envy

Envy Attack

I am usually not much troubled by envy. Still, I was savagely attacked a few days ago in the checkout line at the garden center. I was behind a mother/daughter duo with three large wheeled carts of plants, everything from cyclamens to ornamental trees. Don’t get me wrong. I buy my fair share of plants but nothing like this bonanza. I hadn’t been incapacitated by envy at this point. I was busy rubbernecking, admiring their choices and wondering how long it would take to get this garden in the ground.

As I eavesdropped in the checkout line, envy nearly dropped me to my knees. The daughter of the pair, a woman in her thirties told the cashier, “It’s my birthday. Mom’s buying me all this for my birthday.”

Then Mom chimed in. “Now all we have to do is get out in your yard!”

”That’ll be $967.” replied the checker. “What a wonderful gift!”

At that moment, I wished that young woman had a feather up her butt and I had her plants so we’d both be tickled to death!

Adorable Playtime: Kids Doctor and Fashion Show Fun

One fine weekend I went to visit my sister Marilyn, in North Arkansas. She had two darling little girls. Before leaving work, I gathered up some out-of-date medical supplies, knowing the girls would love playing with the gowns, masks, dressings and tape. Along with these, I tucked in a stuffed animal and cute little outfit for each. My sister videoed the girls as they enthusiastically tore into their goodies, went to work on doctoring their stuffies and gave an impromptu fashion show. We all in enjoyed their shenanigans.

All was well and good. What could go wrong with that cute video? Plenty. Sometime later, Marilyn sent that video, along with other kiddy videos, home with my other sister Connie for her little girl to enjoy. Hayley got up whiny one morning. Thinking she’d distract her, Connie popped in a video to occupy her. Immediately, Connie heard heart-breaking wails. Hayley was inundated by the evidence of her cousins getting a plethora of wonderful goodies from HER aunt!

Our Awful Friends

Freedom at the Awful’s  Illustration by Kathleen Holdaway Swain

Mother was a cruel beast of a woman who rarely allowed us out of our own yard.  I felt so deprived when free-range children passed our house in pursuit of adventure.  Sometimes we were able to tempt them in with our tire swing, zip line, or huge barn, but invariably greener pastures called and we were left morosely watching them amble off to Donnie’s or Joey’s house.  Sadly, we’d pine as the motley crew and their retinue of dogs disappeared down the dusty road.  It wasn’t that we didn’t have wondrous opportunities on our own place;t we just hated being left behind.

Once we accepted our sad abandonment, we didn’t waste time whining to Mother that “We don’t have anything to do.”  I only made that mistake once and Mother set me to hanging out diapers, dusting, and washing woodwork.  In fact, she was mean enough to assign jobs to break up fights.  It’s terrible growing up with a mother who turns human nature against innocent children.

At any rate, a family neighboring us raised their fortunate children with a complete lack of supervision.  Those kids roamed long after dark, before daylight, dropped in for meals all over the neighborhood, drank out of from the neighbor’s faucets, rode the neighbor’s cows, and generally led a charmed life.  Though their name was Offut, I misunderstood it as Awful.  In her frequent dealings with these children Mother reached the conclusion Awful was an excellent name.  She was particularly offended when we came home from town and found them in the house making Kool-aid.  The Awful’s had little understanding of private property and had often had Kool-aid with us, so of course they felt free to help themselves, even if Mother had been careless enough not to leave it in the refrigerator.  Her attitude baffled our uninvited guests.  I think the syrupy floor and Jerry’s standing on the counter helping himself to a pack of Daddy’s cigarettes off the top shelf also ruffled her feathers, but she was the crabby type, after all.  The loss of cigarettes were of particular concern.  A carton cost two dollars and eighty cents, a significant portion of her fifteen dollar grocery budget.  At any rate, she took an unreasonable stance and forbade them to enter the house again when we were gone.  I don’t think they found it particularly disturbing since a couple more packs of cigarettes went missing before Daddy found a better hiding place for his stash.  

I Never Claimed to be Donna Reed!

My daughter zoned in on the Donna Reed Show when I started falling short in the motherhood department.  In case you don’t remember, Donna Reed was the perfect wife and mother, always prissing around in cinch-waist dresses with petticoats, high heels and jewelry.  She played bridge, called her friends Mrs. So and So, and kept an immaculate house.  If Donna had slipped in the mud, she’d have fallen daintily and ended up with a charming smudge on her cheek, whereas, I’d have busted my butt, ripped my britches, and farted.  No one would have been able to help me for laughing.  I could have fallen in a rose bed, and come out smelling like manure.

When Donna’s children lapsed into naughtiness, she’d rein them in with an understanding, quizzical smile, knowing they’d fall at her feet and confess because she was such a good mother. They only got in cute scrapes, like maybe accepting two dates for the prom or losing a library book, never anything involving calls from the school counselor or requests for bail. The queen of her home, effortless meals appeared on her dining table out of the air, no budgeting, shopping, or messy kitchen to consider.  Naturally, her handsome husband adored her.  Even though he was a doctor, it was clear he’d married “up.”

