Tag Archives: Manners

Old People Could Rule The World

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I’m blessed (as a writer, anyway) to have a family filled with colorful characters.  My mother-in-law, Althea, is a perfect example.  We joke that she never had a thought in her head that didn’t come out of her mouth.  But, I always know where I stand with her and I love her very much.

One of my favorite stories about Althea happened on a holiday at my house. I was giving thanks for how well we all got along even though we had such a diverse group.

“We have people that are old and young, black and white.  We have democrats and republicans, gay people and straight people…”

“Wait one minute,” Althea shouted from the back of the group.

Everyone froze – except the gay couple who were inching their way toward the exit.

“I want to know which one of you is a democrat!” she demanded.

That would be me, by the way, but I have decided to stay safely in the closet.

Since then, Althea’s had a stroke and is living in an assisted living facility near us.  I can only imagine how difficult it is for someone as independent as my mother-in-law to be told when to wake up, when to eat, when to shower.

I went to visit her earlier this week and arrived at shower time.  As the nurse was undressing her, Althea asked that the nurse scratch her back.

“I’ll do it when you get in the shower.”

As Althea inched her walker from the bed toward the bathroom she asked again.  “Scratch my back?”

“When you get in the shower,” the nurse repeated.

Althea made it to the entrance of the shower and stopped.

“Scratch my back,” she demanded.

“I told you, I’d do it when you got in the shower.  Now please, just get in and sit down.”

Althea looked the nurse right in the eye and said, “I’ll get in the shower when you scratch my back.”

The two adversaries stood glaring at each other.  Finally the nurse reached out and scratched Althea’s back.

Score:    Naked Old Lady-1/Nurse-0

I’m hoping I’ll be half as strong-willed as she is when I’m 87.  How about you?

Mama Never Told Me

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As a painfully shy teenager, my mother spent hours trying to teach me how to get a boy to ask me out. While Mom lived in fear that I would never go on a date, I lived in fear that I would.
The first thing she tried to teach me was how to bat my eyelashes. Evidently boys found this irresistible.
“When you’re talking to a boy,” she said as we stood in front of the bathroom mirror. “Tilt your chin down and look up through your lashes. Now, blink several times in a row.”
I looked like a bobble head with an eye infection.
The next thing she tried was to shorten all my skirts. She had a friend lug her sewing machine over to our house. I stood in on a chair in the middle of the dining room and Mom gauged how short my skirt should be. “Put your arms down by your sides,” she said. “I think we should mark it at the tips of your fingers.”
“Dad,” I shouted. “Help me out here, would you?”
His only comment as he walked out to the safety of the barn, was “You have to have the right bait if you want to catch a fish.”
Mom’s friend diligently stitched up the hems on all my dresses.
At school I walked from class to class hugging the walls, terrorized of exposing myself but Mom’s idea worked. A boy asked me out.
“And he’s a senior,” Mom bragged to her friends.
He took me to the homecoming dance where I refused every request to move toward the gyrating in the middle of the gym. I calculated that his height would require me to move my arms above shoulder level which would reveal my backside to the entire school.
To my relief (and probably his) we left early. When we were fifty yards from the driveway the engine went dead and the lights went out. We rolled to a stop in front of my house.
“Is there something wrong with your car?” I asked.
He leaned across the seat toward me, lips puckered. I backed up against the door. My mind raced through everything Mom had coached me to do, but the coaching sessions didn’t cover kissing.
“Just a minute. I have to ask my Mom what to do next.” I jumped out of the car and ran to the house. He was gone before I’d made it to the front door.