#211 = THE KINETIC KID

What a handsome young man he is!

This week my grandson Logan will be 8 years old.  He is my daughter's son and I am trying to figure out how best to describe him.  You see Logan is a lot of things, but most of all he is a wiggly, funny, ball of energy that never stops.  He goes full tilt all day.  My daughter says that he takes after his father, Patrick.  Well, according to Patrick's parents that's true. However,  my daughter, Patty, was a hand full too.  So, Logan got a double dose of wild and crazy from his parents.  

          

This kid is as sweet as they come
(once he slows down).

     

And when he slows down he often crashes,
just about anywhere (he gets this from his mom).

He can be a real goof ball ( he gets this
from his dad).

And has a flair for the dramatic ( I think he gets this from me).

                                                                          
















Logan also got a double dose of athletic ability.  My daughter was on the swim team as a young girl, and a cheer leader in high school and college (an ariel performer).  Patrick on the other hand was a sports phoneme in high school.  And, now, they both do triathlons.  

He is a terrific baseball player. 


He also plays soccer, basketball, and   
just learned how to ski.      
And, to show how well rounded he is he
is also learning how to play the guitar 
(and you should hear him singing in the
bathroom).

He is an amazing football player.

He is a terrific swimmer and entered two
triathlons this summer (and won one of them).

He is an excellent cyclist (and here he is
on the second leg of a triathlon).

He is a strong runner
(and here he is 
on the third leg of a triathlon).

He still hadn't made up his mind
about me when I took this picture.
NOTICE THE FISTS

A LOGAN STORY:  Logan can get mad just like any kid but he isn't allowed to cuss.  One a couple of summers ago he got mad at me for disciplining him, and called me a "poopy head".  His father heard the comment and cut that short with only a look and a brief side bar.Later that evening his parents went out to dinner and a movie.  Logan didn't want to go to bed.  When I tried to make him he started to call me a "poopy head" (I could see it starting to form this word on his lips).  His eyes went up as if remembering the brief interaction with his dad and then called me a "monkey head" instead.  Of course, I didn't want to reinforce that phrase either, so I stifled a laugh.  

Since he wouldn't go to bed and kept slipping out of his room I sat in the doorway.  Logan was playing in his room, making all kinds of noise and occasionally glaring at me.  When he heard the out side door open and shut, his eyes flew open wide, his mouth went into an "O" shape and with a flying leap he landed in his bed.  Just a quickly he covered himself up and closed his eyes.  Boy, his dad sure has him under his control.

THIS IS A CLASSIC STORY ABOUT LOGAN THAT I WROTE ON  Dec. 6, 2010.
I called my daughter, Patty, to wish her and her family a Happy Thanksgiving.  I got to talk with both of the kids.  Shay (2nd grade) is all reserved and lady like.  A real sweetheart but, getting information from her is like pulling a cat through a knothole backwards.  She usually answers my questions with one word answers like,  "Good,"  or  "Fine," or "Uh Huh."   When asked what she was thankful for and she gave me the funny up and down sound (you know the one that is a kind of guttural I don't know).  However, she finally told me she was thankful for her dogs.

However, when Logan (first grade) came to the phone he was all bubbly, as usual.  I asked him what he was thankful for and he reeled off a long list of things.  Then he paused and said, “Wait...wait!   I’m thankful for my blood, too!”  Of course this caused me to break into laughter and prompted a memory of something that happened earlier. 

THE MEMORY: You see, Logan is always one minute away from a bump, scrape, or whatever.  One day I receive a call from my daughter who had to hide in her office so Logan couldn’t hear her laughing while she told me what had happened.  

Apparently, Logan was not being careful at the kitchen table (no surprise there).  He was leaning the chair back on two legs.  My daughter was in her office and heard a loud crash (not unusual when Logan’s around).  But, what WAS unusual is she heard him wailing these words, “I’m dying!  I’m dying!”

Patty sprinted into the kitchen and found Logan lying on the floor, his chin tucked into his neck and his hands desperately clutching that area.  Blood was running from between his fingers.  He was still saying over and over, "I'm dying!" 

Trying not to panic, Patty pried his fingers away to see what the damage was.  She was relieved to find that he had only hit his chin on a stair step but the wound was bleeding profusely.

