tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857457200500221532024-02-02T09:37:01.413-08:00Brace yourself...Life is like a roller coaster, filled with whiplashing twists and turns. Brace yourself.
Please join me as I share my personal anecdotes and humorous tales in the tongue-in-cheek, non-linear, off-on-a-tangent, and oft indelicate way in which my mind works.Teri Davis, Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16500438150495808464noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-785745720050022153.post-69823659488856804742018-05-24T22:45:00.000-07:002018-05-28T06:52:43.697-07:00Over the Hill<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This may be tooting my horn, but, well, I'm just going to say it, I was really good at first
grade. Things like reading and spelling came easy to me. In fact, my
first grade teacher, we'll call her Ms. H., even had me help
struggling classmates with <i>their</i> spelling words, puffing me up
like a peacock.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When
I entered first grade, the school was just implementing a new method
to teach reading, known as the Letter People. Mr. C – Cotton Candy,
Mr. D – Delicious Donuts, Mr. L – Lemon Lollipops, Mr. M –
Munchy Mouth. Inexplicably, I remember being hungry a lot at this
age.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nonetheless,
I breezed through first grade, with possibly an unnatural affection
for oddly shaped characters and gratuitous alliteration, but also
with a great deal of confidence in my spelling prowess.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Riding
high on my first grade successes, I charged into second grade with my
curly, red head full of consonants and vowels, possessing a capable
grasp on how they all fit together.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was well into the school year, and as a class, we were practicing our
spelling words out loud, but individually as the teacher called on each
of us. When my name was called, I braced for the challenge. My word
was 'hill'. <i>Pfff. So easy.</i> Straightening in my chair, jutting
out my chin, I sounded off.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“H,
E, L, L.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A
satisfied smile on my face, I waited for my expected affirmation of
accuracy.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
started with snickers, but erupted into full on shrieks of glee. Little glistening eyes filled with delight. Even
Mrs. C - Cranky Crab was laughing. Eyebrows furled, looking from one
to the next of them, I wondered what had gotten into these people.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Silently,
I spelled the word again. <i>H, E, L, L</i>. Yep, that's when I heard it. A
look of terror crossed my face. Would I be sent to the principal?
Would there be a paddling waiting for me at home? Was I in a <i>hill</i>
of a lot of trouble?</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
No
cause for alarm. Mrs. C – Crusty Cow offered me a second chance to
spell it. And this time, remembering my spelling rules, I put the 'i'
before 'e'.</div>
<br />Teri Davis, Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16500438150495808464noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-785745720050022153.post-47364375048254324752018-05-09T20:06:00.003-07:002018-05-09T20:07:47.219-07:00The Blob<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
were on a family vacation at a crystal clear, mountain lake in
Tennessee. My parents had rented a lake cabin for our week-long stay,
devoted to boating and skiing.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Our
first day, my sister and I had already explored the nearby woods,
fashioning a make-shift fort in a cluster of trees, but, bored with
that fairly quickly, we then turned our attention to the beach.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Walking
along the sandy edge of the water, we discovered a nest of floating,
gelatinous blobs. Nodular. Brain-like. Groovy. And I don't mean in
the 1960s flower child way. Bobbing on the ripples.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My
sister asked me what they were, and being the smart ass, eleven-year-old I was, it was exactly the right amount of encouragement I needed
to contrive a far-fetched tale, intended to scare the heebie-jeebies
out of her, about these unfathomable beings.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
kicked at them, ran them through with sticks, pummeled them with
rocks, all the while, I wove my fanciful yarn. In my most sinister
voice, I detailed for my sister the story of how, after dark, these
slimy creatures, triggered by the moonlight, would bulge and swell to
a humungous size, monstrous and grotesque, hungering for foolhardy
campers. A fresh-water jellyfish uprising bent on revenge against
those who had dared to harm them. I explained to her, with my eyes
wide and intense, if we survived the night, we should all count
ourselves lucky.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My
sister listened amused, but unconvinced, and she went about the rest
of her day unaffected.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I,
on the other hand, had told the story so well, so masterfully, I
spent the remainder of my evening in a state of lather, prickly with
dread.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> What
if I was right? What if it was all true?</i>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
didn't want to be the main course at a gummy-monster banquet. But
darkness was coming, and I was powerless to stop it. Therefore, I
went to bed – at about 6 p.m.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> Bring
it on, mucous demon, if you can find me under my covers.</i>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My
one advantage, by hiding in the sheets, was my family members were
still up, still fully visible, oblivious, unhidden...the horde would
