humor

The Great Doll Funeral

Vintage baby doll

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The same Christmas I got Rocky the Rocking Horse, the best Christmas present of my young life, and Monkey, my sidekick(until I left him outside for the dogs to chew up),  I got a big hard, plastic baby-doll with molded hair.  It came with a bottle, was dressed in pajamas and had exactly one diaper. That diaper was history once Mother demonstrated its amazing ability to pee its diaper. It made me mad when I saw the baby doll, anyhow, since I’d told Mother, “I don’t want a doll.  I hate dolls.”  The wet diaper was the last straw.  I pitched it into the bowels of the toy box to keep company with Tinker Toys, broken crayons, and last year’s despised doll.

Before Christmas this year when Mother asked what I wanted, my list included a live pony, cowboy boots, pistols and holsters and a real monkey in a cowboy suit.  My list did not include a doll.  Insanely, she had insisted, “But, every little girl has to get a doll.  Now what kind do you want?”

Remembering last year’s floppy baby doll, I tried to come up with something I could stomach.  I heard girls at school say they wanted a Bride Doll.  In my complete disinterest, I forgot exactly what kind of doll to ask for. “Uh, I GUESS a wedding doll would do.”  I didn’t want one,  but at least it wasn’t a stupid baby doll. When another baby doll showed up under the tree, I was disgusted, thinking I had confused Mother into thinking I wanted a “wetting doll, not a “wedding doll.”    Daddy handed me my final gigantic gift from under the tree.  Since I’d already gotten Rocky the Rocking Horse as a pony substitute and a stuffed monkey instead of real-live monkey in a cowboy suit, this was my last shot at pistols and a holster set.  I ripped into the package, and horror of horrors, discovered a tin tea-set with a Dutch Boy and Girl on a background of blue and yellow tulips.  Mother went into raptures over it.

“Oh, I always wanted a tea-set like this when I was a little girl.”  Well, if she’d had that tea-set and I had a feather up my butt, we’d have both been tickled to death.  Fortunately, I’d learned long ago to keep my mouth shut when I didn’t like presents.  Rocky and Monkey and I went on our way, making the best of that Christmas.  That tea-set, still in the box, went under my bed.

Months later, one of the neighbors died.  I didn’t get to go to the funeral, of course, but my cousin did.  It sounded pretty entertaining to me.  We decided to stage our own.  I scavenged through the toy box and found my Christmas doll and dug the tea-set out from under my bed.  Dumping the dishes, I lined the box with one of Mother’s better towels and we prepared the body for burial.  My cousin Sue and I conducted the services, complete with plenty of hymns and wailing.  My brother Billy and Cousin Troy attended, but only because we promised to provide penny candy afterward.  It was a lovely service, the burial site mounded up with gorgeous roses we’d rounded up from the bushes belonging to Mrs. Dick, the seventh-grade teacher who lived next to us.  Mother made us return the roses to Mrs. Dick and apologize, though I can’t imagine they’d have been much use to her since we’d snapped them all off right below the head.  There would have been enough of them to fill a tub for a romantic rose bath, though I seriously doubt the lady was in the mood judging from the expression on her face when we apologized.

Rocky and the Great Doll Funeral

Rocky 2I’ve often wondered if bipolar is the normal state of childhood.  Since adulthood, I’ve never experienced the wild exhilaration nor the depths of despair I felt as a child.  As Christmas approached, I’d be wild with anticipation: excitement at Christmas lights, sparkles of snow on Christmas Cards, and the trip to the woods for a Christmas tree had me near hysteria.  By the time I was hustled off to bed Christmas Eve, sleep seemed impossible.  It seemed I’d lie awake for hours, peeking often for a hint of light through the curtains, sure morning must be here.  Finally, we’d wake Mother and Daddy for the most glorious day of the year.  Inevitably, in the way of greedy children, once the joy of dismantling all that had been carefully prepared, I looked at the doll, stuffed monkey, rocking horse, tea set, red sweater, plastic box of barrettes and pearl bracelet from Grandma scattered among the wrappings and thought, “Is this all?  I asked Santa for a pony, not a rocking horse!  I hated dolls and tea sets and had never voluntarily worn a sweater nor brushed my hair.”

I was devastated, feeling I couldn’t go on, till Daddy told me to give Rocky, the Rocking Horse a try.  He was a wonder on springs I could get some real action out of. Rocky and I were quickly moved to the porch where we could bounce without moving the furniture. Monkey and I must have ridden Rocky ten-thousand miles before I outgrew him.  Oh yes, I eventually left Monkey out in the yard for the dogs to chew up. Mother found his dismembered body later but never told me the sad tale.  I thought the doll and tea-set were a total waste till one of the neighbors died and I found out about funerals.  I ditched the dishes and the box made a great coffin.  We had a wonderful service for the doll.  A lovely time was had by all.

You Used to Be Beautiful!

Kathleen Holdaway in flowered dress0002One warm afternoon in late May, 1960, Billy and I were lying on the living room floor as Mother reclined a few minutes with her feet up wearing the heavy surgical weight stockings the doctor had ordered.  She was  six months into a difficult pregnancy with her last child,and was supposed to be off her feet.  She had spent a good portion of the morning tying to keep an eye on her fourteen-month-old, Connie, while trying to coax twelve-year old Phyllis and me at ten to do a little housework, help with Connie, and even get a little work out of seven year old Billy, while keeping him out of trouble.  Phyllis was watching Connie.  We were all terminally lazy, slacking off at the first excuse.  None of us had any intention of doing anything we could avoid.

