Happy Mother’s Day

 

“So, Mom, about Mother’s Day. I’m sending you—”

“Mother’s Day! Is it that time of the year already?”

“In a couple of days. So, I wanted to give you a heads-up because I’m sending you something really interesting that I think you’ll like—”

“It’s not one of those baskets of fruit again, is it? Because you know much trouble the kiwis give me.”

“Yes, Mom, I’ve got the message. No kiwis, no fruit of any kind.”

“Or flowers—”

“Yes, I know, the lilies didn’t smell right.”

“However, your brother already sent me a beautiful lemon tree.”

“How ingenious of him.” And shifty.

“It’s in a pot, Valerie.”

“A pot? What will they think of next?  Don’t they normally ship them in a shoe?”

“Ah.” She sighs. “This is the problem when your family is scattered all over the country.”

“Well, funny you should say that because you are about to receive a package from a company called . . . Kindred Knowledge—”

“They’re not clog dancers, are they? You know how much clog dancing annoys me.”

“Clog dancers? Why would you even . . . no, of course not. This company does searches for all your living, and deceased, relatives.”

“Why would I want to have my deceased relatives pointed out to me?”

“Because, Mom, there may be some you didn’t even know you had.”

“Well, knowing of their existence now is not going to do me much good if they have already—”

“Okay, forget them; what about relatives that are still alive?”

“If they’re still alive, they should have contacted me, not the other way around.”

I continue, stupidly undaunted, convinced that lifeless ancestors will outshine Buddy’s citrus tree. “So, all you have to do is send Kindred Knowledge a small sample of your DNA, and—”

“Send it? You mean in the mail? Why can’t they come and collect it in person? In X-Men no one is sending DNA through the mail.” Wait! When was my mother watching X-Men? Her favorite movie has always been Casablanca.

“Well,” I scramble, “I believe Wolverine was some kind of superhero, and wasn’t the point of the movie to get rid of the gene that causes bad stuff?”

“I’m well aware of that, Valerie.” She is?

“I just thought it might be fun for you to know where your great-great-great-grandparents originated from—”

“England and Scotland.”

“And if you’ve got a cousin or two living in, say, Idaho, or Texas? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“For them, maybe.”

I give up. “Have a wonderful Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.”

“I love you too, Valerie. I just wish you could smell this this lemon tree. It’s heavenly.”

“That’s great, Mom.”

“Well, who knows, maybe these Kindred Spirit people of yours will dig up a third cousin who’s still alive, with a whole lemon grove.”

“Yes!” And perhaps they’ll be hard-core cloggers.

Easter Surprise

“Happy Easter, Mom.”

“Easter? Is it Easter already?”

 

“Yes, Mom, you know it is.”

 

“Is that the reason for this call? Is that why you sent those lilies?”

 

“Yes. Of course.”

 

“They smell funny, Valerie. You should get your money back. Your brother sent us a delicious basket of fruit. He always has such good ideas. It’s from an outfit called Edible Arrangements; you should look into it.”

 

“Er, Mom, I sent you Edible Arrangements for your birthday, and you said the kiwis gave you heartburn. So (me changing the subject quickly), what are you doing today?”

 

“What do you think I’m doing?”

 

“I have no idea.” Salsa dancing? Skydiving? Clay-pigeon shooting?

 

“Well, I’ll tell you what I won’t be doing. I won’t be spending the day with my children.”

 

“Mom, I told you that work is really busy right now and I can’t get away, but I promise I’ll come up and visit really soon.”

 

“Yes, I totally understand. A two-hour drive from Chicago to Door County does seem impossible—”

“It’s more like five hours, Mom, and Sunday is a hectic day for Realtors.”

 

“People spend Easter Sunday buying houses? What kind of people are you dealing with?”

 

“They are heathens, Mom.”

 

“Well. I won’t keep you. I know how hectic your life is. Thank you for the phone call. But don’t worry about us.”

 

“I’m not worried, Mom, I just—”

 

“Valerie, I have to go. There’s a car parked in our driveway, and I better go see who it is. Probably some kind soul who actually wanted to visit us for Easter.”

 

“Yes, someone who very much wanted to visit you.” From my car window, I watch her open her front door, her phone still in her hand.

 

“Valerie! Oh, my goodness. You made that six-hour trip to see us? I hope you brought me some of those chocolate eggs. You know they are my favorite!”

