My Mother In Law: For Alice

A few friends on Facebook have lost their mother in laws this week.  They are sad and coming to terms with a world without these precious ladies in it.

Like me………….they’ve never told a mother in law joke.  They’ve never laughed at them.  When you have a wonderful mother in law……….well, you just don’t get the joke.

I have a wonderful mother in law.  I like to say that I’ve been blessed with two mothers in my life.  One gave birth to me.  The other met me when I was nineteen.

I got married when I was twenty.  I sat down with my own mother at her kitchen table about a year after the wedding.  I got serious.  I’m hardly ever serious so I suppose I got my mother a little nervous.  She thought “Oh, is that all.” when I finally came out with what I wanted to discuss with her.

“I have a wonderful mother and father in law.  I’ve spent two years not calling them anything.  Norman and Alice is just wrong.  Mr. and Mrs. Kelly is too formal.  I just needed to tell you that I’m going to call them Mom and Dad.  Not, Ma and Daddy like I call you guys.  But, Mom and Dad.  It’s not exactly nicknames.  Because……….well………….they are my parents now too.” I said in all seriousness over the tea cups.

My mother just looked at me and said “Well, aren’t you the lucky one.” No jealousy.  She wasn’t being snide.  She thought I was lucky.

And, I have been.

I suppose during the early years my in-laws started out thinking “She’s nice enough.” “Michael seems awfully fond of her.”  “She gave him that look and he knocked it right off!” “I think he loves her with all his heart.” “She has her faults but she seems kind.” “She makes me laugh.” until one day they just plain loved me as their own.

That is special.  I know.  It doesn’t happen all the time.  But, it’s happened to me.

My father in law left this world a few years ago.  I can honestly say I miss him every day as I do my own parents.  We may come in to this world thinking we’re going to change it in a big way.  If you leave people behind that miss you every day?  You have changed this world.

I have proven to myself three times now that I’m no big shakes at saying goodbye to parents at funerals.  I can get up and do a reading if asked.  Writing and reciting my own personal thoughts at a wake is not my thing.  I’m thankful my husband read my written words at my father’s wake.  He was my Daddy and I was too choked up to speak.

My mother’s funeral is a bit of a blur to me.  I mean……. a world without my mother in it?  That took some getting used to.  A few days weren’t enough.  I remember my beautiful sixteen year old daughter up in the choir loft.  I remember her glorious voice singing Ave Maria.  That is the extent of my memories of that day.

I have my mother in law left to love.  She is young for her age.  She is the world to her children, her grandchildren and her great grandchildren.  She is the world to me.

I just thought she should know it.  Now, while she can read this.

Alice accepted me the day I walked through her door.  If she had any doubts that I was the one for her son she hid it well.  She has written to me every week when I was far from home.  She never forgot one of our birthdays.  Her holiday packages were packed with love.  She has been my second mother in good times and in bad times.

She’s laughed with me and cried with me.  She’s cooked for me and eaten my cooking.  She’s opened up her home to me and enjoyed being a welcomed guest in mine.

She understands me.

She is my friend.

I read a book years ago.  It was written by a very well known psychic.  A lot of the chapters resonated with me.  I was brought up as a Catholic.  Religion is Religion to me.  I accept the things that my soul tells me are the truth.  I exclude other things that feel alien to me.

Some days I’m more in tune with my “soul” than I am on other days.

The author of this book said that we come back to this earth over and over. To learn lessons.  To teach lessons.  But, the people that populate your inner circle are with you over and over.

That resonated with me.

When my daughter gets bossy I can imagine that she was my mother in another life.  When I have a perfect uncomplicated day with my husband I can picture him as a favorite brother.  My son is wise and kind and quiet.  I can picture him as a kindly Uncle.  My best friend Dawn was my sister.  And, I’m so thankful to have found her again.

But, my mother in law?  A few lives ago we were best friends.  We ate popcorn in a warm kitchen.  We put together puzzles and told each other stories.

I announced that I had a dream.  One day we would come back and be different people.  Our souls would be the same but we’d look different.  And my friend stared me in the eyes and believed me as she ate her popcorn.

I then described that she would come back and be my mother in law.  She stared me down.  She told me she believed me.

And, then we both laughed like hell.

Like I said.  Alice has always been my friend.

 

Columbus Street Crew Cuts

It happened every summer.

