Partly because of a stomach bug and partly because my mind is blank and partly because a change of pace is due, today I want you to get out your crayons--the 64 Big Box--and illustrate this story. I can see the pictures clearly in my mind but they don't come out of my fingers. A few years ago (yes, years, not decades!) it took Second Place in the Tulsa Library Adult Creative Writing Contest. I already spent the $100 that came with it.
Timothy Thompson and the Tickle Tree
by
Pat Carey
Timothy Thompson was most often right. If he couldn't be right, he didn't want to play. Timothy put his shoes on first thing in the morning and tied them by himself. Then he sat on the steps of his big front porch.
Olivia Claire McPherson, who lived next door, didn't care about being right; she just liked to play. Usually Olivia Claire, if she wore shoes at all, wore a red shoe on one foot and a blue shoe on the other or sometimes the other way around. And she always went out of her way to stomp in puddles.
Today Olivia Claire walked to Timothy's house with one foot on the sidewalk and one foot in the rainwater that was running along the curb.
"Come out and play, Timothy," Olivia Claire said. "There's a Tickle Tree in Mrs. Watson's yard right around the corner. I'll show you."
"There's no such thing as a Tickle Tree," said Timothy
"Then you'll miss it," Olivia Claire said, as she stomp-splashed, stomp-splashed away. And then Timothy heard her laughing, laughing, laughing from around the corner.
The next day Timothy, brown shoes neatly tied, was sitting on his porch steps when Olivia Claire came by. She was wearing her best ball gown, the one her Mama bought at a garage sale for fifty cents.
"I'm going to the Tickle Tree, Timothy," she said. "Do you want to come?"
There's no such thing as a Tickle Tree," Timothy said. "My mother helped me look up trees on the internet. Mrs. Watson's tree is a Weeping Willow tree, NOT a Tickle Tree."
"Then you'll miss it," said Olivia Claire. Her ball gown swirled around her as she twisted and twirled away. And Timothy heard her laughing, laughing, laughing from around the corner.
When Timothy got up the next morning he chose his blue canvas tennis shoes and carefully tied the shoestrings. It had rained again last night so before Timothy sat on the front steps he first dried them off with a towel his mother gave him.
Today Olivia Claire was wearing flip-flops, one with shiny buttons all around and the other with fuzzy feathers across the toes. "Hi, Timothy. Do you want to play? I'm flying today," she said.
"Kids can't fly. Only birds," said Timothy. But he came down the steps and walked, with very good posture, to the sidewalk. Olivia Claire made zig-zigs back and forth, her arms stretched out widely as she flew along.
In Mrs. Watson's yard a tree stood next to the sidewalk. It had long, thin branches with long, thin leaves that hung almost to the ground. Olivia Claire disappeared into the leaves but Timothy stopped. He could go around it or he could duck down under. He heard Olivia Claire giggling but he couldn't see her. Finally, Timothy began to walk toward the branches. They tickled his forehead, then they tickled his nose, then they tickled his chin. Timothy began to smile. He grinned. He giggled. And before he knew it he was laughing, laughing, laughing.
He kept on laughing all the way home as he and Olivia Claire stomped in each puddle and then followed the footprints all the back again to the Tickle Tree.
The End
Friday, September 9, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Massage Therapy
When I win the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes I am going to have a standing appointment with my massage therapist. Heck, maybe I'll just hire her and have her on staff. That would be the ultimate luxury for me. One of my gifts from Dennis for our anniversary is a massage appointment, but Diane, the lady I usually go to, is booked till Friday. I can hardly wait.
When we first moved to Tulsa I saw signs on bus stop benches all over town for a massage at a really good price. It almost seemed like too good a price, but not knowing the market here, and being anxious to have a relaxing massage after working at rehabbing our house and then moving, I decided to treat myself.
When I mentioned it to Robyn, my daughter-in-law, her eyebrows shot up. "I don't think that's really the place you want to go," she said. She always thinks I'm naïve about things. Like I don't know my way around the big, bad world. Huh! I haven't been around this long for nothing. Besides, what I do know is saving money, so I called the number on the bus stop bench. I didn't have to wait too long for the appointment and they gave me directions
The first time I had a massage was when Dennis went to a convention in Anaheim, California as President of the Oklahoma Commercial Realtors and I got to go along. There was an expense account and the hotel had a massage therapist, and bingo! I was hooked. But they are kind of expensive and the only other times I had gotten massages they were gifts when we lived in St. Louis. However, each time I've gone it had been in a spa-like setting.
The Bus Bench massage location didn't seem too spa-like when I pulled into the parking lot. It was in an older area of town in a strip shopping center. "Well, this is one reason the prices are low," I told myself. It did seem a little odd that when I got to the door it was locked. I had to ring a bell, then someone came and let me in and verified I had an appointment before they unlocked the door, though it didn't seem too busy there for the middle of the afternoon. I was glad I was going to give them some business. In this economy we all have to work together. There were no other women waiting with me and I felt bad that they didn't have more customers. It didn't seem too spa-like inside either, though. The waiting area was small, the industrial grade blue carpet was dirty. I hoped they would be able to replace that as soon as their business built up more.
Two men were in a glassed-in office smoking cigars. I was glad for the glass. Cigar smoke would certainly not contribute to a spa atmosphere. They stared at me for a moment, like they had never seen a little (stop smirking!) old grandma coming for a massage. Then went back to smoking their cigars. No wonder things were slow, I thought. They didn't seem to know how to treat a paying customer, and they didn't even look like spa employees should look, either. No wonder this place didn't seem too prosperous. Someone really needed to take it in hand and make it more welcoming. Maybe they were the owners. They needed to quit smoking cigars and get down to business!
