snot

A Hog a Day Part 17

EF453DFA-DCA7-4103-96FE-215A4A32FB35

Original art by Kathleen Swain

Unless you’ve been cursed with a prissy, goody-two-shoes older sister, you couldn’t possibly appreciate this, so just go on with whatever you were doing. If you want to commiserate, jump right in. Phyllis was three years older than I. This put her just far enough ahead of me that all the teachers and Sunday School teachers were still raving about her performance. “Phyllis never misspelled a word on a test the whole year. Phyllis is the best student I had in all my twenty years of teaching. Phyllis is the neatest kid in class. Phyllis always reads her Sunday School Lesson and knows her memory verses.” It was all true. She worked on her homework from the time she got off the bus every day till Mother made her go to bed every night, copying it over rather than have an erasure.

I did my homework on the bus, on the way to school, if I could borrow some paper. The second day of first grade Miss Angie called me a blabbermouth and a scatterbrain. I was delighted till she sent a note home. My parents pointed out neither was a good thing. The only notes Phyllis ever got asked if she could be the lead in the school play, tutor slow kids, or be considered for sainthood. Mother had to chase the schoolbus to brush my hair. If we had pancakes for breakfast, my papers stuck to me all morning and dirt clung to the syrupy patches after recess. I never got the connection between being sticky and not washing up after breakfast.

It was bad enough that Mother tried to civilize me. After I started school, Phyllis was embarrassed about being related to “Messy Mayhem.” She started in telling Mother I needed to pull my socks up, brush my hair, not wipe my snotty nose on my sleeve, and most of all, not tell anyone I was related to her. She was a hotline home for anything that the teachers forgot to send a note about. It didn’t help our friendship.

Phyllis was always first in line to get in the door at church. I am surprised she didn’t have her own key. Sitting quietly and thoughtfully through sermons, she’d occasionally nod and mark passages in her Bible. The minister was sure she was headed for “Special Sevice.” Meanwhile, I sat next to Mother, barely aware of the minister’s drone, desperately trying to find interest, somewhere, anywhere. I liked the singing but it didn’t last long. The words didn’t make sense, but it sure beat the sermon. Once the sermon started, I’d start at the front and enumerate things: roses on hats, striped ties, bald men, sleepers, crying babies, kids who got to prowl in their mother’s purses, or the number of times the preacher said “Damn, Breast or Hell!”. Once in a while something interesting would happen, like pants or skirt stuck in a butt-crack, or a kid would get taken out for a spanking, but all this made for a mighty lean diet.

One glorious Sunday, the sun shone. As we filed out, I looked longingly at the lucky kids running wild in the parking lot. We had to stand decorously beside Mother and Daddy as he waxed eloquent, rubbing elbows with the deacons, whose august company he longed to join. As he discussed the merits of the sermon with Brother Cornell Poleman, a deacon with an unfortunate sinus infection, Brother Poleman pulled a big white hankie from his coat pocket and blew a disgusting snort in its general direction. Fortunately for Sister Poleman, she wouldn’t be dealing with that nasty hanky in Monday’s laundry. A giant yellow, green gelatinous gob of snot went airborn, landing right on Phyllis’s saintly, snowy, Southern Baptist forearm, where it quivered just a bit, before settling into its happy home. Her expression was priceless. Mr. Poleman grabbed her arm, rubbing the snot all over her forearm before she could extricate herself from his foul grip. She flew to the church bathroom to wash before joining the family waiting in the car. That snot trick had put a hasty end to all visiting. When she got home, she locked herself in the bathroom to scrub her arm with Comet. I enjoyed church that day.

My brother Billy certainly didn’t have to deal with comparisons to a saint when he followed three years behind me.

Making an Ass of Myself at a Funeral

On the ride out to our old neighbor’s funeral, Billy told me about “a friend” of his who had embarrassed himself in the drive-through line of a hamburger joint earlier that week.  The “friend” had gotten stuck in line, right next to the speaker.  He called out several times with no response.  He was wedged in.  It was hot.  He was hotter! He couldn’t order, go backward or forward, so did the only reasonable thing.  He cursed loudly about waiting in the heat, abusing the reputation of the restaurant, the employees, their forbears, and hamburgers joints in general, pounding his steering wheel to make a point!