The days got longer.  The frogs chirped.  The humidity came.

Then came the crew cuts for the boys.

My father cut his own hair.  He’d hang a mirror from the shower curtain rod.  It gave him a view of the back of his head.  He’d get out the clippers and give himself a Marine cut.  As a little girl I would sit on the toilet and watch.  He let me run my little hands over his head so I could say “You missed a spot.”

School would end with an Art Show in the school cafeteria.  We’d all dress up and go up to Waddell School.  We’d walk around the large room that still smelled like gravy and milk cartons.  We’d identify the works of art with the name Anderson attached.

There would be end of the year field day.  Mommy and I would cheer as my brothers finished races.  It didn’t matter if they won or not.  We’d yell our heads off to egg them on to the finish line.

A teacher with more money then sense would hold an ice cream social at the end of the school year.  June usually turned out to be busier than Christmas.  The band sweat it out in the middle of the playground as adults ate ice cream and clapped their hands when they thought a song was done.

It was a grammar school band after all.  The audience was never sure if a song was finished or not.  One or two instrumentalists would finish a song in their own fashion.  Forty kids never ended a number at the same time.

It was all art.  And, summer was only a few days away.  I think that’s what we were all clapping for.

School was over.  Time for a summer hair cut for the boys.  I don’t know why.  I have no idea what the reason was that the boys in my family were shaved when it got hot.  Summer equaled crew cut.  They didn’t seem to mind.  But, I think it wouldn’t have mattered if they complained.  It’s just the way it was.

No need to go to a barber.  Why waste the money?  Daddy knew what he was doing.  He cut his own hair after all.  He’d drag out the kitchen step stool to the driveway.  He’d get out his brown folding hair cut kit.  He’d unroll it on the kitchen steps.  He’d run an extension cord outside.  He’d get buzzing.

I would be told to go and find a brother.

I’d come back with one.  And, they’d get a hair cut.  The hair would fly and land on the driveway.  That’s why it was done outside.  No mess to clean up inside the house.  Sweep the residue into the hemlocks.  Let the squirrels and the birds soften their nests with all that hair.

The second brother was in the midst of being shorn when I’d hear a woo-hoo at the fence.

The next door neighbor wanted to know if my father would give her two boys a hair cut.

I ran to the driveway and asked Daddy if he had two more hair cuts in him.

“Sure, send them over.  I only do buzz cuts.  If that’s not what they want……………well, tell them there will be no bitching. ” my father said over the noise of the clippers.

I ran back to the fence and told the neighbor lady that my Daddy would do two buzz cuts.  The only rule was that there would be “no bitching.”

“What did you say?” she asked in shock.

“No bitching!” I repeated.  I was five years old.  I knew how to enunciate.  What was this woman’s problem?

Her boys got in line.

The sun was inching further up the driveway.  My father moved his kitchen step stool barber chair further up to find some shade.  His extension cord was tight.

“Little Girl.  Do you know where the other extension cord is in my workshop in the cellar?  Could you go and get it for me?” asked Daddy.

“I could, Daddy.  But, you’re almost at the garage.  Wouldn’t it be easier to just plug into the outlet on the garage patio?” I asked.

“Why, yes.  It would be.  Do you want to be an engineer someday, Little Girl?  Because, you think like an engineer. Engineers are problem solvers.  And, you’re a natural at problem solving. ” my father replied as he relocated his power source.

My father was an engineer and spent his lifetime and mine trying to interest me in becoming an engineer too.

“No.  I’m going to be a Queen.” I replied.

“Well, Queenie.  Do you know how to make a sandwich?  Because, I’m getting quite a line of customers out here.  And, I’m getting hungry.” my father replied.

We both knew my mother was busy on the phone catching up with all her sisters in Worcester.  No one interrupted those phone calls.  Not unless there was blood involved.

“Yes, I think I could make a sandwich.” I replied.  I mean I’d never done it before.  But, I’d seen it done.  How hard could it be?

The two boys from next door were sitting on the pavement.  They patiently waited for their free hair cut.  The four boys from across the street had joined them.  Their mother had placed them in line.  She had given my father the thumbs up sign.  I guess that was her permission to buzz the hair off of her sons heads.

Poor, Daddy.  This was the kind of fun he had on his day off.