The massage therapist came to get me. She was wearing tiny shorts and a t-shirt. I decided I would try to tip her well so she could afford to buy some scrubs like in the big spa massage locations. Her massage room was similar to those I had been in before, a little darker, perhaps, but maybe the candles were the aroma-therapy kind. I began chatting with the young lady, as I am wont to do. She told me she only makes the tips people gave her, the whole massage fee goes to the owners. That made me worry about her because she really wasn't very good at the massage. I considered giving those owners a piece of my mind when I went out, but they were kind of scary looking so I decided against that. My time was up but before I paid her she asked me if I would like to take a shower. I don't think that has ever been offered anywhere before. I actually felt like I needed one but declined to take it there and hurried home to my own shower. Things had just seemed strange. But, what did I know? I have to admit---but not to Robyn!---that I'm really not too experienced at these things.
When you move to a new location it takes awhile to learn your way around and recognize streets and businesses so imagine how exciting it was when we were watching the news a few weeks later and I recognized a picture of my Bus Bench massage parlor in the news promo. "Oh, look," I said to Dennis "my massage parlor is TV". Then, the news story: You'll never guess! I was apparently the only woman who had paid for a legitimate massage at that location as long as they had been open. It was busted, along with several others, for being the "Other Kind" of massage parlor.
I didn't call Robyn to tell her to watch the news.
When we first moved to Tulsa I saw signs on bus stop benches all over town for a massage at a really good price. It almost seemed like too good a price, but not knowing the market here, and being anxious to have a relaxing massage after working at rehabbing our house and then moving, I decided to treat myself.
When I mentioned it to Robyn, my daughter-in-law, her eyebrows shot up. "I don't think that's really the place you want to go," she said. She always thinks I'm naïve about things. Like I don't know my way around the big, bad world. Huh! I haven't been around this long for nothing. Besides, what I do know is saving money, so I called the number on the bus stop bench. I didn't have to wait too long for the appointment and they gave me directions
The first time I had a massage was when Dennis went to a convention in Anaheim, California as President of the Oklahoma Commercial Realtors and I got to go along. There was an expense account and the hotel had a massage therapist, and bingo! I was hooked. But they are kind of expensive and the only other times I had gotten massages they were gifts when we lived in St. Louis. However, each time I've gone it had been in a spa-like setting.
The Bus Bench massage location didn't seem too spa-like when I pulled into the parking lot. It was in an older area of town in a strip shopping center. "Well, this is one reason the prices are low," I told myself. It did seem a little odd that when I got to the door it was locked. I had to ring a bell, then someone came and let me in and verified I had an appointment before they unlocked the door, though it didn't seem too busy there for the middle of the afternoon. I was glad I was going to give them some business. In this economy we all have to work together. There were no other women waiting with me and I felt bad that they didn't have more customers. It didn't seem too spa-like inside either, though. The waiting area was small, the industrial grade blue carpet was dirty. I hoped they would be able to replace that as soon as their business built up more.
Two men were in a glassed-in office smoking cigars. I was glad for the glass. Cigar smoke would certainly not contribute to a spa atmosphere. They stared at me for a moment, like they had never seen a little (stop smirking!) old grandma coming for a massage. Then went back to smoking their cigars. No wonder things were slow, I thought. They didn't seem to know how to treat a paying customer, and they didn't even look like spa employees should look, either. No wonder this place didn't seem too prosperous. Someone really needed to take it in hand and make it more welcoming. Maybe they were the owners. They needed to quit smoking cigars and get down to business!
The massage therapist came to get me. She was wearing tiny shorts and a t-shirt. I decided I would try to tip her well so she could afford to buy some scrubs like in the big spa massage locations. Her massage room was similar to those I had been in before, a little darker, perhaps, but maybe the candles were the aroma-therapy kind. I began chatting with the young lady, as I am wont to do. She told me she only makes the tips people gave her, the whole massage fee goes to the owners. That made me worry about her because she really wasn't very good at the massage. I considered giving those owners a piece of my mind when I went out, but they were kind of scary looking so I decided against that. My time was up but before I paid her she asked me if I would like to take a shower. I don't think that has ever been offered anywhere before. I actually felt like I needed one but declined to take it there and hurried home to my own shower. Things had just seemed strange. But, what did I know? I have to admit---but not to Robyn!---that I'm really not too experienced at these things.
When you move to a new location it takes awhile to learn your way around and recognize streets and businesses so imagine how exciting it was when we were watching the news a few weeks later and I recognized a picture of my Bus Bench massage parlor in the news promo. "Oh, look," I said to Dennis "my massage parlor is TV". Then, the news story: You'll never guess! I was apparently the only woman who had paid for a legitimate massage at that location as long as they had been open. It was busted, along with several others, for being the "Other Kind" of massage parlor.
I didn't call Robyn to tell her to watch the news.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
The Flinging of the Clothes
My grandmother had a set of seven tea towels that had embroidered pictures on them and the sayings: Wash on Monday, Iron on Tuesday, Sew on Wednesday, Market on Thursday, Clean on Friday, Bake on Saturday, Worship on Sunday. One for each day. I'm not sure if she followed this schedule exactly but I think she made a pretty good stab at it.
I, on the other hand, only partially work the list. I know I worship on Sunday, and other days too, actually. The rest may be spread out a little. Or ignored. That ironing thing: I've heard of it but the exact concept escapes me. I know it involves some kind of super-heated medieval torture instruments but they aren't seen in polite company these days.