As we dawdled at her feet on the floor in the draft of the attic fan, one of us pulled out an old photo album.  I quickly found a picture of her made her senior year of high school, the peak of her youth and beauty.  “I graduated thirteen years ago today,” she remarked smilingly.

In my infinite wisdom, I proclaimed, “Oh Mother, you used to be beautiful!”

I turned for her smile, only to see a snarling, slobbering, swollen beast ready to pounce on me in rage! “”Used to be beautiful!  Let’s see what you look like when you have five kids in twelve years!  Put this stuff up, right now.  Linda, you take your smart mouth and get those dishes washed.  Phyllis, you put a pot of beans on for supper.   Billy, you…”

By the way, this is not the picture in question.  That one mysteriously disappeared

Evening Chuckle

A man walks into a bar and notices his friend sitting alone staring at a tiny man on the table playing the piano.
“Wow, look how small he is, where did you get him?!” Says the man.
“Oh, well there’s this genie round the back of bar, and he grants you whatever wish you want.”
Sure enough, the man goes round the back of the bar and there sits a genie.
“You grant wishes right?”
“Yes.” replies the genie.
“Hmm, I’d like a million bucks.”
Then, out of nowhere, a million ducks appear, and waddle behind the annoyed man as he goes back into the bar.
“Look, that genie gave me ducks instead of bucks!”
His friends sitting at the table replies,
“Well yeah, do you really think I asked for a twelve inch pianist?”

A Penny Saved……

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My lovely, kind-hearted niece, pictured above, brought her little rescue dog, Penny,over to meet me.  Penny had been tossed out near a creek by some evil person, apparently in hopes she’d be picked up.  Hannah left her food and water, since Penny was too fearful to be approached, baited a trap with wieners, and caught her.  She was underweight, starving, and sick when Hannah got her to a vet, but is now recovering.  In fact, she is recovering so well, she chased my dog Buzzy out of his food, drank his water, and bossed him around.  I think it was good for him to see how a hungry dog eats.  After Hannah had Penny home a couple of days, she’s dug out under fences, dominated their bigger dogs, and generally taken over.  I think she may have run the place at some old grannie’s house.  She shows all the signs of being the spoiled darling the kids pitched out when Granny died.  I expect to see her drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, listening to gospel music, and playing video poker next time I go to visit Hannah.  Seriously, I don’t know how people who abandon animal can sleep at night.  I guess they don’t know about Karma.

Do These Things Happen to Anyone Else?

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Mother makes use of my cozy guest room frequently  Last night she awoke me complaining the bed was crawling with ants.  Sure enough, she had half-a-dozen bites.  We shook out her nightgown, treated her bites, made her a new bed down on the sofa in the living room, but I felt just terrible about it.  I’ve always made a point to keep the room just to her tastes, freshly aired and dusted, with nice linens, and a handmade quilt.  Having her jarred from sleep by ant bites was horrible.  When I got her settled, I turned the covers back and found dozens of big and small black ants, moving in trails across the expanse of the covers.  I sprayed the bed and floor with insect killer before I went back to bed.

This morning when I went in to strip the bed, I found the source of the problem.  When I opened the door late yesterday to ready Mother’s bed, Buzzy, my American Eskimo Dog came along to help.  He frequently hides treats.  Delighted to find new territory, he retrieved an old piece of cornbread he’d apparently just dug up from its hiding place in the yard.  Unbeknownst to us, he slipped it up under the pillow in preparation for Mother’s visit.  It attracted ants beautifully.  The bed was fully loaded for Mother.

Kitchen Tongs and Cat Poop

Did you ever travel back in time?  I reached for a pair of tongs in a kitchen drawer today and found myself four years old again with my mother standing over me.  She was furiously studying a pair of tongs she’d taken from a drawer.  “What’s on this on these tongs?”  Unwisely, she rubbed the tongs and held her fingers to her nose.  “This smells like poop!  Did you put my kitchen tongs in poop?”

“I used it to get cat poop out of the baby bed.”  She hit the roof.  I was only trying to help.

Watson’s Troubles

 

 

Watson and footballMy seven-month old Akita Granddog Watson’s passion for football is starting to cause him some problems.  Don’t know if he will ever be able to pass this football, even if he can swallow it.

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Fried Chicken Gizzard and Cheddar Cheese Sandwich

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Well, I Never….”

Long, long ago when I was a but child-bride, I yearned to please my handsome husband so I dreamed of concocting hearty breakfasts, luscious lunches, and delightful dinners.  This wasn’t to be.  We had wisely married while still in college so were in possession of two things money couldn’t buy, abject poverty and true love.  We were just scraping by.  After about two weeks, about all we had left in the refrigerator was a half-loaf of bread, mustard, a couple of lonely, frozen chicken gizzards, and an old, dry sliver of cheddar cheese.  I fried those chicken gizzards up nice and hard, sliced them as thin as possible, added the slivered cheddar cheese and sat down with My Darling to enjoy the amazing delicacy.  It was the worst thing I ever tried to eat.  The piquant taste of overdone gizzard slathered with mustard was not a good companion taste for the dried out cheddar cheese.  I was never tempted to try that combo again.