Mother Talks to Elvis

Mother Talks to Elvis

 

My mother is eighty-six years old now with another birthday quickly approaching. It seems like only yesterday that she had beautiful dark hair, intelligent dark eyes, and could manipulate just about anyone she came in contact with just by flashing her wicked smile.

 

Like all women, she had moments when anger flared. She didn't stay angry long though. Something would make her laugh and once she started laughing she couldn't seem to stop. Her laughter was absolutely infectious. I watched her closely then, mostly trying to figure out what made her tick. I loved her and I hated her. I confided in her and I lied to her. She could appear not to care about anything in the world except her soap operas but would protect her children the way a lioness protects her cubs. Now I watch her closely again, but this time it is because her feet move slowly and she can no longer keep a train of thought for longer than a minute or two.

 

Mother once longed for the day when she could sit and relax without having to cook, or clean, or do anything at all she didn't want to do. She got her wish. She lives in her own little world now where there are no responsibilities and no worries. She talks to herself, she talks to her long dead mother, she talks to the cat, and she talks to Elvis.

 

She talks to Elvis about her past life when she was young, strong, and beautiful. He has been hanging directly behind her bed and he's heard just about every detail of her life from her loves to her losses. She mentions her children and she talks about her hopes for the future. I guess being eighty-six is not too old to think about going dancing, taking a trip, or practicing now to make sure the honeymoon goes smoothly later.

 

Today something went terribly wrong. Elvis apparently had the gall to show up with two of his "hoochie mama's." My mother looked at me, her eyes brightening, and informed me that she would not return to her room until that "no good b****** is out of there with them harlots." There was no way to convince her that Elvis died in 1977 and could not possibly be in her room. I did the only thing a good daughter could possibly do at a time like this. I walked into her room, said "BOOM" in a loud voice, and took the photo of Elvis down off of the wall.

 

"What happened in there?" She said forcefully.

 

"I shot Elvis, Mom. Just because he's a famous man does not mean he can treat my mother anyway he wants to treat her. He won't be giving you any more problems." Her eyes softened, her body relaxed, and she became silent except for the sound of her breathing.

 

I carried the tin type photo through the dining room where my mother was sitting and then took it through the kitchen and out the back door where I placed it in an outdoor storage shed. It joined a few mirrors that frighten her, a few photos of family members who refuse to talk to her, and two porcelain dolls that were aggravating her because "They just won't go to sleep and I'm tired of changing their diapers."

 

A chuckle found it's way to my lips at the same time tears were welling up in my eyes. Mom used to tell funny stories to anybody who would listen to them; neighbors, people in line at the grocery store, or just strangers she passed on the street. She has spent the last year or so talking mostly to Elvis and now he's gone. Who would she talk to now on those rare occasions that she wanted to talk at all?

 

I laughed as I thought of my mother years ago. She had entertained people by stretching her tongue out long enough to touch the tip of her nose. Our house often looked like a band of monkeys had used it to practice target shooting with dust balls but my mother would look past the mess and see the humor of the situation. Of all the things my mother has given me, the most important would have to be my sense of humor and it is surely serving me well during these trying days. She's going to miss Elvis. Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to bring him back into the house. Of course, she still has her laughing pig to keep her company if I can't bring Elvis back.

 

© Dianna Doles-Petry

10/08/2010

My Perfect Horoscope

Do your follow your horoscope each day? Sometimes my horoscope sounds like more of a horrorscope. Would you like to read a horoscope that is perfect for you? Here is my version of a perfect horoscope for the week. I hope it makes you chuckle. 

 

Virgo***August 23 - September 21

 

When you feel tense, indulge in a soothing bubble bath or Swedish massage. Avoid starting new projects now if you're out of duct tape.

 

Libra***September 22 - October 22

 

You will be driven to distraction by the vague indecipherable mutterings of a self-proclaimed poet. Regain your concentration with a funny DVD marathon....or a romp in the sack.

 

Scorpio***October 23 - November 21 

 

Johnny Depp will appear in your dream and tell you to follow him. Go! Jump on the wave of productivity and plan out that dream vacation.

 

Sagittarius***November 22 - December 20

 

There comes a time in every person's life when he or she must move aside and let the younger generation take over. Now is not the time for you.  Your children are not old enough to take over the moonshine still.