The Washing on Monday, however, if you do it right, now that can be a great celebration. It doesn't have to be on Monday, any day will work. At our house when the boys were younger we had The Flinging of the Clothes night. Josh's friend, Brian would even join us, rushing in the door at the last minute yelling "Did I miss the Flinging?" I think Brian was actually the one who bestowed the name on our festivity the first time he witnessed it.
The observance evolved, over the years. First with Dennis going to the Laundromat during our early marriage and washing all the whites with a burgundy sweatshirt. He wore hot pink underwear for about six months after that. I think there was a method to his madness but it still didn't get him out of laundry duty. Then when the boys were really young I did it all and there were many arguments over why in the world is it easier to hide your dirty clothes under the bed and behind the door than it is to put them in the hamper? And the underwear and towels left on the kids' bathroom floor every morning! Sheesh!! Were you raised by bears?
Here is a handy household hint: if your kids can't seem to get things from the bathroom to the hamper, put a hamper in the bathroom itself. We bought trashcans with swinging lids just for this purpose and put them in the bathroom and in each of the bedrooms. The smaller size of a trashcan instead of real hamper works best and it's fun to toss something from across the room and set that lid spinning.
Finally we made peace with the laundry monster and turned it into a family activity. Okay, Dennis didn't participate in the Flinging but he usually managed to hit the hamper in our closet. At the time we had a two-story house with a balcony that overlooked the entry hall. On the appropriate evening everyone who had dirty laundry upstairs gathered up his trash can/hamper and dumped the contents over the balcony. It made quite an impressive pile. There may have been some aiming at your brother involved when things were being thrown over. Then the boys brought everything into the family room and added them to Dennis's and my things making an even bigger pile. Then I lit a match to the pile and we all danced----oh, wait, that's a fantasy I toyed with from time to time. I mean, then began the Flinging.
Our washing machine had settings for Normal, Permanent Press and Delicate, so everybody grabbed something and we zinged the big pile into six smaller---make that less big---piles of light and dark colors for each setting. It was similar to the scenes of the tomato fights in Spain that you see on TV every year. Wild and boisterous, fast and furious.
Being the only female in a house full of males, I got the Delicate pile all to myself for the most part unless someone thought it was hilariously funny to run around and pretend to have Mickey Mouse ears by wearing a piece of my intimate apparel on his head. Or during the period that someone who shall be nameless wore Hammer Pants that were marked for delicate washing. (Hey, this may be another blog--with pictures--although this all can be avoided with a little persuasion on someone's part. The sum of $500 in small bills under the rock by the back door should do it. Or a new cordless mouse. Just sayin')
A load in the washer and a load in the dryer when we went to bed made it seem by morning that the job was well on it's way. As long as everybody participated in The Fling, I would wash and fold the clothes during school hours and at night people put away their own things.
When the boys were little we had those plastic grocery carts. (I know they were boys but boys can learn about shopping and dolls and things like that!) I would put the clothes in each of their carts and they took them to their rooms to be put away. The free-spirited child opened his drawer, turned the cart upside down and dumped in the clothes. The other (let's not say anal retentive, let's say more serious) refolded the clothes, because I didn't do them right, and placed them in his drawer in precise layers. When their clothes got too big for the cart they used the laundry baskets. One continued to carefully put them away, the other kept the basket in his room and just lived out of it for the week. Why waste extra motion opening up that drawer over and over?
Each boy learned to use the washer and dryer himself when Junior High started. The fact that they were graded on bringing their gym clothes back on Mondays freshly laundered and someone's mother may have forgotten to wash them that weekend and--Fine! I'll do it myself!!--happened made it rather simple.
Today they each have their own washer and dryer, their own kids and their own big piles of dirty clothes. (I heard that Brian changed his name, became a Naval officer and someone else on board ship does his laundry for him, but I know he knows how to do laundry when he's on leave) I don't know if they have instituted The Flinging of the Clothes but if not they are missing a lot of fun. Their kids are just about the right age now.
The other day I ran the washing machine and when I went to empty it into the dryer I found I had forgotten to put the clothes in. Somebody in this house wanted to blame it on a Senior Moment or worse, but I think I just need to start my own Mini-Fling to get things back in sync. Then maybe I better work on some of those other tea towel days, maybe the baking one, something chocolate, perhaps. Three down, some other number to go. My grandmother would be proud.
I, on the other hand, only partially work the list. I know I worship on Sunday, and other days too, actually. The rest may be spread out a little. Or ignored. That ironing thing: I've heard of it but the exact concept escapes me. I know it involves some kind of super-heated medieval torture instruments but they aren't seen in polite company these days.
The Washing on Monday, however, if you do it right, now that can be a great celebration. It doesn't have to be on Monday, any day will work. At our house when the boys were younger we had The Flinging of the Clothes night. Josh's friend, Brian would even join us, rushing in the door at the last minute yelling "Did I miss the Flinging?" I think Brian was actually the one who bestowed the name on our festivity the first time he witnessed it.
The observance evolved, over the years. First with Dennis going to the Laundromat during our early marriage and washing all the whites with a burgundy sweatshirt. He wore hot pink underwear for about six months after that. I think there was a method to his madness but it still didn't get him out of laundry duty. Then when the boys were really young I did it all and there were many arguments over why in the world is it easier to hide your dirty clothes under the bed and behind the door than it is to put them in the hamper? And the underwear and towels left on the kids' bathroom floor every morning! Sheesh!! Were you raised by bears?
