An Offensive Brownie

I watched with dread as he squished two brownies together and sculpted the wad into a turd. Then he waited. When a trucker pulled up close behind us, he tilted his head back, dangled the nutty log above his mouth, and took a bite. The trucker, who could see what my brother was doing from the back of the station wagon, honked his horn. John, my brother, was delighted. He opened his mouth wide, shoved the rest in, chewed, and swallowed. When he grinned, his teeth were covered with chocolate brownie leftovers. John pressed his face close to the back window of the station wagon so the trucker could get a real good look at his cruddy teeth. The trucker honked again.

“What the h___ is he honking at? Johnnnnnnnn! What is going on back there?” yelled my dad from the front seat. My sisters, who were sitting in the middle, turned to look. I didn’t say a word. I’m not sure if I was more afraid of my dad pulling over or John knuckle-punching me in my arm for telling on him. 

Desperation

Image from Microsoft Word,
edited in Picnik.

I started hearing the helicopters circling our neighborhood about 5:00 am Monday morning. My husband left for work about 6:30 but then returned just as my son was to get on the bus. He informed me that there were several police cars in the area and he suspected that they were on the hunt for someone or something. I wanted my almost 15-year-old son to wait in the car with me as we watched for the bus but he told me I was silly for worrying. I didn't really think he was in danger but I also didn't like the idea of him standing outside by himself. After my son got on the bus, I left for school. I arrived at 7:05 and the director of the before school child care program met me at the door. There were no other teachers in the building. She told me that there had been an armed robbery at a nearby Sunoco station and the police were looking for the suspect. Armed . . . meaning gun. How could this have happened so close to my school, so close to my home? I couldn't imagine ever being so desperate as to wave a gun in someone's face and demand money. How would I feel if I had been the clerk behind the cash register?  Later in the day, details about the suspect were reported: white, male, early 60’s, 5’ 8”, 200 lbs, beard stubble, wearing dark clothes. The police have not found him yet but they don’t believe he is still in the area, whatever that means. So if he isn't around here, where is he?

Not Funny Until Later

Sam started dancing when
she was three.

 My husband and I planned to travel to Bowling Green on Saturday to see our daughter, Sam, perform in a dance concert. During the day, we got about two inches of blowing snow. He decided we should drive my car to the performance. I warned my husband not to open the driver’s side door because it wouldn't shut if it got too cold out. He looked at me like I was nuts misinformed. I had actually told him about the door several weeks ago but since we hadn’t had much icy weather, it hadn’t been a problem. By the time we arrived in BG, the wind chill had dipped into the teens. Walking through the parking lot and up the stairs of Kobacker Hall brought back memories of trudging across that flat open campus, in the whipping wind, cutting through buildings along the way to warm up.  After the concert, we planned to take my daughter and her friend back to the dorm. I told the girls that they had to climb in through the passenger side back door because there was something wrong with the other door. My husband decided he should warm up the car and bring it closer to the entrance so the girls could hop in the back.

While waiting for the car, I enjoyed listening to my daughter chatter with the other dancers. My husband texted that the car was ready and we headed out. And there he stood, in the blowing snow, slamming the back door over and over, trying to get it to close. He looked at me, mouth agape. I looked at him and shook my head. I told Sam to try to hold the door shut from the inside as we drove back to the dorm. The girls thought the whole situation was wildly comical. I did not. After dropping Sam off, we found a car wash, warmed up the door, and got the darn thing shut. About halfway home, it all seemed a lot funnier.

Summer Regrets

My son finished off Grandma Jo's
jam in less than two days!

A few weeks ago, my step-mom gave me the loveliest jar of homemade golden plum jam. The jam had a wonderful tart-sweet flavor; tart from the amber skins of the plums and sweet from the flesh. I had barely made it in the door with my prize when my 14-year-old son’s food radar instantly activated and he wanted to know what was in the jar. After one taste, he immediately got out the bread. He spread a slice generously with the jam, folded it in half, and began stuffing it in his mouth.

“Mmmmmm, this stuff is amazing,” he purred.

Then he took out the peanut butter and made sandwiches with the jam. After a sandwich or two, he toasted some bread and slathered the jam on top of melted butter. He said the flavor reminded him a little of apricot preserves only sweeter and smoother. I had never realized my son was such a jelly connoisseur. My step-mom would have thoroughly enjoyed watching him devour her yummy gift. Then came the inevitable question:

“How did Grandma Jo make this?”

I chuckled as I retold the story of how a few days ago, Grandma and Grandpa had gone to Erie Orchards and Grandpa made Grandma Jo climb up a ladder to pick the best plums. 

 "Can you believe he made her climb up a ladder, for Pete's sake?"

“Yeah, but how did she actually make it?”

