“Good morning,” said Brer Rabbit to the tar baby. “Nice weather we’re having.”
The tar baby said nothing and Brer Fox watched on in amusement.
“And how are you feeling this fine day?” Brer Rabbit continued.
Again, nothing.
“I said how are you this morning?” Brer Rabbit hollered.
Silence.
“Are you deaf or just rude? Brer Rabbit yelled. “I can’t stand folks that are stuck up! You take that hat off and say good morning or I’ll give you a good lickin’!”
Brer Fox struggled to contain his laughter as he peered through the bushes.
“Right!” yelled Brer Rabbit. “I’ll learn ya a lesson,” he said, laying a paw into the tar baby.
“Let me go or I’ll hit you again,” he shouted with one paw stuck in the tar, and then both were stuck
“Turn me loose or I’ll kick the stuffing out of you!” he yelled as both feet plunged into the tar. Furious, he head butted the Tar Baby.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” said Brer Fox, leaping from the bushes. “You’ve sassed me for the last time, Brer Rabbit. Now, what should I do with you?”
“Please, Brer Fox, whatever you do, please do not throw me in the briar patch.”
“Maybe I’ll roast you over a fire and eat you,” mused Brer Fox, “or hang you.”
“Roast me! Hang me! I don’t mind, but please don’t throw me in the briar patch.”
“Maybe I’ll drown you instead,” said Brer Fox.
“Drown me if you wish, but please don’t throw me in the briar patch.”
“But maybe I’ll just throw you in the briar patch. You’ll be ripped into little pieces.”
Brer Fox flung the tar-covered rabbit into the briar patch and there was silence. After a while, Brer Fox heard someone calling his name, and he saw Brer Rabbit sitting on a log combing the tar from his fur with a wood chip. “I was born in the briar patch, Brer Fox. Born and bred in the briar patch,” he laughed and he skipped away as merry as a cricket.
There is much to love about Brer Rabbit, but dressing up in a rabbit costume complete with tar baby and briar patch, was more than I could bear.
At least one suggestion on the resolutions chart had merit—that I lead a revolt against ‘at the end of the day’ since I have repeatedly expressed my angst over the ongoing abuse of the cliché. Whenever spoken, I interrupt the speaker to ask, “At the end of which day?” This usually causes a temporary, but sometimes permanent, pause to the conversation, so mission accomplished. Whenever written, in an email, report or memo, I respond with a request to the writer for clarification ie whether he/she is referring to dusk or midnight, but I rarely receive the courtesy of a response. I maintain statistics on offences: who, when and in which format the offence occurred, or rather, Rachel does at my insistence. Thomas, surprisingly, is blemish-free, but our CEO is a repeat offender, and the worst, followed by the HR director who cannot make it through a single memo or board meeting without any number of usages.
Our CEO is not as prolific as politicians, journalists and sportscasters who seem incapable of speech without use of the trite expression that has long lost its ingenuity from years of overuse. I am affronted personally with each transgression.
My mission to stamp out ‘at the end of the day’ has received support from unexpected sources: the IT director, Thomas, and the CEO’s secretary who, since becoming aware of the crime, can no longer cope with having to type the words as often as she does. It concerns me slightly, to have such support, for whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong, just like Oscar says. The task is an onerous one, but I am determined to succeed to ensure, at the very least, that a smiley face appears next to my name on the resolution chart in the column titled success, but also to distract me from what is happening to mother.
Chapter Nineteen
A FURTHER distraction arrived in the form of baby Oscar, born to glowing new parents Gabrielle and David Evans.
I was also radiant following my appointment as joint godmother with Gabby’s sister, and of a child named after my mentor was a bonus, although Oscar Wilde was not the inspiration for his naming.
Erin had something ridiculous to say about Oscar as a name, not surprisingly since she is trapped in the early seventies. Oscar, she reminds me, lives in a garbage can with his pet worm, Slimey, and his pet elephants Fluffy, Sophie, Blitzen and Schopenhauer, and loves everything other people hate and vice versa—he loves rainy days and hates cute puppies. But a child named after this Oscar, in my view, is just as endearing as my mentor Oscar. So Oscar Evans has a lot to live up to, but at least he was not born into the world of hyphenation (like Lucinda Cairnhill-Scott) since his mother has taken his father’s surname, much to his grandmother’s delight.
The role is not new to me as I am godmother already to Lucinda and Blaine, eldest child of Erin and the Bobmeister. Amber is godmother to their youngest, Meghan.
Shannon made other more suitable appointments for her three gremlins, informing Lauren and I of her decision after Christian was born with a sit-down, official explanation and unbeknown to Shannon, Lauren was smoking a joint at the time.
Shannon explained that the role of godmother was a serious one, and she and Toady (since it was post-Christmas and his frame had ballooned) wanted to appoint someone who had the requisite traits and values to properly undertake the task. Lauren and I learned that the role of godmother, given the title, is all about God, spirituality and the godchild’s Christian life and education. It is not a reward for past deeds or to honor a close relative.
“I see,” said Lauren as she inhaled, held her breath then hacked her way through the exhale. Shannon swiped at the sickly sweet air.
