Obviously, there seems to be a correlation between Jesus, and Mama's bouts with muscle relaxants, but I just can't determine what it is exactly. Some family members have proposed that Mama just couldn't handle that all the attention was focused on the Holy Ghost, and not her. I believe that Papaw Buck said it best, "Lord, that woman would eat a live possum, while wrestlin' a gator, if she thought it would keep the floodlights on her." Mama wasn't always the star. She had to compete with other relatives who were either just as pathologically pathetic, or simply horrifying in their own special way.
A few weeks ago, while I was enjoying a tasty, environmentally-friendly, vegan, gluten-dairy-free summertime feast prepared by some fine, upstanding transgendered lesbians; someone mentioned home fries, and I immediately suffered a flashback to The Fire of '81. Flashbacks are not unusual for me. Especially, when I'm forced to eat large amounts of bean paste.
It was early June, I was barely ten years old, and we were eagerly anticipating the arrival of my Grandmother (Auroralee), and her sister (my great aunt) Berthalee. This visit would mark Berthalee's first visit north of the Mason Dixon Line, and it would be the first time I had the opportunity to share her company.
Our family had just moved to a small town, just outside of Washington D.C., called Dumfries. Mama had fallen madly in love with a two-story colonial that she had taken exhaustive steps to decorate to her liking.
Family members were only permitted in certain rooms, and forbidden to touch the walls because of the highly overpriced, gold embossed, floral print wallpaper that was spread throughout most of the home like designer kudzu. Mama was going for Baroque and what she got was Trailer Fabulous. Whenever our Shih-Tzus would go in the dining room they would take a shit and eat it. That's how good it was...it was Shih-Tzu-Shit-Eatin'- Good. Now, who wouldn't want to see that on HGTV?
For years, my brother Hubert (we call him Buddie) had been telling me horrible stories about Berthalee. The most frightening of which was the time during the Great Depression when Berthalee had cut out and eaten her own tongue so that she wouldn't go cannibal on her own kin. Granted, this sounds ridiculous, but after the stories I heard about Berthalee's fascination with hunting for roadkill...I bought it.
"Well, uh...um...I don't wanna meet her. She sounds kinda gross, and how does she talk?" I asked my brother.
"She doesn't." he snapped. I cried.
My brother has always loved the element of surprise, so he made sure to leave out a few minor details. This was his way of insuring that I would fully enjoy my time with Berthalee. So thoughtful. So kind.
Berthalee arrived and I was mildly horrified, and a bit nauseous at the sight of her. She arrived in a wheelchair wearing a brown wig that was more spirited and full of life than she was, and smelling like spoiled milk with a hint of moldy bread. I just stood there. Staring at her. She could've been staring back, but given that she had a glass eye that floated about like a dead fish...who could tell? Noticing that I was frozen in place, Mama hastily instructed me to greet Great Aunt Berthalee with a warm embrace.
"Go ahead, now...give Aunt Berthalee some love." she said with a smile. She then leaned in and hissed, "I know she smells funny, but just do it." Seeing that I had nowhere to run (and a right hook would only be inappropriate) I held my breath, leaned in, and gave Berthalee a few gentle pats on the back. She then started to grunt and click her dentures. Supposedly she was expressing how happy she was to see me. I took it as a sign of hostility, screamed, and ran to my room. My parents would later explain that I was a disturbed child suffering from a mild case of Tourette's Syndrome brought on by a head injury.
**C'mon back for part two next Thursday!**
No comments:
Post a Comment