Mother

Mother’s Garden

Mother built the little path herself as well as a stone patio using little-old-lady-sized rocks. She does all her own planting.  I dig the big holes for her.  She does the rest.  She does have he perennial “rose covered cottage.”  She twines pink climbing roses over her porch rails.  They are mean.  It cured the problem of free-range kids climbing on the rails. Her neighborhood is full of them.  She sprinkles flour over tomatoes and warns the kids they might get poisoned.  It works.  She never loses a tomato anymore.  The neighborhood kids used to pick them and her flowers, but now they worry about the poison.

It Couldn’t be Helped Part 12

Now for the poop part of the story, Once Mother gets a notion in her head, she can not be side-tracked. Mother and I stopped in at the grocery store one morning. As we made our way back to my vehicle, I spotted a dignified elderly gentleman hurriedly making his way back to his own car parked adjacent to mine. He seemed to be in some distress, so I slowed my place to stay out of his way. As he sidled past me, I got a whiff and realized the reason for his scurrying. I slowed my pace and acted distracted to give him time to get to his car and save his dignity.

Meanwhile, Mother was right behind me. She didn’t notice his predicament, only that an oldster was getting ahead of her. She is vain about being spry for her age and was determined not to be left in his dust. She picked up her pace, catching up to him. Getting into my car as the wind changed, she got a foul whiff of feces. They were standing back to back, almost touching as she inspected her shoe and announced. “Something smells awful. There must have been a dog running loose doing his business. Better check your shoe. I don’t have anything on my shoe.” Just in case I hadn’t heard, she repeated, just like I was five years old. “You’d better check your shoe! Something smells awful! Don’t you smell it!” By this time, the poor man was sitting in his car with the window open.

“No, Mother. I don’t smell a thing. Get in. Let’s go.” By this time, the whole town had to know what the problem was.

It seemed like an eternity before we got away. “Mother, that man had messed up his clothes and was trying to slip into his car. Of course, I smelled him. Dead people smelled him. I was just trying to avoid embarrassing him. You were just about backing into him.”

She was horrified. “Oh, My Lord! Did I get anything on me? Oh well. It couldn’t be helped!”

It Couldn’t Be Helped Part 11

First of all, I was born in the deep South in 1950, another world. Mother was determined to raise us to be above criticism. This was hard on me, a kid quite comfortable with criticism. Our language was subject to all kinds of boundaries. The first thing that set us apart from the great unwashed was that we “wee-weed” and “gee-geed”. I’ve met other prissy kids who “wee-weed”, but I have yet to meet another “gee-geeer”. (g as in go) See, there’s not even a right way to spell it. Being a “gee-geer” in a world full of “do-doers” is rough. On top of that, I grew up with a bunch of renegade cousins who were too bad to “pee-pee”. They “pissed, do-dooed, ka-ka ed, dookied,” and even worse, they “shat.” They said these words in public, in front of their parents! Mother led us to believe they were exceptions to the rule, bound for hell. Imagine how humiliated I was when I went to school with normal people, didn’t realize I was a weirdo, and said “gee-gee” the first time. Uhhhhhhh! She set me up!!!!!!!

Unbelievably, Mother had me convinced I would get caught if I said anything on the bad list. I yearned to cut loose, but, in the interest of growing old, curbed myself. Mother never specifically categorized forbidden words, but we all knew their rank. The F-word would have been an unforgivable sin. Besides, the first hint of its existence was in the sixth grade from my cousin Cathy, and she pronounced it “Funk.” Wouldn’t I have looked like an idiot writing that on a gym locker? I still avoid typing anything that starts with a capital F. Next in line, comes S-H-I-T. I did not say the word. I just spelled it. Mother even spelled S-H-I-T once to make a point. My sister Connie dropped a skillet on her toe and said, “Crap!!!!” Mother told her she might as well have said “S-H-I-T.” It was just as bad. Fortunately for Connie, she didn’t take Mother up on her advice or she wouldn’t be here today.