I went into the coolness of the kitchen.  I heard my mother on the phone.  “Oh, my God.  And, then what did she do?  I hope she threw his butt out the door!” she said.  Gossip was getting good over the phone line.  I was really going to have to make a sandwich for my Daddy all by myself.

I got some bread out of the bread drawer.  I rummaged around the refrigerator and found some ham and some cheese.  I frowned at a tomato.  I didn’t think I was allowed to touch knives so I put the tomato back.  I put mayonnaise on the sandwich instead of mustard.  I didn’t like the way the mustard container farted at me when I squeezed it.  I hoped that Daddy liked mayonnaise.

I put the lopsided sandwich onto a plate.  I threw the food back into the refrigerator.  I grabbed a bag of potato chips and a can of beer and brought it to Daddy in the driveway.

I tucked a paper napkin into his collar and handed him the plate.  He turned away to pop the beer.  I noticed he was trying to hide a laugh.

“The napkin in a nice touch, Little Girl.” said Daddy with a chuckle.

“I thought the beer was a nice touch, Daddy.” I said in all earnestness.

“You’re right.  The beer is a great touch.” he replied.

The line of boys on the driveway was getting longer.  I walked down to the two at the end.

“He’s not going to cut your hair unless he has your mother’s permission.” I told the two at the end.  I don’t know how I knew this.  But, I did.

It turns out their mother wasn’t home.  They had just joined the end of the line because it looked like the thing to do that Saturday.  They asked me for a sandwich.  I told them to beat it.

My Daddy listened to it all.  He threw his head back and laughed like hell as those two boys went away.  I seemed to amuse him tremendously.

My Daddy cut hair for another hour.  Every boy in the neighborhood looked the same.  Daddy had only one hair cut in his repertoire.  They could have the back in a V or square.  That was his only variation.  But, hey it was free.

I sat on the steps and watched Daddy sweep all the hair under the bushes alongside the driveway when he was done.

I ran my fingers over the clippers and scissors in his hair cutting kit.

“Um, Daddy?  I’m getting really tired of long hair.  Maybe you could cut my hair off at about shoulder length for the summer?” I asked.  I was sick of pony tails.  My mother wanted my hair long.  But, she never let me wear it down.  It was always brushed off my face with a stiff and painful brush.  Pig tails and pony tails.  I wanted free of all this hair.

He went to open his mouth to answer me. That’s when my mother spoke from the window.

“If you cut one hair on my daughter’s head, Ralph?  I will kick you all the way to East Hartford.” my mother said in a sweet voice.

“No hair cut today, Little Girl.  Sorry.  But, thanks for the lunch and keeping the line short.” said my father with a chuckle.

The summer sped by like summers do.  It was time to neaten up my brother’s hair for the start of school.  My mother told my father that Saturday was hair cut day.  He frowned.

“I was planning on going over to my parent’s house on Saturday.  My father could use some help taking down that tree in his back yard.” Daddy told my mother.

“Oh, come on, Ralph.  Two hair cuts at ten minutes a piece.  You can still get over to Glastonbury and help your father.” my mother said.

“But, Ellie.  The minute I start buzzing  in the driveway the whole neighborhood lines up for a hair cut.  It’s an all afternoon thing.  Why don’t I just take them over to the barbershop tonight and get their hair cut?” Daddy wanted to know.

“No!  We don’t pay for something that we’re perfectly able to do for ourselves!” my mother exclaimed.

“I don’t have all day for this.” my father mumbled under his breath.

I sat at the kitchen table coloring in my Flintstones coloring book.

“Just don’t do it in the driveway, Daddy.” I said as I searched my bucket for my red coloring crayon.

“What’s that, Little Girl?” my father asked.

“Don’t cut their hair in the driveway.  Do it in the basement.  Then the whole neighborhood won’t line up for a hair cut.  Do it in the basement.   You can just suck up the hair with your shop vac.” I said as I colored in Pebble’s hair.

Daddy smiled and went to open his mouth to say something.

“And, no, Daddy.  I don’t want to be an engineer.  I told you.  I’m going to be a Queen.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pet Peeve Phone

Pet Peeves.  We all have them.

My son can’t stand to hear you chew.  He’s not alone. I think there is a term for people that want to heave when they see or hear chewing.  The way my husband’s teeth squeak while he eats chicken drives my boy out of his mind.  He glares.  He bangs his fist on the table.  He has to leave the room.

My husband grins and takes another big bite of chicken.