Now, here’s the clincher.  Logan''s tear filled, limpid eyes looked up into his mother’s face with a concerned look and said, "I love you Mommie, I’m going to miss you.”  He plaintively said this (several times).

While administering quick first aid Patty tried to convenience him that he was not going to die.  Shay, being quite the trooper, was already at her mother’s side helping.  The two of them took Logan to the hospital for stitches (not the first and probably not the last).  

At the hospital his wonderful Aunt Debbie met them and put in several stitches.  Then she sent him on his way with a belly full of candy called Swedish Fish (that ought to calm him down!).

Happy Birthday Logan,

I want you to know that I miss you very much.  You are so much fun to be around.   You can always make me laugh.  If I lived near you I would be at every game (or event) cheering you on.

What a wonderful young man you are becoming.  You are so very talented in so many ways.  I am definitely proud of having a grandson like you.

I think that Shay is lucky to have you for a little brother and I also know that your Mom and Dad are blessed to have you in their life.

Have a terrific birthday and I will come to see you the first chance that I get.

Love Grammy

#210 - WHAT DOES MATH HAVE TO DO WITH POETRY?

Senior picture (1959)

When I was a senior in high school I had a terrific Calculus teacher who taught me more about math than all the math teachers I have ever had.   

Mr. Mattheis was fairly short and built himself a riser on which to stand while teachingt a lesson.  This made him seem a little strange to most students, but not to me.  When we arrived in class the lesson was already on the board and he would take a long wooden pointer to draw attention to the part of the lesson he was discussing.

Being slight of stature didn’t keep Mr. Mattheis from maintaining discipline in his class.  No, I don’t think it was because he wielded a long stick; it was because he played a game he called base ball.  He was fair, never lost his temper, or raised his voice.  He would just call out strikes whenever a student’s behavior went over the line.  On strike three the student would automatically advance to the principal’s office and be assigned detention.

I loved to talk in class (oh, lets face it, I loved to talk, period) and one day I reached the ultimate third strike.  While in detention I wrote Mr. Mattheis this poem, which he framed and kept on his wall until he retired, many years later.

Standing on your pedestal, so wise, so tall, so straight, 

          On that lovely pedestal made of an orange crate.

Standing there so wisely with a stick cluched in your hand,

          Like a stone director about to strike, up the band.

What’s this you’re looking my way and I smile a sheepish smile,

          I wasn’t talking very long, just for a little while.

You slowly turn and point an accusing finger at me,

          And calmly say with a clear sweet voice, st-r-i-k-e  three. 

I slowly rise from my usual place,

          Slowly rise with a dismal face,

I began to argue that I was not,

          Then to the office I did trot.

Oh wise and wondrous world what fate have you bestowed on me,

To be ruled (in this class) by dictatorship and not democracy.

By the way I received an A in his class.     kt 8/2011

#209 - BOARD to DEATH (just read it before you criticize my spelling).

My first real encounter with a live snake
(which I shall reveal here) was a DOOZIE 
and occurred around the first of August in 1968

Though not a professional snake wrangler, I have handled snakes (itty bitty garden snakes) before.  After all, I was once a Girl Scout and a den mother for a group of 8 cub scouts.  I had been shown (several times) how to correctly handle snakes and how to tell if they were venomous.  Also, come on, over the years I have watched dozens of shows by Mutual of Omaha and the Animal Channel. 


At the time of this encounter I was living in a small farm home in the Missouri Ozarks.  My husband (soon to be ex, but that's another story) had moved us there from Palm Desert, California.  I loved the Ozarks area and the house was the home in which my husband was born, so it had meaning.

Out behind the house was a small barn and in the pasture were three horses.  One was a big, white, frightening, wild eyed, stallion.  One was a mean little Shetland runt (who loved to nip my thigh and rump).  And, one (which was ours) was a retired, circus horse who knew all kinds of tricks (if you knew how to prompt her).   Ginger was 26 years old and as smart as a whip.  She didn't like to be ridden so she would always detour under low hanging branches and close to the trunks of trees.  I got knocked/scraped off several times (but she never did that with my kids). 

Ginger, Gene, Patty and me (can't believe I had my hair up in curlers)

The horses would not go into the barn no matter what I did.  I tried leading them, luring them, cooing to them and on and on and on.  Finally, I decided it was because there were boards just laid down on the dirt floor.  When I walked on them they would wobble a bit so I can imagine how they would move when the horses stepped on them.  Plus, there was other junk stored in that barn.