It would have been unthinkable to say “G—-Damn!” Lightning surely would have struck. It was saved for drunks, harlots, atheists, scientists, and other unregenerate sinners. You couldn’t have dragged it out of me.

We were fortunate enough to hear “Damn” occasionally. “Damn” did not put you entirely beyond the pale; just made your raising suspect. That was the worst thing about bad language. It put your mother in a bad light. Guilt was the best control. “You ought to be ashamed. You’re raised better than that! How can you talk like that? People will think we talk like that at home. We’re not the kind of people who talk like that. What if Daddy heard you talk like that? …………..” This could go on for a while, ending with, “ I’m so hurt!” It was okay to make Mother mad. I did that all the time. “Hurting” her put a kid beyond the pale. She’d drag herself around looking like a martyr till she was convinced you’d suffered enough or till the next kid really messed up. Nope. You didn’t want to “hurt” Mother

I did experience one miracle in my childhood. Daddy was a grouch, a nag, bossy, and impossible to put up with on his best days. He criticized all of us relentlessly. After knee surgery, he was in a cast, on crutches, and couldn’t drive. Whenever he had to go somewhere, we all took off in the opposite direction. Recovering from surgery did not enhance his sunny nature, no one wanted to drive him. It was a misery from the time you got in the car till you baled out. He was free to critique every portion of your being, from your personality, your behavior, your attitude, and most of all, your driving. One fine day, Mother got stuck with the job of driving him, and in his usual sweet way, he was torturing her. “Speed up, slow down, change gears, don’t ride the clutch……………!!!”

Connie and Marilyn were stuck in the back seat, listening to his incessant lecturing, when Mother finally got enough. She pulled the car over, killed it, clamped her teeth, and hissed at him, “Shut your damned mouth. I don’t want to hear another word out of you.” Stunned, he shut his damned mouth. She cranked the car and drove on. Connie and Marilyn were shocked beyond words. None of us had ever heard Mother say “Damn!” We’d all wanted to tell him to shut him damned mouth at least a million times, but hadn’t had the nerve.

When they got home, Mother stormed into the house leaving Daddy to struggle in on his own, instead of holding the gate, shooing the dogs away, and holding the front door for him like she had been doing since his surgery. It took him a while to manage the gate on his crutches. When he finally dragged in, he made a big production of collapsing into his recliner, raising his feet to a comfortable position, and asked for something for pain. Mother went on about her business, ignoring him. He asked me to make coffee. I brought him a cup. He called us all in; he had something to tell us. The last time he’d done this was when he’d announced they were having a new baby. I was pretty sure that wasn’t it as grouchy as he’d been lately. Once, he had everyone’s attention, including Mother’s, he put on a hurt face, looked around at us, and confided sadly.

“Children, you’re not going to believe what your mother said to me. She told me to ‘Shut my damn mouth’.” The room exploded. We were all laughing out of control, thrilled Mother had finally had enough and stood up to Daddy. It was a fine moment for the entire family. None of us shut our damned mouths for quite a while.

I’m not even going to talk about “titties!”

It Couldn’t Be Helped Part 10

Kathleen, my octogenarian mother was snatched from sleep at three in the morning by the sound of hysterical screaming and pounding on her front door.  Through the peep hole, she recognized her neighbor, a frail, single mother clutching her toddler and tiny infant, begging to come in.  Mother was horrified to hear that Melinda had been raped at gunpoint, the lives of her tiny children threatened.  Nonetheless, Melissa called the police and an investigation was begun.

The next morning, the neighborhood was in an uproar.  Residents stood in the streets discussing the details and studying the composite drawing.  Mr. and Mrs. Smith and their son Jeremy stood on the edge of the crowd listening intently.  Mother had been meaning to go meet them, so as a friendly neighbor, she pulled them into the conversation.

