When our children were young, I had a friend who told me that it was time for her five-year old son to go to school — she had taught him everything she could.

I looked at it this way: the teachers could teach my daughter all of that 3-R stuff — I was never good at it anyway. I could teach her about fine literature, art, the history of oriental carpets — and how to make tiny guest soaps from little plastic muffin pans and a microwave.

Okay, so all we did was buy the book with the soap recipes. We never actually got around to making the soap. It’s probably still on a bookshelf somewhere next to the books on One Hundred Ways to Braid Your Hair and How to Have an Archaeological Dig in Your Own Basement.

When she was about eleven, we reached a point where she had her own ideas, so her father and I invented mini-scholarships that we tucked into her Christmas stocking. I think that most of the money went for sheet music, extra flute lessons, and Judy Blume books. She still had plenty of time leftover for camping and fishing trips, cooking lessons, and documentaries on PBS.

There did come a day, when she was a senior in high school, that she said she’d learned all she could from me. It was time for her to move on. From what I could tell, she’d moved on to big hair, frosted eye shadow, and boys.

No! She couldn’t quit on me now, I still had so much to share with her! I was already looking into opera tickets, museum passes, and jazz concerts.

I was on the county art commission at the time. Each day, my mailbox was filled with colorful brochure from art galleries. I wanted to share them with her, but she couldn’t work me in between her hair curling and phone calls from boys. Stacks of colorful pamphlets stacked up on the windowsill of her room. Unread. I knew they were unread because they were covered with dust. Any parent who knows her stuff can tell you that printed materials in a teenager’s room that are actually being read are covered in food crumbs.

I had to do something fast. The stacks of art brochures were beginning to block out the light in her bedroom. Since the bedroom was already facing north, it got too little light to begin with. If one of us didn’t back down, she could be facing a health problem.

I made a mental note to start slipping vitamin D into her colas.

Each morning she sat cross-legged on the bathroom cabinet for at least thirty-minutes while she tortured and sprayed those straight locks into curls tight enough to last through outdoor gym class in the rain. There was only one curling iron, one electrical outlet, and one mirror. Desperation spawned inspiration. Maybe I could make that big hair work for me.

That night, I sat down and cut out each little picture from the brochures and taped them to the mirror right in front of where she sat to curl her hair. Some were beautiful. Some were funny. Some were just plain weird. Each day, after she went to bed, I put up new pictures. Each morning, she’d go into the bathroom and while the curling iron heated up, she’d take down the pictures — one by one. Over and over she asked me to put them someplace else. She never did catch on that they were just where I wanted them. In her way. Soon, the stack of art brochures on her windowsill was gone, although I noticed that it was still dusty.

She’s older now. Styles have changed. The hair is much shorter and less time consuming. The garish eye shadow has been replaced with more subtle colors, and the boys have been narrowed down to two: a husband and a young son.

She really has moved on, but I’ve kept those pictures in a file. Someday I might use them again — when my grandson decides that he’s learned all he needs to know from me. I’m thinking I’ll glue them all over the backboard on his basketball hoop. Now if I can just figure out how to get up there — and back down!

Copyright © 2002-2008 Janelle Meraz Hooper
Used by Permission
All Rights Reserved

Author bio:

Janelle Meraz Hooper is a writer from Oklahoma with a Hispanic background. Her novel, A Three-Turtle Summer, was published in September 2002. The sequel, As Brown As I want, The Indianhead Diaries, was published in 2003. Her other books include Free Pecan Pie And Other Chick Stories and Custer and His Naked Ladies.

In June 2003, four of her short stories and a poem were published in a Northwest anthology, Dream Makers (compiled by Val Dumond, published by Muddy Puddle Press). She has been a contributing writer for The Northwest Guardian Newspaper, Ft. Lewis, Washington, and other newspapers. In 2002, she was awarded The Bold Media Book Award for A Three-Turtle Summer.

How to Fight Big Hair (Adventures in Raising a Teenager) is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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“We don’t need a pool table!” my wife told me, after I’d mentioned that there was a good deal on a slate-bed, eight-footer in the classified ads.

“I know! I was just making an observation while reading the newspaper. If I saw a Mercedes Benz in here for a hundred bucks, don’t ya think I’d mention it? It doesn’t mean I’m gonna run out and buy it!” I assured her.

The truth was, I just wanted to run it by her and see if she’d give me any indication that maybe, just maybe, there might be a possibility to squeak one in here.

But, alas, it wasn’t going to fly today. It just seemed like such a shame that we had that big, beautiful basement, and no pool table. How sad for me.

I loved the game. I spent many an hour at the bar shooting stick and had become quite the talented amateur. I didn’t play the big money games, but I’d win my share from time to time.

However, once I quit drinking and got married, hanging out in bars didn’t fit with either of those life changes. So, my best shot of ‘running the table’ would be to have my own. My wife’s argument (and a darn good one) was that they were just too expensive. Even a good, used one would run about six-hundred bucks! But I kept my eyes open and scanned the pool-table section every chance I got.

