In our rural community, we didn’t have phones till the early sixties.Only one or two mothers in the whole community worked. Most families had only one car, so women were most likely home unless they walked to a near neighbor’s home for coffee accompanied by their infants and toddlers. The point of this story is, when we got in trouble at school, the news often beat us home. I don’t know how, but Mother invariably knew what I’d gotten in trouble for.
I suspect my older sister may have ratted me out, or the teacher sent a sneaky note home by her, but news always got home. A few times, my mother heard through the grapevine. It was certainly a different day and time. Should my offense be minor, Mother took care of the problem, but if it were a matter heinous enough to warrant a note or invitation to a conference at school, I had to deal with Daddy. That was never nice. It would have been so much happier for me if my parents had held the teacher’s attitude or methods responsible, but alas, the judgment came right back to me.
memoir
Travels with Mother
Once we’d gone enough miles it was unlikely we would be apprehended with bathroom destruction with malice aforethought, I pulled into a nice looking station/store. This one looked like it was progressive enough to have excellent bathroom facilities, which we sorely in needed by now, since Mother was the only one who got to use the restroom at the last stop. For once, she generously, encouraged her daughters to go first, which we lived to regret. I’d have loved to have laid the blame at her door for what we found.
Marilyn, my youngest sister, rushed in to relieve her agonized bladder. In three seconds, she rushed out, “Oh, my gosh! You’ve got to see this!”
She obviously hadn’t had time to take care of any business. As mother of two teen-aged girls, the manager of a call-center, and youngest of five children, it takes something special to rattle her.
Like an idiot, I followed her in. Someone, a very healthy eater by the way, had obviously paid a visit. The nauseating smell of fermented feces greeted us as we entered the bathroom. It was horrendous, but I’ve been known to raise a stink myself.
Upon opening the stall, I saw a perfect liquefied poop sunburst splattered above the toilet. Obviously, someone in great distress had blown a gasket as just as they stooped to settle in for a satisfying moment of quality time alone. The toilet fixtures, the wall behind the toilet, the floor, and the stall wall were covered artistically with a thoroughly natural medium.
It doesn’t bear thinking of the condition of that poor unfortunate perpetrator of the masterpiece as she exited the store! We scurried out to tell the disgusted clerk what we’d found, only to find numerous visitors had already enlightened her. That’s when we learned about the worst job in the world. An industrial service was on its way.
Once more, courting legal problems, we decided to stand guard for each other and use the Men’s Room. Normally, I would have been disgusted, but compared to what we’d just seen, it smelled like a rose.
A Hasty Exit: The Bathroom Catastrophe Unveiled
When I left you, the infuriated man had just escorted Mother in the convenience store, had a long conversation with her about how much he missed his sainted mother, bought her coffee and a snack, and made sure she knew where the bathroom was. Not a word in my defense dropped from her quivering lips, nor did she explain the situation. I guess it was on a need to know basis and he knew just exactly what she wanted him to know. I wish he’d hung around for the bathroom catastrophe she initiated next.
As I mentioned earlier, Mother’s bathroom stops are leisurely affairs, involving meditation, warm conversation with new friends from the bathroom, and meticulous hand washing. Afterwards she digs lotion from her bag and admires herself in the mirror from every angle. The minimal bathroom break is thirteen minutes. She flew in ahead of the rest of us as we were making our selections in the store, since it was just a one-occupant bathroom. In this than a minute she flew out, wiping her wet hands on her jeans.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!”
“Just as soon as we go to the bathroom.” I protested. “I haven’t been to the bathroom or paid for my stuff.”
“Let’s go, now!” Catching that unmistakable look we’d all seen so many times in the past, we left hurriedly, despite that fact that no one but Mother had taken care of any business. There had to be something terribly amiss. Mother never got in a rush to get out of a store or bathroom.
The story came out as we drove off. After Mother flushed the toilet, the tank kept filling. Ever the good citizen, she removed the tank cover with the intention of jiggling the lever. Overestimating her abilities, she dropped the tank cover into the toilet bowl, shattering both, hence her hasty exit. Water had flooded the bathroom and was pouring out into the hall. As we searched frantically for another rest stop, Mother watched for a police car to pull us over as our full bladders spasmed. I know Mother would have thrown me to the wolves if we’d been apprehended.