Here is a handy household hint: if your kids can't seem to get things from the bathroom to the hamper, put a hamper in the bathroom itself. We bought trashcans with swinging lids just for this purpose and put them in the bathroom and in each of the bedrooms. The smaller size of a trashcan instead of real hamper works best and it's fun to toss something from across the room and set that lid spinning.
Finally we made peace with the laundry monster and turned it into a family activity. Okay, Dennis didn't participate in the Flinging but he usually managed to hit the hamper in our closet. At the time we had a two-story house with a balcony that overlooked the entry hall. On the appropriate evening everyone who had dirty laundry upstairs gathered up his trash can/hamper and dumped the contents over the balcony. It made quite an impressive pile. There may have been some aiming at your brother involved when things were being thrown over. Then the boys brought everything into the family room and added them to Dennis's and my things making an even bigger pile. Then I lit a match to the pile and we all danced----oh, wait, that's a fantasy I toyed with from time to time. I mean, then began the Flinging.
Our washing machine had settings for Normal, Permanent Press and Delicate, so everybody grabbed something and we zinged the big pile into six smaller---make that less big---piles of light and dark colors for each setting. It was similar to the scenes of the tomato fights in Spain that you see on TV every year. Wild and boisterous, fast and furious.
Being the only female in a house full of males, I got the Delicate pile all to myself for the most part unless someone thought it was hilariously funny to run around and pretend to have Mickey Mouse ears by wearing a piece of my intimate apparel on his head. Or during the period that someone who shall be nameless wore Hammer Pants that were marked for delicate washing. (Hey, this may be another blog--with pictures--although this all can be avoided with a little persuasion on someone's part. The sum of $500 in small bills under the rock by the back door should do it. Or a new cordless mouse. Just sayin')
A load in the washer and a load in the dryer when we went to bed made it seem by morning that the job was well on it's way. As long as everybody participated in The Fling, I would wash and fold the clothes during school hours and at night people put away their own things.
When the boys were little we had those plastic grocery carts. (I know they were boys but boys can learn about shopping and dolls and things like that!) I would put the clothes in each of their carts and they took them to their rooms to be put away. The free-spirited child opened his drawer, turned the cart upside down and dumped in the clothes. The other (let's not say anal retentive, let's say more serious) refolded the clothes, because I didn't do them right, and placed them in his drawer in precise layers. When their clothes got too big for the cart they used the laundry baskets. One continued to carefully put them away, the other kept the basket in his room and just lived out of it for the week. Why waste extra motion opening up that drawer over and over?
Each boy learned to use the washer and dryer himself when Junior High started. The fact that they were graded on bringing their gym clothes back on Mondays freshly laundered and someone's mother may have forgotten to wash them that weekend and--Fine! I'll do it myself!!--happened made it rather simple.
Today they each have their own washer and dryer, their own kids and their own big piles of dirty clothes. (I heard that Brian changed his name, became a Naval officer and someone else on board ship does his laundry for him, but I know he knows how to do laundry when he's on leave) I don't know if they have instituted The Flinging of the Clothes but if not they are missing a lot of fun. Their kids are just about the right age now.
The other day I ran the washing machine and when I went to empty it into the dryer I found I had forgotten to put the clothes in. Somebody in this house wanted to blame it on a Senior Moment or worse, but I think I just need to start my own Mini-Fling to get things back in sync. Then maybe I better work on some of those other tea towel days, maybe the baking one, something chocolate, perhaps. Three down, some other number to go. My grandmother would be proud.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
How My Baby Got His Leg Broke
So you want to know how it happened that Jake broke his leg when he was a baby. You can't leave it alone. You and every social worker and "concerned citizen" in California at the time!
It probably started before he was even born. He was a kicker. He played whole soccer games in my insides, even kicking Dennis if he got too close. After the game he would roll back and forth, back and forth, from one side of my stomach to the other. They must have had root beer for their after-game treat because he would have hiccups for hours on end. Just sitting in church with my maternity top bouncing around like I was covering up a pot on rolling-boil got to be pretty embarrassing. When he was finally born, legs and arms flailing about, fists punching the air, I looked at him and said "So that's what you've been doing in there all this time!"
As a newborn he wiggled, as a baby he bounced, and by the time he was eight months old he was almost impossible to hold. In fact, I had caught him by his ankles more than once when he pushed against me wanting to get down. I tell you all this to say, "IT WAS NOT MY FAULT!"
The nursery at our church was in a separate building. I was chatting with the lady at the nursery door before I dropped him off.....wait!....I mean HANDED him to her just like Good Mothers do every Sunday all over the world. There was a sidewalk; I was still standing outside the door. I had not even started to give him to her yet. You know how some babies kind of "buck" against you? This was Jake's move. By the time he was eight months old he had practiced this over and over. He straightened his legs out, pushing with all his might as he had done dozens of times before--And this time I didn't catch him.
The nursery worker threw out her arms, I made a desperate grab, and we both watched in horror as Jake fell to the concrete sidewalk. He screamed, I screamed and Dennis heard us from inside the other building and four rooms away. The California Institute of Technology may have taken note of a blip on their Richter scale. I was sure I had seen him hit his head. I called the doctor from the church office.