 

Capricorn***December 21 - January 19

 

Your next door neighbor pulls down her blinds every night. She may be hiding something. You're quick to point fingers but get proof before you blame a friend.

 

Aquarius***January 20 - February 17

 

Someone finally tells you what a sweet, thoughtful, considerate person you are. Don't take it too seriously. It's a common tactic used by fundraisers.

 

Pisces***February 18 - March 20

 

A sudden outpouring of love and support from your family and friends should be your first clue that you've hit the lottery jackpot.

 

Aries***March 21 - April 19

 

The devil will appear in a cloud of fire and brimstone to prove to you once and for all that he did not, in fact, make you do it. Tell a pushy pal no when she pressures you to accompany her down the wrong path.

 

Taurus***April 20 - May 19

 

You will make the right choice between a rich and fulfilling social life or rich and filling desserts. Be sure to stock up on chocolate and caramel.

 

Gemini***May 20 - June 20

 

You may feel cheated when you discover there is no law on the books that says you must be nice to elderly ladies. Watch out for sarcasm. Loose lips can be as painful as a staple gun to the face.

 

Cancer***June 21 - July 22

 

You think of yourself as having a wonderful sense of humor but you really don't see anything funny about polyester pants, belching the alphabet, talking ducks, or passing gas.

 

Leo***July 23 - August 22

 

You will be shaken to the core...especially if you're strapped to a paint can shaker while it's running.  You will soon realize that your mommy isn't the only one who thinks you're special. 

 

© Dianna Doles-Petry

9/21/2010

Backyard Adventure

 

"I'm not crazy. I'm perfectly sane!"

I was beginning to feel as if I was sweating it out under big bright lights in a dark interrogation room. They were circling around me asking questions like vultures waiting for someone to fall over dead so they could eat the carcass. "Why were you screaming?" "What happened out there?" "Why is your backside covered in mud?" Oh, the stress they were causing me!

Just moments before I had been serenely sitting outside trying to lure my beautiful house cat, Salem, into my arms. I was beneath a shelter meant to protect assorted ATV's, bicycles, lawn mowers, and just about anything else people like to keep without having it in the house. Just as I picked Salem up and started to make the walk from the shelter to the kitchen door, I felt raindrops start to pound against my skin so hard it actually made my face sting.

"Dianna! Are you out there?" My neighbor yelled from the inside of my kitchen. She tried to open the kitchen door and the wind caught it which forced it out of her hand. It banged against the side of the house and startled poor Salem. He jumped out of my arms and I tried to recapture him before he hit the ground. That's when I felt my feet sliding on the water logged ground.

Just as I felt my ample backside make contact with the wet earth, and not in a graceful manner, something struck out at my pants leg. I was screaming. I could hear myself. Somewhere above the sound of the rain falling on my metal roof, the dogs inside the house barking because they couldn't get outside, and redneck local boys revving up 4-wheelers to go "muddin," I could hear Salem yowling as if he was about to fight a wild cat.

Slipping and sliding all over the ground, I tried to regain my balance to stand up. My hair was wet and hanging from my head like an old kitchen mop and my heart was beating wildly in my chest. I was sure I had been snake-bitten and if I didn't get away quickly it would strike me again.

Saliva started to run out of my mouth. "Oh God," I remember thinking, "Please don't let me die out here in a pouring rain!" Then something landed against the calf of my leg again. This time it attached itself to my pants and I just knew I was a goner! I could almost feel the venom oozing through my bloodstream.

Salem sauntered past me and turned his face to look around, his eyes cool and curious, as I finally managed to stand on my feet. I bent over to scoop him up to save him from the snake I could feel holding onto my leg for dear life. That's when I realized it wasn't a snake at all...it was a toad. It was a small toad. It was a venom-free toad. A small, venom-free, harmless toad.

"Shhh, listen," I urged the interrogators.

"Listen for what?" They weren't listening at all. Nobody listened. I was counting on the fact that they never listen.

"He's getting away! Quick, stop him! Stop that bear!" I yelled out.

"Are you crazy? We're not going out there with a bear! How did a bear even get into the yard?" All of the teenagers in my kitchen, and the neighbor who had long forgotten what she wanted to tell me, were pressed against the window panes and the screen door to keep an eye out for the bear.

