On this day in 1973, umpty years ago, I was in rare territory sitting at the round table (usually reserved for my Grampa and other adults of importance) with my left hand soaking in a bowl of buttermilk while the Statler Brothers’
Flowers on the Wall played on the radio.
Whuhahappen was, my Gram had the burner on to heat up the big iron skillet for the catfish she was frying up in a thin layer of oil for when my Grampa got home and I reached into it to grab a snitch while her back was turned.
I was nine and my lovely raven haired cousin Colleen didn’t think I would actually do it (as she would have to explain to my Aunt Elaine later this day, taking the switch and gracelessly confessing her sins in front of all the kids on the way out the door).
Thinking back, I remember that the blisters on my fingers were very fast to emerge and were perfectly cylindrical as they bubbled up right before my eyes. Gram wrenched me by the wrist when it happened, pulled me up and carried me, just like that, to the main chair (all four chairs were alike actually, but this one was my Grampa’s). I was then dropped into it more unceremoniously than I would have expected for such an honored occasion. Still, I beamed a Cheshire grin at all the peasants below me and began to swing my legs happily over the side of large wooden chair as my Gram went to the pantry to get a bowl.
Then, without any notice whatsoever, messengers from a thousand scorched nerve endings battered down the portcullis and registered their valid complaints to a very lackadaisical central command.
My screams, a part of my brain somehow took time to consider, were very hard to maintain as long as I would have liked because of the mixture of tears and mucus running down my face causing a general inability to inhale sufficiently.
To be sure, it was certainly a relief to have that half nanosecond of comfort when my entire hand was submerged into the bowl of cold buttermilk. Of course, that was before it got an infinity times worse for precisely the same reason. The silver lining being that I did get a breath in, so I was back to top wailing form in no time.
Funny thing it was when Mrs. Kelly came bounding up the steps and through the back screen door with flour all up her arms, a rolling pin in her hand and a look of ferocity in her eyes. She looked at Carmen (it’s what she called my Gram) frying up the fish now and paying her no mind, then over to me all heaving and slobbery at the big table with a hand in a bowl of buttermilk and then to the seven girls playing dolls on the floor who all stopped to look at her, just as angels would do when caught stealing the Lord’s whiskey.
We all heard the front door open and, wordlessly, Mrs. Kelly rotated on her heels and left us as suddenly as she had come in, much like a cuckoo clock letting us know it was top of the hour.
In those days, a black and white checkered set of French doors partitioned the back of the house (kitchen, dining and living room area) from the front (bedrooms and central hallway with phone) and now both of these doors were pulled open as well in high drama.
There stood my Grampa, cap in hand, hair slicked back and cigarette perched on the left side of his lip. A few Irish expletives escaped him as he made his way over to pick me up, give me a big hug and begin to pat vigorously on my back. The latter of which was the much cherished ancient Irish tradition of knocking the wind from the caterwauler with unconditional love and a caring touch.
Well, let me tell you, Norbert, since you asked so nice. What was wrong with your little Banshee was that my fingers hurt like all get out because stupid Colleen thought it would be funny to dare the only boy Gram was watching today to stick his hand into a hot skillet because he was going to show how fearless and daring he was, especially in front of Evy, the new girl with the pale blue eyes who had just moved in with the Bambrick’s down the corner because her Daddy wasn’t coming home from the war anymore and Momma took to the Quarters.
Furthermore, while I recognize that you were talking to Gram, it really wasn’t my concern that the “two fools may very well be making it all up”. I am fully confident, however, that putting me down amongst the general populace here and messing with the radio to find your station won’t serve to reduce any of my suffering at all.
Blah, blah, blah, blah droned the voice on the box as I squeezed my wrist and stared at my left hand fingers painfully buzzing with every pulse and insulting my immortality.
Martians have landed in the swamp, little Finn McCool, he winked, tossing his cap right onto my head and taking his chair. What do you think of that now?
Well, came the galloping sound of high heels, I’ll tell you what’s worse Grampa.
Aunt Elaine has arrived right along with them.
&p=368E8CC4787D7598&playnext=1&index=26
Re: On this day umpty years ago...
Linear Mode
