I think I could just tell you my mamaw’s name was Effie and my papaw’s name was Lester and that would be enough. Effie and Lester. Where do you go from there?
It’s a sad day when the words “mamaw” and “papaw” sound better than your grandparents’ real names.
I have a lot of endearing memories about my mamaw and papaw. Like how cute they were when mamaw would call me and my sister into the kitchen and sneak us a couple of dollars, instructing us to “not let him see it.” I suppose we should have told her that he had just done the same thing, but we weren’t stupid. Besides, I considered it payment for the cruel embarrassment suffered under my papaw’s supervision. I’m sure some kids got excited about going places with their grandfather, but honestly- the coolest thing about that experience for me was to climb in the back of his old blue station wagon with the roll-crank window in the back. That was back before seatbelts were invented and folks just threw their young ‘uns in the car or back of a pickup truck and told ‘em to “hang on”.
I was cool with the station wagon. What I wasn’t cool with was where we’d go in the station wagon. Mainly to Foodway- the local grocery store. I would have been perfectly fine pulling into a space in front, climbing out of the back of the wagon, and going grocery shopping with my papaw. I was eight years old and I would have been fine with that. But we didn’t park in front. We parked in back. In the alley. By the dumpster. ‘Cause my papaw… Lester… he wasn’t taking me and my sister grocery shopping, he was taking us dumpster diving. That’s right. He’d pick us up and toss us over in the dumpster to dig for produce. Not to eat. No, we weren’t starving. To feed his rabbits. His pet, caged, white, fluffy rabbits. So, you can understand why I was never overjoyed with finding an Easter basket full of jelly beans. That damn bunny should have been bringing me some imported chocolate... or baskets of cash.
Yeah, my fifteen year old nephew thinks it’s embarrassing when he has to be seen getting out of the car with his family at the movies. How horribly embarrassing. I think my sister and I should toss him over in a dumpster so he has a legitimate gauge of embarrassment. I have a feeling after digging up a couple heads of lettuce, he’d be ready to hold his momma’s hand in public. Kids now days.
No, we didn’t have to walk to school, three miles, barefoot in the snow. He drove us in the wagon and he at least let us wear shoes. I guess it’s good that we didn’t spend all our time sitting on the couch playing video games, or watching TV. There IS something to be said about child labor I guess. We even had occasional strength training. Foodway didn’t have the only dumpster. There used to be dumpsters along every county road and you could just go throw stuff away. Or pick it up.
This one time, my papaw took me, my younger sister, and our cousin, Michael, for a ride in the country. Hey- we were just excited it wasn’t to Foodway. That was, until my papaw spotted a roll of carpet lying beside a rural dumpster. He pulled over and we all did what normal 6, 7, and 9 year old kids do… we jumped out and acted like we had just pulled up at Fred’s Dollar Store. We figured this was as exciting as it was going to get. Lester had my sister and me trying to help him lift this roll of carpet into the station wagon when my cousin Michael popped around the corner wearing a mask he found in the trash. All I remember is him bouncing out and yelling “I’m Mickey Mouse,” before my papaw jerked that mask off and yelled, “BOY, STOP FOOLING AROUND AND HELP US GET THIS IN THE CAR!” ‘Cause Michael’s strength at six was staggering!
I guess I should be thankful. I’m thankful for the experience. I’m thankful that when one day my kids complain about how terrible it is that they have to sit down for family dinners, or that they don’t have the latest $400 cell phone… and all the other terribly horrible tragedies they’ll have to suffer- I’m thankful that I have a resource for a lesson in humility. Only nowadays, people get arrested for putting their kids in dumpsters. Maybe there’ll be a landfill nearby.
6 comments:
Oh honey, you'll be an excellent mother... they better deserve you!
Heart warming, and wrenching all at the same time. 2 Thumbs up. My Dad made me get in the dumpster to clean it, or flatten things down. That's what you get to do when you own a dumpster!
Oh man, if my papaw had only owned a dumpster... then he could have put it out front and people could have just brought their crap to him. Hindsight!
At some point in my family's history there was a very rural dumpster--i.e. a very unfortunate gully--on my papaw's land. Oh, the treasures we found there. Good times. :) Glad you're back writing!
I hope that you and Shelley never “hurt yourself” dumpster diving. A hife eaten Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pie is quite a tempting thing, regardless of location. I have a vague memory of assisting my loser next door neighbor in starting a small fire in a dumpster because we didn’t have anything else better to do that night. It never turned into a full blown inferno for the NFD to come extinguish. Just last week, I tried to hurl a hife full shopping bag of trash into a dumpster from the drivers seat while in motion, and failed. I had to stop the car, open the door and finish the job. Don’t tell anyone.
Wish I'd had your humility resource when my kids were still at home . . . but I can still dish out the guilt and shame on command!
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