You Cannot Mess This Up

by Amy Weinland Daughters

  The least I could do was help the poor girl out. This may have been the first (and last) time she was ever allowed to finish an act.

  Thankfully, the ending was short and relatively painless. All it took were a few more flourishes, the introduction of a straw hat with a mound of colorful flowers on top of it, some exquisite facial expressions, and a near-disastrous run-in with the bumper pool table. It was the icing on top of what was a fine performance.

  Rick and Kim laughed loudly, as did I, and as for Little Amy, she bowed as dramatically as she would have if she had just wrapped up four nights playing Maria in West Side Story.

  OK, I was proud of the little freak. Suddenly, I made the connection that she would someday become the big freak, me. Shaking my head and exhaling, I made a mental note: Let my boys dance around and be silly a little more when I get back to the future. It’s in their blood. And don’t walk away when they do it. Sit on the stairs and enjoy every painful, beautiful moment. Don’t judge them for what, ultimately, you provided them.

  Kim was next, and like Rick, her act had music, “Summer Nights,” from the Grease soundtrack. She did a decent job of lip synching the entire number, including both Olivia Newton-John’s and John Travolta’s parts. She knew every single word, nailing each “Tell me more, tell me more” and managed to play off the dramatic ending without looking like a total idiot. Her dance moves were definitely more legitimate, despite the fact that she felt the need to sing into what looked like a wood item that had been yanked off the top of her canopy bed. What she didn’t do was oversell the act, something Amy definitely, and even Rick, couldn’t claim.

  Really, hers was the best overall act. But not in a million, zillion years would I admit that to her. Honestly, I was tempted to hit the Mexican tambourine squarely and get her off the stage, just because I could. I probably should have gonged her ass, but I didn’t. I suppose it helped that I was forty-six freaking years old. I was clearly very mature, and despite Kim’s training bra, which she strutted around in like she owned the Maiden-form factory, the whole battle of the boobs was going to end in my favor: Me with a C cup, and her in an A, sadly not much more cleavage than was on display here at America’s favorite TV talent show.

  As the game wrapped up, the three kids returned to the steps, side by side, laughing about the trio of performances. Though each individual thought theirs was the best, plenty of appreciation was passed around to the other players.

  I moved up and back a couple of steps to give them space, in hopes that they would forget I was even there. It was amazing to me that the three of them could sit on one of the small stairs at the same time, Little Amy in the middle flanked by Kim and Rick on each side. What was also striking was the true affection they felt for one another. It was palpable, but nobody would have ever said anything about it. There was a lot of love there, but it wasn’t going to be discussed, dissected and quantified. Maybe feelings were better that way, not so much repressed, but enjoyed silently rather than videoed and played back later.

  Amy put each of her small, skinny arms around the necks of the other two, something I wouldn’t have expected. “Well,” she stated dramatically, her bowl cut jiggling in the air conditioning, “Funk and Wagnall’s, friends … Funk and Wagnall’s.” Though it wasn’t really that funny, Kim and Rick obliged with genuine laughs, not courtesy laughter, but the genuine “Ha Ha” stuff that makes 99.9 percent of everything better.

  As quickly as the gorgeous moment came, it went, with Mom’s voice calling upstairs for the kids to come down and get cleaned up for dinner. “Don’t leave a mess up there!” Mom screamed.

  But, alas, the three friends scurried down the stairs without picking up a single item. I happily admired the disaster they left in their wake. I didn’t even think about how pissed I would have been if Will and Matthew had left a similar mess, on a holiday, with guests.

  Long live the hypocrite who thinks she’s perfect!

  Chapter Ten

  TRAILER TRASH

  Back down in the dining room, the pageant of food and awkwardness was in full swing. Mom had miraculously gotten enough chairs around the dining room table for everyone to sit quasi-comfortably. The large, antique hand-carved buffet was stuffed with food, as was the table itself, and a decorative, cast-iron cart.