So, one day, since it was getting close to fall I decided the barn needed to be cleaned out for the horses.
In I went with a rake, a shovel, a wheelbarrow, a broom and a bucket with various items in it.  I hauled all of the junk out and stacked it behind the barn to be carried off or burned.  I worked on this all morning and into the afternoon while a friend watched my kids.  Then it came time to pull out the boards.  Everything was going fine until I got to the 5th board.  As I lifted it up a hugh (and I do mean HUGH) snake darted out then back under the next board.

I had only seen the animal for a brief second but long enough to consider it one of the most beautiful snakes I have ever seen.   This snake had orange, light-brown,  even a pinkish body that was highlighted by darker chestnut brown bands that formed a whole series of hourglass shapes across its body.

See, isn't it beautiful!

Immediately I thought of my son Gene.  He would love a snake as a pet. Therefore, I set about devising a way to catch it.

I glanced around and quickly came up with a plan which involved the bucket, a broom and a small piece of wood for a lid to the bucket.  Armed with this snake snaring paraphernalia I proceeded to raise and toss the 6th board.  The snake tried to pull the same maneuver and slip under board #7.  But, ha..ha..I was too quick for him/her.  After flinging the plank I grabbed the bucket and broom.  Then I beat the tarnation out of the snake with the broom and steered him into the bucket.  Whack, whack, whack, turned up the bucket, then slapped the make shift lid on the top.  Now, I could have reached down and grabbed it by the neck at the back of it's head, but since I hadn't gotten a real good look at it I decided not to take the chance.

Satisfied with my smart move and my prize I picket up the bucket, put it in the back seat of my car (with a rock on the lid) and headed for my father-in-laws country store, just down the road.  I wanted to know just what kind of snake I had caught (this was the olden days before internet).

When I arrived several men from the area had congregated around the inside of the store.  As usual they were drinking beer, sharing stories, and laughing.  I came in the door and they greeted me with a few nods and a "Hey, gal."

I put my bucket down, removed the lid tilted it towards the men and said, "Do any of you guys know what kind of snake this is?"  Before I could finish my sentence ALL of the men jumped up falling all over each other and fled the store.  Some were running, (one jumped through the open screen-less window),  all were cussing and yelling all sorts of unpleasant comments.  I put the lid back on the bucket and looked out the door.

My husband yelled from the parking lot,  "Karen, you've done a lot of hair-brained things but this one takes the cake."  Get that darned bucket out here (only he didn't exactly say darned)."

When I returned to the door with the bucket in hand I could see all of the men lined up with shotguns in their arms.  Now, this was the Ozarks, my friends, and since my husband and I hadn't been getting along lately I thought that this might be what is referred to as a QUICKY DIVORCE, Ozark style.

My husband asked me to gently put the bucket down in front of the men, and back up.  Ok, like a good wife, I did what I was told and then there was a deafening sound as all seven men fired at the bucket.  The bucket was blown to smithereens as was that beautiful snake.  DEATH was brutal and swift.

In not too kind of a tone or gentle language (and with one hand on his hip and the other hand pointing a finger at me), my husband told me that I had managed to capture an unusually large Copperhead whose venom could have killed me before anyone could have gotten me to the hospital.  He went on to add that this was the blind season for Copperheads making it an extremely dangerous time to mess with them. 

What did I say in response?"Oh, and it was so pretty."  To which my husband threw up his hands and stomped off.

I tried like crazy to find a yellow smiley face snake.  This will have to do.
By the way, do you NOW get my little pun of a title? 
 (Ok, ok, a little cheesy but it is all I could come up with)    kt 8/2011

PS:  WOULD YOU BELIEVE THAT 43 YEARS TO THE MONTH I CAUGHT A YOUNG COPPERHEAD!  On September 8th I was leaving the hospital after visiting my dad and a kid ran to the nurses station and said, "There's a snake in the waiting room.  My dad thinks it's a copper head."  Without missing a beat I said, "I'll take care of it."

