Chapter 24

After Christmas, Mother’s favorite holiday was probably April Fool’s Day.  She was a prankster at heart, and no one was immune to her foolishness. I may have told you that when we were babies, she’d crawl into our room, then jump up by the crib and yell “BOO!” to see our startled reactions. Some might call this child abuse. I call it preparation for a lifetime of being on guard against her tricks.

She had a favorite. She’d set us down on the old linoleum floor on the back porch and pour a puddle of water between our knees, hand us two sharp paring knives (yes, really), and grab a rag. She’d say, “I bet I can wipe up that puddle without you stabbing me.” We’d sit, poised with knives ready to stab, while she grabbed our ankles and dragged us, butt first, through the puddle. Then she’d laugh so hard.  She did it to every one of us on the sly, so the others wouldn’t know the trick. She did it to her children, grandchildren, and even some of our friends.  It never got old. To her.

Once, on Cindy’s birthday, she asked Cindy what she wanted for her birthday lunch with friends that Saturday. Cindy chose hot dogs, potato chips, and 7-Up soda. Mother prepared the food, spiking Cindy’s dog liberally with Tabasco sauce. She substituted white vinegar and water for Cindy’s drink. When she served lunch, she said, “Cindy, I bought these new hot dogs. See if you like them.” Unsuspecting, Cindy took a big bite, suddenly stopped chewing, her eyes big and running with tears. Not able to wait, Mother prompted: “Take a drink! Take a drink!” And Cindy did. Her next move was to the kitchen sink, where she ran cold water from the faucet directly into her mouth. Mother was laughing. Cindy’s friends looked at their plates. Mother reassured them. “It’s OK, I just did that to Cindy’s,” but they looked skeptical. Her little friend Eileen, who was quite shy, said quietly, “I’m not hungry.” Our friends eventually learned to be careful when they ate at our house.

But her favorite target was Daddy. Now, when I say Daddy took a box lunch, I mean he took his lunch in a cardboard box. He needed it, to carry his big black metal lunch pail, two large Thermoses of coffee with cream and sugar, and anything that wouldn’t fit in the lunch pail. Its contents included a meat sandwich, a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich, a jar of canned or fresh fruit in season, a banana, a piece of pie or cake, and cookies. Oh, yes, and a wide-mouth Thermos with something hot, like soup or chili or leftover beef stew and such. No, he wasn’t fat. On his 80th birthday, he could still get into his very snug World War II Navy uniform. He smoked and he did hard work, so he needed it all for fuel, he said. After supper each night, while we were cleaning up the table, we’d say (within hearing of Daddy, who was sitting in the next room reading the paper): “Mother, should we save these leftovers for Daddy’s lunch or throw them out to the dogs?” And she’d always reply: “Oh, the dogs won’t eat that. Save it for Daddy’s lunch.” Then we’d chuckle. He’d ignore us.

One time, when she bought deli meat for his lunch and realized the next day was April 1, she cut a piece of the tissue that comes with the meat so it was exactly the same size as the bread. She made his sandwich as usual, but added a slice of paper to boot. When he came home from work the next night, she asked (always unable to wait): “So, how was your lunch today?” “OK,” he replied. “But don’t get that lunchmeat again. Toughest thing I ever chewed.” She stared at him. “You didn’t really eat that, did you?” “Eat what?” he asked, getting wary and a little grumpy now. “The paper! I put paper in your sandwich. It was an April Fool’s joke!” “If it was in there, I ate it,” he said, offered a glare, and went to wash up for dinner (which he examined carefully before ingesting it). She fell apart laughing! Poor Daddy. He had false teeth by then, and that had to have been really tough to chew.

But the worst was yet to come. Another March 31, we were cleaning up after dinner and there were no leftovers for Daddy’s lunch. Mother got an idea (the kind that makes little horns grow on your head). She took his wide-mouth Thermos and added some crumbled-up stale cornbread, a handful of uncooked macaroni, some canned tomatoes (he loved those), and some spice — as in many dashes of Tabasco sauce, a few shots of red pepper, a heavy sprinkle of black pepper, and perhaps a little chili powder. She poured boiling water from the teakettle over it all and capped it. The next night, she couldn’t wait for him to get home. “So, how was your lunch?” she asked. “OK, “ he said. “I wasn’t crazy about that casserole thing.” Her mouth dropped open. “You didn’t eat that!” she accused. “You couldn’t have.” “Well, I didn’t eat it all,” he confessed, and went to wash up. She followed him. “No way!” she said. “No way did you eat that!” He just went silent and started reading his paper while she finished making dinner.

For years, she bugged him about it. For years, he remained silent. Finally, many years later, when all of us were gathered for a mini family reunion in Minnesota, he confessed. “When I opened it, my eyes started to water,” he said. “But I took a bite. I was on fire. It took my breath away. I couldn’t help swallowing it, and it burned all the way down. My stomach was on fire all afternoon and that night. Worst indigestion I ever had. When I realized what day it was, I could have kicked myself. I dumped it out on the grass near where I was working and a dog ran up, yelped, and ran away. I decided the only way to get back at you was to not tell you. So that’s what I did.” Finally, the prankster got pranked.

CINDY: I inherited Mother’s love of pulling pranks. I actually got pretty good at it. After all, I studied with The Mother of All Pranksters. But those are stories for another day.