Criminals at large
After Jesus saved me from the burning fires of Hell, me and Kent got sick. Man oh man. We were so sick. Mom said we had strep throat and ear infections. Bottles of pretty pink medicine stood in the old Kelvinator. Before we took the first spoonful, we thought this was gonna be great stuff, like peppermint candy. But, we were wrong, very wrong. It was bitter and chalky. Mom had to chase us down, throw us on the floor, and straddle our bodies. With her free hand, she poured the awful sludgy liquid down our stripped throats.
After doing that once or twice, Grandma took hold of our arms. “You cut that out, you hear me? You’re not babies! Your mother can't be chasing you around like that! She’s tired enough…” We had stopped listening by then, but Grandma had set us straight: don’t run, take the medicine, and swallow it. No one ignored Grandma. She knew all sorts of things, and had a way of getting down into one’s face and staring them in the eyes. Maybe because she was part Indian, I believe Grandma could tame a wild bull. No, we did just what she told us.
Days, maybe years went by. Sometimes we lay on the living floor like abandoned old dogs, floppy and worm-infested. Other times we stretched out on Mom big bed, flattened out like dried earthworms, twisted in agony. Our tongues lolled out when we were thirsty, and Mom lifted our heads, giving us cool water. We were so grateful to our Angel Mom.
Then one day we woke up and got out of our beds with a new energy. The pink bottles had to be finished up, but on this day, we felt better, good almost. We put on clothes and even talked to each other as if we were real humans and not worn-out, mangy hound dogs.
Those days were hell for Mom. We were pestering her for everything: to go out to play, to have something to eat, and whatever our minds could think up.
As if that weren’t bad enough, we discovered how to open the flour bin while Mom was hanging up wet diapers outside. The flour canister rested on the table, open and inviting. Scooping up handfuls of flour, we danced around the kitchen, soon surrounded in a fog of flour. Flour burst into the air, a cloudy flour mist. The more flour we grasped and threw, the whiter the mist which meant more floated in the air. Glorious!
With a grand sweep of his arm, Kent sent the salt and pepper shakers flying to the floor, the sugar bowl skittering across the table until it crash-landed on the linoleum. Why he did this, I do not know, but that was the way he did things.
Startled, we glanced up at each other, fearing that Mom heard the noise and would come hurtling through the door. We peered out the screen door and saw Mom and Mrs. Jennings chatting about tomatoes in the garden. When they got onto the subject of tomatoes, they could be out there for hours. Diapers could dry in the basket, it has been known.
We heard Mom saying goodbye to Mrs. Jennings, and coming through the back screen door. With giggles and anticipation, we hurried out the kitchen, and peered around the corner. It was like Christmas morning, all the waiting for something really big to happen.
Boy oh boy. Then Mom burst through the screen door and screamed. Our art project had failed. Mom did not disappoint us one bit. She dropped the laundry basket, and let out one long big holler. “KENT! ELLEN! Get yourselves in here r-i-g-h-t-n-o-w!”
Once the table had been wiped up, the salt and pepper shakers replaced, and a new sugar bowl put on the table, we cleaned up the flour footprints that mysteriously had traveled through the house and the flour handprints that had appeared on the walls.
I cannot tell much more beyond this, as we found ourselves neck-deep in a heap of trouble, bad trouble. The following hour rang with words I can’t repeat, tears that would not stop, and fierce regret that we considered Mom's flour bin as source of inspiration. That is all one needs to know.
Then Stone Faced Mom threw a patchwork wool comforter down on the floor in front of our black and white television. She gave us firm directions about what we could do, what we could not do, and “…you will not move off this comforter, not one inch…” Then Mom stalked back to the kitchen, where mutterings and pot banging was heard for some time.
We sat there in silence in front of a black and white television show. Our free-wheeling lifestyle usually had me and Kent out on round-ups and bloody battles during this time of the day, so beyond our regular cowboy shows at night, we didn’t watch TV.
As we slowly grew interested, we saw a horribly disfigured man gazing lovingly at a beautiful dancing gypsy girl named Esmeralda. Esmeralda, Esmeralda. I said the name over and over in a whisper. The name rolled over my tongue and filled my mouth with wonder. Esmeralda soon joined my list of beautiful ladies: Loretta Young, Donna Reed, and Mom. Now there was Maureen O'Hara.
This is a semi-true story, but mostly true. Our poor mother saw a lot of action during our childhood.
Brother Donnie, Robert, Susie, and Willie