After a bit of this infantile behavior, the speaker clicked on.  “May I take your order, please?”  Relieved, he gave his order and pulled up.  When he got to the window, he found a sea of faces waiting to see the idiot they’d heard throwing the fit.  The speaker had been on the whole time.

He finished his story just as we squeaked into the churchyard.  We filed in with the mourners, taking a seat.  As the services started, it was pretty warm.  Before long, it was hot as Hades. Obviously the air conditioner was on the blink.  Billy grinned and whispered to me, “It’s hot.”  Remembering his ‘friend’, I stifled a giggle.  As the eulogy continued and mourners sniffled, I struggled to maintain my composure, not daring to look at him.  We were both shaking silently, as though overcome by grief.  The blazing heat miraculously unstopped my sinuses.  Suddenly, a river of snot cascaded from my nose as I burst into maniacal laughter.  Vainly, I instituted an ineffective snot management manuever while futilely trying to give the impression of being overcome by grief, not insane laughter. It might have been more convincing had brother, Bozo the Clown, not been beside me in the same state. We fled without trying to console the family, figuring we’d done enough.

A Hog a Day Part 17

EF453DFA-DCA7-4103-96FE-215A4A32FB35

Original art by Kathleen Swain

Unless you’ve been cursed with a prissy, goody-two-shoes older sister, you couldn’t possibly appreciate this, so just go on with whatever you were doing. If you want to commiserate, jump right in. Phyllis was three years older than I. This put her just far enough ahead of me that all the teachers and Sunday School teachers were still raving about her performance. “Phyllis never misspelled a word on a test the whole year. Phyllis is the best student I had in all my twenty years of teaching. Phyllis is the neatest kid in class. Phyllis always reads her Sunday School Lesson and knows her memory verses.” I’m sure it was all true. She worked on her homework from the time she got off the bus every day till Mother made her go to bed every night, copying it over rather than have an erasure.

I did my homework on the bus, if I could borrow some paper. The second day of first grade Miss Angie called me a blabbermouth and a scatterbrain. I was delighted till she sent a note home. My parents pointed out neither was a good thing. The only notes Phyllis ever got asked if she could be the lead in the school play, tutor slow kids, or be considered for sainthood. Mother had to chase the schoolbus to brush my hair. If we had pancakes for breakfast, my papers stuck to me all morning and dirt clung to the syrupy patches after recess. I never got the connection between being sticky and not washing up after breakfast.

It was bad enough that Mother tried to civilize me. After I started school, Phyllis was embarrassed about being related to “Messy Mayhem.” She started in telling Mother I needed to pull my socks up, brush my hair, not wipe my snotty nose on my sleeve, and most of all, not tell anyone I was related to her. She was a hotline home for anything that the teachers forgot to send a note about. It didn’t help our friendship.

Phyllis was always first in line to get in the door at church. I am surprised she didn’t have her own key. Sitting quietly and thoughtfully through sermons, she’d occasionally nod and mark passages in her Bible. The minister was sure she was headed for “Special Sevice.” Meanwhile, I sat next to Mother, barely aware of the minister’s drone, desperately trying to find interest, somewhere, anywhere. I liked the singing but it didn’t last long. The words didn’t make sense, but it sure beat the sermon. Once the sermon started, I’d start at the front and enumerate things: roses on hats, striped ties, bald men, sleepers, crying babies, kids who got to prowl in their mother’s purses, or the number of times the preacher said “Damn, Breast or Hell!”. Once in a while something interesting would happen, like pants or skirt stuck in a butt-crack, or a kid would get taken out for a spanking, but all this made for a mighty lean diet.

One glorious Sunday, the sun shone. As we filed out, I looked longingly at the lucky kids running wild in the parking lot. We had to stand decorously beside Mother and Daddy as he waxed eloquent, rubbing elbows with the deacons, whose august company he longed to join. As he discussed the merits of the sermon with Brother Cornell Poleman, a deacon with an unfortunate sinus infection, Brother Poleman pulled a big white hankie from his coat pocket and blew a disgusting snort in its general direction. Fortunately for Sister Poleman, she wouldn’t be dealing with that nasty hanky in Monday’s laundry. A giant yellow, green gelatinous gob of snot went airborn, landing right on Phyllis’s saintly, snowy, Southern Baptist forearm, where it quivered just a bit, before settling into its happy home. Her expression was priceless. Mr. Poleman grabbed her arm, rubbing the snot all over her forearm before she could extricate herself from his foul grip. She flew to the church bathroom to wash before joining the family waiting in the car. That snot trick had put a hasty end to all visiting. When she got home, she locked herself in the bathroom to scrub her arm with Comet. I enjoyed church that day.

