John

Miss Mary Beth Torments My Son

My son John was never an exemplary Sunday School student. Like me, he’d use any excuse to avoid it. He plunked down in the car, giving his Sunday School Book a dramatic sling one Sunday when he was seven or eight years old.

“I’m not going back to Sunday School any more!” he spouted emphatically. “Miss Mary Beth molested me in front of the whole class!”

I knew he had to be slaughtering the language. “I’m sure Miss Mary Beth didn’t molest you in front of the class. Exactly what did she do?”

“She made me read a Bible verse that had a lot of hard words.” he sputtered, disgusted.

“Well, I know that was aggravating but that’s not molesting.” Then I explained.

At least he learned something one Sunday.

The Dead Pony, the Warped Kid, and the World’s Most Horrible Mother

horse_puns_aglore____by_alexandrabirchmoreThe phone rang one day.  Without introduction, I heard the familiar, deep voice of one of my son’s friends.  “Miss Linda, is that story about the pony true?”

“Yep!”  The last thing I heard was gales of laughter as I hung up.

If you are the sensitive type, skip this story.

Many years ago when my son was young, we were hauling a load of tree trimmings to the landfill.  As my husband backed the truck up to unload, I spotted a dead pony, bloated with all four legs stuck up in the air.  Without thinking, I said, “Hey, John.  Do you want a pony?”

Of course he said, “Yes!”

“Well, there’s one right over there!”

“Wahhh!!!!!”

I swear it was not intentional.  Sometimes I think there is a disconnect between my brain and my mouth!

This is for you, Lee Perkins

Christmas Revelations

We’d put away all the Christmas decorations weeks before.   We’d finally gotten our eighteen month old, John, to bed after several unsuccessful attempts and had collapsed, totally whipped.  Meanwhile, he’d  been entertaining himself rummaging quietly through a dresser drawer we’d thought inaccessible.  After a few minutes, he toddled into the living room victorious dragging garland, an ornament in each hand, announcing, “Santa Claus is coming to town.  I’ll be damned!”

Lady, Your Kid’s Stuck in the Ditch

A dispassionate young boy pounded on my front door. Looking at me dully, he announced. “Lady, your kid’s stuck in the ditch.” I wasn’t expecting that on a cold, rainy morning. The city had been installing a new sewer system. As soon as the ditches were deeply excavated the rain started. It rained and rained and rained. The ditches ran like a river. My five-year-old, John, hadn’t been out for days. Finally, the weather cleared.

John was desperate to get out. I made a bad decision, agreeing to let him play on the carport with a box of toy parts. I checked on him every few minutes, glad to see him deeply involved in his favorite pastime, disassembling his toys and building something else with the random parts. In combination with an erector set, this could occupy him for hours. His dog, as always, was at his side.

Then, I decided to vacuum, my second bad decision, hence the pounding on the door. The kid pointed to the overflowing ditches where John stood, thigh-high in the deep running water. His little dog was running up and down the ditch, barking desperately. Horrified, I flew out and grabbed his arms, trying to pull him out. He was stuck! What on earth? I waded in, braced myself, grabbing him under the arms and tugged. With a strange sucking noise he broke loose. We both rolled backwards in the muck. Instead of relief at being rescued, John wailed,”Daddy’s boots! Get Daddy’s boots!” There was no getting those boots stuck deep in that muddy ditch. It turns out, John had helped himself to his dad’s knee boots, sure he’d be able to ford the ditch. Retrieving them was his major concern.

All’s well that ends well. My kid survived being stuck in the “ditch.” About four days later, Bud took a shovel and dug his boots out of the mud.

Right in the Mouth

I never expected to be the kind of mother who’d hit her sweet child in the mouth but I was, totally unintentionally! I was a registered nurse on call for emergency acute hemodialysis.  One Sunday night, I got a call just about the time the kids were headed to bed.  I told Bud what was up and headed for the car.  Unbeknownst to me, my young son, John, had also heard the call and thought it would be fun to scare me.  Just as I settled in my car for the drive, somebody screamed and grabbed me from behind.  By reflex, I slammed a backhand connecting with teeth.

John yelled for sure that time, as shocked as I was.  He hadn’t taken the fight or flight response into consideration, never expecting his mother to attack.  We both felt awful but I didn’t even have to discuss not pulling that stunt again.

 

 

Young Boy Recuperating from Surgery Eaten by Beagle (Kind of) Wouldn’t this make a great headline?