Keep in mind, this is only the first bathroom stop on this trip.
The Most Fun You’ll Never Have, Kathleen’s Amazing Bathroom Tour!
Kathleen Swain and her daughters
Upper Left, Linda Swain Bethea, Right, Phyllis Swain Barrington
First Row Left, Kathleen Holdaway Swain (see how deceptively nice she looks) Connie Swain Miller, Marilyn Grisham
It’s discouraging writing about my mother, Kathleen Holdaway Swain. Despite my long, rich history of complaining endlessly about the trials of dealing with her, she keeps getting the best of me. It’s made worse because I tower over her, outweigh her, and am much more physically imposing, but then, who isn’t? I do my best to take care of her, and should I exhibit the slightest impatience, onlookers treat me like I am maligning a saint. Granted, she is tiny, far less than five feet tall, has a squeaky Minnie Mouse voice, and looks like a delightful little old church-lady. Though she smiles and greets every soul she meets, inwardly she is malicious and conniving, constantly plotting to make me look bad. Sometimes it doesn’t take much.
Not so long ago, my sisters and I took Mother on a girl-trip. We were laughing just before we got out of the car about the way she’d lecture us against potential bad behavior before she had to drag the five of us hyenas (her word) into a store or business. When we inevitably started to ask for stuff, anyway, despite her stern warning, she’d fix us with a look from Hell and warn, “Don’t start! Just don’t start!” That dried us right up.
First of all, Mother is the slowest person in the history of Motherdom, in case I never mentioned it before. As she walks along, she keeps a look out for lost coins in the parking lot and frequently finds them, additionally stopping to greet all passersby. This was the first stop of the trip. I was hurrying ahead leaving her to drag up the rear, since I had to buy gas, thinking my sisters could keep her out of trouble. Rather than dawdling with them as they got out of the car, she came running behind me like her life depended on not getting left, and believe me, it was not because she intended to buy gas. She has four daughters to take care of that. As a joke, she picked it where our conversation left off, calling behind me, “Linda, wait for me! I want you to buy me…….”
Not realizing we had an audience of a couple in their late sixties, I called out behind me, without bothering to look, knowing she was just continuing our conversation from the car. “Don’t start! Just don’t start!” Men in their fifties and sixties just love Mother, assuming she is just a sweet, little old lady, just like their dear mother. They have no idea of the trouble she is capable of. The man glared at me, striding into the store, leaving my poor, mistreated, little, old mother alone and uncared for, abandoned in the parking lot. He took her by the arm and helped her into the store, making sure she had all the attention she needed. He fixed her up with a sandwich and coffee, after fixing me with a scathing look of hatred. I had no idea what I might have done till she rubbed my nose in it later. I only wish he’d hung around long enough to know she was on her way to destroy the bathroom, literally, but more on that tomorrow.
To be continued…….
Grumpy Santa
As you can see, Bud has white hair and beard. It wouldn’t be a great leap for him to be mistaken for Santa Claus. One hot August evening we were in Target. Bud was wearing a red pullover when we stumbled up on a Christmas display. In his typical fashion, Bud launched into his familiar diatribe about rushing the season and the over commercialization of Christmas.
Amidst his complaints, I noticed a four-year-old boy staring at him in wonder. The tyke obviously thought he’d stumbled up on Santa in Target. I alerted Bud, who immediately changed his manner.
“Merry Christmas, kid.” he said.
Favorite Meals
What are your family’s top 3 favorite meals?
My family’s favorite meal was always roast beef in gravy with potatoes. If they didn’t polish it off at dinner, the kids cleaned up the leftovers for breakfast. Home fried chicken with mashed potatoes was always welcomed cordially. Another thing they loved was to come in from school and find soup simmering in the crockpot. They’d dive right in and have dinner then and there. Should they be patient enough to wait, they could have cornbread with it. I left soup going in the crockpot a lot, knowing the kids were always ravenous when they got off the bus.