get them first.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
awoke the next morning, alive and intact. Unconsumed. Un-congealed.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> All
just my crazy imagination. So preposterous. Fffff, I hadn't really
believed it, anyway.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But
just to be on the safe side, for the rest of that week, I maintained
a distended distance from the beach. No reason to push my luck. No
need to poke...the <i>blob</i>.</div>
<br />Teri Davis, Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16500438150495808464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-785745720050022153.post-92114589181565052072018-05-02T20:31:00.001-07:002018-05-02T20:31:25.669-07:00Trick or Treat<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
don't know exactly how old I was, but little enough to be amused
playing a make believe game of Trick or Treat alone in the family
room.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
With
my plastic, jack-o-lantern bucket in hand, I went door-to-door (couch
to end table to coffee table and so on), knocking on invisible doors,
buzzing non-existent doorbells.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
At
each stop, I would go through the prescribed routine with the pretend
hostess, begging for unseen candy with the customary “Trick or
Treat,” reciting my lines with my most authentic baby talk, “Twick
or Tweat.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
went about my expedition without incident until I arrived at the
rocker-recliner <i>house</i>.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
generous, but transparent lady who answered the door offered a choice
of candy, “What would you like little girl?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Still
in character, the baby talk babbled from my lips, “I want a
sucker.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Of
course, the defining quality of 'baby talk' is that the words aren't
spoken clearly or precisely. In fact, sometimes sounds are
substituted for other sounds. For instance, sometimes an 's' might
come out sounding like a 'th'. But in this scandalous instance, the
's' was substituted with an 'f'.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My
mother shot into the family room as if catapulted from the kitchen,
her finger wagging. “Don't you ever say that again,” she
reprimanded in a loud, screech.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Shocked
out my shoes, I spun in a panic, facing her rabidity.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
What
had I said? What was I to do? How was I to ask for a sugary, hard
candy on a stick? Lollipop was an awfully big word for such a little
girl. And Tootsie Pop was far too specific. Stifled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Eh,
's'uck it, just give me the candy cigarettes.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was several more years until I grasped an understanding of profanity
sufficient to recall this episode and reason out what I had uttered –
to the great horror of my mother.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I,
however, take a depraved pleasure in its prediction of my irreverent
future – the mother of all curse words, it turns out, is one of my
favorite words to say – the sweet confection of it rolling off my
tongue. The taffy-like pull of it. The appeal of its Everlasting
Gobstopper assortment of flavors. I'd almost go so far as to call it
'ear candy' but that might be 'Dum Dum'.</div>
<br />Teri Davis, Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16500438150495808464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-785745720050022153.post-15096809582386808552018-04-24T21:07:00.003-07:002018-04-24T21:10:47.195-07:00Smoke and Mirrors<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In
an earlier post, I alleged a begrudging reconciliation with my
creeping-up, old age. An acceptance of gravity's negative effect on
my once buoyant body parts. A deference to time running its natural
course.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But
the winds of change have struck again. Now I must vent my spleen
because my antiquity has plunged to alarming new lows, causing an
intestinal disquietude, bent on venting my <i>colon</i>.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Yes,
folks, I <i>am</i> going to go there. It's time to air it out.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In
my late twenties, a male companion of mine commented about his
amazement with females' ability to never pass gas. He noted his
reverence for our stubborn resolve to withhold airing our discomfort.
He joked about his anxiety for our collective well-being, his fear
that at any moment a woman in his company might combust like a shaken
can of soda, setting off a contagion of eruptions among the other
females, like the exploding of a string of firecrackers. One woman
after another blown to bits by her own obstinate decorum.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
wasn't exactly right. But back then I <i>could</i> hold it in with ease.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
That
was then, this is now.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Maturity
has ripened me, I admit. The vapors waft up, pungent and fermented.
Mustered into the sweet, horseradish-y aroma akin to mustard gas. And
always, <i>always</i>, at the most inopportune times.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
For
instance, at the office, speaking with a co-worker, I feel the
pressure building. I grasp for a piece of paper to crackle in my
hand, to disguise the noise. No paper in reach, I tap my fingernails
on a counter top or wall, a deluded confidence in my ability to
conceal my defective social graces.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But
the worst, the absolute worst of it, is during my massage sessions.