It’s a guy thing.

My husband has pet peeves I’m sure.  I’m sure I possess some of them.  American Cheese.  I like American Cheese.  I like to eat it by the slice.  I like to make grilled cheese sandwiches with it.  Every time.  For 38 years.  My husband has told me that American Cheese isn’t even really cheese.  It’s a cheese food product.

I grin and take another bite.  He has to leave the room.

I have pet peeves.  They seem to change with the times.  Long ago a favorite peeve was women in tight skirts and stiletto heels …………….at the County Fair.  Come on, ladies.  You are daintily tip toeing through cow crap in the 4H barn dressed in spike heels.  You look so darn silly.  And, then you slip and fall on your butt because your heels get stuck in the mud.

I am the one that stopped and picked you up.  Twice.

I’m the one that whispered in your ear that you could buy flip flops at the front tent.  The one selling grass skirts and cowboy hats.  I hope you listened to me.

I work in a candy store.  Another pet peeve……………..when you enter the store I will greet you with a smile and a Hello.  I am peeved when I am ignored.  You are putting me into my lowly retail place by pretending I don’t exist.  I will get you back when you want to pay.  I will always wait on you last in a room full of kids in a candy store.  Because?  You are rude.  And, now you are invisible to me.

Biggest pet peeve?  Cell phones and their misuse.  Cell phones are important in this day and age I know.  They are a lifeline.  You can always reach out for help no matter where you are.  GPS is at your fingertips.  Where is the closest gas station?  Where can I find inexpensive French Cuisine.

Yeah, yeah, I get it.

I understand that I can text a loved one that is at work. A phone call wouldn’t do.  They will glance down during a meeting and move their thumbs under the table.  They can tell me that they are sick of pizza when they should be working.  How about ribs, instead….. they can type when they should be listening to their boss go on and on.

What don’t I like about cell phones?  I watch people walk down busy sidewalks while their fingers fly on them.  They bump into other people, wind their legs around dog leashes and smack into telephone poles.  All because they’re checking a Facebook update from someone they really don’t give a crap about anyways.

Now, let’s talk about these same people crossing the road.  From in between parked cars.  From crosswalks where the lights are telling a person with an engaged brain that it is dangerous to cross.  Across mall parking lots.

The only reason you got to the other side of that road is because people like me are watching out for you.  Because, I am not driving while on my phone.  I see you.  You imagine an iron cage around your precious breakable body as you waltz unseeing across a busy street.  And, why?  Because you are engaged in a great game of Candy Crush.

Oh, but I’m not talking about you!  Because you have an ear bud in your ear.  You’re crossing that busy parking lot discussing hard rolls or onion rolls to go with your chicken salad.  You are still not paying attention.  You are looking inward because you are still on the phone.

You aren’t paying attention with your hands free phone.  It isn’t a brain free phone.  I slow down to a stop before the cross walk.  I can see that you are coming at me.  You walk right into my stopped car.  That wakes you up.  You pound your fists on my vehicle.

Is that your way of saying “Oh, boy!  I was paying no attention!  Thank you so much for stopping and not running me over.”?

Yeah, I thought not.

I bump carts with the same woman in aisle 3 of the supermarket.  She’s still on that freaking phone.  She can’t pick out a jar of pickles all by herself.  She argues with someone that seems to care for the three minutes I try to get around her.  Vlasic or store brand?  Garlic or plain?

Dear, God!  You with the phone.  Moron!  Move it!

What I really say very loudly after two minutes is “Excuse me, can I get by?”

I get attitude in return.

I shake my head.  This woman embodies everything I hate about cell phone usage.  What it comes down to?  Some people are terrified of being alone.  For even five minutes.  They can’t stand their own company.  That cell phone has enabled her to be a completely sad human being.  Unable to buy a jar of condiments without a family vote.

I just find it to be so so sad.

I have a phone in my purse.  Please, don’t call me on it.  I am out and about.  I don’t want to talk to you right now.  If I wanted your company or your help to pick out a jar of pickles?  I would have called you and asked you to accompany me to the grocery store.

“Hey!  Haven’t seen you in forever!  Don’t have much time today………but I sure am missing you.  Meet me in aisle 3 of the grocery store.  There I will give you a hug.  I will exclaim niceties about your newest hair color.  And, you can help me pick out some pickles.  It’s a date!” I might say.