When we’re least expecting it, that’s when our elusive dream can fall right into our laps. Here I was checking out a garage sale for hunting gear when I spotted my golden opportunity to once again ‘shoot ‘em up’!

A pool table! Leaning up against the wall of the garage. It was in pretty rough shape and had it’s share of nicks and gouges. The felt was torn in a few spots and there were some obvious beer stains, but I had a place downstairs just waiting for her! Besides; the sign said: $35.00!

As I stared at the table, I started to run down the list of people I knew with a truck. Then, I narrowed that down even more, when I considered which ones would want to take this on.

The man who lived there seemed to sense my dilemma and walked over. He was an older gentleman dressed in khaki shirt and pants, wearing an old fishing hat. “Are ya interested?” he asked, taking a drag off of one of those thin cigars.

“Yea, I’m just trying to figure out how I’m gonna get it home.” I told him.

“Well, we figured that might be a problem for the average garage saler. Where do ya live?” he asked.

“Just over in Cedarville. I could almost tow this thing if it had wheels,” I joked.

“Tell ya what.” He said; like a seasoned used car salesman ready to close the deal. “My boys got a truck! If ya throw in another twenty bucks, they’ll deliver it!” he suggested.

Fifty-five bucks was still within my price range to make this dream come true. Normally, I would have tried to knock the price down a tad but this was a divine gift from the heavens! Who was I to quibble?

“That sounds more than fair to me!” I told him, trying to contain my enthusiasm. He yelled for the boys to come out and help load the table onto the truck.

Two big guys came stumbling into the garage. They weren’t overly excited at the prospect of hauling a pool-table but the old man was boss, and they didn’t argue.

As I watched Homer and Jethro following me in the rear-view, bumbling along in a beat up, old-Ford; I could feel the chills! I had finally found my pool-table! And at a price that I could afford! This was one of those once in a lifetime deals that many people never live to see. I couldn’t wait to break that first rack of balls! Testing out my old bank-shot skills, (although the rails may have lost some of their bounce over the years), seeing if I still knew my old W.C. Fields’ tricks, powdering my hands like Jackie Gleason in The Hustler before taking on any and all challengers!

I pulled up to our house and looked back to see that Jethro and Homer were gone! Where did they go? I was driving slow enough, they shouldn’t have lost me!

I did a U-turn and went back to look for them.

When I got about a half mile back, I would discover why they never made it. There was my pool-table. Laying all over the road. In splintered pieces of wood and green-felt and the assorted screws that had once held it together! I jumped out of my car and screamed, “What happened!?”

“I guess we shoulda roped it in!” Jethro said, as Homer just stood there scratching his head looking at the pile of lumber that only minutes earlier had been my beautiful, beer-stained, thirty five dollar pool-table!
I picked up what was once part of a bumper rail and began to sob. Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around to see the local police had arrived.

“You guys wanna get this mess picked up, and off the road, like, right now!” said one of Cedarvilles finest.

“Yes, sir.” I cried while I worked.

‘The boys told me that they’d haul it off to the dump and gave me back the thirty-five bucks but kept the twenty. I was too distraught to argue.

Another half a mile and it would have been home. Life can be cruel. With tears in my eyes, I drove home muttering that it wasn’t meant to be, but having a hard time swallowing my cracker-jack philosophy. It was meant to be, if only Homer and Jethro had used some rope!

When I got home, my wife was waiting for me.

“I thought you’d never get home! Where have you been?” she asked.

“Oh, just checking out some garage sales.” I said, not wanting to go through the whole story.

“Can you run down and get the laundry?” she asked as she went through the morning mail.

“Yea, sure.” I said. After my horrible morning, now I had to go get the laundry. Oh, well, back to reality.

When I got downstairs, I saw that there was no laundry in the dryer. I checked the washer but it was empty too. That’s when I saw it. A pool-table! An eight foot, Brunswick, slate-bed!

My wife had come up behind me. “Surprise,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Where did this come from?” I asked in stunned disbelief.

“My uncle’s job relocated him to Kansas. He asked me if I knew anyone who wanted a pool-table. He had to empty his place out and didn’t have a lot of time. I told him you were looking for one so he let us have it for three-hundred bucks! Him and some of his buddies hauled it over here and set it up. I couldn’t wait for you to get home and surprise you!”

All I could say was, “It’s beautiful!”

I surveyed the pristine felt and rolled the cue ball against the rail and saw it spring back with the bounce I would need for those three-rail bank shots.

I had a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye. There was a reason for the old, ratty pool-table to take a header off the end of that old Ford truck.

I got to do my Jackie Gleason imitation after all. Except it wasn’t Minnesota Fats, it was Ralph Kramden:

“Baby … you’re the greatest!”

Copyright © 2002-2008 John Fern
Used by permission.
All rights reserved

Author bio:

John Fern  lives in Minnesota with his wife, Peggy. He’s written articles for Grapevine and Aalst magazines and a feature column for the Sun-Post newspaper.

Nothing Worse Than an Empty Basement is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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