  What was the purpose of a metal-wheeled cart in a dining room? It would have looked hideous even outside, where it belonged—eventually rusting into the dust in the wind that people sometimes sang about. It was painted white, with huge back wheels and smaller front ones. I’m guessing it couldn’t have moved twelve inches without leaving some sort of rust streak on the shag carpet. It made me think of a stupid picture of my sister, standing behind the controls of the cart, as if she was pushing it to some magical—yet totally delusional—garden party in her own head. It was Christmas Day, and she had some sort of horrible floral dress on, she was always a dresser-upper, complemented by a hand-knitted, or crocheted, shawl. Who did she think she was? Pretending to push a cart that wouldn’t push, wearing that silly shawl, smiling with her head cocked just so. There wasn’t even anything on the cart, which she wasn’t really pushing out of the dining room. Seriously, it was a good thing I was so much more mature than she was …

  Fully intoxicated by the holiday spirit (and/or spirits), Mom had lit the plethora of candles in both the crystal and brass candelabras on the buffet. She had really outdone herself: Turkey, ham, two types of potatoes, vegetables, stuffing, the ceremonial ridged (for your pleasure) cranberry sauce log, rolls, weird Jell-O salad, and pies. Granny had brought her southern dressing; Grandma had made turkey figures out of canned pear halves, cherries and other unusual but edible items. It was blatantly obvious that ten-year-old Amy, who was flailing dangerously near Kim’s cart—which could result in the need for a tetanus booster—didn’t fully appreciate the amount of work involved in this level of culinary achievement.

  As everyone began to find a seat, I felt another wave of uneasiness come over me, feeling like a foreigner. It was a notion that was enhanced by the complete disconnect I felt between myself and what were supposed to be my people. Thankfully, the question of where in this emotional corn maze I was supposed to turn next was answered by Dad. “Here, Amy, sit on the end so you can see everyone.” And so, I took the spot of honor at the head of the table under the large picture window looking out over the front yard.

  As my butt neared the wicker seat of the chair, young Amy scampered across the room at full throttle, desperately attempting to claim one of the seats next to mine. Her efforts were thwarted by Mom, who strong-armed her and firmly directed her to the second chair from my left.

  Directly to my right was Grandma Bee. Next to her sat her husband Gene (Paw Paw), Kimber and then Granddaddy Frank.

  On my left sat Dad, then young Amy, then Rick and then Granny Ruth. Mom sat directly across from me at the far end of the table. Conveniently nearest the kitchen, where she could continue offering her delightful, yet totally free and wholly overlooked, services.

  Looking around the room at the faces as everyone settled in, I was filled with an overwhelming wave of raw emotion … Here I was on Thanksgiving Day, in my parents’ home, in my home, during my childhood, as an adult, nearing menopause. Ok—this really was a bunch of crap.

  Dad looked down to the other end of the table and requested that Granddaddy say grace. We joined hands with one another, and in his rough, deep southern tone, always preceded by a clearing of the throat, my grandfather gave his customary offering of thanks as I held the hands of my dearly departed grandmother and my forty-something-year-old father. “Dear Lord, bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies and us to thy service. In Christ’s name we pray. Amen.”

  Before Granddaddy even finished enunciating the first syllable of the final word, the other adults began to pass the food around the table. Wineglasses and serving spoons clanked. The holiday spirit temporarily rose up from the food and began to engulf the entire room. It was like the ste
am off the gravy boat had taken over our normally pessimistic, realistic and logical personas. The excitement of a simple meal together on a national day of thanks seemed to be what it should be.

  Two bottles of wine came around the table, one red and the other white. I was passed the white option, a 1977 Blue Nun Liebfraumilch, which I knew was sweeter than the demure spirit of the blue-frocked Sisters depicted on the bottle. I couldn’t go with that, even if I wasn’t actually attending this event. Switching my attention to the red, I recognized the familiar “Paul Masson Cabernet Sauvignon” label. Since, at least the way I remembered it, Paul Masson would sell no wine before its time, I confidently poured a healthy serving into my silver-plated glass. Funny, I had only seen these glasses in the pictures my mom had taken of her fancy table settings in the ’70s, but I had never drunk from the chalice of adulthood, that is until just now.

