Bat Poo Crazy Land





Here’s the thing, I’ve been working on new book. It’s part memoir and part fiction and takes place in 1967 when I was eleven years old. I don’t know for sure but I suppose working on this book is the reason I’ve been doing a lot of remembering lately. Remembering stuff about my less than conventional childhood, growing up in the sixties and seventies and the fact that I was not your most conventional child. I did odd things, read odd things, said odd things and most of the time was odd.  So was my family. I also knew in my soul of souls that everything I was experiencing would someday land in a book or two, you see, even at the tender age of eleven I knew what I was experiencing was too good to be true and needed to be memorialized. So far, I was right—at least in part. But this new story goes where no other book of mine has gone. To Joyceland—a strange place on the outskirts of Bat Poo Crazy.
So, I thought it would be fun to take you guys, my dear blog readers and fans on the journey with me as I travel down the highway of things gone by, of what were perhaps, better days in some ways and straight into the sewer lines of my existence.
For example, let’s talk about my mother, most of you know her as Flossie. My mother was without a doubt the funniest person I ever experienced—she just didn’t know it. The thing that I remember most about Mom is that she was always busy although she never had a real job, couldn’t drive because my father said she was a menace on the road, and our house was always a mess—clutter from top to bottom. A situation that periodically resulted in my father going a little nuts, hollering to anyone who would listen that the house was a shit house and scared us all into cleaning—although to this day I do not remember my mother ever vacuuming anything, let alone dust or sweep. Yet, the work got done—usually by us kids and my father, who would get sick and tired of needing to move stacks of newspapers and freshly laundered towels off the couch before he could sit down. Said towels now being full of dog hair.
But still, Mom always seemed to be doing something. She spent most of her time in the kitchen singing hymns and  . . . and doing whatever it was she did. She liked to crochet and made strange things that most people would not consider normal crochet fare. No kidding, for Halloween we set
See, I told you
out a crocheted Jack-o-lantern with a crocheted candle—complete with flame inside. Our toilet seat cover was a crocheted frog pond complete with lily pads and frogs. I promise you the woman could crochet anything and she did. Yet, this woman who didn’t seem to do anything other than cook—she was a good cook, but more about that another day, and crochet, was the one person everyone in the neighborhood knew they could count on in a crisis. When our neighbors got their electric turned off for non-payment, mom helped stretch a heavy extension cord from our house to theirs to keep their refrigerator running. She was the go-to Mom for medical issues and had no fear of blood or oozing red pustules. She knew what to do. But through it all she never dusted a thing.

2 comments:

Pam Halter said...

I'm with your mom on dusting. I'm afraid to dust because I'm sure it's what's holding my house together.

Chris Loehmer Kincaid said...

How funny. Your mom sounds like mine in a few ways - always busy and always helping out anyone in need. My mom never cleaned much either, but she expected our house to still be spotless, which is where my sister and I came in. We must have been born with some throw-back gene that told us how to clean house, wash dishes and do laundry, because that is what we did every Saturday, all day long until we were able to escape into the world of outside jobs and finally college. While we cleaned until our fingers were raw, Mom was on the phone solving one crisis or another with one of the neighbors or relatives. Moms are so funny.