Since it was evening she said,"Watch him through the night, wake him every fifteen minutes to see if his eyes have dilated, and bring him in to the office in the morning." Yeah, right. He cried off and on all night long, no need to wake him. We figured he had a massive headache so we were very careful about his head. We grabbed his legs instead. Dennis set his carrier on the sink while he shaved in the morning and leaned against Jake's legs as he reached over him. Of course, Jake wailed. I lifted him by the legs to change his diaper. He wailed. When I dressed him to take him to the doctor, I looked all over to find an outfit that didn't pull over his head, Good Mother that I was, I pulled it over his legs instead. He wailed.
By the time we got to the doctor's office Jake had finally fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion, leaning up against my chest. As soon as the doctor saw us there, looking like Madonna and Child, she knew he had not hit his head. She reached over and touched his leg. That woke him up! She sent us over to the hospital for x-rays. Sure enough, a fractured femur.
Then came the questions. This was 1976, just at the beginning of public awareness of child abuse. "Mrs. Carey, would you tell me again where you were when this injury occurred?' "Mrs. Carey, you say you were the one holding him when he allegedly fell?" "Mrs. Carey, how did you feel about the fact that he was wiggling so much? Did it make you angry?" Each person I spoke to at the hospital demanded details, then passed me on to someone else who wanted to hear, again, exactly why this child had the injury he had, and have me fill out yet another form. They did not give me any Mother of the Year awards. I was saved because there was a witness, the nursery worker, who had seen Jake fall. After many hours they finally let me go home with my baby instead of placing him in foster care.
An adult who had the same injury would have had to wear the cast for six months, the orthopedist told us, but being a baby, with an exceptionally Good Mother, he healed in just six weeks. During that time he even learned to crawl, although he crawled dragging the cast behind him. When the cast came off he still crawled with one leg behind. That's the way he learned. I couldn't teach him everything!
The cast was quite a conversation starter when we went out to the store or to the park Naturally, everybody who saw us asked "Oh, what happened?" to which big brother, Josh, three, would answer. "My mommy dropped him on the hard concrete and broke his leg!" Thanks, Josh.
You would think that child would want to stay on the good side of a mom who would do that to a baby.
It probably started before he was even born. He was a kicker. He played whole soccer games in my insides, even kicking Dennis if he got too close. After the game he would roll back and forth, back and forth, from one side of my stomach to the other. They must have had root beer for their after-game treat because he would have hiccups for hours on end. Just sitting in church with my maternity top bouncing around like I was covering up a pot on rolling-boil got to be pretty embarrassing. When he was finally born, legs and arms flailing about, fists punching the air, I looked at him and said "So that's what you've been doing in there all this time!"
As a newborn he wiggled, as a baby he bounced, and by the time he was eight months old he was almost impossible to hold. In fact, I had caught him by his ankles more than once when he pushed against me wanting to get down. I tell you all this to say, "IT WAS NOT MY FAULT!"
The nursery at our church was in a separate building. I was chatting with the lady at the nursery door before I dropped him off.....wait!....I mean HANDED him to her just like Good Mothers do every Sunday all over the world. There was a sidewalk; I was still standing outside the door. I had not even started to give him to her yet. You know how some babies kind of "buck" against you? This was Jake's move. By the time he was eight months old he had practiced this over and over. He straightened his legs out, pushing with all his might as he had done dozens of times before--And this time I didn't catch him.
The nursery worker threw out her arms, I made a desperate grab, and we both watched in horror as Jake fell to the concrete sidewalk. He screamed, I screamed and Dennis heard us from inside the other building and four rooms away. The California Institute of Technology may have taken note of a blip on their Richter scale. I was sure I had seen him hit his head. I called the doctor from the church office.
Since it was evening she said,"Watch him through the night, wake him every fifteen minutes to see if his eyes have dilated, and bring him in to the office in the morning." Yeah, right. He cried off and on all night long, no need to wake him. We figured he had a massive headache so we were very careful about his head. We grabbed his legs instead. Dennis set his carrier on the sink while he shaved in the morning and leaned against Jake's legs as he reached over him. Of course, Jake wailed. I lifted him by the legs to change his diaper. He wailed. When I dressed him to take him to the doctor, I looked all over to find an outfit that didn't pull over his head, Good Mother that I was, I pulled it over his legs instead. He wailed.
By the time we got to the doctor's office Jake had finally fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion, leaning up against my chest. As soon as the doctor saw us there, looking like Madonna and Child, she knew he had not hit his head. She reached over and touched his leg. That woke him up! She sent us over to the hospital for x-rays. Sure enough, a fractured femur.
Then came the questions. This was 1976, just at the beginning of public awareness of child abuse. "Mrs. Carey, would you tell me again where you were when this injury occurred?' "Mrs. Carey, you say you were the one holding him when he allegedly fell?" "Mrs. Carey, how did you feel about the fact that he was wiggling so much? Did it make you angry?" Each person I spoke to at the hospital demanded details, then passed me on to someone else who wanted to hear, again, exactly why this child had the injury he had, and have me fill out yet another form. They did not give me any Mother of the Year awards. I was saved because there was a witness, the nursery worker, who had seen Jake fall. After many hours they finally let me go home with my baby instead of placing him in foster care.
An adult who had the same injury would have had to wear the cast for six months, the orthopedist told us, but being a baby, with an exceptionally Good Mother, he healed in just six weeks. During that time he even learned to crawl, although he crawled dragging the cast behind him. When the cast came off he still crawled with one leg behind. That's the way he learned. I couldn't teach him everything!
The cast was quite a conversation starter when we went out to the store or to the park Naturally, everybody who saw us asked "Oh, what happened?" to which big brother, Josh, three, would answer. "My mommy dropped him on the hard concrete and broke his leg!" Thanks, Josh.
