Reflections On A Middle-Aged Fat Woman (3 page)

Growing up on a farm in southern Ohio was a lot of fun. We had all sorts of adventures, many, which I am sad to say, have escaped my memory. We had a building next to our house that we called the shed. It had a chicken house on one side and an outhouse on the other side. In the middle was where we kept our two freezers full of beef and vegetables. Yes, we grew our own veggies and butchered our farm animals for food.

Anyhow, the roof was in such bad shape that my dad decided a new roof was in order. He called my cousin, Kenny, who helped us with all of those tasks, and my brother and dad got together one weekend and put new shingles on the roof of the shed. The old shingles were dispatched to what we called the ditch which was a place where things ended up to be dealt with at a later time. It wasn’t really a dump, because it always got cleaned up eventually, more like a holding station.

I’m not sure what time of year it was but it had to be in the fall sometime because it was cool and dry and we were in school. My sister and I were in Cherry Fork having been transferred from our respective schools waiting to begin the ride back home on our regular bus. We rode bus seven and our driver’s name was Don. Suddenly, a message came over the emergency radio that he carried that there was a fire at the Palmer house on Cherry Fork Road.

Quiet, absolute quiet! No one said a word. My sister and I ran to the front of the bus and he took off. We were usually about the sixth or seventh stop on the way home but he didn’t stop to let anyone off the bus. I don’t know how fast he was going but when we hit the bottom of the big hill everyone and everything went flying.

My sister and I were hanging on for dear life and when we approached the house you couldn’t see anything but black smoke and fire trucks. We saw my brother’s truck but didn’t know where he was. Everyone on the bus had their noses pressed up to the glass trying to see the blaze. All we wanted to do was hop off the bus and find our brother. Don told everyone on the bus to stay put while he went and talked to the firemen.

After a few tense moments he came back to the bus and said we could get off. Everything was under control. We were walking up the driveway when we saw my brother being treated by the paramedics. It seemed that he had taken in a little smoke while trying to protect the house with a garden hose.

My brother had decided that particular day was a good day to begin to clean up the shingles and other material down in the ditch. He had started a fire and was going to let it burn itself out. It seemed like a good idea until the wind picked up and shifted directions. The wind was picking up the shingles and was blowing them directly towards the house. In a matter of minutes the fire had leapt from the ditch and the entire field was ablaze and heading for the house.

Luckily, some neighbors, the Downings, had spotted the fire and called the fire department. When they arrived, my brother was covered with scratches and black soot from the fire and was guarding the house with the trusty water hose. The fireman yelled for him to drop the hose and back away from the fire but he wasn’t moving.

Fortunately, the wind shifted again and the fire changed directions. The firemen were able to apply several tankers full of water to the blaze and all that was left was a blackened field and a few remaining smoldering shingles.

My brother looked at us and then looked at the field and said, “Do you think Mom and Dad are going to be mad? I saved the house."

Don’t Judge Me — November 19, 2008

I’ve been hiding lately. I’ve been doing a lot of running around tending to errands, going to grocery stores, going Christmas shopping, and eating out. All of those things that you do this time of year.

Everywhere I go it seems the bell follows me. I know times are tough everywhere and I give as much as I can. But, I have put money in the fireman’s boot. I have given to the men in the funny hats. I have taken an ornament off the tree at the library. I sent a check to the children’s hospital. I gave at the office.

Enough already!

Do you feel guilty when you walk past the bell ringer and don’t put anything in the bucket? Do you slide your eyes that way to see if they are watching you. What if you have to keep going out to your car and then going back inside? Do you think they counted how many times you walked past the bucket?

In my town they are set up on every corner and doing errands on Saturday morning can cause an anxiety attack. One way takes you to the Post Office. The other way takes you to the bank, and still another takes you to the grocery store. Different corners and they are all collecting for something.

I dumped my change at the last corner. Why did the lady at this corner look at me and hold out her bucket? I shook my head no and she gave me a shrug and moved on to the next car.

Not very friendly—just remember if I don’t put something in your bucket, it doesn’t mean I’m cheap…you just might not be on the right corner.

Picture Retake Day — October 9, 2008

I was driving around town tending to a few errands the other day when I drove past the local elementary school. There wasn’t anything unusual about that, but what caught my attention was the sign reminding all of the students and all of the passersby that Picture Retake Day was coming up in a few days.

This simple statement reminded me of a story from my childhood and absolutely tickled me silly.

The year was 1974 and I was in the second grade. I remember that year exceptionally well because something major happened to me.

After getting tested at school it was determined that I needed to get glasses. This event happens to thousands of people every day and isn’t normally a big deal. But, when you’re only seven-years-old, getting glasses is really a big deal. All of your fellow classmates know all of the cruel nicknames such as four eyes, pop bottle head, and my favorite, fish eyes. Children can be so receptive and cruel at that age.

The glasses that I chose were gold wire-rimmed frames with egg-shaped lenses. Hey, it was 1974!

I hated them almost immediately. After the novelty of them wore off, I found that they gave me a terrible headache. I took them to school but they were seldom worn.

It came time for me to have my picture taken at school that year and I remember walking up on the stage where the photographer was situated. I was holding my glasses in my hand unsure where to put them while I had my picture taken. The photographer told me to put them on; after all, they belonged on my face, he said.

Six weeks later when the pictures came back I got the shock of my life. My pictures were terrible, absolutely awful—I looked just like all of those things that my friends had teased me about.

I cried.

I wouldn’t trade photos with any of my friends.

My mom didn’t think that it was a bad picture. Of course, she wouldn’t, because she’s my mom you know. I begged and pleaded with her to let me get my picture retaken on Picture Retake Day. She reluctantly agreed and I began to plan out what I was going to wear and certainly remember to leave those blasted spectacles at home.