More Travels with Mother
.https://nutsrok.wordpress.com/2016/01/05/the-low-down-on-lunch-with-mother/
Travels With Mother (Part 2)
The Most Fun You’ll Never Have, Kathleen’s Amazing Bathroom Tour!
God was with us. We got to our destination, Hot Springs, Arkansas without a lot more drama. We checked into our room, a nice suite with two king-sized beds and an extra bed for the fifth in our party. For some reason, though it was 104 degrees, we freshened up a bit before going out to see the town, allowing us to start out with a less vintage sweat. Within minutes, we were rank. Not to be deterred by a little thing like heat exhaustion, we explored every shop on Main Street, till Mother found a little shop selling belly-dancing costumes. She wouldn’t be budged. Now, as I’ve said before, Mother is tight. She had no intention of making such a frivolous purchase, but had to admire herself in one. Every inch of the stifling shop was crammed with exotic outfits with no space devoted to dressing rooms. The proprietor obviously didn’t expect belly-dancers to be overly modest. Not to be denied, Mother just slipped her favorite on over her clothes, despite the heavy customer traffic. She is a little old church lady, after all. I would never have expected so much business in a store selling belly-dancing costumes.
Mother had us hold her things while she tottered and struggled into her racy choice, bumping customers at every turn. They had to have thought her mind was gone and we should have looked out for her better, or that we were in geriatric sex-trade, pimping her out to some perverted creature with a fetish for demented, antique belly-dancers. Neither choice made us look good. Eventually, she pranced a bit and had us take a picture or two for her Sunday School Class, before being convinced to leave. The store clerk was not amused by any of this, but I figured if she thought she was big enough to straighten Mother out, she could go for it. I know when I am whipped.
An amused motorcycle guy and his girlfriend were taking all this in and invited Mother to meet their friends waiting on their bikes just outside. I think the burly guys exact words were, “She reminds me so much of my mama!” With him as Mother’s escort, we escaped the wrath of the store owner who was obviously thought it was past time we left.
Mother charmed his friends. Her new friend invited her for a ride, which she refused, but she did climb behind him on his bike to get her picture made. Regretfully, he helped her off, after telling her, “Ma’am, you don’t have to go home with these girls if you don’t want to. We coaxed her away after she exchanged phone numbers and addresses with them, insisting they all come visit.
Later that evening, we made it back to our hotel, only to find the air-conditioning and bathroom both out of order in our room. Mother took charge, went to see the manager, and got us transferred to the only room they had left, the Presidential Suite, complete with a hot-spring bath. I suspect the manager thought, “She reminds me of my mama.” For once, a bathroom drama with Mother worked in our favor.
We enjoyed the rest of our visit. On the way home, my sister Connie hung her purse strap on a toilet handle and broke the toilet in a station. She takes after Mother.
More Travels With Mother
We visited the Philadelphia Magic Gardens in Philadelphia. It is a non-profit organization, folk art environment, and gallery space on South Street in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, the largest work created by mosaic artist Isaiah Zagar. The Magic Gardens spans three city lots, and includes indoor galleries and a large outdoor labyrinth. The mosaics are made up of everything from kitchen tiles to bike wheels, Latin-American art to china plates. It is well-worth a visit!
We stay with dear friends in their gracious home when visiting New Jersey. This gate leads into their charming garden. As you would expect, the garden does not disappoint.
Here, Mother enjoys time in the sun. As I have mentioned before, Mother is extremely frugal. I had a new experience on the way home. Just so you know, it is possible to stow eight fresh eggs, three-quarters loaf of bread and eight nectarines in a carry on without crushing them, even if that carry on has two pairs of jeans, two shirts, underwear, a nightgown, and toiletries as well as a heavy-weight three-quarter winter down jacket Mother talked my daughter out of while we were in New Jersey. All items got home in perfect condition due to skillful packing and astute delegation. I know you won’t have any trouble guessing who got bags through airport without egg casualties!
Mother is open if anyone is looking for a travel companion.
The Quirky Dining Adventures of My 96-Year-Old Mother
I am running a series I originally did in 2016. Just so you know, Mother is thriving at ninet-six.