You would think that child would want to stay on the good side of a mom who would do that to a baby.
Friday, September 2, 2011
The Grandma in My Mirror
I just walked by a mirror and my grandmother's face stared out at me. I don't know when she got here. If I'm not looking in a mirror, I'm sure I'm still a thirty-year-old hot red-head. Okay, maybe not hot. But warm!
My sisters, you may recall, got the dominant genes in our family: dark hair, tall, straight noses, etc. In fact, they were really quite beautiful. One modeled and was often compared to the young Elizabeth Taylor. My sisters looked like each other. I looked like the red-headed step-child. I was red-headed anyway.
My own, sweet husband, who to this day insists that he fell in love with me the first time he saw me, (here is where you say "Awww.") said, when he met my sisters "Wow, your sisters are gorgeous." And later---wait for it, wait for it---"You don't look a thing like your sisters."
But, here is the payoff: If you never looked like Elizabeth Taylor (not that one, the young one, smarty pants!) it doesn't startle you as much when you begin to age. My sisters are still taking forever to carefully get dressed, do their hair and apply their make-up (and they are still looking fabulous!) before they leave the house. I can get out quick. I am the only one of us who has grey hair and it saves all kinds of time and money. Make-up? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But when my sister and I went out to eat and she didn't get the Senior Discount because she didn't look old enough (she was) and they gave it to me without asking ( I wasn't), I didn't turn it down.
I can't tell you how many times little kids have seen me from across a room and started running toward me, yelling "Grandma!" Sometimes they stop when they get close enough to see I'm not the grandma they were expecting, but other times they come all the way to me with their arms held high to be picked up. So I pick them up. I get lots of hugs that way.
When you look like everybody's grandma people hold doors for you, they let you go first in lines and sometimes they even get up and give you a seat if you are in a crowded waiting room. They offer to carry things for you and hold doors open till you get there. And don't forget about the Senior Discount. I get it legitimately now. If I forget to comb my hair now and then, people make allowances. I don't drive at night anymore so if I don't want to go someplace I have a good excuse. And when I do drive someplace, as long as I have Dennis with me, I get to park up close, in the handicap space.
At first it seemed strange when I went to a new doctor and he was younger than me, or I got stopped by a policeman who looked about half my age. Now, I have one son who's a doctor and one who's a cop, so I'm more used to it but I'm still pretty sure I know more than they do anyway.
Since I had my mastectomy I have had to make regular visits to a plastic surgeon's office for treatments. I have to admit that I study closely the other people in the waiting room. There are some that I'm positive are there to consult about, or are in the midst of, face lifts and all kinds of surgeries to make themselves look younger. Not me. These wrinkles are hard-earned and every one of them has a memory behind it. I like to think the more lines on my face the more lines in my brain. Those people don't know what they'll be missing.
I'm staying away from the full-length mirror though.
My sisters, you may recall, got the dominant genes in our family: dark hair, tall, straight noses, etc. In fact, they were really quite beautiful. One modeled and was often compared to the young Elizabeth Taylor. My sisters looked like each other. I looked like the red-headed step-child. I was red-headed anyway.
My own, sweet husband, who to this day insists that he fell in love with me the first time he saw me, (here is where you say "Awww.") said, when he met my sisters "Wow, your sisters are gorgeous." And later---wait for it, wait for it---"You don't look a thing like your sisters."
But, here is the payoff: If you never looked like Elizabeth Taylor (not that one, the young one, smarty pants!) it doesn't startle you as much when you begin to age. My sisters are still taking forever to carefully get dressed, do their hair and apply their make-up (and they are still looking fabulous!) before they leave the house. I can get out quick. I am the only one of us who has grey hair and it saves all kinds of time and money. Make-up? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But when my sister and I went out to eat and she didn't get the Senior Discount because she didn't look old enough (she was) and they gave it to me without asking ( I wasn't), I didn't turn it down.
I can't tell you how many times little kids have seen me from across a room and started running toward me, yelling "Grandma!" Sometimes they stop when they get close enough to see I'm not the grandma they were expecting, but other times they come all the way to me with their arms held high to be picked up. So I pick them up. I get lots of hugs that way.
When you look like everybody's grandma people hold doors for you, they let you go first in lines and sometimes they even get up and give you a seat if you are in a crowded waiting room. They offer to carry things for you and hold doors open till you get there. And don't forget about the Senior Discount. I get it legitimately now. If I forget to comb my hair now and then, people make allowances. I don't drive at night anymore so if I don't want to go someplace I have a good excuse. And when I do drive someplace, as long as I have Dennis with me, I get to park up close, in the handicap space.
At first it seemed strange when I went to a new doctor and he was younger than me, or I got stopped by a policeman who looked about half my age. Now, I have one son who's a doctor and one who's a cop, so I'm more used to it but I'm still pretty sure I know more than they do anyway.
Since I had my mastectomy I have had to make regular visits to a plastic surgeon's office for treatments. I have to admit that I study closely the other people in the waiting room. There are some that I'm positive are there to consult about, or are in the midst of, face lifts and all kinds of surgeries to make themselves look younger. Not me. These wrinkles are hard-earned and every one of them has a memory behind it. I like to think the more lines on my face the more lines in my brain. Those people don't know what they'll be missing.
I'm staying away from the full-length mirror though.
Saved By The Kid
The first time they put that squalling, squirmy, screeching little baby in your arms and you have counted his fingers and toes and marveled over how beautiful someone who looks a lot like Winston Churchill can be you begin to realize how a mother bear can rip someone's arm off if she thinks her baby might be in danger. You swear by all that is holy that you will protect this child forever no matter the threat.