When I got there a young snake about 12 inches long was laying up against the base board under a chair.  Four other people were standing about six feet from the critter.  Although small, I knew immediately that it was a young Copperhead.  A young woman entered the room with a broom and a bucket.  I started to laugh as I remembered the above story.  I just told her to stay where she was.  I took a trash can, tipped it over, stepped on the very end of the snakes tail and it quickly slithered into the dark bucket.  I tipped the bucket up and then tied a knot in the plastic baggie.  Handing the trash can with baggie and snake to the girl with the broom I said, "There you go."

The next morning when I returned to see Dad I asked his nurse if she had heard about the snake in the waiting room.  She said yes, and then I asked her what she had heard.  Her words exactly were, "I heard that there was a Copperhead snake in the waiting room and some crazy lady caught it and gave it to an aide."  Then her eyes got big and she said, "Were you that crazy lady?" All I could do was laugh.

#208 - ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR?

Ok, I received an award and really don't know what it's for.

I checked the online dictionary and no surprise; there is no such word.  So, I broke down the word in order to ascertain it's meaning.  My first attempt gave me the answer.   Lie bs ter.  Ahhhhh, I get it.  

"er"= a person who...

lie = telling something that is not true

bs = bull Sh*!   (guess I could have said poo).

So, does the heart mean it's given with love? Haven't a clue.

(A week attempt at poetry and notice the nice pyramid it makes.)

(And for you who have compulsive/obsessive issues....Yes, I know I left the "T" out)

In reality, this award is actually a reward for fabricating.  Hummmmm,  this means that possibly there are those who may not believe my blog contains stories that are NOT completely true.  I'm shocked!

You mean that no one believes that I accidentally s stapled my glove to my hand (see What A Maroon), glued my foot to the floor (see A Sticky Situation), or burned a hole in my night gown (see #Recipe For Disaster)?  Oh, mannnnn, this HURTS as they are ALL true ;{

So spread the love!

Here are the rules:

1. Thank the giver

2. Reveal your top 5 picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog-and follow them!
3. Copy and paste the award on your blog.

4. Have faith that your followers will spread the love to other bloggers.

5. And most of all - have bloggity-blog fun!

That's it?  No embarrassing questions to answer.  Nothing personal to reveal?  Nothing humiliating?  I don't have to share with the world the unusual shape of the birth mark on my butt?


So, should I thank the giver?  What the HECK!  Thanks, Donna at Weaving A Tale or Two.

1,3,and 5 are taken care of. Number 4 is a given because all of my followers spread the love daily. Where I have problems is number 2.   I have to pick 5 out of the dozens of contenders for the award.  And there in the problem.  Most of the bloggers I read do not accept awards.  I end up giving them to the same bloggers over and over which really isn't fair to them.  These things take a lot of time (I have been working on this for over 6 hours...No lie....6 hours).

"Rules are for sissies!"

And here is what everyone reading this is waiting for....  How in the heck is she going to change this one?  The minute the phrase, "Here are the rules:" popped up, my mind froze and the sound of screeching tires echoed inside my head.  I swear I could smell the smoke.  Well, some rules are good ones to follow; like to be polite.  But, how can I be polite and accuse choose five BS-ing liars?  

So, I searched through the blogs I follow to see who could possible fit in this category.  And I only found two.  Incidentally they are both men.  I wonder if that means anything????????

Lazarus at The LG Report (Female Like Me) was the first one that came to mind (sorry LG but, I did read your Thursday, July 28th post.  It definitely falls into the BS category).  However, LG does not accept awards.  Probably because he wouldn't have enough space on his blog page to post them...he is that good!  He is ONE OF A KIND.

Nick at Along These Lines (A Tourist’s Guide to Libya) would absolutely fit into the BS category.  His blog is often outrageous and always hilarious.  However, Nick is recovering from surgery and it wouldn't be polite to expect him to respond.  His blog is A VERITABLE SMORGASBORD OF HUMOR.

Ok....I've got one...APRIL, at Confessions of a Terrible Mom (a total misnomer)! Comcast-the cable mafia comes to mind.  I am sure that some of her posts are a blend of truth and lies exaggerations.  A person can't be as funny as April  without STRETCHING the truth a little.  Ok, I am sending this award to her.  Nope, can't, April is cutting back on her blog time since school started (she home schools her kids).  SO APRIL, YOU DON'T HAVE TO ACCEPT THIS AWARD.