Few people have my cell phone number.  When my purse rings I almost go into a panic.  Oh, my God!

I recognize your name and number on the caller ID.  I don’t answer with “Hello!’ or “Hi ya!”  I actually flip that phone open and say “Oh, my God.  What’s the matter?”

Not the nicest greeting.  But, it came from my heart.

That’s when I find out that my husband wants me to pick up a jar of mayonnaise if I’m still any where near the grocery store.

“Jesus!  Don’t scare me like that!” I respond.

I don’t speed on the way home from the grocery store.  It’s my daily outing after all.  I drive down pretty country lanes.  I notice your potted geraniums at the end of your driveway.  I notice the new curtains in your front windows.  I wonder at the plastic faded jungle gym that has been in your yard for 25 years.  Don’t your kids ever grow up?

I notice nice little houses with For Sale signs.  I notice that the new owners staple sheets to the front windows.  I notice the cat that never moves from the back of the sofa in front of that same window.  I wonder if it’s still alive.  I wonder how much that must have smelled.

I notice gardens come and go.  I nod my head up and down in understanding.  I tried gardening.  I fought mosquitoes as big as hummingbirds.  I grew really nice lettuces.  The rabbits and the deer really loved them.  I gave zucchini away to the neighbors like Free Kittens.  I quit.  So did the neighbors on those country lanes.

I go by a beautiful yellow colonial with an old fashioned wrap around porch.  The porch contains two white rockers.  It’s a lovely New England picture.  I’ve passed this house for 27 years and have never seen a soul on that lovely porch.

Until yesterday.  I noticed a grandma rocking on that porch.  Her white hair was tied up in a bun.  Wisps surrounded her pink face in the humidity of the day.  She rocked.  I envisioned what she was up to on the porch while I was still too far away to see.

Was she shelling peas like Grandma Walton?  Was she counting the rows in her knitting because something didn’t feel right?  Did she have a hoop on her lap of cross stitch?  Was she darning socks?

She rocked back and forth very quickly.  If she was on wheels she’d be going at least twenty miles an hour.  I smiled.  She was up to something.  She was really into it.  Her long cotton skirt and her geriatric sandals completed the picture.

I was upon the house.  I decided a wave and a smile would be great.  Hello, neighbor my wave would say.

But, she never looked up as she rocked away.  Her fingers were flying across an I Phone keyboard.  I’m thinking she was killing it at Candy Crush.

 

 

 

 

I Heard You, Sort Of

My husband and I are celebrating our 38th wedding anniversary in a few weeks.  We married young.  We’ve enjoyed each other’s company for a long time.  We’ve both changed.  His hair has gone white and distinguished.  My hair has gone white. Nothing distinguished about it.  Just makes me look tired.   I fight it.  Only my hair dresser knows for sure that the dark auburn of my hair is chemically induced.

We’ve both always needed the expert’s help with our eyesight.  I tell him to get his eyes checked when he starts squinting at road signs.  It’s part of my job as a wife.  He pays for my contact lenses.  His job as my husband.

About ten years ago he started to get angry at me for mumbling.  I was mum mum mumbling all of the time.  Was this a game?  Was I trying to drive him out of his mind? I was doing a good job of it he told me.

I grabbed his dear face in my hands.  “Look at me!  Look at me moving my lips!  I am not mumbling.  I am talking to you in an average tone of voice.  You need to get your ears tested.  You haven’t been ignoring me like I thought.  You can’t hear me.  I’ll make you an appointment.  I’ll go with you.” I said to his face.

“You’ll grow with me?” he yelled in frustration.

“No, I’ll go with you!” I answered at ear splitting volume.

I went with him.

We sat in the waiting room of an audiologist a few days later.  I must have begged for an appointment.  It was after closing time.  The receptionist was no longer at her desk.  We sat for a few minutes flipping through magazines while generic elevator music played in the overly air conditioned waiting room.

“Weird.  Is anyone even here?” my husband asked me.  “It’s like the twilight zone in here.  Maybe some music to cut through the freezing silence would be nice.”

I was listening to the Carpenters sing “Close to You” at that moment.  He couldn’t hear them.

I waited with the magazines while his ears were tested.  He was hooked up to a machine when the doctor called me into the office.  He explained that my husband had hearing loss in both ears.  He said that the hearing aids were going to help him tremendously.