“When did you take up smoking?” she asked Lauren who shrugged a response.
Lauren continued unperturbed. The godmother must pray for the godchild daily, remember his baptism anniversary with a gift, ensure the godchild attends Sunday school and owns an age-appropriate Bible. The role requires a huge investment of time and energy, and so, clearly, Lauren and I were not suitable as godparents, especially now that Lauren was a smoker of sorts.
“Yeah, no drama,” said Lauren drawing on her stick. “I can see your point.”
I wanted to laugh. “You’ve made a wise decision, Shannon,” I said with sincerity, but not too much, for as Oscar says, “A little sincerity is a dangerous thing and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.”
The discussion was not repeated after Anderson was born or Hannah, thankfully.
It was a different story with Erin. When she invited me to be godmother to Blaine, I asked her what was involved.
“Turn up to the baptism, light a candle and that’s about it,” she answered.
“What about the other responsibilities?”
“What other responsibilities?” she asked. “You mean if something happens to Bob and me?”
“Oh,” I said, not having considered this as a possible role. “Would I have to take care of Blaine?”
“No, we have someone responsible in mind for a guardian.”
“So I only have to light a candle?”
“That’s about it. It’s just social convention.”
It was much the same with Sophie, who similarly had no expectations of the role, or me and why would she since she had her mother to do everything for the child.
I was less clear with David, Gabby and Oscar, but expected their approach would be much like Jason and Alexis who appointed her friends as token godmothers. But since I had already concluded that Oscar would be my favored nephew, I decided on a greater commitment than mere candle lighting. His first gift of many would be the complete works of Oscar Wilde, and I will read to him as soon as he can focus, beginning with The Happy Prince. A green Oscar in a silver trash can with a ‘Scram!’ sign was also on my gift shopping list. I will teach baby Oscar about Italy and Greece where people know to drink wine at lunch and to sleep afterwards, even on a workday
. I also planned to offer my services as babysitter as soon as Oscar was out of nappies and eating normal food like pizza. I expect mother would question the merits of such since I have never minded a child previously and my style, whatever it might be, would be lacking. This is an important facet of my family—everyone always has a better way, especially mother and Shannon.
The baptism of Oscar and subsequent gathering was not all sunlight and daisies however because mother was frail and bald after weeks of chemotherapy. Her essence was gone, zapped into oblivion with the cancerous cells in her left breast. She smiled though, throughout the morning, and shuffled away to rest at various times. Shannon was in control of the kitchen, and hence, designated hostess, assisted ably by Gabby—she had learned a lot during her Evans family immersion. The arrangement felt ominous, but I took comfort in the wisdom of Oscar who says, “There is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that.”
I wanted to follow mother to her room, to lie down beside her and hold onto her like never before. Perhaps I did so as a young child—I do not recall. I must have loved her unconditionally then for that is what children do and life is circuitous. Instead, I stayed with the crowd in the back yard where dad was cooking the sage, orange, clove turkey and the pepper-crusted lamb kebabs in the Weber. With Shannon as overseer, there was not a sausage or T-bone in sight, and that is how mother would have liked it. There was plenty of merlot, but only because David and Gabby were in charge of alcohol provisioning and therefore made sure the godmother was happy.
Patrick came with his two daughters, Amelie and Jesse, for indoctrination into the ways of the Evans family and their gatherings. It seems they were pre-warned regarding behavior for they were the most well behaved children I have ever witnessed. They doted on Oscar staying close to him instead of running riot in the back yard with the rest of the hooligans. When they were not with Oscar, they draped themselves over Patrick and Lauren, and they seemed very at ease around their prospective stepmother. It was a surreal scene, to see my baby sister—outlandish fashion designer, former pot-smoker—in this role, and I felt further removed, as if everyone had moved onto a higher realm like life on Mars and left me back on Earth to water the plants and feed the animals.
David was someone other than the work-obsessed brother I briefly tried to emulate in my teens. I never expected him to marry or become a father let alone to take on the roles in his late forties, but it seemed obvious that he was just waiting for Gabby and Oscar (the baby) to come into his life. Everything about David reflected his renewal, from the way he walked and talked to the expression lines on his face that now highlighted smiling eyes instead of the frowning forehead. He could not walk past Gabby without a gentle stroking of her arm or her hair, or a kiss. If it was not so beautiful, I would be sickened.
Alexis and Jason made me feel less of a freak for the oxygen molecules between them were pressure-filled. The second tin, Cristin, let everyone know that her parents had been fighting, but was not able to release the details as a diamond-encrusted hand quickly wrapped itself firmly over her mouth. Perhaps it was an argument about the inappropriateness of wearing Jimmy Choo stilettos to a Sunday morning garden party, but dad would appreciate having his lawn aerated in this way. Jason might confide in me, and I lived in hope that he had progressed from ‘not unhappy’ to completely miserable and was ready at last to ditch his cow wife. I would be on hand to assist with the transition.
Since the arrival of Patrick, Gabby and Oscar into our family, the line that had for decades divided the blue corner and the knitting corner was crumbling like the Berlin wall. People were meandering from one side to the other at will, and the back deck had never before witnessed so many crossings. Dad, though, stayed blue as he was most comfortable standing around the Weber.
