Memories. It is interesting what triggers them. Something as boring and ordinary as washing dishes can bring back an event from over forty years ago. This happened when I stood at my kitchen sink the other night, looking out the window, which faces the street. I have always liked this. Standing there, washing dishes, or chopping vegetables, checking out what the neighbors are up to.
Across and to my left is a family of four. A couple, with a son in high school and a girl in middle school. On that night, I saw the girl and a friend out on the lawn running through the sprinklers. I watched in amazement thinking, “Wow, to be a kid again.” It was only about 68 degrees. It would need to be about 108 degrees to get me running through the sprinklers. When I looked out again, I saw the two girls in the front flower bed, wiping mud all over each other’s arms and legs. And my next thought was, “I bet their mom is not going to be happy with them.”
And then it hit me! A vivid flashback to my own childhood when I was a girl even younger than them. My father had built me a playhouse in our backyard. It was a crude structure. There were no shuttered windows with gingham curtains and hanging flower boxes, but I loved it just the same and I enjoyed many afternoons in that little shack with my dolls.
On one bright summer afternoon, I was in a very fancy dress. I must have been out to lunch with my mother to warrant wearing such a dress in the middle of the week. It was white chiffon with little blue flowers stitched all over and it gently hung just above my knees. I wore white laced ankle socks and white patent Mary Janes. My grandmother sewed my clothes back then. And with the leftover material, she made dresses for all my Barbies. We often matched on our outings…but that’s for another flashback.
Knowing my mother, she would have wanted me to change the moment we got home from wherever we were, but I kept the dress on and headed out to my playhouse. Soon after, my friend who lived two doors down joined me. I won’t go so far as to say she was my closest friend on the block. She was a tomboy and preferred to play with my little brother, which was why she came over, but he was nowhere to be found, so she joined me in consolation. I was a year older, clad in one of my finest dresses, and let’s face it, feeling superior that afternoon.
Things were going well. We were making homemade diapers from napkins. I loved to make my dolls drink water from their bottles so it would rush right through their hollow bodies and I would get to change them all over again. It never got old back then… Somewhere along the way we decided to make dinner. I was still mindful of my attire as we started to make little patties out of water and dirt. My patties were far superior to my friends, as were the diapers I was making, and after a few minutes I thought it would be okay to give her some constructive criticism on how she could make her pies rounder, the same size and thickness, and then I would show her how to properly put a diaper on a baby. She did not take my constructive critiques well…
And in an instant, one of her crude little patties hit right in the middle of my stomach! Right in the center of my beautiful dress! I was going to be dead when my mother saw this…but she was going to be deader when I got through with her. I picked up one of my own patties and aimed. Within seconds we were hurling mud at each other at a fierce pace. By the time the pies were gone, we were both covered in mud. Yep…I was dead.
We stood there for a moment in shock, and then she burst into tears. My mom was tough, but hers was tougher. I decided to pull it together, grabbed the napkins, soaked them in water and we started wiping ourselves down. I thought we were doing a pretty job wiping our arms, legs, and clothes. Now aside from the mud, we were soaking wet. But I thought perhaps if our mothers paid no attention to us for the rest of the afternoon, we could escape any punishment. Little did I know that as I wiped the wet napkins up and down my dress, I was pushing the mud right through to my slip and undershirt. I wore a lot of layers those days. My mom wanted any signs of budding under wraps for as long as possible.
After we were sure we cleaned ourselves up enough not to get caught, we went our separate ways. She scooted out the side gate and I scooted into my bedroom where I ditched my white patent shoes and laced ankle socks into the closet. I was planning to stay in there for the rest of the afternoon. But I was not in there for more than ten minutes when the doorbell rang.
I held my breath, praying it was the Avon Lady.
I heard my mother gasp…and then, “HEATHER MARY!”
Shit!
My little neighbor friend would not have lasted long in an interrogation. I guess the minute she walked into her house she went squealing to her mother…and her mother marched her right back. She blamed the whole incident on me. I was going to spend the rest of the afternoon in my room.
After I apologized (under protest) I was marched back into my room by my mother. When she lifted the dress over my shoulders, the mud had gone through to the next two layers and my skin. I found the whole thing funny…but Mom did not see the humor. So, after a trip to the bathtub, it was to my room for the rest of the afternoon, and then right back after dinner. There was no Brady Bunch for me that night.
A year ago, this same neighbor “friended” me on Facebook. I was shocked and amused, and we chatted back and forth for a few minutes before we said goodbye. She grew up, married, moved away, and raised two kids. By the looks of things, she is very happy, proud of her kids, and loves her husband and her life.
Not once since the entire time we have been reconnected have I thought about “the incident.” I wonder if she would remember it the same, if at all. I bet not. In fact, I think she only wanted to get in touch with me in the first place so she could ask about my brother. She always had a little thing for him; enough so that she named her son after him. It was one of the first things she told me when we reconnected. They were the same age, but he never paid her any attention. He was always into the “girly” girls, not the tomboys.
Perhaps she should have paid better attention to her diaper-making and mud pies…
inheatherwords 