Mother is ninety-something years old and enjoys the health and enthusiasm of a ten-year-old, with a few added quirks. Let me preface this by assuring you, I don’t mean her mind is going. She hasn’t changed in all the years I’ve had the great fortune to know her. Also, I am not complaining about her, just passing on a few things I’ve learned a person will experience should they spend a little time with her.
Lunch out with Mother always starts with an understanding. I understand I will be paying unless she tells me otherwise ahead of time. Let me give you a little background. She is a tightwad. When we stop for a cup of coffee, she always holds her little yellow change purse where I can’t see it, pretends she has no change, even though it’s bulging, and asks, “Can you pay for my coffee? I hate to break a dollar for coffee.” Technically, this is true. She never said she didn’t have change. She just hates to break a dollar for coffee. If we went to a car dealership, she’d say, “Can you get this. I hate to write a check for a car.”
First of all, bathrooms are a priority at every stop. In the name of good hygiene, a bathroom visit is the first order of business at a restaurant. Handwashing before a meal is a laudable practice. As soon as we get in line for a table, or are seated, Mother makes a bee-line for the bathroom. This is not out of the norm. The minimal bathroom visit is thirteen minutes. This includes waiting in line, stepping back for anyone in distress or with children, conversation with other bathroom goers, and meditation and stall inspection time. Then she has get in line to soap, wash, dry, and inspect her hands,face, teeth, and general appearance before leaving. It goes without saying, she steps out of line at any opportunity, giving up her spot to any and all, in the name of kindness. (Kindness to the public, not her party) Eventually, she rejoins her party at the table, after we have put the server off a time or two.
As often as not, we’ve already ordered beverages, which include an iced tea for her. This implies someone else will be picking up the tab for lunch, since Mother has no intention of ordering tea. “It’s too expensive. I’ll have tea at home.”
She peruses the menu while regaling us with tales of those she observed or became acquainted with in the restroom or enroute back to the table, fascinating fare. I am not kidding. She has come back with people’s life history, including tales of running away with the circus, being born with an identical twin incarcerated in one’s body, to miraculous spontaneous cancer cures. I have no idea how she elicits these stories. Eventually, she chooses her choice of the chicken and vegetable offerings of the day, to the relief of the server, and turns her attention to the other diners.
There’s always a story. She sees someone she knows, someone who looks interesting, or someone who reminds her of her Cousin Kathleen from Virginia, and she’s off. “Remember how Cousin Kathleen always shut everything down to listen to her “bituaries” (obituaries) on the radio, and was so full of stories about all the dead people? She knew all the recent and ancient gossip on everybody and resurrected it when their obituary aired.” Cousin Kathleen did know a lot of great stories. It was interesting to hear about the spicy pasts of her octogenarian neighbors, proving there’s definitely nothing new under the sun.
Mother enjoys her food, and is a slow eater. I usually finish my meal and have dawdled over two or three glasses of tea by the time we let the server know Mother needs a takeout box. She loads it up with her leftovers, and anything left on our plates, eventually rounding up enough for two or three meals at home. “If you’re not going to eat that chicken, I’ll put in my takeout box…and if you don’t want the rest of your salad, and that roll……..”
By this time, someone in the group has confessed that they will pick up her tab, though she protests unconvincingly, just for the sake of good manners. She was “raised right.”
Mother disappears to the bathroom for her post-prandial visit, “as long as we had to wait for the check.” The check came while she was gone. She came back, totally surprised to find me paying check. “I didn’t know the check would come so soon. I’ll pay you back later…….
It’s always easy to tell I am supposed to pick up her ticket. If she intends to pay, she lets me know before getting to the restaurant. “Now don’t try to pick up my ticket. I’m paying my own today.” This usually happens when it’s her trip to the doctor or her special errand. I am content to pay for her meals forever, it’s such a pleasure to still have her company.
Quite often, a stranger, usually a man in his sixties or seventies from a nearby table insists on buying her lunch, just because they’ve enjoyed overhearing her conversation at lunch, often saying she sounds like their mama. They were “raised right.”
Another trip to the bathroom is in order before we hit the road. Another thirteen minutes, while I pay the tab and keep up with her takeout box. Finally, torn from the bosom of all her new friends, ready for the next step. ………..To be continued
Nutsrok 