A Day Worth Changing

I remember reading a play by Thornton Wilder called “Our Town.” The Third Act takes place in a cemetery. Dead people remember and talk about their lives and how they arrived at the end. I agree it may be a classic piece of literature, but it’s a stretch. Emily Webb who died in childbirth wants to go back and revisit a day in her life. She is advised not to pick a special day…just an ordinary day. Special days were too disappointing. If I remember correctly, she was sad to see that her day of choice – her twelfth birthday – was, well, disappointing.

I asked some friends, “If you could go back to one day in your life, which one would it be?” Immediately, the days we all recalled were days that were marked by tragedy or crisis or death. Or weddings—this was a popular one, but not for the reasons you might assume! I suppose good days are ordinary days. It seems there are few days that truly stand out in our minds.

I was six years old. It was summer time. We lived in Cabool, Missouri. Our house was very small; just four rooms and a bathroom. I seem to remember the house was built up on piers. Not high. Just open. You could see under the house. It had gray asbestos shingle siding. On the back of the house was a wooden porch with no railing. It was pretty high if you were very short. I was afraid to jump off it, but often did anyway. (Today we would add railings and call it a deck.)

We, of course, kept the windows open and the breeze blew the sheer billowy curtains as it entered through the front of the house and exited through the screen door on the back of the house. It then blew gently across the porch where Mom washed our clothes in a wringer washer before drying them on our wind/solar powered clothes dryer (also known as the clothes line).

We were poor. Seriously. Not poverty poor, but close. However, Mom and Dad purchased a new bedroom suite when we moved to Cabool. I remember it had a gray wood-grained finish. They kept it for many years. The headboard was a bookcase style with sliding doors on each side. The dresser had black detailing carved into the fronts of the drawers. The chest of drawers (‘chester drawers,’ as we called it) matched and was taller than me.

We had lived there just a short time—days, weeks, months—time is meaningless to a six-year old. Mom shrieked, “Joy Elaine! Michael Lee! Get in here. Right this minute!” It’s one of those times you really know it is not in your best interest to move quickly to ‘get in there’ but know you must or the already bad circumstances could deteriorate even further very fast.

As I entered the room, I observed that Mom had this familiar look on her face and her hands on her hips. You know ‘the look.’ Her eyes were blazing, cheeks flaming, hair standing on end. All mothers develop this persona. There, in middle of Mom’s new dresser, was a big shiny blood-red spot with an open bottle tipped over in the middle of it. Yes. It was nail polish. Mom’s new red fingernail polish, oozing grotesquely over her brand new gray dresser. The mirrored reflection made this scene twice as horrifying.

“Who did this? Joy Elaine, did you do this?” I hung my head and shook it ever so slowly.

“Mike, did you spill this nail polish?” The four-year-old hoodlum also denied the deed.

“Joy Elaine, I’m going to ask you one more time. And this time, don’t lie to me. Did you spill the fingernail polish? Tell me the truth.”

“No, Mama, I didn’t spill it. I haven’t even been in your room.”

“I’m giving you one more chance to tell me the truth. Mike wouldn’t lie to me.” You see the obvious assumption in these statements.

“Mike, you go in the other room. Your sister’s in big trouble for lying.”

What happened to the rules of justice here? What about innocent until PROVEN guilty?

Spanking was not frowned upon in those days. In fact, it was much the fashion. (I have always been into fashion it seems.) I was spanked soundly all the while denying my guilt for spilling the polish. Then I was spanked for lying with a demand that I tell the truth or get spanked again. Then I was spanked again because I still would not admit to having committed the act.

Remember, I was a child. I didn’t know any better. As an adult, I would have explained that the alternate remedies to this situation were mutually exclusive. I could tell the truth OR I could admit to the deed, but not both. Perhaps I should have just lied and admitted guilt to stop the pain. Then I could have tended to the details when the circumstances were a bit cooler. I didn’t understand that then. I stupidly kept telling the truth…remember, I was only six. This was very confusing to a six-year-old.

That afternoon at 5:00 while eating supper—It would be several years before we began to eat ‘dinner’ at 6—Mom related the incident to my Dad. Mike giggled. Dad asked what was so funny. Mike, with his adorable lisp, said, “Thissy didn’t ‘pill it. I did.” Everyone found this funny—except Sissy.

Now, all these years later, we laugh about it. Mike still laughs the loudest while pounding the table and throwing his head back. But it wasn’t funny then, and it wasn’t funny the next day…or the next year.

If I could go back and live a day over again and change the outcome, I would pick that day. I was too young to learn that life is not fair.

It’s still not all that funny.