Of course, the rape was on everybody’s mind, so Mother launched into her rapist defense plan, boasting of the shotgun under her bed and her plan to shoot to kill, not mentioning the rusty shotgun hadn’t been fired in thirty years, and never by her. She didn’t even know if she had shells. She was ready.  Eventually, tiring of the drama, the crowd dispersed and went about business as usual.

About two hours later, Mother was surprised to answer her door to Mr. Smith and Jeremy.  She had liked them well enough, but hadn’t expected them to accept her invitation to coffee so soon. After chatting a bit, Mr. Smith brought up the rape. Mother launched into her plan for the rapist, getting more excited as she continued, embellishing the agony in store for him should he be so foolish as to cross her path.  She wasn’t one of those namby-pambies who feared killing an intruder.  She’d go straight for the heart.  Should there be anything left afterward, she’d empty her gun in him just for fun.  Jeremy, a sullen teenager, rolled his eyes as much as he dared in the company of his father.  He was a little smart aleck, but Mother still thought it was nice of him to come down with his dad to check on her.

Mr. Smith was still very concerned about Mother’s safety despite hearing of her excellent rapist deterrent plan. Inspecting her locks for security, finding scratches on her back door, showing the rapist had tried but failed to gain entry there.  He asked to see her shotgun, and upon inspection, found the safety rusted shut.  When he asked her if she had a pistol, it caught her by surprise.  She had to admit she didn’t.  Mr. Smith pulled an heirloom quality pistol from his jacket, showed Mother how to fire it, had her demonstrate, loaded it and left, Jeremy in tow.  Mother was touched at his concern and generosity, realizing the pistol would be a lot more good to her than the ancient shotgun with no shells, at least theoretically.

A few days rocked by. The Smiths moved.  Little Jenny Whitmore who lived opposite the Smiths recognized Jeremy from the composite photo.  He was arrested, confessed to the rape and sent back to Wisconsin to serve the rest of his suspended sentence on his previous conviction for sexual assault.  Now Mother understood Mr. Smith’s concern for her safety.  Melissa and her babies moved away.

Life settled back down.  Relieved to have this business settled, Mother’s little neighborhood once again felt safe, secure and friendly.  The only fly in the ointment was when Mr. Smith came calling a few weeks later to reclaim Mother’s/his lovely pearl-handled pistol, not so generous after all.  She still feels bad about having to give up that sweet little pistol.  It was cute and old, just like her. (to be continued)

It Couldn’t Be Helped Part 9

When two intruders broke in her house, she made one of them help her into her robe before she would talk to them.  She gave them eleven dollars, telling them, “That’s enough!”  They thanked her when they left, telling her to “have a nice day.”  She told the police officers later, “They were polite and had been raised right

I think this story sums Mother up better than anything else.  She gets rattled over little things, but is a rock when something huge challenges her.

I got a call from her after midnight.  “I’m okay.  Don’t panic.  The police are on the way!  I just wanted to let you know someone kicked my door down!”  You can imagine the horror and shock that message sent through me, imagining my poor little mother at the mercy of God only knows who, not even a door against the night.  Bud and I flew over.

By the time we got there, police officers were there investigating.  Her shattered front door was propped up on her front porch, splintered wood splayed around her living room.  Mother had coffee ready for us. (I told you she was calm in a storm.)  She had been sleeping when awakened by two young guys dressed in black, with black ski masks, one brandishing a baseball bat.  The nearest advanced down the hall, demanding her purse. She cooperated, but asked, “Can you get me my robe?  It’s hanging on a hook on the bathroom door. I can’t be walking around in front of you with no robe.”

He agreed, getting the robe, helping her into it since she was having a little trouble with her shoulder, probably sorry he’d ever started this.  His partner laid down the bat, thank God, demanding her purse.

Fearing he’d think she was going for a gun, she said, “It’s on that shelf.”  He bumbled and found her library books in a bag, ready for return.

