Thanks Mom, I needed that.
While Kentucky may be the state of fast horses and beautiful women, I have ample evidence that Indiana has produced at least one woman that is in possession of both attributes. In about my eighth year in this world on the Henry County farm where I was raised to questionable adulthood, I both witnessed and participated unwillingly in an event that would become a Millville legend.
Growing up on a farm with seven brothers and sisters entailed certain responsibilities and chores that were delegated by our parents. One summer day after we finished our dinner, (we ate breakfast, dinner and supper in that order, I never heard of lunch until I made it to Hagerstown), my Mom informed me that it was my turn to help wash the dishes. Now being eight years old, and producing just enough testosterone to get into trouble, I decided that doing the dishes was woman’s work and that I would have no part of it.
My plan, though not terribly well thought out, was to run across the hayfield and hide out in the woods near the papaw patch, and then sneak back to the barn by milking time so as to remain in Dad’s good graces. I’m not sure what I would have done when the milking was finished, and it was time to go in for supper. As I said, the plan wasn’t one of my better efforts.
The latter aspects of said plan proved moot, anyway. I never considered that Mom would give chase, and even if she did, I was sure I had little to fear. I was a rugged outdoorsman, fleet of foot, while she was an old woman, probably at least 30, and barely 5 foot tall on a good hair day. Imagine my horror when she not only overcame my several hundred yards headstart while wearing an apron and carrying a flyswatter, but also passed me, turned my direction back to the house with a few well placed swats, and matched me swat for step all the way back to the kitchen.
To this day, if Mom reaches for a flyswatter, I head for the kitchen and start drawing the water.
Growing up on a farm with seven brothers and sisters entailed certain responsibilities and chores that were delegated by our parents. One summer day after we finished our dinner, (we ate breakfast, dinner and supper in that order, I never heard of lunch until I made it to Hagerstown), my Mom informed me that it was my turn to help wash the dishes. Now being eight years old, and producing just enough testosterone to get into trouble, I decided that doing the dishes was woman’s work and that I would have no part of it.
My plan, though not terribly well thought out, was to run across the hayfield and hide out in the woods near the papaw patch, and then sneak back to the barn by milking time so as to remain in Dad’s good graces. I’m not sure what I would have done when the milking was finished, and it was time to go in for supper. As I said, the plan wasn’t one of my better efforts.
The latter aspects of said plan proved moot, anyway. I never considered that Mom would give chase, and even if she did, I was sure I had little to fear. I was a rugged outdoorsman, fleet of foot, while she was an old woman, probably at least 30, and barely 5 foot tall on a good hair day. Imagine my horror when she not only overcame my several hundred yards headstart while wearing an apron and carrying a flyswatter, but also passed me, turned my direction back to the house with a few well placed swats, and matched me swat for step all the way back to the kitchen.
To this day, if Mom reaches for a flyswatter, I head for the kitchen and start drawing the water.
posted by Rex Bell at 8:32 AM
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