  The conversation remained light as the meal went on. The kids seemed tantalized by Paw Paw’s stories and mildly inappropriate jokes, but, again much to my surprise, my mom’s parents seemed somewhat underwhelmed by their in-laws. The truth was, there was a striking difference between the two sides of my family. Ruth and Frank MacCurdy were Southerners. Growing up in a wealthy part of Dallas before the Depression, they had retained elements of a culture whose time had passed, especially by 2014 standards. Bee and Gene Weinland, on the other hand, were Midwesterners, Yankees by many Texans’ calculations. They had both grown up in Indiana, marrying young and moving out west to Idaho before settling in the Dayton, Ohio, area. Their move south had been predicated by my dad’s own move to Texas. They simply followed his lead. The result was what seemed to be a more open, down to earth approach to life, one not at all concerned—at least on the surface—with others’ perceptions.

  Even as a child I understood that the two couples were different, but those assumptions were based on where and how each couple lived, what toys they had in their extra room, what kind of Christmas and birthday gifts they sent, and what they cooked. I either couldn’t, or didn’t, get the more important dividing factors.

  I wondered if the younger Amy really was as tuned-out as she seemed to be. Or perhaps I was judging her too harshly and she was absorbing the appropriate level for someone of her tender age.

  When was it that I stopped being so self-absorbed? Was it a magical transformation that happened so covertly that it couldn’t be traced by photograph or memory? Or, had I made the whole thing up in my own mind, never truly changing or improving, but only thinking I had because, at forty-six, no one was going to tell me the truth about myself anymore?

  Before I could connect any more dots that didn’t need connecting, Mom told the kids that they were excused. Dessert would be later. The three happily scurried off into the formal living area, back down the steps to the sunken family room and toward the master bedroom. Since I knew they weren’t supposed to play in Mom and Dad’s room, I assumed they were headed to what was supposedly an “office,” located off the master suite. It was on the same level as the formal living room and therefore had two steps up into it. It contained a burnt-orange corduroy couch, a rolltop desk, a green-glass lamp that had been Grandma’s and a huge bay window that looked out onto the front yard. Most importantly, it had two closets stacked with toys, board games and other treasures.

  That left the adult me sitting in the dining room, primed to finally find out what happens at 24314 Creekview Drive on Thanksgiving after the kids leave the table on a quest to discover what’s really inside of Stretch Armstrong, or, even better, what it would feel like to launch Evil Knievel off a hand-powered ramp and into your brother’s or sister’s personal parts.

  Well, frankly, it’s a disappointment—the post-dinner table activities as opposed to Evil Knievel’s most provocative stunt— nothing more than forced adult conversation served up in the glow of alcoholic beverages.

  Yes, Dick had laid down with Sue and now three couples, plus me, were sitting around a table wondering what they should say to each other and how freaking long an afternoon could last.

  Not appreciating even a moment of silence, Bee began discussing her and Gene’s travel plans for the following spring. They had a shiny Airstream trailer that they pulled from coast to coast behind their Chrysler sedan. When Gene retired as a civilian in the Air Force, they sold their home and stored all their possessions, and traveled across North America. Though this wasn’t their gig now, in 1978, they still had a trailer, which they would own until they could no longer do what was physically required to travel in it.

  Bee, and then Gene, who enthusiastically piped in when he was given even the slightest opportunity, detailed their plans including a “rally” that would be held by the Wally Byam Club (an association exclusively for Airstream owners), somewhere in Kentucky. On that hallowed ground, the WBCCI (Wally Byam Caravan Club International) would meet en masse, lining up millions of dollars’ worth of travel trailers festooned with flags. All this while their owners, proudly wearing lanyards that signified their long service to the movement, mingled with one another. What service they provided, beyond drinking festive beverages underneath striped awnings, was a mystery.