Face-down on the table, my tummy gurgles. The magma brewing in the
caldera. I squirm. I tense. I clench. Actions all counter to the
purpose of being on the table in the first place.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Perhaps,
rather than struggling against it, I should just do the massage
therapist a courtesy, warn her to step away. Like in Army basic
training when shooting a grenade launcher, we were taught to warn
those behind us with the phrase 'back blast area all clear.' Would
that not be an appropriate way to protect my unsuspecting masseuse,
who, as bad timing would have it, always seems to have her face
directly above the escape hatch. I should probably tip her better.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Recently
I made chili for dinner on a Friday night. The following week, my
husband suggested I eat the leftover chili for lunch...on a work day?
Inconceivable. When it takes so much effort to control it as is, I'm
certainly not going to egg it on.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
suppose I should contact that old friend of mine and give him the
peace of mind of knowing there's no longer much threat of
spontaneous combustion. In fact, I've read that flatulence is a sign
of good health. That being the case, I fear I may be immortal.</div>
<br />Teri Davis, Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16500438150495808464noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-785745720050022153.post-6006040745578518282018-04-18T22:29:00.000-07:002018-04-21T07:09:12.653-07:00Naptime<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
was about seven when it occurred to me something about this Santa
Claus story just wasn't adding up.<br />
First, we didn't have a chimney in
our house. How was Santa making entry? And if it was, in fact, that
easy to get into our house in the wee hours of the night, what was
keeping other, more duplicitous, professed do-gooders from prancing
right in.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Second, one year earlier, my extended family had gone to great lengths to put
on the blitz with a Santa Claus showcase on Christmas Eve at my
Grandma and Grandpa's house. Santa jingle-jangled into the family
room, sleigh bells clanging, sack slung over his shoulder. My two cousins, my
sister and I stared, awestruck.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
each had a turn on his knee, receiving a gift and a candy cane.
Camera flashes burst all around us. The clicking, eight-millimeter
movie camera, with its retina-scorching light bulb, recording it, for
all time, in Technicolor.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Only
a few minutes later he dashed away, dashed away – through the
swinging kitchen doors. I had just a moment to consider how none of what had just happened jibed with Santa's prescribed Christmas Eve agenda before the grown people in the room hurried us
children to the plate glass window in the dining room, carrying on
maniacally, pointing and gesturing to the pitch dark, backyard. “Do
you see him? There he goes. Look there's his sleigh.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> What the dickens were they all talking about?</i> A born skeptic, my eyebrow arched like
the toe of an elf's boot, I peered out the window, but saw no
creature stirring, not even a mouse. But I did smell a rat.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So
the next year, I devised a plan. I was going to solve this mystery
once and for all. I would stay awake all night, listening.
Listening for reindeer paws, tinkling bells, or a deep, baritoned <i>Ho
Ho Ho</i>.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
awoke the next morning, certain I <i>had</i> dutifully accomplished
my mission. I had my proof. Or lack thereof. I'd been fed a bowl full
of jelly long enough, and I was going to set the record straight.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Gifts
opened, Dad sat at the Kimball organ, playing a tune. I leaned
against the top of its cabinet, preparing my case. Deciding to get
right to the point, my stubborn, little chin jutted out, I declared, “I stayed awake all night last
night, and I never heard Santa come.” <i>Heh heh! Whatdaya got to
say about that?</i></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My
father never missed a beat, played his song unperturbed, and met my
accusing stare. “Sounds to me like you need a nap.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> Wha?!</i>
I had wandered into dangerous territory. Being told to take a nap on
Christmas Day? Quick as a missile, I had to get out of sight. So away
I did fly like the down of a thistle.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My
father had won this round, he was clever and cunning. I made up my
mind though... next year, I'd dissect the Easter Bunny.</div>
<br />Teri Davis, Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16500438150495808464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-785745720050022153.post-88295123547545778812018-04-11T20:25:00.000-07:002018-04-13T20:44:27.187-07:00Head Games<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
can't explain how or why this little dinner time game got started. My
boys were around five and three then, and sitting at the table one