And then you turn around and he's standing there towering over you and his muscles are like tree limbs and you think "Okay, my protecting days are over." Except you pray morning and night for angels to surround him and protect him where you can't. You don't have to tell him. And then you turn around again and he is the one protecting you. The Circle of Life, I guess.
Call me a hypocrite because I wouldn't even let my boys play with guns when they were little, but as long as Jake decided to be a cop and have guns, why not call him if there is a snake (okay, a LONG pipe cleaner*) in the laundry room? Or, like once when we first moved to Tulsa and I came home from church to find the front door open (is there a pattern here?**) I called Jake instead of the Tulsa cops. No sense being embarrassed by the whole "Oops, I think I forgot to close the door" thing in front of the cops in case I had just forgotten to close the door. Which apparently I did.
And whenever I sell something on Craig's List and someone is going to come to my house to pick it up, I get Jake to come over wearing his shirt that says POLICE on it and wearing his gun. Just in case.
I don't think he will remember this, but Jake actually started protecting me, in a way, when he was only ten. I had just started working at the furniture store and, well, you know how sometimes there is someone who just gets on your nerves, not matter what they do and every time you are around them they do something dumb and you want to strangle them? I was that someone for one of the managers at the store.
It seems like no matter what I did it was not right for this guy. I was new and I admit to a few--ok, maybe a lot--of mistakes. But he seemed to delight in calling me on them in front of people. It was like he watched me, waiting for me to screw up. And I obliged him. I tried not to bring it home, but you know how that works. I may have mentioned it a couple of times. Or cried in the bathroom where nobody was supposed to hear.
We only had one car at the time and Dennis and the boys came to pick me up from work. I was going to take a small table to a customer on the way home, so this manager carried it out to the car. I thanked him and introduced him to Dennis, Josh and Jake. It was summer, the car windows were open, and after the manager loaded the table into the back of the car, but before he got all the way to the front door, Jake turned to me, his ten-year-old voice carrying through the parking lot, and said "Is that the man who's mean to you, Mom?"
When I got to work the next day it was as if I was the long lost daughter of the founders. This manager was never nicer to me, we actually became good friends and I stayed at that job for nine years.
Thanks, Jake, for protecting me even then. I'll be calling you if I see anything suspicious in the laundry room. Or if anybody is mean to me.
*See Reptile Dysfunction--July 28
**See It Was A Dark and Stormy Night August 22
And then you turn around and he's standing there towering over you and his muscles are like tree limbs and you think "Okay, my protecting days are over." Except you pray morning and night for angels to surround him and protect him where you can't. You don't have to tell him. And then you turn around again and he is the one protecting you. The Circle of Life, I guess.
Call me a hypocrite because I wouldn't even let my boys play with guns when they were little, but as long as Jake decided to be a cop and have guns, why not call him if there is a snake (okay, a LONG pipe cleaner*) in the laundry room? Or, like once when we first moved to Tulsa and I came home from church to find the front door open (is there a pattern here?**) I called Jake instead of the Tulsa cops. No sense being embarrassed by the whole "Oops, I think I forgot to close the door" thing in front of the cops in case I had just forgotten to close the door. Which apparently I did.
And whenever I sell something on Craig's List and someone is going to come to my house to pick it up, I get Jake to come over wearing his shirt that says POLICE on it and wearing his gun. Just in case.
I don't think he will remember this, but Jake actually started protecting me, in a way, when he was only ten. I had just started working at the furniture store and, well, you know how sometimes there is someone who just gets on your nerves, not matter what they do and every time you are around them they do something dumb and you want to strangle them? I was that someone for one of the managers at the store.
It seems like no matter what I did it was not right for this guy. I was new and I admit to a few--ok, maybe a lot--of mistakes. But he seemed to delight in calling me on them in front of people. It was like he watched me, waiting for me to screw up. And I obliged him. I tried not to bring it home, but you know how that works. I may have mentioned it a couple of times. Or cried in the bathroom where nobody was supposed to hear.
We only had one car at the time and Dennis and the boys came to pick me up from work. I was going to take a small table to a customer on the way home, so this manager carried it out to the car. I thanked him and introduced him to Dennis, Josh and Jake. It was summer, the car windows were open, and after the manager loaded the table into the back of the car, but before he got all the way to the front door, Jake turned to me, his ten-year-old voice carrying through the parking lot, and said "Is that the man who's mean to you, Mom?"
When I got to work the next day it was as if I was the long lost daughter of the founders. This manager was never nicer to me, we actually became good friends and I stayed at that job for nine years.
Thanks, Jake, for protecting me even then. I'll be calling you if I see anything suspicious in the laundry room. Or if anybody is mean to me.
*See Reptile Dysfunction--July 28
**See It Was A Dark and Stormy Night August 22
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Dinner Reservations
I don't think I'm going to invite any more of Dennis's bosses to dinner. They just seem to cause trouble. I'm sure they don't mean to, but then again, look at the record.
The first time I invited Dennis's boss over we lived in our first little house near St. Louis and there was barely enough room for everyone to sit, much less eat, so we thought we would just have hors d'oeuvres and then go out to a restaurant. The only problem was, I didn't know exactly what an hors d'oeuvre was. Dennis took French in college but he didn't seem to know either.