Next, I thought of Melynda at Crazy World boxing with boys 
and her buddy Elisa at The Crazy Life of a Writing Mom Miss Priss and “The Wave”.
I mean,  mannnnn, these two gals are absolutely NUTS (which is something I can identify with).  One might think that there is some fabricating or truth stretching going in there somewhere, but after reading them for a while I am beginning that this is actually their wild and crazy life.  When someone comes up with an "ABSOLUTELY BONKERS" award THEY are getting it (so is fishducky if and when she starts to blog).

It breaks my heart but, I could only find one person to send this to, and she won't have time to accept.  The rest of the bolggers I follow are too sweet and innocent to fall in this category.  Therefore I must forfeit the $1,000,000.00 that came with this award.  And, unfortunately no one else will get it either (Ohhhhhhhhh, so sorry! As Jim Fay would say...Jim Fay’s Love and Logic).

But, I do have a tip for all of you out there... ... ... 

DON'T SEND KT AN AWARD BECAUSE SHE WILL ALWAYS            
SCREW WITH IT!

kt 8/11/2011

#207 - A TAYLORed POISONING

Lying on the floor of the small, cold, room, she was sure that she was about to draw her last breath.  How could her life have come down to this?  Just yesterday she was happily going about her daily routine unaware of the impending attempt on her life.  Wracked with pain she raised her head to peer into the darkened room beyond the door.  Can she drag her weak body to the phone?  Can she get help?  Or, has the poison advanced too far into her system to allow her to move.                     


Again and again the spasms came.  She wretched for what seemed like an eternity and then her bowels began to empty.  How could Marie have done this to her?  It must have been some kind of bizarre accident.   She passed out for a while only to be awakened by the howl of her faithful dog in the next room.  He knew she was in trouble, but he could not extricate himself from his night-time crate. 

Knowing it would soon be too late, she managed to slowly inch herself across the floor.  With her last bit of energy she pulled herself up to the counter and called for help.  Help arrived within a few minutes and she was whisked off to the hospital where it was confirmed that she had been poisoned.   Poisoned by Marie Callendar with one of her famous Café Steamers.

Ok, so I'm NOT a novel worthy writer, but that was the situation I found myself in at one AM on Tuesday, July 11.   I finally made it to the ER room around six AM.  It was a tad more fun than the gastronomical events occurring on the bathroom floor.   There was nothing left to pump from my stomach as I had purged everything but my appendix and the three toenails that had yet to be sucked from my feet.  So they hooked me up with fluids to rehydrate me (since I was starting to look like a Tim Burton character from one of his  bizarre films).

By that afternoon I was back home and laying in my recliner, sipping 7Up.

I felt awful, but I was on the mend.  At seven PM I started to get up to fix my father his dinner. That is when the REST OF THE STORY developed.

I couldn’t get out of my recliner!  I mean, no matter what I did I could not pull my behind up out of the chair.  I have never experienced anything like this before.  First, I started a bouncy-bouncy routine hoping that one of the bounces would get me high enough to get my feet under me.  Nope!  Didn’t work.  Next, I started a rocking motion to try and propel my body out of the chair… … No luck there either (however, I almost turned the chair over backwards).  After trying several other ideas I finally got myself turned around backwards in the chair and pushed away with my arms.  To my relief that worked and I was up on my sock covered feet (key phrase).

Slowly, I walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and extracted what I would need for Dad’s meal.  You know the phrase weak as a kitten; well I understand that phrase now.  Like a sloth moving through the forest I made my way to across the kitchen floor when (not so sloth like) one foot slid one way, and one foot slid the other.  Onto a step stool I fell.  I was in a semi splits pose (down on my left knee and up on my right heel)  and clinging for dear life onto that darned step stool.  No matter how hard I tried I could not push myself up off of the step stool.  The only thing I could do was to allow myself to fall to the side.  As I leaned away from the small ladder I remember saying aloud,, “Oh, Mannnnn, this is going to hurt!”  And it did!

This put me on the floor and then that damned darned (oh, to hell with it) damned TV add flashed through my brain,  I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.   I started to laugh (yes, really).  I lay there laughing when my dad clomped (no, he doesn't let his walker roll smoothly he goes step- step-step and then picks it up and plants it further away = he clomps) into the kitchen to see what was going on. 

“Can I help you up?” he said.   This made me laugh all the more.  I could just see the both of us lying on the floor until the cows came home.

