Over the years it was easily established who the rule maker and enforcer is in our household. It's pretty clear that if a tough decision or punishment has to be dished out, it's 'mom the oppressor" or some clown walking down the street. That's because my husband, Ron, or Mr. Hee-Haw as I call him, would rather put off any decision until the children grew up and moved 1,500 miles away before he could announce sentencing.In my life, my stature and a bluff nature has served me well. That and the fact I grew up with the notion children are not my friends, but tiny people who need rules and guidance. So, if I don't want chaos or a zoo within the constraints of my home, putting my foot down over the years would not have been misconstrued as a dance step.
You know. The bad guy. That's the person who has "that look" or reputation that proceeds them. Personally, my image has gotten a bad rap, but once a brute, always a brute...
It has come into play many times over the years, but none so obvious than when some item gets broken. It doesn't matter if one of the four other humans in our house (and now complicit son-in-laws and grandchildren can be included) might have pulverized an object, it now becomes a "Match Game" in figuring out such a whodunit. It could be a single person, but most likely it was a team effort, which in my daughters' defense, they did learn one thing in all the years of me coaching them.
This week the secret society (one of which definitely fits the description: exclusiveness and hosts special secrets amongst members) has again struck. I have yet to break this impenetrable pact in my family and obviously will never become a component. The rules of this special group are there are none: but certain traits are required, such as lying, dishonestly and downright covertness. FBI tactics, torture and bribes could break the wall, but go against my morals. OK, not the bribes, you caught me.
Things over the years have permanently disappeared; pieces of a ceramic favorite have gone missing but reappearing in the bottom of a garbage bag; flown down garden hills; and probably been buried somewhere on the six acres, but it is necessary to the culprit so enough time can pass until mom finds out, or dies - whatever comes first. My background as a journalist only makes the task even more exasperating. There must be a 'king of the year' award awaiting the person in the secret society. Their bond is stronger than Superglue.
Once a year, or whenever I have nothing better to do, it's time to dust, clean and redecorate the coffee cups, cookie jars, kitchen ware, vases, and whatever else fits in the excess shelf space in our family room and kitchen. Some of the things I decided to keep so someday when death becomes me, I can sit up in heaven and laugh at my daughters going through that 'junk'. It's a certain fact in my mind that family heirlooms will become new lawn game fodder with large trash receptacles for those left behind. Their fate has been accepted by the owner.
This past week was that once a year. The dishwasher and sink go overtime and the area water levels plummet as the pieces are washed according to their labels. As the stickers wear off, so does the manual hand washing. In all the years during this ritual none have been broke.
Until now - but not by me.
Now the whodunit begins. It does no good because the suspects have their doctorates in going underground, and unless two or more share the dastardly secret, it could be months before the crime is solved. Pretty good chance the three cats and dog didn't do it, because the shelf is 7 feet above the floor. But they probably got a treat for their silence. The tornadic activity last September in our area did not affect anything inside the house and my 60th birthday Pirate Party was elsewhere, so it has to be the Thanksgiving or Christmas get together. And whoever did it was a sneaky customer, getting lucky that three large pieces broke off and Mr. Gorilla glue was easily noticeable in one of the junk drawers. The dry glue also is glaring as the perpetrator sloshed on too much. No, it isn't worth a whole lot of money, but that's the query. Admit it was an accident!The suspect also did a sloppy job,returning it to mint condition was not the goal. Just gather the broken pieces, glue it together and replace it without any witness - that was the utmost priorities. Even the height of shelf played into their dastardly deed. It could be that Perry Mason couldn't solve this one.
My husband was questioned later that day and claimed no knowledge, which is what was expected. He likely is head practitioner for the secret society, the grand poobah of the Slingerilluminati. Guilty consciences in this group appear as honorary badges somewhere in their closets in their homes. Who knows how many each has?
Fancy this, though. It never has mattered if you broke something, admit it and we move on. The secrecy about the salacious event must be the revenge they get to inflict on their only mother (or wife) until all time - unless I solve it and give up. It has to be in society chapter rules: "Never admit failure, timidity or weakness, especially to bad guys."
It's a waiting game now. Until then, the teapot goes behind a closed door for protection. The open kitchen shelf now displays shatterproof pieces while other breakable memorabilia have been placed among protected quarters.
This badge remains hidden. For now.
