Interference

For this post, you'll need to hum a soundtrack for me. As you read, have the theme song to Jaws playing over and over in your head.

I stepped off the bus one lovely fall afternoon and raced inside the house. I had plans to get my red dodge ball and commandeer Scotty and Kirk into a vigorous game of Crazy Dodge Ball.

As I flew through our small entry, my eyes flashed across my mother who was seated on our piano bench, smiling like she won the lottery. I came to a grinding halt.

"Kara, I have some good news for you," she announces excitedly.

I sit on the couch, a little unsure because my mother's good news is usually weird. For example, one day she was very excited to enlist our help in planting her tomatoes. Another time, she was very pleased to see us dusting our room. Do you get the picture?

She continues to smile, oh so pleased with herself, as she says, "I found you a piano teacher! Your first piano lesson is today!"

I can't breathe for a moment. I stare at her feeling betrayed and suckered. I crumple into a fit of tears and surprise her into upset.

"Kara, dear, you don't understand. You'll love playing the piano. I learned as a child, and I have always regretted quitting."

Then why didn't she take lessons? Why didn't she spend her free time at the piano?

It was horrid. I was doomed to carry out the ideas of my mother, the ones she thought were necessary and good. I had many years left of having my life planned for me...

Oh, the agony.

Dumb-Dumbs

"Look. Can't you see how lovely it leaves your hands?"

"Oh, yes. They are so smooth and soft. It's like you haven't been doing dishes at all!"

I shove my hands into the hot, soapy water. "And you won't believe how quickly it removes grease from all your pots and pans."

Maria takes the pan I just finished washing and rinses it off under the faucet. "My goodness! Look at that shine!" she exclaims.

"Wait until you see the last glass. This soap will work until the very last dish is done," I proclaim.

"You don't have to replenish the water and soap at all?"

"Oh, no! Dawn does the work and keeps on working."

We proceed to show our customers exactly what we mean and finish the dishes. Of course, we are at our own kitchen sink, and our only customers are whatever insects are passing by the kitchen window.

We stand on stools as we clean each fork, pot, and plate. Our commercial for the support of Dawn dish soap continues until we are done.

What an accomplishment! All the dishes from supper are clean, we didn't have to refill the sink with new water, and our hands are still soft. Aren't we amazing for choosing the right dish soap?

Hey, wait a minute....

Did we just get suckered into doing a chore? Why, yes. Dumb-dumbs....

Ode To Apple Butter

Oh, apple butter.
Oh, how I love you.
Your apple cinnamony sweetness gives happiness so true.

The way you melt with peanut butter is so fine,
I cannot wait until you get in that mouth of mine.

When I see you sittin' on my grandma's table,
my stomach growls and is unstable.

Until I can spread you on a biscuit so fluffy,
my temperament is terrible and I'm a little huffy.

Oh, apple butter.
Oh, how I love you.
Thank you for the sweetness that always rings true.

Big Idea Number Three

So far my mother is 1 for 2. Music and Arts Week was a definite master stroke of genius. The nursery...not so much.

When "Big Idea Number Three" came along, I was skeptical and on my guard. I had several arguments ready against my involvement in this thing called the "Church Bazaar".

I was anxious it was accurately described by its title. Imagine my relief when I found out I didn't have to do anything for it.

Mom, Grace, and Jo -- and a few other ladies, poor girls -- embarked upon a journey involving glue guns, thread, fake flowers, and ric rac. They made several lovely pieces of art with these materials and others.

Their intent, of course, was to sell them and raise funds for the church.

I'm not sure how well they did. I do remember Maria getting squirted on with hot glue -- not by me. (It looked like hot mayonnaise.)

I remember running around the parish hall while the mothers peddled their wares. I also remember, upon completion of said Bazaar, finding several of their creations around the house as decorations.

It seemed they had bought each others stuff. How nice, I thought.

Perhaps Number Three needed some work....

Maria's First Day

On rainy days recess was on the black top. For those of you who didn't go to my school, that meant the teacher parking lot.

This was fine with me. Part of it was painted with hopscotch squares and four squares. I had as much fun on the black top as I did on the playground.

But, I was sad for Maria. On her first day she couldn't play on the playground, and she didn't care to organize games of four square or hopscotch. She depended on me to do those things.