I asked around where I worked. Someone said cheese fondue. I was to melt Velveeta cheese in a chafing dish, add tomato soup and dip chunks of bread in it. (Sounds yummy, doesn't it?) The problem was, I didn't know what a chafing dish was. I asked around at work. Someone said "I have a chafing dish you can borrow," and I was set.
I chopped the Velveeta into chunks before the company arrived, and when everybody got there, started melting the cheese. Now, I don't know if the chafing dish itself was faulty, or if I was not supposed to actually put it on the stove to melt the cheese in it, but just as I picked up the dish by it's wooden handle to carry it into the living room, the handle broke off, the boiling cheese splashed all over my legs (thank the Lord I was wearing thick wool pants) and all over the kitchen walls and floor. I stood there in shock with the hot cheese congealing on my legs while the boss's sweet wife got on her hands and knees and cleaned up the cheese. We decided to go to the restaurant for our hors d'oeuvres. After I changed clothes. At least we were all saved from having to eat the Velveeta/tomato soup concoction
The next time we had a boss to dinner we had moved to California and he was a single man with the interesting name of Sandy. We had a dining room for the first time. I polished all the silver and got out the good plates. It should have been simple. Steaks on the grill, baked potatoes and salad. I asked Dennis the other day if he remembered much about the evening and he said, "I don't recall much. I don't think Sandy ate much, really, after he pulled the long red hair out of his salad." Sandy was blond and Dennis had short brown hair. Hmmm. Who do you think had long, red hair at the time?
The Long-Haired Suspect and Josh
Boss three and his wife came to dinner after a job change a few years later. A simple pot roast, no culinary disasters, but earlier on the day of the dinner party, eight-month old Jake had fallen and broken his leg. (OK, I dropped him. We'll discuss it another blog!) Poor Jake cried the whole evening and I don't think I ever even got to the table, nor could those who did get to the table hear each other talk. I'm fairly sure they left early.
I had pretty much learned my lesson. Any food we shared with bosses from then on was eaten at restaurants. We did have that one instance when the chef quit before our food was finished and the maître d' and the restaurant owner finished cooking and hours later when we finally got our food everything tasted like combat boots a l'orange. But I had nothing to do with that! And that time the waitress quit and stormed out of the restaurant in the middle of our meal, maybe I contributed some but I think she was just having a fight with her boyfriend at the time.
So we moved to Tulsa, Dennis's boss's birthday was coming up and it seemed like a good idea to have him and his wife to dinner. (What can I say? My memory is not entirely what it should be these days.) You will be delighted to know that everything went extremely well. I spent all day making both clam chowder and home-made vegetable soup. I made both French bread and apple pie from scratch. Every one exclaimed how delicious everything was and had seconds, maybe thirds. Aside from being a little crowded in our small house, the evening was a roaring success.
A few weeks later the boss died. I swear it was not my fault!
The first time I invited Dennis's boss over we lived in our first little house near St. Louis and there was barely enough room for everyone to sit, much less eat, so we thought we would just have hors d'oeuvres and then go out to a restaurant. The only problem was, I didn't know exactly what an hors d'oeuvre was. Dennis took French in college but he didn't seem to know either.
I asked around where I worked. Someone said cheese fondue. I was to melt Velveeta cheese in a chafing dish, add tomato soup and dip chunks of bread in it. (Sounds yummy, doesn't it?) The problem was, I didn't know what a chafing dish was. I asked around at work. Someone said "I have a chafing dish you can borrow," and I was set.
I chopped the Velveeta into chunks before the company arrived, and when everybody got there, started melting the cheese. Now, I don't know if the chafing dish itself was faulty, or if I was not supposed to actually put it on the stove to melt the cheese in it, but just as I picked up the dish by it's wooden handle to carry it into the living room, the handle broke off, the boiling cheese splashed all over my legs (thank the Lord I was wearing thick wool pants) and all over the kitchen walls and floor. I stood there in shock with the hot cheese congealing on my legs while the boss's sweet wife got on her hands and knees and cleaned up the cheese. We decided to go to the restaurant for our hors d'oeuvres. After I changed clothes. At least we were all saved from having to eat the Velveeta/tomato soup concoction
The next time we had a boss to dinner we had moved to California and he was a single man with the interesting name of Sandy. We had a dining room for the first time. I polished all the silver and got out the good plates. It should have been simple. Steaks on the grill, baked potatoes and salad. I asked Dennis the other day if he remembered much about the evening and he said, "I don't recall much. I don't think Sandy ate much, really, after he pulled the long red hair out of his salad." Sandy was blond and Dennis had short brown hair. Hmmm. Who do you think had long, red hair at the time?
The Long-Haired Suspect and Josh
I had pretty much learned my lesson. Any food we shared with bosses from then on was eaten at restaurants. We did have that one instance when the chef quit before our food was finished and the maître d' and the restaurant owner finished cooking and hours later when we finally got our food everything tasted like combat boots a l'orange. But I had nothing to do with that! And that time the waitress quit and stormed out of the restaurant in the middle of our meal, maybe I contributed some but I think she was just having a fight with her boyfriend at the time.
So we moved to Tulsa, Dennis's boss's birthday was coming up and it seemed like a good idea to have him and his wife to dinner. (What can I say? My memory is not entirely what it should be these days.) You will be delighted to know that everything went extremely well. I spent all day making both clam chowder and home-made vegetable soup. I made both French bread and apple pie from scratch. Every one exclaimed how delicious everything was and had seconds, maybe thirds. Aside from being a little crowded in our small house, the evening was a roaring success.
A few weeks later the boss died. I swear it was not my fault!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)