Posts Tagged: #stories

Happiest of Birthdays, Sir Paul

After a shopping trip last week, I sat in the car to look over the bill.

My visits to Walmart usually aren’t very costly, but this bill seemed high. I mentally tallied each item. The blood pressure cuff that I’d thought was $28 turned out to be $45. Must have been placed behind the wrong price tag.

$11.95 for something else. What was that? It was the magazine I’d bought on impulse. The special issue dedicated to Paul McCartney. $11.95 for a magazine?!

I started to return to the store, but laziness kicked in. It was nearly 100º out. The previous blood pressure cuff I’d bought had cost $65, so $45 didn’t sound so bad, and I like Paul McCartney. In fact, I loved Paul McCartney when I was a teen. My fantasies had vacillated between him and George Harrison, the quiet, broody one, but Sir Paul always won my teenage heart in the end.

Dishabille

Last Tuesday, when I went down to my apartment lobby to check the mail, another woman was there at the same time.

Sigi’s* a little German lady who’s probably lived here since the building opened back in the ’60’s. I was a little taken aback that she was standing there in her housecoat and bath slippers, telling me about a workman damaging one of her walls. She was waiting on the repairman to come and give her an estimate.

I was there when he walked in. A young man, he gave her the once-over. His eyes went wide when he noticed her attire. I give him credit for trying hard to focus on her face instead of staring at her clothes.

Daddy’s Job

Way back when I was a little girl, starting to lose my baby teeth, my father and I had a ritual.

I could not stand the thought of pulling my own teeth. I was such a wimp about it that, when one became loose, it had to practically fall out of my head on its own because I wasn’t going to touch it.

Sometimes, I watched in the mirror as my tongue tugged at it, jiggling it back and forth in my mouth, worrying it until it was often hanging only by a thread. Even then, I couldn’t do it. There was no way I was going to remove my own teeth.

One fell out one day when I was eating ice cream. Another was pulled out by a sticky candy bar. The rest were Daddy’s job.

My mother would usually report to him that I had a tooth that needed pulling. Sitting in our living room after work, he would put down his newspaper and call me over. “Sally, come here and let me check your tooth.”

He might as well have said, “Come here and let me give you a spanking,” but I knew that I had to go and sit on his lap so that he could “test” my loose tooth.

I would sit down, begging, “No, Daddy, don’t pull it! Just check it, okay? Don’t hurt me.”

Invariably, he would respond. “I’m not going to pull it. I’m just going to wiggle it to see how loose it is.”

“Really? You promise?”

“I promise I’m just going to wiggle it.”

He made that promise to me every time, and every time, it was a necessary lie. He’d twiddle my tooth back and forth a couple of times before getting a good enough grip on it to yank it out. He knew that he only had one shot at it because, had he not gotten it the first time, I would have been out of there like a scalded dog.

I usually cried a little, though it really didn’t hurt much, as I’d jump down to run and look in the mirror at the bloody hole where my tooth used to be.

My sister, who was younger, pulled all her own baby teeth. So did my son, years later. I was eternally grateful for that because, even now, the idea of that parental task makes me shudder.

Thank you, Daddy, for having a strong stomach and nibble fingers.

~~Sally Rose
Author of Penny Possible & A Million Sticky Kisses
iamsallyrose.com