  This topic went on for a good thirty minutes with photos promised and occasional backtracking to reminisce about trailer parks of the past. Before this auspicious occasion, I would have never noticed that everyone, except for Bee, Gene and my father, looked as if they had lost the will to live about five minutes into the conversation.

  “You know …” Bee stated in her trademark edgily emotional tone. “Our Airstream allows us to have wonderful adventures and meet wonderful folks from all over the country.” Habitually playing with a mustard-colored linen napkin, she then went where no cautious person would have gone. Looking diagonally across the table, she asked Ruth if she and Frank had ever thought of purchasing a trailer and seeing the world on the hoof.

  Ruth looked absolutely stricken at even the thought of living in something you could hook to the back of a vehicle. The only words she could manage through her obvious angst were, “No, really that wouldn’t suit us.”

  If I were being honest, I’d have to say that Ruth’s words were dripping with a condescending and snobbish tone. Neither Gene nor Bee seemed aware that their pitch was about as well received as a school librarian enthusiastically telling a group of fifth graders that “today kicks off National Poetry Week.” This miscalculation was confirmed as Gene continued on, dangerously, “Yes, Frank, you could play golf at hundreds of different courses. And you could both meet lots of people who share similar interests, like bridge and good conversation.”

  Now it was Frank that looked stricken. Somebody evidently needed to be more candid, so why not leave it to Ruth to lop the head off the idea before it went any further? “Well, you have to understand … The social group we are members of would find trailer living to be a bit … well, rural and … it’s safe to say, beneath us. Yes,” she continued, “Our set”—the one with a country club membership—“is not necessarily the set that caravans in a mobile home … Really, we’re not those kinds of people.”

  Alternatively, if you are from the aristocratic South—even if it is only in your own mind—play bridge, have a membership, have a uniformed African-American bartender hired for your high-brow social gatherings—in a duplex in Waco—you wouldn’t be caught dead emptying your sewer hose at a KOA campground in West Virginia.

  Never.

  It would be akin to hanging your panties out on the clothesline in 2014.

  The situation was a total shock to me as, again, I had never visited the world where undertones became overtones with this group. Ironically, Frank still worked as a car salesman, and while Ruth and he resided in a nice apartment, a rental, Gene was retired and had enough disposable income to both own a property and to travel at will. Add in the fact that Airstream trailers were pricey, meaning it’s unlikely that Frank and Ruth could have even afforded to join the Wally Byam Club, and the entire situation was a paradox.

>   So, you’ve got the sophisticated set looking down their noses at the seemingly tawdry group who live a lifestyle that the former couple can’t afford.

  As Mom poured herself another glass of wine, Dad thankfully and mercifully brought the conversation to a close. “Well folks, I think we’ll just agree to disagree on that,” he said as Ruth leered across the table.

  “Yes,” Frank mumbled, “we won’t agree on much.”

  And for the first and only time in my life, I saw Bee and Gene look transparently awkward.

  “Well,” Dad said, trying to redirect. “That sure was a good meal.”

  “Yes,” Frank chimed in, patting his belly with delight. “It sure did hit the spot.”

  Before any additional compliments could fall magically from the sky, Ruth was quick to add, “Yes, it was very good, but I just don’t understand why people use ridged cranberry jelly and rolls from a can …” Of course it was just an observation, not an insult, or so she thought. Mom sank even lower in her chair.

  How does your own mom take a jab like that while sitting at the table after Thanksgiving dinner, the very meal that she slaved and stressed over, giving a little piece of her own soul away in the process? How the hell does that work?

  “It’s like having whipped cream from a plastic tub,” Granny continued, clearly unaware of the container of Cool Whip thawing in the kitchen. “Or making gravy out of a packet …”

  I couldn’t be certain where Mom’s gravy had come from, but I had no idea that she had ever taken this sort of verbal abuse after what was, in no uncertain terms, a fine meal, a fact confirmed by the rave reviews of the people with penises.