“Go out into the hallway.” the doctor said.  “Use a normal tone of voice and say something to your husband.”

I walked to the end of the short hall way.  The doctor and my husband couldn’t see me from there.  I thought of something to say.

In a normal tone of voice I said “So, where are you taking me for dinner?  Cause I’m not cooking.”

My husband’s voice replied “There’s a Chinese buffet right around the corner.  I’ve heard good things about it.”

I cried.

He left the office with a much lighter wallet and a bounce in his step.  He told me to tone it down.  He listened to the world buzzing around him.  We went to the Chinese Buffet.  The noise of all those people had him finding the low button on his new hearing aids pretty quickly.

We went home.  He stood in the kitchen after putting his keys into the basket on top of the refrigerator.  He stood and cocked his head like a German Shepherd.

“What’s that buzzing sound?” he asked.

I stopped and listened.

“There are two buzzing sounds.  The over head light buzzes slightly.  The freezer just also kicked in.” I replied

“First of all.  Quit yelling at me.  And, second.  Are those noises normal?” he asked.

“Yes, those noises are normal.” I hissed in a whisper.

“Very funny.” he replied.

Now, my husband’s voice sounded overly loud to himself.  His speech became very quiet.  A wife that notices spinach between her husband’s teeth makes a movement towards her own mouth to let him know.  There are all kinds of quiet signs married people make to each other.  I now have to make the cupping behind my ear motion when he converses too quietly.

I told him “When you go to work on Monday you have to tell that meeting full of people that you’re now wearing hearing aids.  They need to tell you when you start speaking too quietly.  Do it.  Or, you’re going to drive that room full of people out of their minds.  They’re going to tip out of their chairs trying to hear you now.”

So, he did.  And he became the poster child for the hearing impaired at work.

All kinds of folks began visiting him in his office to ask a hundred questions about where to go for a hearing test.  How much did it cost?  Do you walk out of the office that day with them?  It’s changed your life?  I’m ready for my life to be changed many co-workers exclaimed.

We just got back from a week long vacation.  I thought more than once during that week that my husband needed to get his hearing tested again.  He was mishearing me quite often.

He had an appointment to get his hearing tested the day after we returned home.  I asked how it went.

“My hearing hasn’t changed.  The hearing aids are calibrated.  No change.” he told me.

“Um.  I’m surprised.  I thought on vacation there were quite a few times I had to repeat myself over and over.  I thought for sure there was a change.” I answered.

“I don’t hear as well when I’m very tired.” he explained.

That makes sense.  His hearing is part visual now. It takes concentration.  I get it.

Sometimes I say something and he hears something else.  It can be quite amusing.  We laugh like hell.

We went to the theater to see my daughter perform in Nine the Musical while on vacation.  She was playing the wife Luisa.  She has two great songs all to herself.

“It’s something.  I waited out in the hallway last night to congratulate the performers.  But, they look so different in real life.” I explained to my husband as we were headed to the theater.  It would be the second time I was to see the show.  His first time.

“But, they look so different out of costume.  And those wigs?  Turning your hair from long auburn to short blonde is very confusing.” I said.

My husband put on the right blinker of the rental car and careened onto a side street on the right.  He did it so fast I think we were on only two wheels.  The squeal of tires told me so.  I could hear them.  Not so sure about my husband.

He pulled up to the curb and stopped so quickly the seat belt cut into my neck.

“Darlene!  You told me to go straight for five miles.  And, then you tell me to take this right.  Way to go, Darlene.  I almost missed that turn off.  Give me some notice next time.  God!” he yelled at me from the driver’s seat.

I looked at him all red faced in the driver’s seat and started to laugh.

“What’s so stinking funny?  You and your directions.  Do you even know where the heck we are?” he yelled at me.

“I didn’t ask you to take a right.  Why did you do that?  You almost snapped my neck with the seat belt.  I do know where the heck I am.  I didn’t tell you to take a right.” I said as I rubbed the side of my neck.

“You were telling me that you didn’t recognize the performers after the show in the hallway.  And, then you said Take A Right!” he explained.

I thought back to our conversation.

“Um, no honey.  What I said was “Turning your hair from auburn to blonde is confusing.  I said turning your hair.   You obviously heard Turn Here.”

“Oh.”  he said sheepishly.  “Go ahead.  Make fun of your deaf husband.”