I couldn't very well tell them that a poor little toad had nearly given me a heart attack, now could I? A bear chasing me around the yard was a much better story and I'm sure everyone in the neighborhood will be talking about this tomorrow instead of complaining about all the rain we've had lately.

"I'm not crazy. I'm perfectly sane! Really!"

© Dianna Doles-Petry

One of Life's Embarrassing Moments

An email I received from a friend earlier today caused me to take a stroll down memory lane this evening. A statement at the end of the email said something about breaking elastic and having your panties falling down around your ankles if you didn't forward the contents of the email. My grandmother had her own version of breaking elastic and it had nothing to do with friendship or email.


You see, my grandmother had nine children and money got very, very tight when my grandfather lost his coal trucking business and his ability to make a living for the family came to a screeching halt. He did what he could to make ends meet but with nine children there was never any money left over to be spent on luxury items.

My grandmother made do with what she had for as long as humanly possible. She learned to stretch a meal in ways I don't even like to think about. For the longest time she sewed clothes for the children to wear and made repair after countless repair on every dress, blouse, sock, and anything else the family was wearing. Finally, her sewing machine wore out and everything had to be sewn or repaired by hand. When the elastic in her undergarments started to lose their grip, she began using a safety pin to keep them snug on her waist.

One beautiful sunny day, as her story went, she walked three of her nine children to the nearest grocer (almost two miles away) to purchase food staples. She always left the oldest child at home to watch over the younger children and took the next three oldest with her to help carry the bags of groceries. Only the necessities needed for the kitchen were purchased and the girls knew it would be a much longer walk home than it would be to get to town. On this day, just as she and the children stepped out of the store, all carrying arms full of bags containing flour, sugar, beans, lard, etc., my grandmother felt a snap against the skin at her waist. Then she felt a slight prick as the open end of the safety pin pushed into her hip.

There was no where to set the bags of groceries down and the children walking in front of her had no idea of what was going on behind them. My grandmother felt her panties sliding over her hips and she tried to squirm around to keep them in place with no luck. Within seconds the panties were down around her ankles and the only thing she could think to do was to simply step out of them and continue walking.

As luck would have it, the three girls started to grow weary from the weight of the bags and their pace became slower and slower. Before long a man and woman who attended church with my grandmother walked up behind her and the girls. The gentleman took the heaviest of the bags from my grandmother before moving forward to talk with the girls and help to lessen their load. His wife, with a face red with anger, started to talk to my grandmother. "Okie, did you see the panties some Jezebel had the audacity to leave laying right there on the side of the road where decent families have to walk? I'm telling you, there is no telling what goes on after dark in these parts. I surely won't have my Albert out here to catch sight of such goings on!"

My grandmother said he could feel her face and neck flush with embarrassment. She didn't dare tell the woman that it was not a Jezebel that dropped her panties. It was good old church attending Opal who dropped her drawers because she didn't have any elastic! After that, as I understand it, she used two safety pins to hold up her undergarments at all times!

© Dianna Doles Petry
3/3/2010

Sometimes I Talk Funny

Sometimes I Talk Funny


I was having a telephone conversation today and since it was a business call I was carefully weighing my words before I spoke. “That will not be necessary. One aspect of my intentions is…”

My teenager, sitting at the kitchen table, was looking at me questioningly.

After ending the conversation and placing the telephone back on the receiver, I turned to him and asked, “All right, what’s up?”

“Why do you talk funny when you talk on the phone?” he asked.

“I talk funny?” I asked in a slightly offended tone.

“Yeah, you don’t talk that like around here,” he said. That was the end of our conversation at that moment but I’ve thought about what he said to me all evening. I’ve come to the conclusion that my writing has more of a place in my life than I had imagined.

As a writer, I try to portray the characters I write about accurately. If they are southern, I try to write with a southern dialect. If they are from the Bronx, I try to imitate a New York dialect, or at least my concept of what it sounds like when I hear it. It just never occurred to me that I switch mannerisms in my daily life depending on whom I talk with or who I’m around. Am I not comfortable with who I am, or my roots, or my heritage?

A typical conversation with friends or family might include phrases such as; “If the good Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise,” or “Just keep your shirt on!” I saw a neighbor this evening that had obviously had too much to drink. I said, “He’s good and tanked up!” Maybe I do talk funny, at least to a teenager who uses much more modern phrases such as; “My bad!” or “Hanging with my buds all up in the crib!” Surely he is not referring to plant buds!

