Family · Life · Memories

The Lasagna Incident

My mother was an English teacher in rural north-central Alabama. She taught at the same school in the same town her entire 30-plus year career which meant she taught two successive generations of Blount County teenagers.

She was an exceptional teacher, and she loved teaching and loved her students. Over the years, she taught every grade, but her favorites were the seventh graders. She thought they were the best combination of wild and sweet.

Like every teacher does, she had a million stories, some hilarious and some horrifying, about her students and their lives. No one who knew Mother has not heard the story about Rose and the homecoming confetti.

But that story was not my favorite. I always preferred The Lasagna Incident.

Mother was a talented seamstress, and she made all her own clothes. In the early 70’s, she had a very chic, white wrap-around skirt that she had made. A teacher wearing white to school was a pretty daring move, but I guess Mom though she could carry it off.

It happened that lasagna was served in the school lunchroom that day, and of course she accidentally dropped a big blob of it, full of bright orange grease, right in her lap. The thin little lunchroom napkins did nothing to protect her white skirt. Nothing was removing that stain, so she spent the rest of the day with a big orange Rorschach blot across the front of her thighs. By next class period, she had explained the blob about fifty times to curious 12 year olds. It became so tiresome and distracting that she finally took off her cardigan sweater and tied it around her waist like an apron, so that the spot was covered.

The last class period of the day, Mother was standing outside her open classroom door, waiting for the “late” bell to hurry the last stragglers into the classroom. One of the stragglers was a perennially late, bright-eyed little motor mouth named Joey.

Joey came tearing down the hall and skidded to a stop in front of Mother, words tumbling out of his mouth.

“Mrs. Patterson,” (in his native tongue it was pronounced Miz PAIR-sun) “Miz Pairsun, what happened?”

Mother sighed and launched into the explanation of the lasagna incident, lifting her cardigan apron to show Joey the stain.  When she finished, she saw that Joey’s eyebrows were drawn together in puzzlement.

“Oh.” he said. “But, Miz Pairsun, I meant what happened to yer hair?”

Blogging · Nonsense · The Dreaded House · Writing

She’s Back and in a Bad Mood

cat-1865538_1920 (1)Not really. Not a bad mood. Just the perpetual anxiety of living in the US with Donald Trump as President. It has been long enough that I have given up hope that it is a bad dream. So I retreated into the world I have a little bit of control over. I cleaned out my closet and conducted a brutal purge of my wardrobe. Same with the hall linen closet. Don’t laugh, I am really proud of these tiny accomplishments.

My writing has really taken a hit. Something about fearing the end of American democracy is bad for one’s creativity. My daily writing is not blog-worthy. It’s more like primal scream therapy, with a keyboard.

But blog I must. So bear with me readers, as I get some bad and emotional writing out of the way. Today, I share my pet peeves. Maybe you can relate, and smile. Continue reading “She’s Back and in a Bad Mood”

My Local World

It’s tough out there for a clip-art guy

Will no one think of the clip art people? How would you like to always have to be good-looking, smiling and interested in whatever BS cause or promotion someone decided to cut-and-paste you into? I weep for them, and how used they must feel.

This made me snort.

Now, someone in the comments pointed out that clip-art-minority man is supposed to represent “Everyman,” happily reaping the benefits of the wonderful works of all the dead conservative visionaries looming above him (and bonus Asian clip-art female). And good point.  I mean, I know how concerned Jesse Helms was about young black men in America, but to see it visually depicted in a massive banner backdrop really brings it home.