As is usual when a pack of children tear around our backyard squealing, the laughter soon turned to tears and it was the second tin, Justin, who came off worst after the first round. The scene is not much different to any other amateur boxing match with several rounds and breaks in between for more sugary drinks and patty cakes. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on your perspective from the back deck, there is no referee, no rules and no bell so the end only arrives with a knock out and occasionally a technical knock-out is ruled by someone from the fighter’s corner or the fight doctor (David). I like to wager on who will hit the grass canvas first and who might be the victor (usually one of Shannon’s). After the knock out, the loser goes home and the victor spends time in a different kind of corner for self-reflection.
When mother returned from her lay-down, carers swarmed. I stayed away to avoid overwhelming her, but then we were all overwhelmed by what followed.
Shannon has been singing at church for years, but had recently ventured into the world of family entertainment. Sadly, we were to benefit from this incursion.
Two guitar players appeared to accompany her with the song, Danny Boy, supposedly to commemorate the baptism of Oscar, but I suspect more to commemorate Shannon. I would have been more interested if she had chosen Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns N’ Roses, which seemed more appropriate than a song about pipes.
Throughout, I watched David, Gabby and mother to gauge attitudes. They showed no sign of the inner infliction I experienced, then I thought of Oscar, the man not the baby, who once said, “I saw the only rational method of art criticism I have ever come across, ‘Please do not shoot the pianist. He is doing his best.’ The mortality among pianists in that place is marvelous.”
Applause followed the innovative rendition, and I hoped it did not prompt an encore. It did. We can only hope that mother makes a full and speedy recovery for everything has gone to the dogs with Shannon at the helm.
Chapter Twenty
IT HAD BEEN a decade in the making, so turning forty did not come as a surprise like turning thirty had—one minute I was twenty-one and the next minute facing three zero, and unprepared for the effect this would have on my psyche. And to prove I do learn some lessons from life, I did not allow forty to sneak up on me in such way and started anticipating the day from the moment I turned thirty-eight.
My birthday fell on a Saturday which saved me from the trauma of the office-birthday-cake-candle-blowing ridicule. Should I one day become president of the social club, I will abandon the ritual for purported health/obesity reasons.
Mother was only just home from hospital after a mastectomy and removal of a number of infected lymph nodes. The mood around home was respectfully somber and my fortieth birthday celebrations appropriately reserved, with no singing from Shannon, thank goodness, or happy birthday tunes.
Seeing mother so vulnerable was destabilizing for the Evans family, and more so because her faith and courage allowed her to accept that cancer is her life just as having five children is her life. She does not identify with it though, as a cancer victim, and nor does she allow it to define her. “It is what it is,” she says. “I am still me,” although she isn’t really. Her words can’t hide the bruised and pricked forearms, and the loose strands of stubborn hair that refused to fall despite further attack by anti-cancer chemicals. I envied and resented Shannon for all the years she had hijacked the attentions of mother to the exclusion of the rest of us, bar Lauren who still lived at home.
Evans family birthday shindigs are usually held at night, but at my request, we relegated my fortieth birthday barbeque to midday for conclusion around 5PM when the autumn sun would hide behind the horizon. Erin was hosting my other party at her place because I refused to go out on the town this time of year when it is dark and cold. I was looking forward to being amongst friends who understand that merlot has the power to obliterate every known anguish.
Amber gave me with a well-meaning yet despicable gift—five sessions with a personal trainer with the first session already scheduled for the following week (a non-daylight savings month). The gift, I suspected, was also a futile attempt at brokering a union with the trainer in the acc
ompanying photo, and no doubt she took some time to choose one to suit me best. I have other objections to personal training and Amber knows them very well, for example, I prefer to dance to the beat of my own drum, and I do not like being told what to do, when and how—that’s mother’s job.
From Erin and the Bobmeister there was a well-considered, Mace-appropriate gift—an ‘Introduction to Writing’ online course with no set schedule. That they did not enroll me in a program that required a pre-determined weekly time commitment and personal interaction with others in the course, was touching for it showed that they know me best.
Kimba and Kenneth gave me a bundle of beautifully wrapped books on destiny fulfillment, finding purpose, and self-improvement. Slipped in between A New Earth and A Purpose Driven Life were two books on coping with illness and mother-daughter relationships. There was not a lot to say about the gift as I did not want to cry on my birthday.
Sophie and Adam presented me with a homemade voucher for a weekend of wine tasting in the Yarra Valley in the spring, including Saturday night at the Sebel Heritage Yarra Valley. It was to be a group event, girls that is, to celebrate not just my birthday, but the longevity of our friendship as well, and perhaps to renew our pact. It was a strange idea coming from Sophie since most often she is butting heads with Erin as a matter of principle. Perhaps a cancer in our midst has made reconcilers of us all.
It is clear that my friends understand me, and even the already-resented personal trainer comes from a knowing that I cannot continue to lose and find the same three kilos every year, especially now that I am in my forties.
Being Anti-Social Page 10