Although I wasn’t exactly sure how she had made it, I could pretty much guess. I had watched both my mom and step-mom can hundreds of jars of tomatoes, pickles, and jelly. As a kid, it was a familiar part of my summer. I told my son about sterilizing the jars and the lids and the big pot and the rack for the jars. I told him about preparing the fruit and adding sugar and Sure-Jell.  I talked about how sometimes the lids popped as they sealed. My son was genuinely fascinated with the process.

“How come you don’t make jam and pickles and stuff?”

I didn’t answer him right away. I just looked at him and said that canning takes a lot of time and I didn't have all the canning equipment. As I explained this to him I began to feel guilty. Knowing my son, he would have enjoyed the process of making jam as much as he loved eating it. Maybe next summer.

Bad Hair Nightmare

In third grade, I put Vaseline in my hair the night before picture day at school. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I was thinking about all the Dippity-Do I had watched my sisters put in their hair. Maybe I enjoyed the slimy feel of the cloudy petroleum jelly. Maybe I liked scooping out thick hunks of the lard-like goo and smearing it through my thin brown hair. 

 

Stronger than dirt!

After I had spread it throughout my hair, I made goofy hairstyles. The more Vaseline I added to my bangs, the better I could make them stand straight up in spikes. I got bored with making silly hairdos and decided to wash it out. I washed and washed and washed. I tried using shampoo, dishwashing detergent, and Lifebuoy soap. None of them worked. I finally told my mom. I was crying by then. I can’t remember for sure, but I think she was laughing which made me cry even more. She scrubbed my head with Comet and that worked. The next day at school, I smiled for my picture and no one ever knew what I had done the night before. In fact, my hair had never looked shinier.

Guilt by Association

My brother threw the peanut butter sandwich up and it stuck to the ceiling. I’d watched him do it. That made me an accomplice. Jack was used to getting in trouble. He was always in trouble. Not me. I was scared to death of even the threat of the belt.

He looked up at it. I looked up at it. Yup, it was stuck.

“What are you looking at . . . oh, my God! You guys are in BIG trouble!” said my sister Becky as she entered the kitchen. I started crying. Jack didn’t flinch. The fact that Becky didn’t immediately tell on Jack made her an accomplice too. Why hadn’t she told mom? I began to wonder if Becky thought I had done it.

No one else noticed the slice of bread on the ceiling when we sat down to the table for dinner that night. As the potatoes were passed, the bread began to pull away and hang, right above my sister Sheila’s head.  

Jack's missing because he took
the picture.



Then it fell, splat, on her freshly washed hair. Sheila went insane screaming something about having a date with her boyfriend. I started crying again. Over the sound of my sister’s shrieks and my own sobbing, I heard everyone laughing, even my dad.

“Why did you do that?” my mom asked me. I just kept rubbing my eyes and whimpering, looking very guilty. Jack said nothing.  Later, he volunteered to get the step ladder and clean the peanut butter spot.

And no one got the belt.



An Uncommon Bond

I always knew this would happen eventually. I farted in front of my students. The afternoon started like most others. My first grade intervention group tumbled in the door, seated themselves, and got right down to the business of re-reading their familiar books. As the trio was busily whisper reading, it happened.

"Awwwwww, somebody is tootin," shrieked Tashawn. He pinched his nose and flapped his hand in front of his face.

(Silence)

Tashawn looked straight at me. I could tell by the grin on his face he knew the truth. I had to come up with a quick defense. "It must have been you Tashawn, " I said quietly.

Tashawn's eyes grew large. "Huh uh, not me! It wasn't me. Not this time."

His eyes narrowed and he pointed an accusing finger in my direction. "It was YOU, Mrs. Martin. I HEARD you. "

My attempt to pin my mishap on Tashawn had failed miserably. By now, my colleague with whom I share the tiny room, was sputtering all over her computer like a lawn sprinkler and Tashawn was howling.The amazing thing is, the other two students continued to whisper read like nothing happened. As Tashawn continued to laugh and tease, the girl in the group, Shaylynn, tried to come to my rescue.

"That's not funny Tashawn! You fart all the time."

And Shaylynn was correct. Usually it was Tashawn. In fact, I have him doing it on tape. I was making a video of the group to use for a PLC and Tashawn leaned over on his right cheek and passed wind, not once, but twice.

I was thinking how sweet is was that Shaylynn had defended my honor. I tried to be serious and mature but then I just let go and started laughing. Eduardo stopped reading and said, "You fart Mrs. Martin?"

"Yup, Eduardo, I farted. Have you ever farted in front of anyone?"

Then came the barrage of stories. Sometimes I couldn't tell if the kids were embarrassed or proud. But there was no doubt about it. My gas had bonded us together forever. Eduardo greeted me with "You fart, Mrs. Martin?" for several days after it happened. My reply was always, "Yes, Eduardo, yes I do." Then he would smile and say, "Me too."