While I was worrying about her good time, I was surprised when the Kindergarten class filed outside. Maria was in line, wearing her favorite twirly dress. It was brown with tiny maroon flowers. And it twirled like a West Texas dust devil.

I immediately dropped the ball and ran to her, eager to bring her into my circle and show her the ropes of the black top.

But my plan was interrupted by a shrill whistle. I look up as the second grade teachers are ordering us to line up. Anxious and still determined, I run up to my teacher.

"I need to stay here and play with my sister," I announce.

She said no.

Everything inside me deflated as I turn to face my sister. She starts to cry as I am ordered to line up.

I can still see her face. The memory is sharp and still wrenches at my gut. I can see her, standing in the hopscotch squares, in her pretty twirly dress, as tears stream down her cheeks.

Walking away from her was the most torturous thing I had ever had to do.

She was fine, of course. I agonized over it for the rest of the day, but when we got home she was as happy as all get-out.

It comforted me, but did not release me from the horrific feeling of walking away from my sister when she needed me.

I was determined it would never happen again. Sometimes I set my goals way too high....

If You Can't Beat 'Em

Time goes by too fast. Too many moments zip by us, never to be experienced again. If we aren't aware, we may not realize how important certain events are.

Like lying in the grass, watching the lightening bugs twinkle and flit above you. Or rolling down the hill at Miller Outdoor Theater. Or running through the sprinklers. Or having a full team for kickball.

Those dusky summer evenings when adults sat in lawn chairs, and we ran around with water guns.

I can't get those back. They are gone...forever. Swallowed up into the gaping mouth that was Fall.

Just the word....Fall. It makes me nauseous.

Your hopes are falling. Your fun is falling. Your life is tumbling into an abyss of pencil, paper, "quiet water, still water", and math.

I think my mom forgot to tell me school was starting until she walked me to the bus stop. Maria was with us.

"Maria is starting Kindergarten today," Mom announces proudly and excitedly.

Maria is smiling, and I am looking at her like she has drunk the koolaid.

"And Kara is starting second grade."

WHAT?!!??!! Whoa, there. Slow down, boy! "What are you sayin', Mom?" I almost scream at her.

She raises a brow as if to say, "Deal with it. You'll be fine."

Oh, my Lord. It's starting again! Does it never end?

As a voice above me whispers, "No.", I realize there was nothing I could do about this hamster wheel I was on. They'd beaten me. I was a student, and I was going to school. No manner of wishin', hopin', or prayin' would change it. So, I might as well bear it.

I look down at my sister and see that hopeful gleam in her eye. She gazes up at me, unafraid because I am beside her.

Standing a little straighter, I decide I could handle anything for the sake of my sister. Even school.

Thwarted Fun....Again

Pain, constant and crushing, resonates from my kneecaps up my thighs and into the small of my back.

Time ticks by as slowly as a caterpillar inching along a twig, and I groan inwardly, yearning for the chance to move back just a tad and relieve the pain in my knees. They are going to be bruised permanently, I know it.

I can barely see over the pew in front of me, but I know where we are in the order of the mass. We are only almost done with the "Christ Has Died" song. Ugh...

The priest says more words. We sing the "Amen" and, thank God, we can now stand up.

More words are said. I squirm and swish and sway back and forth, moving as much as possible before...God save me...we have to kneel again.

As I lower myself to the unpadded kneeler, I suddenly remember the compact mirror in my little purse. An idea forms, and the excitement of fun completely erases the pain in my knees. (Of course, they are probably numb.)

Pulling out the compact, I flip it open and lift my eyes to the ceiling. With any luck, all the adults will think I am praying to the Heavens.

As everyone processes to communion, I stay kneeling and watch the reflection of light from my mirror bounce over the ceiling of the church. I flick it from one side to the other, let it mingle with the reflections of the wine goblets, let it disappear into the light bulbs, and even go so far as to let it shine on the number boards.

My fun is quite short-lived. I mistakenly let my gaze stray to the choir where I find my father glowering at me from his seat. I snap the compact shut so fast the rush of air dries my eyeballs.

Because, in the words of the great Bill Cosby....

"My father established our relationship fairly quick. He said, 'I brought you in this world, and I can take you out.'"

And now the pain in my knees is ten times as worse as before.