Marys Ribbon and Aunt Agnes Comes for A While by Pamela Tyree Griffin- written version
Marys Ribbon
By
Pamela Tyree Griffin
My sister Mary was twelve and I was seven on the first day of summer
vacation. We had been out of school for just a day. Mary was finally
going to be allowed to walk the two blocks down to Burkes store all by
herself - something the rest of the kids in our family accomplished by
the time we were six.
With her nickel, Mary was going to buy us lollipops. Mamma wrote a note
for Mary to give to Mr. Burke telling him what she was to buy with her
nickel. If not, Mary might fill a bag full of lollipops without knowing
she shouldn't do so. Today, even the smell of a lollipop makes me sick.
That June day was a shining thing full of sunny promise. I remember
looking at Mamma as she washed the lunch dishes, the strings of her apron
hanging loose around her waist. Daddy had just planted his usual kiss on
the top of her head before leaving for work. He said he could not begin
his shift unless he kissed his sweetheart first.
I heard the snap of the screen door as it slammed shut and the creak of
the third step off the back porch that Daddy never got around to fixing.
Daddys whistling as he walked to the car is as clear to me as if it
happened today. The clink of the dishes, the scrape of food into the
garbage pail, the billowy softness of mammas yellow curtains are as
vivid to me now as then
Mary was so excited and not just about going to the store either. Summer
meant the end, at least for a while, to her waving goodbye from the porch
as I walked to school with our brothers. It meant that we could be
together every day.
Mamma watched her skip down the sidewalk, her long pigtail captured in a
red ribbon to match her shorts. Mamma said she watched her go into the
store. I asked for a glass of orange juice and Mamma got it for me.
My two brothers came in making a commotion pretending they were flying
planes in the war or something noisy like that. The baby started crying
and Mamma went to pick her up. Then when she went to the front porch and
called for Mary,I was thinking Mary was playing in the backyard. I went
out back to look but she wasnt there. Mamma said, Sarah, go on down to
the store and fetch your sister. That was fine by me since I was getting
impatient.
She wasn't at the store either and only her red ribbon on the sidewalk
marked her place. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. She wasn't
anywhere. Mary made me mad now even though we knew we weren't supposed to
get mad at her-she didn't know what she was doing.
Until you know for sure what has happened and even when you do,
everything is regret. Blame and loss hang over everyone like a thick fog.
Should someone have gone with her? Should we have noticed sooner that she
was gone? If we had called her name just once, would she have heard us
and come running? Did we take too long to call the police?
Life went on the way it does. I had one dream of Mary where she told me
she was okay and she told me not to worry. That made me cry because it
was the only time Mary had ever spoken. For the rest of her life, Mamma
would weep for no reason; at least no reason I understood until I had
children of my own.
I keep Mary's red ribbon, now frayed and faded, in my jewelry box. There
are rings and trinkets in there which shine and twinkle but are not
nearly as precious to me as that one piece of fabric.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Aunt Agnes Comes For A While
By
Pamela Tyree Griffin
Aunt Agnes came to stay with us when Mamma went into the hospital to have
some of her inner workings adjusted, as Daddy said. Aunt Agnes had spent
most of her life in the Army where she earned many awards for her skills.
She was an excellent markswoman. My Uncle Ernest still limps from the
bullet stuck in his behind. It got stuck there when she found him in a
compromising position with the neighbor lady. Aunt Agnes aimed and fired
as he ran down the street and got him in one shot.
She could play the piano better than Elton John and Little Richard put
together. She complained that she was slowing down even though she could
still run the 50 yard dash in 7.5 seconds at close to 70 years old.
It was obvious to us early on however, that if they gave a medal for
cooking, she would never win. A medal for eating her food maybe, but
cooking? Not a chance.
As Mamma said, Bless her heart but your Aunt Agnes, an apron, lard and
fire are nothing to be messed with. In fact, if we saw any combination
of these items, Daddy told us we should run. Daddy's saying that Aunt
Agnes had no idea what constituted edible victuals always drew a quick
smile from Mamma.
Before Aunt Agnes arrived, Daddy made me and my sister clean the house
thoroughly. We scrubbed the floors until they shone; even the raggedy
linoleum in the kitchen was buffed to perfection. We cleaned the pots and
pans until we could see our harried reflections on their bottoms. We
flipped a coin to see who would have to stick her hands into the toilet
and I lost. We swept the front porch, weeded Mamma's precious flower beds
and we washed the windows until they sparkled. Daddy looked the house
over satisfied that we'd done a great job. He gave us each a crisp five
dollar bill for our efforts.
Then Aunt Agnes blew in through the front door with her various baskets,
bags and suitcases one of which held her cleaning ingredients. The first
thing out of her mouth was, Stanley you done let my sister's house go
straight to Hell. Where are the girls? We gonna clean up this place.
Out of one bag she pulled what Daddy called her damnable cauldron. From
the depths of it she pulled jars, bottles, cans of potions and elixirs
the combined smells of which made us woozy. And finally, from a straw
basket lined in wax paper she grabbed a clump of chicken feet and
potatoes each one with with more eyes that a common house fly.
Girls, get your mother's lard out. I'm gonna fry us up a mess of these
chicken feet and taters while we clean this house. Proper like. She
added that last bit just to antagonize Daddy who by now was hiding behind
his newspaper and cramming his last supper of three hot dogs into his
mouth.