“No, Dad, just get me a phone,” I replied.  To this Dad clomped off in search of a phone.  Now, understand this, I have a phone in EVERY room, but Dad couldn’t find one (you see he is hard of hearing and hasn’t used a phone since the old cradle type).

In Dad clomps again.  “I can’t find a phone.”

“It’s by the microwave,” I croak.

“Where’s the microwave?”  he asks (while standing about one foot from it).

I tell him to go sit down in his chair and then I started to crawl through the kitchen floor. 

Actually, it wasn’t a crawl it was more like a scoot and I could only manage a few inches at a time.  While communing so closely with the floor I noticed that it needed a good scrubbing and I started laughing again (I mean what a time to start thinking about scrubbing the floor).  It took me forty-five minutes to make my way across the floor to where I could see the table, and there I spotted a phone.

I hollered (screamed really loud) for Dad and he eventually retrieved the phone from the table for me.  I called 911, then told Dad to unlock the front door.  I laid there on my not so clean kitchen floor waiting for my total humiliation to begin.

(FIRST, LET ME APOLOGUISE FOR A WORD USED IN THE 

SECOND SCENE OF THIS VIDEO):

In just a few minutes two police officers walk through the front door and into the kitchen.  Remembering the routine my dad had to go through when we called for someone to help him off the bathroom floor; I rattled off my name, where I was, what day and month it was, and what happened.  They smiled, looked at each other, and the male said, “I see you do this often.”  They helped me up and planted me in Dad’s wheel chair (at my request).  They then suggested I get one of those little buttons that would summon help if this ever happened again (why would I do that when it is obviously much more fun!)

I wheeled around the kitchen, got Dad’s dinner (2 hours late), and stayed in that darned wheel chair until bedtime.  Since it would not go through my bedroom door I got out, and walked (thinking that I had a nice, clean, well padded rug on my floor and I could sleep there if I fell again.)  while holding onto everything possible.   I eventually made it to my bed, and collapsed.  Suddenly it hit me, "Hey, they send an ambulance when Dad falls, but they send cops when I fall!  What's up with that?"  Then I started laughing again. 

The following morning the weakness was gone.  I found out later that this is one of the side effects of food poisoning.  Much to my chigrin, I have 6 more of these dinners in my freezer.  Well, what's the chance that this could happen again?  I'm so cheap that I guess I will find out........ someday.

kt 7/2011

NEXT MONDAY, I ACCEPT AN INTERESTING AWARD.  
AS PROMISED, I FAILED TO FOLLOW THE RULES (AGAIN).  
SO, BE THERE OR BE SQUARE (Oh, that is soooooooo lame). 

#206 - OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES

This is about the age my 

little angel was when

 this story happened.

This is absolutely my favorite story, and the star of this story is my daughter Patricia.  It is hard to describe young Patricia.  She was my daring one; she was continually pushing the envelope.  As a young child she was definitely a drama queen who would constantly find ways to surprise us all. 

For example, before she was two, she found out that crying was a good way to get attention (but, most kids know that).  She was an adorable little imp and would cloud up whenever the mood struck her.  Only this little charmer would add a her own little twists.  She would dash through the room and dramatically throw herself onto the couch, bed, or whatever was available.  But, even that wasn’t enough for Patty.  She would detour by a box of kleenex, avail herself of a few tissues, press them to her face (leaving plenty of peeking room), and then perform the dramatic "fling" onto a piece of furniture.

I have already written several stories about Patricia but this next one happened when she was almost three years old.  It, by far, takes the prize and I decided to post this one on her birthday.

To set the stage, it was a lovely evening in a quiet little neighborhood in Southern California.  My family and I had just sat down to dinner.  Dad (the stern but fair principal of the local Jr. High) sat at the head of the table, as usual.  Patty (the imp) was parked at the foot of the table in her high chair (minus the tray) looking like an angle.  Mom (a slightly prudish, one time escrow agent, now housewife) was sitting on the side to Dad’s left.  Gene (my earnest six year old son) was sitting on the side to Dad’s right.  I (at that time a courtroom clerk at the municipal court) was sitting by my mother and to Patty’s right.  The table was neatly set; a Norman Rockwell setting if there ever was one.  There, have the picture?