Donna never lost her cool when her children announced they needed a million dollars for a school trip as she dropped them off for school.  I have been known to be annoyed.  Should Donna’s kids want to eat what she’d cooked, she’d coax them along in the name of nutrition. If my kids didn’t want to eat what I’d put on the table, I told them, “Fine, that leaves more for the rest. It won’t be that long till breakfast.”  Donna was vigilant about nutrition, whereas,  I figure kids eat if they get hungry.

I can lay so many of my motherly shortcomings at Donna’s door, but thank goodness, she’s gone and I’m still bumbling along.

Kathleen Carries On  Part 5 or Kathleen Tries to Takeover Windsor Castle

Kathleen surprised
Kathleen, Surprised

Windsor Castle Attempted Takeover

It’s not likely you heard this on the news, but I suspect my mother, Kathleen tried to stage a takeover of Windsor Castle about twenty years ago when she was merely seventy-five or so. You see, Kathleen has been jealous of Queen Elizabeth ever since she knew there was such a person as Queen Elizabeth. She was only a year younger and probably a much more deserving person of all that went along with being a princess. For instance, in her pictures, Princess Elizabeth always had curly hair. Kathleen’s hair was, blonde, straight, and fine. Worse yet, Kathleen’s father kept her hair in a bowl cut. She felt sure the king didn’t perch Princess Elizabeth on a stool in the kitchen and lop her hair off. Besides, if it was naturally curly, that was even more unfair, Princess Elizabeth’s family had plenty of money to get her a perm. Kathleen was poor with straight hair.

The magazines were full of photos with Princess Elizabeth going here and there in sumptuous clothes. What had she done to deserve all that fuss? Kathleen worked hard in school, behaved in church, and helped her parents in the house and garden. She was much more deserving. The princess probably did nothing all day except play with snooty kids, go to tea parties, and sit on a cushion in her crown. It just wasn’t right.

Worse yet, when she got married and had children people went crazy for her. Kathleen had five children and had to manage on her own no matter how hard things got.

Considering all this, I believe when Kathleen got to Windsor Castle , she tried to stage a coup. The story I heard was, “We were the last group of the day. I didn’t want to miss a thing, so I put off going to the bathroom as long as I could. I darted in the bathroom for just a minute, and when I came out everybody was gone. I had to look around and find a guard to let me out. It took a while.” I don’t doubt the part about ducking in the bathroom. Mother knows everything bathroom between her own and Timbuktu. The part I don’t believe is the “just a minute” part. We’ve timed Mother. Her shortest bathroom visit is thirteen minutes. I don’t know what she does.

Meanwhile, her tour group was waiting outside, twiddling their thumbs and questioning where she could be. They would have probably left her had my sister not been with them.

I fully believe had that nosy guard not interfered, Mother would have perched herself on the throne.

Awful Christmas

Our neighbors, the Alstons were both just a smidge off-plumb.  Mother never referred to the kids any way but as “the Awfuls”,  so I inferred that was the surname of these totally undisciplined urchins.  I was unceasinly envious of their unbridled freedom.  They ate, slept, and rambled at their pleasure, while I chafed at the unreasonable restraints of my miserable life.

Like the rest of us, they couldn’t wait for Christmas. Every year, they starting finding their presents about a week before Christmas.  Daily, one of them turned up something new. One day, Randy had a brand new basketball. The next, Jamey had a new baseball and glove. On Christmas Eve morning Davey buzzed by on a beautiful new Spitfire Bike with a horn. Boy, did that make me mad! I had asked my Mother for that very bike. She said Santa didn’t have enough money to bring me a bike. That didn’t make a bit of sense! Why would money matter to Santa? She stammered around a while and finally said parents had to help Santa with expensive things. Huh, it didn’t look like Santa needed too much help at the Awfuls.

Finally, their mom made up her mind they wouldn’t find anything before Christmas. For the first time they could remember, they learned about rules. Mrs. Awful kept an eye on them every second they were in the house, only letting them play in the living room or their bedroom. Well, they could go in Crazy Granny’s room, but she screeched every time she saw them, so no luck sneaking around in there: no chances to dig under their mom’s bed or prowl through cupboards and closets, no long afternoons in the attic. She kept them outdoors until dark unless it was cold or raining. It was nice seeing them suffer the way the rest of us did. I heard she even made them do a few chores.

That year, the week before Christmas, the Awfuls played with a collection of rag tag leftover toys just like the rest of us. No one had had caps for cowboy pistols for months. My old red wagon had a broken handle and couldn’t be pulled, only pushed. I couldn’t sucker Billy into pushing me very long, so we had to take turns. We had jumped on Phyllis’s pogo stick so much the stopper on the end was gone and it buried up in the dirt instead of bouncing. Billy’s cars had most of the wheels off, so they weren’t good for much. Even the Tinker Toys were worn out. Daddy had backed over our big tricycle, so it was a goner. Things were looking pretty bleak. We all needed Christmas!!