Picture Retake Day was scheduled for the middle of January. Now, living in southern Ohio in the middle of January can present several problems, namely, snow. Wouldn’t you know it, a major snowstorm dumped over a foot of snow on the farm and we were out of school for three days.

The Picture Retake Day couldn’t be rescheduled because the photographer was booked for the rest of the school year.

I was left with the worst school picture ever, and possibly the worst picture that I had ever had taken. Of course, as I would learn later in life, I’m not that photogenic anyhow and there were many more bad pictures in my future.

Some Days You Just Need A Laugh — October 1, 2008

Some days, you just need to hear something funny. I hope this makes you laugh.

A blonde woman was speeding down the road in her little red sports car and was pulled over by a policewoman, who was also blonde. The blonde officer asked to see the blonde driver's license. She dug through her purse and was getting progressively more agitated. "What does it look like?" she finally asked.

"It's square and has your picture on it," replied the policewoman.

The driver finally found a square mirror, looked at it and handed it to the policewoman. "Here it is," she said.

The blonde officer looked at the mirror, then handed it back saying, "Okay, you can go. I didn't realize you were a cop.”

Agitated By The Agitator — September 9, 2008

This afternoon was just your ordinary average day—I was doing chores around the house. I was sweeping, mopping, and my favorite, laundry.

I really don’t like doing laundry.

You have to separate this, separate that, use this specific laundry detergent at certain temperatures. It can be really confusing if you don’t know what you’re doing.

Fortunately, I know what I’m doing, sort of. I wash all the darks together and the whites go in a load by themselves. It’s not that difficult.

Here’s where I get irritated. It’s after the washer has stopped.

I had washed a load of whites and was getting ready to put them in the dryer—simple enough, right?

I reached into the washer and grabbed hold of a handful of wet towels (my towels are white) and gave it a tug. (Nothing, it didn’t give at all.) I pulled harder, grabbed it with my other hand and pulled so hard that once the towel broke loose, I was sent flying backwards and almost tripped.

I threw that towel into the dryer and reached in the washer again. Another towel—same result. This same routine went on for a total of four towels. I was over it.

Finally, I looked into the washer to see what was causing the problem. I moved a few socks and a couple pairs of underwear out of the way and reached for the offending garment. I pulled—it pulled back. I pulled—it pulled back. By this time, I was beginning to sweat, I was beginning to swear. The cat looked at me, swooshed his tail and began to lick himself, all the while keeping an eye on me in case I fell his way.

What was it? It seems that one of the MA Fat Woman’s bras had wrapped itself around the thingy in the washer that is supposed to agitate your unmentionables into submission. Well, that boulder holder wasn’t going down without a fight. It had threads from every item in the washer wrapped up in a big ball with the hooks sticking out of it.

What a mess!

At that moment the phone rang, it was my mom calling to tell me she was in Russia and wanted to know what I was doing.

Fighting with the washer, I said.

I told you to buy that front loading washer a few months ago, she said. If you would have listened to me then you wouldn’t have this problem now.

Moms are always right, even six thousand miles away.

A Trip Of A Lifetime — September 4, 2008

My mom has decided that she likes to travel. I can’t blame her, she worked her whole life, mainly for one company, and was laid off at age 58 ½. (It figures.) Well, guess what? She wasn’t ready to retire and went to another company and worked for another ten years.

She joined the local travel club down at the bank and last year went to Australia, New Zealand and Fiji. It was a seventeen day adventure filled with plane rides, wacky roommates, sheep farms and aborigines—it was the trip of a lifetime.

Or, so we thought!

Late last year, the travel club got the itinerary for 2008. Mom spent several weeks mulling over the different trips and decided she wanted to go on a cruise and see the Baltic capitals. It was the trip of a lifetime, she said, and I’m going.

And guess what? She left a few days ago. But, here’s the thing—she didn’t go by herself. She had so much fun the first time around that on this trip she took her sister, her brother and sister-in-law and two folks that she graduated with way back in 1956. Watch out Europe, the folks from Blue Creek are coming.

Blue Creek is where this fine group of Americans hails from originally, or thereabouts. It’s a small town, population 50, maybe? It depends on who shows up for church every third Sunday.

I do know that every Memorial Day weekend they gather for the yearly alumni function. It’s a festive affair where the conversation tends to lean toward who’s got what and if anybody died the past year. (Forgive me for that one.) They also have a slideshow of somebody’s vacation from the last year that puts everyone to sleep.

I watched them all get on the bus to take them to the airport and I noticed that they were going over their camera gear. I heard Mom say to be sure and get good pictures so we can turn them into slides to show at the alumni dinner. I’m tired of being bored for two hours. This is the trip of a lifetime and I want everyone to know it.

And there you have it; my mom is off on the trip of a lifetime—for the second time.

I’m A Techno Failure — September 3, 2008

This wonderful story is for everyone out there who has ever operated a computer, a recording device, a word processor or any type of application that requires you to save something.

We, as a society, have become too complacent regarding the save button.

Duh? That’s what auto save is for, or so I thought.

This morning, sitting out on the porch with the cat, I began working on my latest tale about New Kids on the Block. I must have been possessed or something because the words were just flowing. I get real excited talking about Rock-n-Roll. That’s what they said back in the 50s anyway. I miss Elvis—but, that’s another story. I had a zinger for this and a retort for that. Smokin’, I say!

I had finished my story and was getting ready to copy and paste it into a Word document. I hit the shift and down arrow at the same time to highlight the text and it scrolled past the last line on the page and was gone. Just like that, two hours of my poetic prose right down the drain. (Please, don't try this at home.)