My mother was an excellent cook and we all sat there with our mouths watering at the fare she had set before us.  There we were, the typical American family of the sixties.   We were a normal (except for me as I had just gone through a divorce), very wholesome (not a fowl word could ever be heard), church going  (every Sunday like clockwork) family about to have our typical, normal, wholesome, delicious dinner.  

Without warning Patty spoke up… … …   From her beautiful, pink, bow shaped mouth came words I WILL NEVER FORGET!   This sweet little child in a sing song-ie wee voice said,

“Pass the F- - - ing peas, please.”

(Only she said the actual word.)

Dad’s fork stopped two inches short of his mouth and he froze with the dazed look of a dear caught in headlights.

Mom let out a gasp that practically sucked her napkin off the her lap and threw her right hand across her heart.

Gene, then in kindergarten, fell to the floor laughing hysterically and clutching his groin (he, apparently had already learned that word somewhere).

I sat there dumbfounded as Mom and Dad slowly turned their eyes from Patty to me.  Ok, ok, in my misspent youth I did use THAT WORD once (ok often) to drive a point home or when I was angry.  But I hadn’t used THAT WORD since my children were born.

You could have heard a pin drop if not for the gasping and giggling coming from my son on the floor.

Patty immediately formed a frown on her forehead and looked irked that no one was passing her the peas.  She opened her mouth as if to speak again and that is all it took to immediately mobilize me.  I  burst out of my temporary coma and launched myself toward her.  Scooping her up into my arms I rushed to the bathroom; Patty protesting all the way. 

As I am sure you can imagine, how hard it is to have a discussion with a three year old child about the inappropriateness of a word, and questions about where she learned THAT WORD!  “What word, Mommy?” she said.  What made it worse is that I had to use THAT WORD in order to ask her.  It was awful!  I didn’t know what to do.

Well, about thirty minutes later we returned to the table.  Gene began to giggle again, but both Mom and Dad shot him a look that clammed that kid up, fast.  We made sure that Patty had plenty of peas and potatoes and roast, and everything else we could think of so she wouldn’t need to ask for anything for the rest of the meal.

Later, I informed my parents of what I had gleaned from my little talk with Patty.  Irately, Patty had said, "Mommy,  Sammy’s brothers say that all the time."  

Now, Sammy was her little playmate from next door (who had four older brothers).  Consequently, my mother (who was the caregiver while I was at work) made sure that Patty never went to Sammy’s house ever again. (Incidentally, Sammy was the kid Patty tried to test her toy thermometer on…rectally.  See  PAPER OR PLASTIC listed below).

In the first part of the story I told you about Patty’s attention seeking stunts.  Well, I tried everything to get rid of THAT WORD, but once Patty found out about all the attention she received (using THAT WORD) she used it more often.  

Consequently she was kicked out of two preschools for what they called, earthy language.  They always gave me the fish eye when I came in to pick her up.  Then she entered Kindergarten.  Needless to say, I wasn't looking forward to my trips to to the principal's office.   The first day I thought it fair to warn the teacher of "THE PROBLEM".  I don’t know what that teacher did (I was afraid to ask because if she told me I may have to report her for child abuse) but before the first quarter was over THAT WORD was gone.

POST SCRIPT:

During her college years THAT WORD showed up again and enjoyed a long run.  I think it still OCCASIONALLY pops out.  It's amazing how THAT WORD doesn't have the same ring to it once a person has children.

AND ON A PERSONAL NOTE:

Happy Birthday, darling.  With you around there was NEVER a dull second.  You kept me on my toes and gave me reason to laugh frequently.  I treasure each and every memory of you, my dear daughter.  I would not change even one little moment of my life with you.  

I am so very proud of the woman you have become.  You are a loving and devoted wife and mother who gives it all when it comes to your family.  You are an attentive and supportive daughter and have acted as my cheerleader on several occasions.  You make this world a better place and I love you so very much.  You are so F---ing awesome! 

Mom

And here's my beautiful angel now:

Watching her children at the bow of the boat...

While in Ocean City, NJ 2011

POSTS ABOUT YOUNG PATTY:
Poor Kid 1    Poor Kid 2    Poor Kid 3    Paper or Plastic   No, Gene, You Can Not Hit Her

STOP BY NEXT MONDAY FOR A TAYLORed POISONING... ... ...

 kt 8/2/11