evening eating supper, we were playing a silly game for our own
amusement.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
would say a word, any word, for the objects or people we saw around
the room then add the word 'head' to it. That is 'Mommyhead',
'Seanhead', 'Drewhead', 'chairhead', 'spoonhead', etcetera. As I
said, there was no rhyme or reason for it, just an <i>innocent</i>
dinner diversion which my kids, with their underdeveloped senses of
humor, thought was outrageously funny and were literally laughing
their <i>heads</i> off.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Dinner
over, we were clearing the table. My mother and her then husband
arrived unexpected, letting themselves in through the front door,
which was fine...for a moment.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Dear
Reader, if you've read my previous posts you may see where this is
heading, but I'll go on.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Still
playing the game, my youngest, his eager face aglow, a twinkle in his
eyes, took in a big, open-mouthed breath of air, having an 'aha'
moment. I could see the words forming on his sweet, little lips, and
I was powerless to head it off. He pointed at my mother's husband,
and proud as he could be, declared, “Dickhead.”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
There's
no good way to recover from that, there's no excuses to be made, no
apologies will suffice. I could stammer and attempt to explain, but
finally I just had to move past it with a shrug, oh, and a subtle smirk
on my face, proud of my boy, who did, unknowingly, hit the nail on
the <i>head</i>.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFlbwLSGNAuYjQ7ZDlYM-gb5cRnA9u_XfDsTa6gjNsWhsVIvqxo5I4W0fd6AJPY7DJ_1GKtqVUOVzyI84JGxOOVhRuwkdtGnrrnyE4rzfMpbpMGiKmYtQiYpfKcOj9miO1nflFYfUSh0k/s1600/spoon+head.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1308" data-original-width="784" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFlbwLSGNAuYjQ7ZDlYM-gb5cRnA9u_XfDsTa6gjNsWhsVIvqxo5I4W0fd6AJPY7DJ_1GKtqVUOVzyI84JGxOOVhRuwkdtGnrrnyE4rzfMpbpMGiKmYtQiYpfKcOj9miO1nflFYfUSh0k/s320/spoon+head.jpg" width="191" /></a></div>
<br />Teri Davis, Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16500438150495808464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-785745720050022153.post-89155143501814001722018-04-03T21:35:00.002-07:002018-04-03T21:35:27.813-07:00Pick Your Poison<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
have a vague memory of being loaded into the ambulance, my mother,
frantic (perhaps that's too strong a term – mildly unnerved,
maybe), climbing in behind.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'd
been poisoned. And fearing for my life, Mom called the squad to whisk
me away to the emergency room.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Poisoned?
You ask. My goodness. You say.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My
mother told the story this way...I had licked an anteater behind the
couch.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
cannot begin to convey the monumental amount of puzzlement this
information generated in my tiny brain – for many years.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Why
did we own an anteater? What was his name? Why did we keep him behind
the couch? How come I'd never noticed him there before?</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Confident
in my mother's description, I tried to picture the scene, to remember
this intimate encounter. It seemed like something I wouldn't forget.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But
the effort to remember only provoked more questions. What part of the
anteater did I lick? Was it his snout? Was it his rear? If I had
licked somewhere else would there have been a less toxic outcome?</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Knowing
anteaters have enormous tongues, I was also compelled to wonder, did
he lick me back? Perhaps he, in fact, licked first, causing me to
politely return the favor. Maybe we were just comparing our tongue
sizes – an innocent case of I'll show you mine if you show me
yours.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
tried in vain to decipher the mystery and was quite a bit older by
the time I asked my mother to explain it again because I couldn't
figure it out.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm
sure, dear reader, it doesn't take a <i>terro</i> card to clearly see
the truth of this story. No need for clairvoyance. My mother had been
willfully imprecise with the use of the term anteater, but I'm
forever grateful for it. For as a story teller, when presented with a
chance to make a mountain out of an <i>ant</i> hill, you have to get
in your best licks.</div>
<br />Teri Davis, Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16500438150495808464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-785745720050022153.post-69977229126293808472018-03-28T20:17:00.000-07:002018-03-31T07:41:39.847-07:00Water Balloons<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My
parents were in their twenties and still full of a youthful lust for
fun when I was a small child, so it was with some regularity my
sister and I were dropped off at Grandma's on Saturday nights.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Grandma