My brother Billy certainly didn’t have to deal with comparisons to a saint when he followed three years behind me.

A Hog a Day Part 16

I was always grateful when the preacher enlivened the service with a joke or was able to  come up with an interesting story.   I was blessed one memorable Sunday when a well-known evangelist preached to a packed house.  Brother Paine was hailed far and wide for his moving sermons. He was eloquent and erudite, a born speaker whose knowledge of scripture was legend, as he quoted long passages flawlessly, without opening his beloved Bible.  This was all wasted on me, a kid who zoned in and out and listened with less than half an ear.  I usually managed to notice the change in rhythm when a joke, a good story, or an interesting bit of Bible lore might be forthcoming.  Otherwise, I just tried to maintain consciousness enough to stay out of trouble with my parents.  I did find Brother Paine’s sermon a bit more interesting than the usual fare, especially when he got to the story of Baalam. He spun a tale of Baalam’s evil deeds stoking God’s anger. As Baalam’s faithful ass carried him down the road, only the ass saw the sword-wielding angel of God in their path, prepared to strike Baalam down for his wickedness. Three times the ass turned away, saving Baalam from the death-angel’s sword. Three times Baalam cruelly beat her for disobedience. Intending to make the point that God miraculously gave the ass the power of speech to rebuke Balaam for his cruelty, Brother Raymond paused dramatically, pounded on the podium and boomed out. “God spoke through Baalam’s ass!!!!”  He had our complete attention! Silence reigned as he realized his error.  Some of the teenagers and younger kids snickered first, then a few of the less pious joined in. The song-leader faked a few coughs trying to regain his composure, then snorted two giant snot bubbles.  We all burst into full-fledged, knee-slapping, undeniable laughter. Brother Raymond gave it up and church was done for the day. The final prayer was short and sweet.

If I’d had a quarter, I’d have put it in the love offering.

 

Making an Ass of Myself at a Funeral

funeral cartoonMy brother Billy and I decided to go to Mr. Charley’s funeral together.  I should have known better.  He always gets me in trouble.  We grew up playing with Mr. Charley’s kids, in and out of their house a lot.  He was a good guy.  I certainly didn’t decide to go to his funeral just to make a total ass of myself.  That was Billy’s doing. Continue reading →

You a teacher an’ you don’t know…..

image

Johnny gave a big snort, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Disgusted, his teacher sought to shame him.  “Johnny, what’s that on you sleeve?

“He looked at her coldly.  “You a teacher an’ you been to college an’ you don’t know what snot is?”

Boo Hoo to You, Too

Bah!

I wrote this in response to Trish’s post yesterday on Ten Years a Single on Mom about crying about a broken washing machine.  I’ve done worse.

Here’s the whole sorry story.  Daddy had died after sudden illness days before.  I was a mess, but making a great effort to keep my emotions in check, knowing my mother was in Continue reading →

It’s Snot What You Think

Snotty girl0004Illustration by Kathleen Swain

Unless you’ve been cursed with a prissy, goody-two-shoes older sister, you couldn’t possibly appreciate this, so just go on with whatever you were doing. If you want to commiserate, jump right in. Phyllis was three years older than I. This put her just far enough ahead of me that all the teachers and Sunday School teachers were still raving Continue reading →