“I don’t want to make fun of you.  This time.” I replied as he turned the car around.

What I say?  And what he hears?  Sometimes it can be hilarious.  I am tempted to carry a little notebook around and take notes.  But, I’m thinking it would only be funny to the two of us.

We got to the theater and took our seats in the third row.  Our daughter sat on a chair on the stage.  She looked over the theater with “blind eyes”.  I knew she was locating us.  She did.

She sang with even more passion than the night before.  The audience was mesmerized by the beauty of her voice.  She was “on”.

She was singing for her Daddy.

I glanced at my husband sitting next to me in the darkness of the theater.  The light shining upon our daughter spilled out onto us.  My husband listened to our daughter sing.   Tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes.

He heard her just fine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Want A Hammer For Christmas

I work in a famous candy store.

The holiday season brings in a lot of orders from around the country.  Everyone wants a hard candy farm yard animal that you hit with a hammer.  Yes, I know this sounds weird. But, you do it once and it becomes a family tradition.

The hard pink candy animal has a story attached.  The box contains the story.  It’s sentimental.  It’s all about good luck for the next year.

The extended family is gathered around the table for a holiday meal.  It ends with the hard candy piggy placed in it’s red velvet bag.  The little silver hammer is brought out.  Wishes are wished and the candy gets whacked with a hammer.

People come into the candy store and exclaim over the famous red boxes.  They remember family dinners where every one got a whack at the candy.  Every one made a wish.  They reminisce.

I get asked the shelf life of this famous hard candy since it’s not really the holiday season.  I assure the customer that it’s safe to buy it now and put it away for the holidays.  I promise them that the bag and hammer is in the box.  And the story.  No need to pop that box open.

The printed story tells the history of the candy tradition.  It’s Victorian. It’s sweet.  It’s traditional.

I sell a lot of them with my own version of the story.

“The whole family has invaded your house.  They’re really starting to get on your nerves.  That’s the time to take out that peppermint candy and hammer.  Beat the crap out of it.  You’ll feel so much better!” I tell the customers.

People that were undecided about spending $16.99 on a candy you beat to death with a hammer cough up the money when they hear my rendition.

The printed story tells the Scandinavian history of the pig at Christmas.  It is a sign of plenty.  Of good luck and health for the year to come.

My verbal story tells the real tale.

At Thanksgiving you serve dinner at 4 p.m.  Aunt Gertrude is always late.  You tell her 3 p.m.  Doesn’t matter.  She still keeps you all waiting so long your turkey has dried to dust.  That’s a great time to take out that candy pig and smash it up.

You’ll feel better.

It’s Christmas and you’ve worked for days on a special meal.  Just as you’re about to pour the gravy Great Grandmama regales everyone with her latest colonoscopy story.  Yes, at the table.  When people are trying to eat.  She finishes her story with flair.  She stands up and pulls down her stretchy pants to the level where you can  all see the artistry of her latest surgery scar.

Forks hit the plates.  Appetites have vanished.  That’s when you should go to the sideboard and beat the crap out of the candy pig.

Meanwhile, Uncle Lou has been told he must give up Gluten.  He tells you on the phone that the dirty rotten doctor has taken Gluten away from him.  The rotten SOB.  So, you make yet another stuffing to go with the turkey.  Uncle Lou ignores the Gluten Free things you’ve made especially for him.

“Hey, it’s Christmas!  I’ll eat whatever the hell I want!” declares Uncle Lou.

And, he does.

Then before the cheesecake comes out Uncle Lou starts to burp and fart up a storm.  You all ignore it.  Okay, the little kids don’t ignore it.  They point at him and call him Stinky Uncle Lou.

Uncle Lou gets in a mood.  He toot toots all the way into the living room.  He lies down on your couch.  It sounds like a smelly symphony in there.  He grabs your TV remote and turns on some sports channel.  He puts the volume onto an ear splitting 26 and falls asleep.  Anyone that tries to take the remote away from his sleeping form gets smacked and farted at.

This is a great time to go back into the dining room.  Grab that silver hammer.  Beat the candy pig in that red velvet bag.  Get out your aggression.  Pound that bag until the candy inside is nothing but pink peppermint dust.

Sprinkle it onto the cheesecake.

Peppermint.  Good for the digestion.  Good for the nerves.

Put that hammer away for next year.  You know you’re going to need it.