 

“Yes, Mom, I’ve got six right here.” I started out with eight, but succumbed to eating two of them on the ride up. Still, I was confident they wouldn’t give her heartburn.

Balancing Act (Circa 1971)

“

 

“Mom. Can I take ballet lessons?”

“Last week you wanted to be an air hostess for Pan Am because you liked the hats they wore. Remember?” my mother reminds me, while peeling carrots.

 

“No, no, no. Not because of the hats. Because I want to travel—someday. But all I want to do right now is take a ballet class. Not choose a career.”

 

“Val, if you want to travel so much, be a train engineer.” (This from Buddy, my brilliant 14-year-old brother.) “And you could still wear one of those to-do skirts.”

 

“It’s a tutu, doofus,” I say in exasperation.

 

“Right, Princess,” my dad interjects. “You can do whatever you want, but you are only eleven, or nearly so. You’ve got a lot of time to think about it.”

 

Suddenly my mother is pointing her knife at me across the table. “This is all Katherine Juckett’s idea, isn’t it? I swear, if that girl was going to join the space program, you’d want to do that too.”

 

“Riiight!” My know-it-all brother laughs. “Like girls will ever go into space. I don’t think so.” He pauses. “I know, Val—why don’t you be a bus driver? You could travel and still be home every night for Mom’s delicious cooking.”

 

“It has nothing to do with Kit, Mom. And for your information, Buddy, the Russians already sent a woman into space. Nearly ten years ago.”

 

My mom is shaking her head. “No, dear, not ballet. It’s not for you. You are . . . the wrong body type.”

 

I’m afraid to know what she considers the right body type, but she obliges me anyway.

 

“You are too short. Ballet dancers have to be about seven feet tall.”

 

“I think you might be confusing dancers with basketball players.” My dad grins.

 

“Geez, Mom, all I wanted was to take a few ballet classes. I’m not asking to fly a rocket to the moon or try out for the Bulls.”

 

“Well, thank goodness for that.” My mom has returned to her carrots. “What about being a secretary? That’s a nice job for a young woman.”

***

My mom let me enroll in tap dancing, which she said would use a lot of energy. But something had apparently made an impression on her. For my birthday, she made a carrot cake and gave me a jewelry box lined with pink velvet. Perched inside was a beautiful plastic ballerina. When I twisted the wind-up key, she began twirling to some lovely old-fashioned music. She was perfect. And just the right height, about two and a half inches.

Read more about Val’s ballerina jewelry box in Knowing People, the latest in The Val & Kit Mystery Series.

 

 

A Boy and His Dog (Circa 1970)

 

Mom: Daddy is taking you kids to a movie today. I’m going to—

Daddy: I am?

Buddy: He is? I don’t think I can go, I have stuff to do—

Mom: And while you’re gone, I’m going to give your bedrooms a thorough cleaning. Especially yours, Buddy.

Buddy: No, Mom, totally not necessary. I cleaned my room last night.

Mom: Buddy, I don’t consider rolling nine socks into a ball and tossing them into the corner of your room any form of cleaning. And besides, I want to take a look under your bed.

Buddy: Mom, there’s nothing under there.

Mom: Really? Because this morning while you were taking your so-called shower, I detected a peculiar smell coming from your bedroom.

Buddy: Uh . . . that was probably my football jersey. It’s covered in mud.

Mom: Son, while I can see that storing a football jersey under your bed is an excellent idea, along with a couple of questionable magazines, not to mention a—

Buddy: I’m keeping those magazines for a friend.

Mom: I see. And does this friend of yours have four legs, by any chance? And a wet nose? Oh, and a tail?

Daddy: What’s going on here?

Mom: It seems we have a new addition to our family.

Val: Did you have another baby, Mom?

Mom: Yes, Valerie. You’ve guessed it. You should be a detective when you grow up. Last night, while you were all watching Bonanza, I had a baby, and I stored it under Buddy’s bed for safekeeping.

Daddy: Will someone please tell me what’s happening here?

Mom rises from the kitchen table, goes out into the yard, and returns carrying a little dog of indeterminable age.

Val: It’s a doggy.

Mom: Valerie, again your powers of observation amaze me.