And so the torture began. And running was out of the question.
By
Pamela Tyree Griffin
My sister Mary was twelve and I was seven on the first day of summer
vacation. We had been out of school for just a day. Mary was finally
going to be allowed to walk the two blocks down to Burkes store all by
herself - something the rest of the kids in our family accomplished by
the time we were six.
With her nickel, Mary was going to buy us lollipops. Mamma wrote a note
for Mary to give to Mr. Burke telling him what she was to buy with her
nickel. If not, Mary might fill a bag full of lollipops without knowing
she shouldn't do so. Today, even the smell of a lollipop makes me sick.
That June day was a shining thing full of sunny promise. I remember
looking at Mamma as she washed the lunch dishes, the strings of her apron
hanging loose around her waist. Daddy had just planted his usual kiss on
the top of her head before leaving for work. He said he could not begin
his shift unless he kissed his sweetheart first.
I heard the snap of the screen door as it slammed shut and the creak of
the third step off the back porch that Daddy never got around to fixing.
Daddys whistling as he walked to the car is as clear to me as if it
happened today. The clink of the dishes, the scrape of food into the
garbage pail, the billowy softness of mammas yellow curtains are as
vivid to me now as then
Mary was so excited and not just about going to the store either. Summer
meant the end, at least for a while, to her waving goodbye from the porch
as I walked to school with our brothers. It meant that we could be
together every day.
Mamma watched her skip down the sidewalk, her long pigtail captured in a
red ribbon to match her shorts. Mamma said she watched her go into the
store. I asked for a glass of orange juice and Mamma got it for me.
My two brothers came in making a commotion pretending they were flying
planes in the war or something noisy like that. The baby started crying
and Mamma went to pick her up. Then when she went to the front porch and
called for Mary,I was thinking Mary was playing in the backyard. I went
out back to look but she wasnt there. Mamma said, Sarah, go on down to
the store and fetch your sister. That was fine by me since I was getting
impatient.
She wasn't at the store either and only her red ribbon on the sidewalk
marked her place. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. She wasn't
anywhere. Mary made me mad now even though we knew we weren't supposed to
get mad at her-she didn't know what she was doing.
Until you know for sure what has happened and even when you do,
everything is regret. Blame and loss hang over everyone like a thick fog.
Should someone have gone with her? Should we have noticed sooner that she
was gone? If we had called her name just once, would she have heard us
and come running? Did we take too long to call the police?
Life went on the way it does. I had one dream of Mary where she told me
she was okay and she told me not to worry. That made me cry because it
was the only time Mary had ever spoken. For the rest of her life, Mamma
would weep for no reason; at least no reason I understood until I had
children of my own.
I keep Mary's red ribbon, now frayed and faded, in my jewelry box. There
are rings and trinkets in there which shine and twinkle but are not
nearly as precious to me as that one piece of fabric.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Aunt Agnes Comes For A While
By
Pamela Tyree Griffin
Aunt Agnes came to stay with us when Mamma went into the hospital to have
some of her inner workings adjusted, as Daddy said. Aunt Agnes had spent
most of her life in the Army where she earned many awards for her skills.
She was an excellent markswoman. My Uncle Ernest still limps from the
bullet stuck in his behind. It got stuck there when she found him in a
compromising position with the neighbor lady. Aunt Agnes aimed and fired
as he ran down the street and got him in one shot.
She could play the piano better than Elton John and Little Richard put
together. She complained that she was slowing down even though she could
still run the 50 yard dash in 7.5 seconds at close to 70 years old.
It was obvious to us early on however, that if they gave a medal for
cooking, she would never win. A medal for eating her food maybe, but
cooking? Not a chance.
As Mamma said, Bless her heart but your Aunt Agnes, an apron, lard and
fire are nothing to be messed with. In fact, if we saw any combination
of these items, Daddy told us we should run. Daddy's saying that Aunt
Agnes had no idea what constituted edible victuals always drew a quick
smile from Mamma.
Before Aunt Agnes arrived, Daddy made me and my sister clean the house
thoroughly. We scrubbed the floors until they shone; even the raggedy
linoleum in the kitchen was buffed to perfection. We cleaned the pots and
pans until we could see our harried reflections on their bottoms. We
flipped a coin to see who would have to stick her hands into the toilet
and I lost. We swept the front porch, weeded Mamma's precious flower beds
and we washed the windows until they sparkled. Daddy looked the house
over satisfied that we'd done a great job. He gave us each a crisp five
dollar bill for our efforts.
Then Aunt Agnes blew in through the front door with her various baskets,
bags and suitcases one of which held her cleaning ingredients. The first
thing out of her mouth was, Stanley you done let my sister's house go
straight to Hell. Where are the girls? We gonna clean up this place.
Out of one bag she pulled what Daddy called her damnable cauldron. From
the depths of it she pulled jars, bottles, cans of potions and elixirs
the combined smells of which made us woozy. And finally, from a straw
basket lined in wax paper she grabbed a clump of chicken feet and
potatoes each one with with more eyes that a common house fly.
Girls, get your mother's lard out. I'm gonna fry us up a mess of these
chicken feet and taters while we clean this house. Proper like. She
added that last bit just to antagonize Daddy who by now was hiding behind
his newspaper and cramming his last supper of three hot dogs into his
mouth.
And so the torture began. And running was out of the question.
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