Mothers can be the most devious, underhanded people. That may come as a shock to you, unless you have a mother of your own, in which case, I’m probably not telling you anything you don’t already know. (My children, of course, know no such thing. I’m an open book, as honest as the day is long, not a shrewd, tricky bone in my body.)
But I digress. I was talking about sneaky, underhanded mothers.
I learned this painful truth about my own Mom at a very early age. The fact that I was up to no good at the time is beside the point.
We were living in Yreka (northern California). Mom had taken my sister Vicki, two of our friends (who shall remain nameless, because I can’t remember their names) and me to the grocery store. I always liked going to the grocery store in those days, because best case, you might get a toy or candy or something neat like that; and worst case, you might at least get to see one of those ladies who’d dyed her hair some improbable color, like pink or green … and dyed her poodle to match. Yes, trips to the grocery store fairly teemed with opportunities for gain and/or entertainment. On this particular day, it was gain.
Mom’s boss, Waldo, was in the store. After saying hello, he handed me four coins, to be shared by the four kids. I blame what happened next on the allure of the candy aisle. I mean, it must have been the candy, right? All those colorful wrappers, the mouthwatering smell of chocolate, shiny silver coins lying in my small, suddenly sweaty palm …. If there was ever a combination guaranteed to wipe out every scruple I may have had, that was it.
My friend and I put our heads together.
“Listen,” I whispered conspiratorially, “here’s what we’ll do. We’ll keep the big ones and give the little kids the little ones.”
Having fallen in with bad company and obviously being of weak, easily led character, my friend readily agreed. We may have giggled over our own cleverness before turning to my trusting little sister and her friend.
“Here,” I said. “Here’s your share.”
Of course, if we’d known Mom and Waldo had witnessed the entire transaction, we might’ve had second thoughts about our apparently foolproof plan. But oblivious to their these-kids-need-to-learn-a-lesson-and-we’re-gonna-enjoy-watching-them-get-it grins, we zipped over, grabbed our candy bars and trotted gleefully to the checkout.
It’s a little embarrassing to admit–it makes me sound older than Methuselah–but back then, a candy bar cost five cents.
I paid for my candy. My friend paid for her candy. Everything was just ducky, until Vicki and her friend paid for their candy. Things went awry at that point, because when those two laid down their tiny coins, they got candy … and a big coin in change.
It’s bad enough that my own Mom never explained the illogic of the U.S. mint. I mean, who would’ve thought less silver (a dime) would be worth more (than a nickel)? But to stand there, to stand right there, and let me hoist myself on my own petard? In public? That was low. Really low.
She still likes telling that story … every chance she gets.