The Awfuls were still empty-handed Christmas Eve when a miracle happened. Becky was climbing the Christmas Tree after the cat for the hundredth time when the tree-stand broke, dumping Becky, cat, and tree all out in the floor. Becky would have been fine if she had fallen on her head, but she fell face first and knocked out a tooth bloodying her nose. You never heard such caterwauling in your life. By the time Mom and Pop Awful got in there, it was exciting. The tree was spread across the room, the terrified cat was zipping around the room, and Becky was a squalling bloody mess. Crazy Granny chimed in from her room, so it was quite a party.

Mom and Pop Awful grabbed Becky and left instructions for the kids to mind their grandparents while they took Becky to be repaired by the doctor. This shouldn’t be too hard since Granny was wacko and Grandpa was deaf and went straight to sleep. This was just the chance they had been waiting for. They searched the closet and dressers in Mom and Pop’s room first. Nothing there, so they checked the attic. It was spooky, but empty. They checked all the kitchen and bathroom cupboards……nothing. Finally, they thought to check Crazy Granny’s room. Of course she shrieked, but Grandpa kept snoring. Bonanza!!!! Granny’s closet was full! They pulled out bats and balls, puzzles, a tricycle for Becky, scooters, erector sets and more. It was everything they’d asked for. They ripped into the toys but eventually realized Mom and Pop would be home soon.

They were about to pack everything back up when Davey hatched a wonderful idea. “Let’s give Mom and Pop a big Christmas surprise and hide all this stuff.” With barely time to hustle the packages to their room and slide them under their beds, Mom and Pop Awful and snaggle toothed Becky got back from the doctor. Mom gave them all their supper and rushed them off to bed so Santa could come. No boys had ever gone to bed more enthusiastically.

They tried to stay awake for the fun, but finally drifted off. Awakening to Granny’s screech, they realized the search was on. Sneaking to their bedroom door, they heard Mom Awful’s panicked whisper. “They’re gone!!! All the presents are gone!!!! Someone must have stolen them. What are we going to do?

Pop Awful was sure Mom had just made a mistake. “They can’t be gone. You just forgot where you hid them. You were worried about the kids finding them again. Let’s just think and keep looking.” They looked everywhere….all the closets……under the beds……the attics. Nothing! The Awfuls peeked from behind their door, stifling their laughter as they watched Mom and Pop tear the place up, looking for the missing presents. Just then, they heard a fateful, “quack, quack, quack” as Becky’s little wind up duck marched out of their room, straight up to Mom and Pop. They ripped the door open, found presents spilling out from under the bed, bicycles all over the room, and their Awful Christmas started.

Our Awful Friends

Freedom at the Awful’s  Illustration by Kathleen Holdaway Swain

Mother was a cruel beast of a woman who rarely allowed us out of our own yard.  I felt so deprived when free-range children passed our house in pursuit of adventure.  Sometimes we were able to tempt them in with our tire swing, zip line, or huge barn, but invariably greener pastures called and we were left morosely watching them amble off to Donnie’s or Joey’s house.  Sadly, we’d pine as the motley crew and their retinue of dogs disappeared down the dusty road.  It wasn’t that we didn’t have wondrous opportunities on our own place;t we just hated being left behind.

Once we accepted our sad abandonment, we didn’t waste time whining to Mother that “We don’t have anything to do.”  I only made that mistake once and Mother set me to hanging out diapers, dusting, and washing woodwork.  In fact, she was mean enough to assign jobs to break up fights.  It’s terrible growing up with a mother who turns human nature against innocent children.

At any rate, a family neighboring us raised their fortunate children with a complete lack of supervision.  Those kids roamed long after dark, before daylight, dropped in for meals all over the neighborhood, drank out of from the neighbor’s faucets, rode the neighbor’s cows, and generally led a charmed life.  Though their name was Offut, I misunderstood it as Awful.  In her frequent dealings with these children Mother reached the conclusion Awful was an excellent name.  She was particularly offended when we came home from town and found them in the house making Kool-aid.  The Awful’s had little understanding of private property and had often had Kool-aid with us, so of course they felt free to help themselves, even if Mother had been careless enough not to leave it in the refrigerator.  Her attitude baffled our uninvited guests.  I think the syrupy floor and Jerry’s standing on the counter helping himself to a pack of Daddy’s cigarettes off the top shelf also ruffled her feathers, but she was the crabby type, after all.  The loss of cigarettes were of particular concern.  A carton cost two dollars and eighty cents, a significant portion of her fifteen dollar grocery budget.  At any rate, she took an unreasonable stance and forbade them to enter the house again when we were gone.  I don’t think they found it particularly disturbing since a couple more packs of cigarettes went missing before Daddy found a better hiding place for his stash.