The autobiographical anthology continues with a much lighter, less heavy post. Thank you for continuing to read and comment. I appreciate you all coming along on this journey with me!
These are true stories that may shock you — anger and haunt you. Posts under this category may contain disturbing content that could upset or trigger individuals.
Duck, Duck, Duck — MY BIG Mouth!
My mother took all of us to the grocery store and to avoid being a burden to others we were told to walk in a straight line so we wouldn’t take up a bunch of space. It was a spectacle, people would stare and point, counting our heads like little ducks! A common and unfortunate occurrence, but this one time, and I cannot emphasize this enough, just the once. Me and my big mouth popped off:
There are 8 of us, ma’am! You can stop counting now! (Complete with an eye roll. It’s worth mentioning I said ma’am and didn’t step one foot out of line! Well, not physically anyway.)
The clickity-clack of the metal cart came to an abrupt halt! My mother marched, her face painted with disapproval, to the very end of the line, my designated spot. She smacked me right upside the head and said the classic ominous line “just wait till your Father gets home.” I was sent to the van till the shopping was done. That line never failed to strike the fear of God in our hearts! That’s how they put it, now that I give the phrase more thought, GOD had nothing to do with it!
I had the misfortune of having a big mouth. Not to say that I was disrespectful, if that was the case I would’ve been put in an early grave but occasionally I got brazen. Can’t keep a strong woman down, even one in development! I remember in the parking lot smirking and thinking, “Well, at least I said ma’am and the look on that ladies’ face was priceless. Even my insubordination was respectful.“
The tires screeched as his truck pulled into the driveway and the hills were alive with the Sound of Music! Ironically, during the worst moments of my childhood, I’d quietly hum, “My Favorite Things” sometimes the situation called for a mental hum because my vocal cords were otherwise engaged. Like when he used the paddle. The glossy light oak was lacquered up and ready to go. If you remember from my first post, crying and flinching were considered unacceptable weaknesses. I did both and another unforgivable act: an ever so slight groan. In my head I sung, “Raindrops and roses and whiskers on kittens…“
My groan prolonged my punishment: whooped twice on my behind, once on my thighs, and once square on my forearm from flinching and reaching back. That flinch left an inconcealable bruise I had to lie about repeatedly. No one thought much of it though, since one gets all kinds of scrapes and bruises growing up on a farm.
There’s something about being in a seriously warped von Trapp Family alone that makes you want to cry. Being counted like ducks, marching in line, smacked in the head in public, and forced to sit in a hot van for half an hour with looming anticipation of doom and dread — doesn’t help either.
As you read these posts you’ll find personal nuggets of information. At the time, there was just 8 of us. Eventually, I was the oldest of 10 siblings! She went out with a bang; my mother, a twin herself, had twin girls.
Just as I chose to share, you chose to read. I humbly and respectfully thank you all.
To Be Continued…