Many years ago, my young son picked his toenails till he got them infected. He also had an adoring beagle who made his every step, especially when John was snacking and likely to drop crumbs. I don’t think John ever had to pick anything up. In most cases, that’s good, but not necessarily since Spotty spent a good bit of her time dancing on his sore toes. Eventually, John required toenail removal. Surgery went fine, and in the way of small boys, John proudly saved the excised tissue to show his dad, once he got in. Spotty never left his side. John convalesced on the sofa with his poor foot on a pillow all afternoon, admiring his sore toe, his toe remnant, and calling out for games and snacks. As you might expect, long before his dad got home, he dropped his trophy. Ever faithful, Spotty snapped it up before it hit the floor. Both recovered, though John was heartbroken. To the best of my knowledge, that’s the last body part Spotty ever snacked on.toe 2<img

The Dead Pony, the Warped Kid, and the World’s Most Horrible Mother

horse_puns_aglore____by_alexandrabirchmoreThe phone rang one day.  Without introduction, I heard the familiar, deep voice of one of my son’s friends.  “Miss Linda, is that story about the pony true?”

“Yep!”  The last thing I heard was gales of laughter as I hung up.

If you are the sensitive type, skip this story.

Many years ago when my son was young, we were hauling a load of tree trimmings to the landfill.  As my husband backed the truck up to unload, I spotted a dead pony, bloated with all four legs stuck up in the air.  Without thinking, I said, “Hey, John.  Do you want a pony?”

Of course he said, “Yes!”

“Well, there’s one right over there!”

“Wahhh!!!!!”

I swear it was not intentional.  Sometimes I think there is a disconnect between my brain and my mouth!

 

This is for you, Lee Perkins

Tale of the Hair of the Dog Sweater

Mother and BuzzyimageMy son John lives to torment my mother.  Buzzy, our American Eskimo Dog sheds incessantly, making up vacuum every day to stay ahead of him.  One day my husband Bud noticed a big paper bag on the mantle stuff full of Buzzy’s combings, hair pulled from his brush, and hair swept from the floor.  Amazed, Bud asked, “What in the world is this bag of dog hair doing up here?”

Mother chimed in, “Oh, that’s Buzzy’s hair I saved up for your sweater.”

This was the first Bud had heard of his dog hair sweater.  He thought maybe Mother had finally come unhinged.  “What dog hair sweater?”

“The one you’re going to get the woman at work to make for you out of Buzzy’s hair.”  Mother thought Bud was losing it.   “John told me to be careful to gather up all the hair I could find every time I came over so that woman you work with can spin it and make it into a sweater for you.  How long do you think it will take to get enough?”

Poor Bud had to break her heart.  “John’s been pulling your leg, again.  There ain’t gonna be no dog hair sweater.”

imageMy son, looking his best.

image

Photo of hair I brushed out of Buzzy this morning, pictured next to pint jar.

Starry Night (from Kathleen’s Memoir of The Great Depression Part 1)

imageLike most of the people we knew, we didn’t have an car, so we never went anywhere at night we couldn’t walk, except for once.  Mama got the news that there was to be a brush arbor revival in Cuthand, hosting a guest evangelist!  To my everlasting amazement, we were going!  We put quilts in the back of the wagon, since we’d be getting home long after dark.  We hopped up in the wagon dressed in our best, headed for the revival, in a holiday spirit long before dark.  I had no idea what a revival was, but couldn’t have been more excited than a kid headed for the fair!

We pulled up to find dozens of wagons parked next to a brush-arbor in a clearing, a simple roof of branches on a make-do support sheltering rough benches. Though it was summer, a few small fires were smoldering, their smoke intended to discourage mosquitoes.  Before long, the song leader got us fired up with a rousing rendition of “Onward Christian Soldiers.”  The singing was wonderful, but eventually gave way to the Hell-fire and brimstone sermon, something that didn’t thrill me nearly so much.

It was late by the time the preacher concluded the altar call, releasing us.  After visiting a bit with our neighbors, we headed for home, long after the time I was usually in bed.  I lay in the back of the wagon with Annie and John on the quilts, looking at the magical night sky.  Travelling under its full moon and sparkling stars was a gift.  A slight breeze cooled us, keeping the mosquitoes at bay.  As the horse clomped along, Mama and Daddy told stories and talked amiably.  With all those I loved around me, I never wanted this night to end.

to be continued