Mother Tried to Raise Me Right

Church was hard on me Church clothes were designed by the devil. My mom made fancy dresses with twirly skirts, puffy sleeves, lace, fancy collars, and gigantic sashes that tied in the back in a big bow. Just in case I might get a little comfortable, she starched and ironed them till they were so stiff they could stand alone. Getting ready for church started Saturday night with a bath and hair washing. No problem with that. The trouble started when Mother got out the hair pins and tissue paper. She clamped me between her kneesand divided my hair into tiny strands wrapped in tissue paper. My hair was fine and dried quickly, so she continuously dipped her comb in a bottle of curling lotion the consistency of snot. I never got the connection between biting the plastic ends of hair pens and pain, so there was plenty of scalp scraping as she slid the pins into the curls. Knowing that my sister would suffer, too, did me little good, since she liked pretty hair and would do anything to look pretty. My wiggling and protesting didn’t help. Mother had her pride and would not suffer a daughter with straight hair on Sundays. As she clinched her knees tighter she hoped I’d have fifteen girls with straight hair. That didn’t bother me. I had no intention of having any girls or boys, straight-haired or otherwise. I was going to be a cowboy!!

My sister loved anything to do with church, making me look particularly bad. The only glimmer of hope was that she was slow and Mother threatened to leave her every Sunday.  She always came flying out as the car backed out carrying shoes, makeup, and jewelry, jumping in the front seat and twisting the mirror so she could get her lipstick on straight.  It was a waste of time anyway.   No-one was going to see past her clown hair to notice her lipstick.   When I tried dawdling around in hopes of getting left, Mother saw right through it.  It was obvious I wasn’t wasting any effort getting ready lying on the floor in front of the TV watching Davy and Goliath.

Sunday school was okay.  The teachers didn’t expect much, happy if we could just answer a couple of questions after the lesson. Usually, we got through a few minutes early we got to play a little before church.  I had to be careful not to play too rowdy.  Chairs were just waiting to snag skirt tails and snatch off sashes.  I knew from experience my mother would not be happy if I showed up in church with a torn, dirty dress or missing sash.

Church started well enough.  Singing was good.  The words didn’t always make sense.  I didn’t know why we sang about the laundry, “Bringing in the Sheets”(sheaves), but so much else didn’t make sense either so I sang along enthusiastically. It just didn’t last long enough.  I tried to be still and listen to preaching.  Sometimes the preacher told an interesting story when he started and another at the end, but there was a lot of not so interesting in between.  Sitting still was hard.  I would try counting, finding people in church whose name started with each letter of the alphabet, looking at pictures in the Bible, reading ahead in my Sunday School Book.  When I wiggled or turned around , Mother looked sternly and shook her head.  I knew I’d be in big trouble if I didn’t behave.  It didn’t do any good to say I had to go to the bathroom.  Mother always made me go right before we went in.  Some kids got to look in their mother’s purse for toys or gum, but Mother wasn’t having any of that.

Some members of the congregation were dear to me, dependable for relieving the tedium of a long Sunday service.  Mr. Dick Peppridge sat just in front of us in his ancient, shiny black suit.  He was deaf as a post and never spoke to me, but I admired him breaking up the tedium of services periodically.  He’d relax and drift off to sleep and treat us to a flatulent recital.  There were no cushions on the pews, so the bursts echoed several times like a screen door flapping before dying out.  Good Old Mr. Dick.

Daddy was proud of his standing in church enforcing an unbreakable rule.  The seven of us had to sit together, setting a good example for the rest of the congregation. We sat in the fourth pew from the front, in the same order Sunday after Sunday.  Phyllis filed in first, seated the fartherest from Daddy, since she could be depended on to behave perfectly.  She was responsible for Connie, the next to the youngest.  I had to sit between Mother and Marilyn, the youngest, since I needed to be where Mother could give me dirty looks without drawing attention to herself. Billy had the worst spot of all, wedged between Mother and Daddy.

Phyllis loved church and enjoyed the admiration of the saintly, making me look even more like a heathen. Instead of running wild in the parking lot after church services, she joined my parents as they talked to the other worshippers.  God answered my prayers and gave her what she deserved for her prissiness one Sunday morning.  Daddy and Phyllis were part of a group discussing some matter of grave importance to the congregation. Phyllis stood listening quietly as the conversation became more animated. Seizing a break in the tempo, Mr. Cornell Poleman burst in determined to make his point, even though his nose was near to bursting with congestion. Never one to waste an opportunity, he had his say, yanked his handkerchief from his pocket, ducked his head and snorted.  Luckily for Mrs. Poleman, he missed the handkerchief leaving one less disgusting handkerchief in Monday’s laundry. Simultaneous with the snort, Phyllis felt a warm, repulsive flop, looked down, and saw a huge slimy slug of yellow-green congealed snot on her forearm, still warm from nasal incubation.  Mr. Poleman brought her out of shock by grabbing her arm, smearing it wildly with his snowy handkerchief, while apologizing continuously.  Horrified, she fled the attentive crowd for the church bathroom where she scrubbed her arm with soap and water, then Comet scouring powder.  Still not satisfied, she looked for something she could use to amputate her arm.  Finding only a toilet brush and the deodorizer hanging in the toilet bowl, she finally doused herself with Clorox and came on out, with Mother falsely assuring her the crowd was gone and probably no one had noticed anyway.

