early in the trip, a mercy. She was dying for a drink of water and the bathroom once she got to comfort of her parent’s house. The bathroom was her first stop. The girdle had gotten really snug with the cooperation of her body temperature and the blazing South Texas heat. Dancing with the demands of her bladder, it took a bit to work her fingers under the damp, rubbery girdle. Impatiently, she gave it a tug, snatching it down in desperation. Aghhhhh! It felt as though she was being skinned. As she had perspired and moved about, her much more compliant skin worked itself into the ventilation holes of the industrial strength girdle. Upon removal, rubber monster left her covered in tiny red blisters from her waist to her thighs. As if that weren’t enough, the rubber falsies had blistered her bosoms.

The foundation garments hit the trash and on her trip home, she sported a flat chest and bouncy bottom. Live and learn.

Kathleen Carries On Part 6 or Keep Your Hands off the Offering Plate

Mother is scrupulous about paying her tithe. On the last Sunday before January 1st, she was dressing for church and found $300 in her underwear drawer. “Oh, I must have been saving this for my tithe!” Tucking it in her purse, she dropped it in the offering plate as it passed. Almost immediately, she remembered she’d been saving for a new floor but it was too late to grab it back. She didn’t have all bad luck with the offering, though. One Sunday, she made change for a large bill when the plate was passed and came out $20 ahead. I never did believe that was a mistake. She wanted me to take her by Thrifty Liquor one Saturday. Since she is a rabid teetotaler, I had to know why. “They have the cheapest money orders in town. I always get my offering money order there” Mother believes in watching her pennies. I offered to go in and get it for her.

“Look at this, Mother! Mr. Thrifty is printed on here as big as Dallas! They’re going to think you’re one of those drinking Baptists!”

Of course I told my family. “ My nephew is a minister. Mother frequently attends his church and is well-known to his congregation. He acknowledged her attendance but turned to the ushers as they passed the offering plate,”I’m proud to have my grandmother here, but don’t let her get her hands on the offering plate.”

That’s not the last of her indiscretions. I was talking to her one Sunday as she changed clothes after church. “Well, where’s my bra? I can’t find bra!”

I acted disgusted. “Mother, I’ll bet you left it it the back seat of the deacon’s car again!” She didn’t deny it.