“These are just books.”

“Just behind them.

This time he found her wallet.  Digging through it, he was dismayed to find only eleven dollars.  “Is this all?”

“Yes, I only have that because I was going to buy gas tomorrow.  I never keep cash.  It’s too dangerous!”  Truer words were never spoken.  She usually has to dig in her car to find change for a coke, preferring to bum off whoever she is with.  It’s a wonder she didn’t ask the robbers for money for a coke while she had them there.

“What about your bank card?”

She said she gave him a disgusted look, thinking, “Now, that’s going too far. Eleven dollars is enough!”

They must have realized their business with her was complete, turning to leave.  Before going down the steps, the one who’d helped her into her robe returned for his bat, telling her, “Have a nice day.” As they walked toward the door, she thanked them for not hurting her.

She summed the whole story up for the officers, promising to get in touch if she remembered anything else.  “I don’t think they ever meant to hurt me.  They were both as polite as could be.  I think their mother raised them right.”

I am so glad she did. (to be continued)

It couldn’t Be Helped Part 7

I don’t know why Mother comes home and tells these stories on herself.  She wasn’t arrested or shunned by her congregation.  Despite the impression the title of this post makes, Mother is very faithful to her faith, tithing, attending services weekly, and supportive of her church.  She normally writes a monthly check for her tithe, but one Sunday decided give an extra cash gift.  This was a fine idea, except that she only had twenties and wanted to give fifty dollars, not sixty.  Well, the obvious solution to her was to put three twenties in the offering plate and take out a ten.  For most people, this would have worked out fine, but Mother has been known to bumble, especially when she is concentrating hard.  When the plate was passed, she put in her three twenties and lifted a ten and a twenty.  She felt vaguely uneasy passing the plate on.

It was on her mind through the rest of the service, getting little out of the service, except a vague feeling of guilt when the pastor chose the text of “the widow’s mite.”  As soon as she got home, she counted her cash, realizing she’d committed a theft from God.  She wasn’t struck down by lightning when she waited until the following to return that twenty.

Anxious not to repeat that error.  She decided it would be best to purchase a money order to put in the offering plate.  Mother is notoriously tight with her money.  Hearing that “Mr. Thrifty,” the local liquor store had the cheapest money orders, she scurried in to purchase one.  Unfortunately, she locked her keys in the car.  There was no way to hide this fiasco.  She had to call me to bring her the extra key.  Naturally, I made the most of this ridiculous situation, since she CLAIMS to be a teetotaler.

The story didn’t end there.  As she put her money order in the offering plate the next Sunday morning, she noticed a big “Mr. Thrifty” logo emblazoned prominently on the bottom.  Baptists normally  have the grace not to advertise their visits to liquor stores so boldly.

My sister’s son is a minister.  Upon learning that he has accepted the pastorate of their home church, Connie remarked, “Now Mother has to start coming here.  Oh no, forget that.  He doesn’t need Mother stealing from the offering plate and losing her bra at our church.”

More on losing her bra at church later.  (to be continued)

It Couldn’t Be Helped Part 6

We went to visit an exotic animal park several years ago.  Unfortunately, it was a low budget operation that encouraged visitors to purchase packets of munchies that enticed the hungry critters to follow vehicles around hoping for a handout. I suspect that may have been a major portion of their diet.  They accepted gifts of dead large animals, providing  pick up if you called before the beast got cold.

Mother was delighted by the apparent “friendliness” of one particularly aggressive large camel who had taken a liking to her. He trotted along beside her as she tossed out the feeding pellets.  After she ran out of pellets, he continued running along side the automobile trying to put his head in the window to nudge for more.  Becoming concerned about the invasion, she pressed the button to raise the window.  As the driver sped up, the camel trotted faster.  Mother was impressed remarking, “Look at that stupid camel.  He’s determined to keep up with this car!”  The race continued along with Mother’s amusement.  “He’s still coming.  Just look how fast he’s moving!”