The point is that in honing my writing skills to evoke emotion or paint a mental image with my words, I have merged my everyday life with the business aspect of my writing. I use words to camouflage the real woman I am when I talk to strangers or need to wear my intellect like a well worn winter cap. I think before I speak, I put thought into my reactions, and I am always on guard.

The language I use here at home is spontaneous, honest, and intimate. That is the difference; I am not portraying anything or anyone. I am simply being myself. For example, this conversation took place this evening.

“Nana,” my teenager said, “I sort of made a mess upstairs, but I’m going to clean it up, but it might leave a stain on the carpet.” He stands motionless waiting for my reaction. I turned and headed in the direction of his bedroom with him following me in close pursuit.

Opening his door, I saw a mess that defies any logical explanation or description. “Good grief, Cole, sometimes you can be as dumb as a box of rocks! What in the name of Jezebel did you do in here?”

“Nana, how do you know whether rocks are smart or dumb and who is Jezebel?” The master of subject change thought he had me cornered but he was wrong.

“Every dog has his day, Cole, and one of these days you’ll get your just reward. You’ll have a little boy or little girl that is just as wild as you are. I’m going to enjoy watching you deal with that!” I was jabbering away while trying to figure out what the red puddle in the middle of his carpet was and what I should do with it.

Cole rolled his eyes, “The dog didn’t do it, Nana. I had my Gatorade sitting on this board so I wouldn’t have to get up to get a drink while I played my video game. I didn’t expect a reward for that. I just wanted to beat the darn game before one of the other guys did.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “And I don’t want any kids until I’m fifty. I need to have some fun before I have to worry about sending somebody to college!”

“Well, how in the heck did the Gatorade end up on the floor? Getting this up is going to be harder than Chinese Algebra!” I was already reaching for paper towels to blot up the excess liquid as we spoke. I didn’t really care how it got onto the floor. It needed to be cleaned up quickly or it would leave a permanent stain.

“The Chinese have a different kind of Algebra?” Cole asked with a quizzical tone. “Anyhow, the cats were running amok in here and one of them jumped up on the board and it flew up on the other end like a see-saw. I tried to catch the Gatorade before it landed but my foot slipped in the salsa and I missed it.” This was just great. There was apparently chunky red stuff mixed in with the liquid red stuff. I’m thinking it could be every mother’s nightmare.

After blotting up all of the liquid I could blot up, I sent Cole downstairs to get the carpet shampooer. He carried it upstairs along with a bottle of carpet cleaner and a can of soda. I mixed a solution of cleaner and pulled the machine in front of Cole so he could use it to clean his carpet. When he turned the machine on, I lifted the corner of the bed to move it to the side. I thought I was making it easier for him but he had stacked food wrappers and snacks beneath the bed and they all came tumbling out onto the wet mess on his floor.

“Boy, it’s going to take you a year of Sundays to get this mess cleaned up. I sure hope you don’t have any important engagements for the next couple of days. I want this whole room cleaned up yesterday!” I was standing there like a drill sergeant training new cadets and feeling like one too.

“Nana, please stop talking about me getting married all the time. I’m not engaged because I’m not getting married!” He was grumbling and using some form of sign language that the shampooer was supposed to understand.

An hour later the carpet was clean, the messes were picked up, and Cole was fixing himself a sandwich and explaining to me that he was going to be rich someday and he would hire a maid to keep his room clean.

“I just hope you don’t end up eating your own words someday, Cole. You’re not the first young man to declare that you aren’t going to get married and you are going to get rich. A lot of times a fly in the ointment can change everything.” I just smiled at him and watched him devour his triple stacked sandwich.

“What ointment are you talking about? I didn’t hurt myself, I don’t need any ointment. “Do you want a bite of my sandwich?” He was pulling a bag of chocolate chip cookies from a cabinet to go with the few crumbs of sandwich he had left.

“Never mind about the ointment, it’s just an old cliché. You eat your sandwich, Sweetie. A boy your age has a hollow leg and you’ll burn the calories right off.” I smiled at him and was about to leave the room when he replied to me. “Nana, I do not have a hollow leg, you’re thinking of Capt. Jack Sparrow again, aren’t you?”

I guess sometimes I do talk funny!

© Dianna Doles-Petry

1/29/2010