was always kind to us, letting us help bake cookies and lick the
batter from the beaters, playing Yahtzee or Cooties with us, or
popping us popcorn on the stove top to crunch on during the Saturday
night programs – with a whole bottle of Pepsi mind you.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
On
Sunday morning we would buckle on our patent leather shoes, and she
would take us to church and let us doodle on the church programs and
suck on Certs mints or butterscotch candies.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Life
at Grandma's was pleasant, tranquil. Nothing to disturb the mind of a
five-year-old. Almost nothing.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
There
was only one bathroom in Grandma's house, and on plenty of occasions,
Grandma would take her bath and I would fritter away, playing on the
bathroom floor, waiting for her to be done. I had seen my mother's
breasts. Round like the top of a snow cone. But Grandma's breasts
were another story.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In
her fifties then, Grandma wasn't obese, but she had a belly. Her
breasts draped themselves atop her belly like the floppy ears of a
basset hound. They looked like water balloons being held by the lip,
stretching the necks beyond their capacity, all the weight of them
amassing in bulbous blobs at the bottom. She had to pick them up and
wash under them.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This
filled me with awe and alarm. Having not yet learned about gravity, I
wondered how breasts could get into such a slump? Why were they on
such a slippery slope? Had Grandma accidentally caught them under her
iron and flattened them out that way?</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thanks
for the <i>mammaries</i>. Through the years, I've tried to erase the
visual of Grandma's distended bosom. To pretend I didn't see it. To
ignore the tendencies of heredity.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Drying
off after a shower recently, something in the partially fogged
mirror caught my eye. There was no face visible in the mist, but
below where a face should have been two water balloons reflected back
at me. <i>Grandma</i>? <i>Wait, what</i>?</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lifting
my breasts to dry underneath, the gravity of the situation was
obvious. It took no stretch of the imagination to see what had
transpired. Cleavage had turned to leavage. The rubber had hit the
road.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
suppose I should be distressed by this revelation of the arrival of
my old age. But if saggy <i>mammaries</i> can produce such firm and
fond memories, I'll celebrate being doused by water balloons.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-8JS5jg54p8NC656ruFzu01Tl411XxcxFOKfzEVVxPmy3K5tBggGFJNyLSOnMtQrDVv3h4e2wXCBxNxCIIVKQbfduUf62PvE2dX1EXcEudVRIAK5Cn9cqeoRUhPduPkTMKh4oQ4nwaY/s1600/water+balloon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1462" data-original-width="1124" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-8JS5jg54p8NC656ruFzu01Tl411XxcxFOKfzEVVxPmy3K5tBggGFJNyLSOnMtQrDVv3h4e2wXCBxNxCIIVKQbfduUf62PvE2dX1EXcEudVRIAK5Cn9cqeoRUhPduPkTMKh4oQ4nwaY/s320/water+balloon.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>
<br />Teri Davis, Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16500438150495808464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-785745720050022153.post-82627383986980709772018-03-15T22:11:00.003-07:002018-03-16T06:34:54.479-07:00Get Your Gander Up<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Although
in our twenties, my sister and I still found ourselves relegated to
the kids' table for Christmas dinner. Not because we were acting
childish, but because the “grown-up” table simply wasn't big
enough.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She
and I (and her then boyfriend) were not at all put out by this
arrangement. Being at an age when you're certain your level of wit
and sophistication has far outpaced the old people in the room, we
thought it perfectly acceptable, if not in fact, preferable.
Frolicking with freedom to discuss topics suitable to our age group
in as off-colored a manner as we dared.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
At
the time of this specific Christmas, my mother was married to a man
named Dick, and they lived in a cozy (aka small and tight),
wood-paneled trailer. During holidays, Mom went all out with the
decorating. Every room swollen in festivity. A knick for every nook,
a knack for every cranny. One of Mom's favorite decorating schemes
was to display the Christmas cards she'd received that year across
the backside of the overhead cabinets which divided the kitchen from
the dining room. A cardboard array of wishes and goodwill.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In
addition to my mother and her husband, my aunt and uncle and my
grandmother were seated at the grown-up table, gobbling up roast
beef, caramel-coated dinner rolls, wild rice, and steamed veggies.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My
grandmother, nearing her eighties, was profoundly hard-of-hearing
which caused her to speak at an elevated volume, and by that I mean loud. She was a
God-fearing woman whose worst curse word was “Ah sugar!” When