Our family budget was stretched to the max and at one time, our vehicle was a red Volkswagon Bug.  Daddy was acutely aware of the humor involved in seeing a big man and his family of seven stuffing themselves into a Volkswagon and wanted to avoid it at all costs.  He was still smarting from one of the deacons embarrassed him by quoting Hunt’s Tomato slogan, “How do you get those eight great tomatoes in one can?” We had instructions to come straight out of church and get in the car so people would be deprived of the entertainment.  One Sunday morning, we had a visiting preacher and dinner on the grounds after church.  Daddy lingered around talking after lunch, waiting for the crowd to clear, hoping people wouldn’t hang around just to watch us as we loaded into the red bug.  Connie had gotten sleepy and gone to take a nap in the small cargo space behind the back seat as time dragged on.  Eventually, Daddy waited everyone out and told us to load up.  Mother was horrified to find Connie missing from the car.  Who could have taken her from a busy churchyard with dozens of people around?  We searched the church, the grounds, and the area close enough for a four-year-old to wander to.  Just as Daddy was about to raise a search, a red Volkswagon Bug came screeching back into the churchyard.  The visiting minister hurriedly pulled a tiny weeping girl from his car.  Connie had gotten into his car by mistake and he had gotten nearly home before she woke and started wailing.

Another visiting preacher came home with us one for Sunday dinner. He had a just gotten a new car that week and spent most of Sunday dinner talking about it.  His wife had a bad heart and lay down for a nap after lunch. He whispered “She could go anytime.”  This did nothing to lighten the mood.  It was clear the new car was the only bright spot in their life.  It would look nice at her funeral.  They were from out of town so were stuck with them until time for the evening service.  The afternoon looked long and hopeless.  The kids escaped outdoors as soon as possible.  Our house was on the edge of the farm, sitting inside a larger fenced area where Daddy raised hay and grazed cattle, horses, goats to The long driveway was several hundred yards long and fenced separately, enclosing several pecan and fruit trees, and space for parking.  As goats will do, the goats had slipped through the fence and gotten in the drive.  Brother Smith had parked his nice new car under the mulberry tree in full bloom.  Goats love new vegetation and as it turns out, new cars. We saw several hop agilely to the roof of his new car.  Before we could get to it, several more joined their friends standing on their back legs to reach the tree branches.  There was a big metallic “Pop!!” and the hood caved in, leaving the goats in a bowl.  They leapt off.  Mother heard the racket and ran out just in time to catch the whole disaster.  Her eyes were huge as her hands flew to her mouth.  We hadn’t had a new car for years and now we’d be buying this preacher one.  Not only that, his wife would probably drop dead on the spot and he’d have to drive a goat-battered car to the funeral.

God smiled on us.  As soon as the goats jumped off, the hood popped back in the shape.  This time we enjoyed the sound.  We flew to inspect the roof.  No apparent damage.  Mother got the preacher’s keys and pulled the car to the safety of the yard.  Mrs. Smith lived through the day, and as far as I know, Brother Smith had a fine new car to drive to her funeral a couple of weeks later.  All’s well that ends well.

One Sunday morning, Connie provided the entertainment for the service. Sitting proudly near the front of the church with her new fiancé and his little niece, Amy, she was lovely in a beautiful yellow, spring dress.  As the worshippers stood for a hymn, little Amy stood behind Connie, grasped the tail of Connie’s dress, and raised it as high as her tiny arms would reach, giving most of the congregation something truly inspiring to consider, for which God made them truly grateful.

I guess when I look back on all this, I did sometimes enjoy church.