Indeed he was!  Mother had trapped his upper lip in the closed car window!  My brother-in-law stopped so she could lower her window, freeing her new friend.  The camel dropped her from his social circle and loped off in the opposite direction, taking care not to stumble over his drooping upper lip.

http://atomic-temporary-73629786.wpcomstaging.com/2015/01/02/meet-kathleen-alias-my-mother-on-video/   link to YouTube link

It Couldn’t Be Helped Part 5

Which looks better?
Mother was locked on the grounds of Windsor Castle, but in all honesty, it was’t her fault.  She was part of a tour group that got locked in.  They were just enjoying themselves and, as on the other museum visit, the group found themselves alone, the exits locked.  She hastily pointed out, this time it wasn’t her fault.  It was the group leader’s responsibility to keep up with the time.

Concerned about arrest for trespassing, they searched fruitlessly for a helpful guard.  None were found.  Eventually, they went up and beat on the castle doors, to no avail.  Mother was quite offended, sure the queen was inside and just refusing to answer because she was a snob.  Though she saw on the news later that night the queen was supposedly in Scotland, Mother was still miffed, preferring to believe she’d been snubbed.  Eventually, the group found an unlocked gate in the gardener’s area and made their departure.  Having to go out the back way did not improve Mother’ s prejudice toward Her Majesty.

Though Mother is a royal watcher, she never misses an opportunity to take a swipe at the queen.  “The queen wears ugly hats.”  “ The queen seems overbearing.” “It’s awful the way the queen bosses her family around.”  “I’ll bet she’s an awful mother/grandmother-in-law.”  “The queen is no better than anyone else.”  “The queen has gained weight.”  I don’t know why she got such a bee in her bonnet about the queen.  I know the queen would be devastated if she knew all the nasty things Mother says about her.

Mother positively gloated upon learning of a story published in The Guardian that DNA  studies on Richard III, one of Queen Elizabeth’s forebears was illegitimate.  Possibly, the queen herself has no better claim to the throne than Mother does.  I will leave it to the the two of them to sort that out.  I don’t have a dog in that fight.

Questions raised over Queen’s

ancestry after DNA test on

Richard III ‘s cousins.

 

 

It Couldn’t Be Helped Part 4

Mother had guests visiting from out of town.  They’d been out to lunch and she’d be showing them the sites all afternoon.  Her guests were geriatric; not quite the spry youthful specimen she was.  A gracious hostess, she made sure all their stops weren’t too rigorous or demanding, since some of them faced physical challenges.  She decided a visit to the State Exhibit Museum was in order late in the afternoon, the visit made more enticing since there was no admission.  They strolled the gardens for an hour or more.  The roses, clematis, and lilies were a vision  with their gentle scent perfuming the summer air.  It could have gone on forever but they still wanted to tour the museum before it closed for the day!  Upon climbing the steps and rattling the door, they found it locked up tight.  Mother was offended.   “But the sign says 8:00 to 4:00 seven days a week, except for holidays! It’s not a holiday!  I’m going to call and talk to SOMEBODY tomorrow!”

It occurred to one of the party to check their watch.  “It’s 4:45!  No wonder they’re closed!  We’d better get out of here before we get locked in!”

Rushing to the gate as fast as four septugenarians could, they found themselves locked inside the museum grounds for the night.

This was before cell phones.  The four of them stood at the locked gate waving and gesturing until they finally caught the attention of a passerby who alerted the fire department of their dilemma, once he got control of his laughter.  Eventually, the firemen put a ladder over the fence, rescuing the four.  Even though Mother has always been afraid of heights, she was the first to scurry over the fence, fearful a news crew might happen by.  The firemen saved the day and had a fine time in the bargain.  The foursome all learned some useful new skills, and a fine time was had by all!

Mother had been vaguely i