retelling a story in which a character used a curse word, she would
lower her head conspiratorially and whisper the offending quote.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In
between bites of savory flesh, she scanned the Christmas cards
overhead, catching sight of one featuring a Christmas goose. The
others installed at the table were quiet, no one was speaking. The
only sounds were the forks clinking on plates or knives scraping
through carcass. Until.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Her
unembarrassed words blared across the table. “Have you ever ate goose Dick?”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
There
was no comma in her statement. There was no pause.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lips
curled in, trying to hold it together, I looked across the table at
my smirking, wide-eyed sister, all self-restraint abandoning me. “No
just the balls,” I honked.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Red
faced, tears of laughter cascading down our cheeks, we delighted at
this Christmas gift, better than any we opened all that day.<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />Teri Davis, Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16500438150495808464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-785745720050022153.post-3029344924226112012018-03-03T12:08:00.000-08:002018-03-03T12:08:02.151-08:00Icecapades<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
broke my mother's butt. Not just anyone can say that. This little
tidbit of personal history sets me apart from those who never
fractured the delicate mother/daughter relationship quite so
literally.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
At
eight, I had only recently mastered the single blade ice skate,
advancing from the kiddie-fied double bladed skates of my early
childhood. The kind of skates my kid sister, two years younger than
me – and still such a baby – continued to use. My proficiency at
this new skill was only surpassed by my added ability to skate with
my hands in the back pockets of my corduroy pants. Keith Partridge would often
keep his hands in his pockets, thus setting the coolness bar pretty
high. Never was there an eight-year-old more cool in her own mind
than me with my red, unruly curls shoved inside a stocking cap, my
knuckles flush against my buns, and my lopsided cockiness balancing
on quarter inch steel atop a slippery floor.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It
was a nighttime skate on the thick ice of the cul-de-sac'd end of the
lake canal. One of our shrewd lake neighbors had had the slick-witted
idea to shovel a basketball-court-sized, rectangular rink out of the
many inches of blanketing snow cover.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> Side
note:</i> There was a mallard duck entrapped several inches under the
ice, a perplexing discovery for my refrigerated, eight-year-old
brain. <i>What in the world, ducks can fly?</i> Why would it just sit
there becoming a duck-cicle instead of hightailing away to freedom?
But I digress...</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Cheeks
flushed with cold night air, I glided round and round the crowded,
make-shift rink, ice crackling under the <i>scrich, scrich, scrich</i>
of the skates. On the next pass, I spotted my mother, wearing her blue parka and crocheted, white beret with a puffy ball on top, stepping into
the rink. Arms spread wide to my sides, picking up speed, I raced
toward her, eager to welcome her to the arctic arena.
“Mommyyyyyyyyyy!”</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My mother was a pretty good skater, but she was unequal to the brunt of an eight-year-old with a head full of steam. She landed with a thud. The ice didn't crack, but her pelvis did.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Turns
out there's no good way to heal a busted behind. Can't put a cast on
it. Can't put it in a sling. My mother endured a lot of pain and a
lot of butt crack jokes. It's a wonder she's not more frosty toward
me to this day.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxZ3B2NDCzHPYKkOJLVmir8FMG_cI8JHxMlyba13T5F7lGScuD0Eo76k51JUzJ3lObp7snf0uAHghsAmNxXiN0rG6NAAgRt3eS3X5e40QWf95CR5TiVpfoMnopsXbj8zuFdf1QpgxqJg/s1600/IMG_1508.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1188" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPxZ3B2NDCzHPYKkOJLVmir8FMG_cI8JHxMlyba13T5F7lGScuD0Eo76k51JUzJ3lObp7snf0uAHghsAmNxXiN0rG6NAAgRt3eS3X5e40QWf95CR5TiVpfoMnopsXbj8zuFdf1QpgxqJg/s200/IMG_1508.JPG" width="175" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1973 skating with my hands in my pockets</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsDVkbl1yWgRVGsHNhrZb7bwUnA40VkRc4ZPmabvOmDXAS8pCIL31T5Jg6TTxH7oVdUVZpS3U4ya94PKp_zOzVattB9GtUajKdO8tpX9wfskzlE72Y0ysDDoOFJL00Cq56Gv7zkwrTu2o/s1600/IMG_1512.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1583" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsDVkbl1yWgRVGsHNhrZb7bwUnA40VkRc4ZPmabvOmDXAS8pCIL31T5Jg6TTxH7oVdUVZpS3U4ya94PKp_zOzVattB9GtUajKdO8tpX9wfskzlE72Y0ysDDoOFJL00Cq56Gv7zkwrTu2o/s200/IMG_1512.JPG" width="197" /></a>
<br />
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<br />Teri Davis, Authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16500438150495808464noreply@blogger.com1