Buddy: She followed me home last night. Can we please keep her? I promise I’ll take care of her; you won’t have to do a thing. She’s so sweet, you’ll hardly notice she’s here—

Mom: She already chewed one of your gym shoes, and by the way, she’s finished reading one of the magazines under your bed. I hope your friend wasn’t overly attached to Miss October, who seems to have an unnaturally small waist.

Val: Can we keep her, please, please, please. She’s so cute and—

Buddy: I promise you won’t even know she’s here. Please, Mom. Dad, please, can we?

Daddy looks at Mom, who is holding her coffee cup up to her face in both hands. The dog is sitting quietly on her lap.

Mom: Maybe. We’ll put out some flyers and see if she’s just lost. But she is your responsibility, Buddy. And you can pay for some new gym shoes out of your allowance.

Buddy: I will, no problem. And I’ll buy her food and a basket for her to sleep in and—

Mom: Well, let’s hope Sears is hiring twelve-year-olds, because your allowance is not going to cover it.

We called her Buttercup, after Dick Butkus, Buddy’s favorite Bears player. She lived with us for five years before she passed on. And her basket, kept in Buddy’s room, was only ever used as target practice for his rolled-up socks. Every night Buttercup crawled under Buddy’s bed to sleep. Peacefully.

Read about grown-up Buddy in the latest Val & Kit Mystery, Knowing People.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy New Year!

 

Daddy: Why are you looking so sad, Sally? It’s the first day of the New Year; you should be celebrating.

Sally: Like you and Mommy did last night?

Daddy: Well, no; obviously, not like that. That got a little bit out of hand. I had no idea your mommy was such a superb salsa dancer. Poor thing, she is probably feeling the worse for wear this morning. Why don’t we take her some coffee in bed?

Sally: She’s already had her coffee. She went for a run an hour ago, and now she’s out shoveling the sidewalk.

Daddy: Well, you know Mommy; she’s a little bit of an overachiever. Do you know what that means?

Sally: It means she gets stuff done; she doesn’t let things pile up, and she—

Daddy: Okay, okay, I get it. Now, tell me what’s making my little angel unhappy.

Sally: Because we won’t see him for another year.

Daddy: Who? Oh, do you mean that gnome thing that Mommy moves around every night?

Sally: He’s an elf, and his name is Edgar, and Mommy doesn’t move him; he moves himself.

Daddy: Did I say Mommy? No, of course Mommy doesn’t move him—

Sally: Right! Because he can fly. And now he’s gone back to the North Pole.

Daddy: Exactly; he’s sitting on a shelf up there planning next Christmas with Santa Claus. Is that why you’re so sad? Because you won’t see Santa for a whole year?

Sally: No, not Santa. He’s very tired and needs to rest.

Daddy: Well, of course he does; think of all the places he had to visit in one night. So who is it that’s making you unhappy?

Sally: Frank.

Daddy: Frank?

Sally: Yes, Mommy’s friend Frank. Sometimes Harry comes with him, but usually it’s just Frank.

Daddy: Wait a minute! Mommy has two friends, a Frank and a Harry? How often does Mommy see these friends?

Sally: Every day. After you’ve gone to work. But I’m not supposed to tell you.

Daddy: Chicken, don’t cry. You know you can tell Daddy anything. So, what do these characters do when they get here?

Sally: I’m not sure. Mommy always makes me go up to my room when they arrive. I think she takes them into the garage.

Daddy: And how long do they stay? Oh, wait a minute, into the garage, you say? There’s no space in the garage. It’s full of empty boxes and—

Sally: That’s just it. Mommy says we probably won’t see them for a long time.

Daddy: When these guys arrive, are they carrying packages by any chance?

Sally: Yes, sometimes really big ones. The bike that Santa brought me could easily fit in one of those boxes.

Daddy: Okay, pumpkin, I have a feeling I know who this Frank and his buddy might be.

Sally: Do we really have to wait a whole year before we see them again?

Daddy: Come here, Sally. Let me explain something to you. I have a very strong feeling you are going to see a lot more of those guys, and you won’t have to wait too long, either. You’ve got Valentine’s Day, then Easter, then whatever comes after Easter . . . 

Sally: Really? Oh good, that makes me feel so much better. It’s amazing.

Daddy: More like Amazon. But you’re close enough. Happy New Year, sweetheart.