When Memories Fail Us.


We went to visit some people once.  I don’t know why.  If you knew someone years ago and never stayed in touch, I don’t get why people think it is a good thing to renew things.  Like maybe the people were doing you a favour and keeping Uncle Herman from eating another one of their good friends?  Maybe the people never liked you in the first place and they are just too polite to tell you that “no, they really have no interest in seeing you again.”  Maybe they only are having you over because they can’t remember who you are and have you confused with someone they actually like.  Or maybe, they forgot all about you  and they hate to miss out on an opportunity to rub it in someone’s face that they hit the big times.

Oh ya I know, maybe they really missed you too and are dying to have you come over.

Get real, and stop reading my blogs ok?

We went to visit people that were from “way back” to my grandparents.  We drove for what seemed like 3 weeks to get there but any time confined in small places with my grandparents made time stand still so it might have only been 3 minutes, I don’t know.  When we got there everyone hugged and we were introduced and pushed into place and head patted until the adults went off to have coffee and left us with their absolute little snotball of a daughter – so we could “play” together and not be bothered with all the grownup talk that would probably “bore us to death.”

I know there are lots of ways to die.  I am of the opinion that being “bored to death” could be one of the least painful . . . I mean if you compare it to being boiled alive and eaten or something, or having to hang out with snotgirl.

First of all it was the middle of stinking hot summer and she was in a pink fluffy dress with crinolines, hair curled in ringlets and bows in her hair,with white patent leather shoes.   My brother and I were in cut offs, t-shirts and bare feet.  His hair was stuck to his head with sweat and mine was half in and half out of what used to be a ponytail on the back of my head but had drifted off to one side on the ride over.  It is what happens when you ride with your head out the window racing along the hi-ways of life.

We looked at her, looking at us with disgust and yes, my brother and I took it on as a challenge.

She took us to show us her lop eared bunnies that her father had bought for her birthday.  Their “cage” was a pink and white house with shutters and painted rose bushes and a white picket fence around the “yard.”   One of the bunnies had been dyed pink and had a bow around its neck.  I can’t be sure but from the position of one of the chairs that was knocked over, and the scratch marks on the door jam, I think the poor bunny had tried to hang itself. I was actually looking around for any extra ribbon myself.
She was telling us how special the bunnies were, the some Queen somewhere had the brother to the one she had and how much everything cost.

Then she showed us her prize winning cat who had kittens (of course), her baby ducks and chickens, her lambs, her baby pigs and  her miniature horse and the little carriage her father made her to ride around in with him pulling her. It was pink of course, with lace pillows on the seats and little painted birds and more baby bunnies on the side. The birds matched the pink “love birds” she had in a white ornate cage, that hung from the tree over the bunny house, tied, with what else, a big pink bow.   No,  we could not try out the carriage because I was, “way too fat and she did not want the horse to die.”  Even though, of the 4 of us . . . she was clearly the heaviest.  (I included the pony in that calculation. )

By the time she finished showing us everything she had, with her nose in the air, and her condescending lilt in her voice, we pretty much knew what had to be done.  We had to . . . for all mankind.

Even cute baby animals have to go to the bathroom.

It was a really unfortunate “accident” that caused her to trip and fall, head first . . . and though we made every effort to help her up, we actually made it worse and by the end of it, she had been thoroughly rolled through most of it.  Pink fluffy dresses, white patent leather shoes, ringlets and bows just do not have the ability to stand up to … cute baby animal “doo doo.”

She tried to say we had done it on purpose.  We both started to cry and hold on to one another doing our best imitation of being deeply wounded at the accusation while conveying that we had almost died trying to save her.

Her mother was horrified.  I am not sure that she was as concerned for snotgirl as she was worried that she might have to touch her to help clean her up.  I think she was wearing white gloves even. Probably had them surgically attached to her hands permanently.  Anyway, she was not a big fan of “doo doo.”

She probably didn’t “doo-doo” at all.  She looked the type.

We suddenly had to go.

I have a feeling that this was definitely one of those friendships best left in the “way back,” and even one where the people involved should probably lose the map.  Wondering “whatever happened to ….” is often much more fun than finding out.  I think my grandparents were actually kind of proud of us in a funny sort of way.  They never said anything, but we missed an expected visit with “Mr. Belt” and they bought us ice cream. I think growing up is kind of a bittersweet deal where you end up with this conscience thing where even though you still have the childhood urge, or “common sense” as I like to call it, you can’t. Especially if you are big into God.

But the day was full of epic awesomeness for my brother and I. Sometimes we did exactly what we someone should “do,”   and the parents thanked us for it . . . By not spanking us I mean. When that kinda thing happens it just sort of restores everyone’s faith in magic.

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