Chapter 25

Last week Linda wrote a post about our Mother, Clarice. In the epilogue, I mentioned that I followed in her footsteps, so I thought I’d share a little piece I wrote for my own memoir that reflects how much I learned from her! Enjoy!

Mother was a prankster. There were four of us — three girls and the youngest, a boy. She’d try all sorts of things to “get us,” from pretending to be a ghost to chasing us into the house with a garden hose going full blast. She was the queen of laughter. I picked up on her naughtiness early  in my life, sharing many of her same tricks with my son as he grew up. She was quick-witted and loved a well-executed practical joke.

At first, I practiced my art on my close friends and family, moving on to new acquaintances, and eventually employing my skills with complete strangers. I have to admit that the ones that give me the most satisfaction were those played on strangers.

Once, when my husband and I were in Boston, I was walking down the street on my way to meet him for lunch. I passed a young man coming out of a church, phone clamped to his ear, exclaiming, “Happy Birthday, Mom!” He didn’t really notice me, and I passed on by. When I got to the end of the block, my husband met me and informed me that our lunch date was off. He was in the midst of recording a new CD, and he had to go back into the session. So, I turned around and headed back to our hotel.

Of course, I walked right by the young man who was now sitting on the steps of the church, chatting away. He looked up at me as I passed, and I said, “Tell your mom happy birthday for me.” And I walked on. I still chuckle when I think about how he couldn’t figure out who I was, how I knew he was talking to his mom, and that it was her birthday. I can hear the conversation around a holiday gathering as the family still tries to figure out who that woman was.

I imagine it went something like this:

Mom: “When you describe her, it sounds like your Aunt Louise.”
Son: “Mom, I keep telling you I KNOW Aunt Louise and it wasn’t her. Besides, what would she be doing in Boston?”
Mom: “Well, it had to be someone familiar with my birthday, honey. That would just be family or one of my close friends. And none of my close friends live anywhere near Boston.”
Son: “But how did she know I was talking with you on the phone?”
Mom: “Maybe she didn’t. Maybe that was just a coincidence! Maybe she just recognized you, knew it was my birthday, and figured you be talking to me sometime that day?”

. . . And so it goes year after year.

But before I was brave enough to tackle the stranger on the street, I practiced on my family. One summer I was visiting family in Minnesota, staying at Mother’s house. My brother worked at Honeywell based in Minneapolis, but lived out near my mom’s. The first night I arrived my brother came down to say hello, enjoy a beer, and catch up. He mentioned, in passing, that he had some sort of predator coming into his garage that would bring in its kill, always leaving just the head and front legs behind. We all made a few guesses as to what sort of animal would demonstrate that behavior, cautioned him about being careful as it could be rabid, and drifted on to other topics.

The next day, while my brother was at work,  Mother and I went into town, bought a furry stuffed animal with shiny black, beady eyes and black nose, snuck into his garage, and placed the rabid beast up in the rafters right in front of where he would park his truck when he pulled in. I left just a little bit of fur, eyes, and nose visible. And then we went home. And waited. (We got a little antsy, so we had to split a beer or two.)

About ten minutes after when my brother usually got home, our phone rang. I picked up, punched the speaker phone so Mother could hear, and before I could even say hello my brother said: “Cindy, I’m going to kill you!”

He said he pulled into the garage, hopped out of his truck, looked up and saw the rabid beast, ran behind his truck, grabbed a broom, and snuck around the side of the truck so he could chase “the damn thing” out of his garage. He said, “It was just staring and staring at me.” He snuck closer and closer, and finally reached up with the broom to poke at it. And of course it didn’t move. He said it took a few more pokes before he thought, “That damn Cindy.”

I got such a reputation in the family for pulling pranks on others that one time Dale came home from work to find a guy taking pictures of his house.  He said it was for the listing in the MLS. The guy showed him the paperwork with his name and address. Of course, his house was NOT for sale. Somebody was playing a prank on him, he figured.  Nobody ever admitted it, but he blamed me for years.  Still does, I think. It wasn’t me. I swear. Really.