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A Sweet Little Easter Story About Barf

You know what I remember about nearly EVERY holiday from my own youth?  VOMIT (or the absence thereof).  

VROOM. . .VROOM. . .BARF!

VROOM. . .VROOM. . .BARF!

My sisters and I were lucky enough to know all of our Grandparents AND three of four great-grandparents. . .which meant every holiday was hectic.

My Mother’s parents lived across the street from us along with our Maternal great-grandmother, who lived in an apartment above them.

My Father’s parents lived about 35 or 40 minutes away in “the country.”

My Maternal Great-Grandmother was ahem quirky and she preferred to get up well before dawn and get ready for bed sometime about noon or just after her final viewing of the 700 Club at an ear splitting volume – whichever came first.

This meant any celebrating that went on across the street, occurred sometime about 10AM.  Yes. . .even if there was a “dinner” involved.

My poor Mother would some how manage to corral all of us, get us dressed and march us across the street so we could exact our terror upon my Grandma’s house.  Then we’d eat.:  Relish trays, a full meal, and candy, 0r cake. . .copious amounts of whatever goodies my Ma-Maw had placed in beautiful little crystal dishes and jars around her pristine house.

Of course by 11AM, Great Grandma Meme was itching to retire to her apartment for some good old Bible chat and bedtime.  My Ma-maw was no doubt sick of us sliding across her marble coffee table on our stomachs and sucking the pimetoes out of the olives and placing them back on the relish tray.  And I’m certain my poor Mother was ready to throw herself off the roof.

But we were only getting warmed up!  We still had to see the Paternal Grandparents.

And that meant a trip to “the country.”

My Mother would pack us all up, fancy holiday dresses and tights with the ruffled bottoms, and little black patent Mary Janes and jam us all into the backseat of whatever car my Father’s company had provided him with. . .typically a big honking four-door sedan of some kind and off we’d go.

Now, I loved going to my Mimi and Poppy’s house.  It was a big old house complete with a creepy “shanty,” a huge yard full of weeping willow trees, and a very impressive front staircase that looped around making the railing perfect for hanging all over and sliding on when no one was looking.

It was the getting there that sucked.

The three of us were wedged in the backseat.  My Mother and Father typically engaged in a “discussion” in the front seat – likely about his excessive rate of speed.  He would be alternately puffing a cigarette (because we didn’t know better back then) and chomping on Beechnut gum.

The road was full of small hills and turns.  The kind that make your stomach flip  because it feels as if the car is airborne if you hit them too quickly.  And with my Father driving, we hit every one very quickly.

The smell in the car, being jammed in the backseat with two screaming space hogging, easter bonnet wearing monkeys and a stomach full of candy and other junk often left me white as a ghost upon exiting the car.  And frequently I’d vomit before we even made it to the Grandparents.

It was so bad, I dreaded the car ride.  I’d crack open my window and try sniffing a little cool air from the window – much like a dog.  However, my seat was typically behind my cigarette puffing Father and if you didn’t time the opening of the window just right, you risked ending up with ashes in your lap.  Which, of course is better than the puked up ham, dill pickles and ice cream you ate at 9:30AM, but still. . .

To this day, I can look at just about any holiday photo from my childhood and recall whether I puked my guts out on the way to my Grandparents or not. . .Ahh the memories.

The Easter I was in maybe fourth or fifth grade, we were making out typical trek to the Grandparents. This trip was going very well.  I wan’t feeling too queasy.  Sister Dana was remarkably quiet and still.  Tiffany wasn’t reaching across Dana to dig her sharp fingernails wickedly into my forearm.

But this sort of moment is short lived with three kids and Dana soon let it be known why she was so quiet and still:  SHE was going to be sick this time.

Of course, from the time a child announces they are going to be sick to the moment it actually happens, you could have anywhere from 0 seconds to several minutes to respond.  You just never know.

Dana’s announcement allowed my Mother just enough time to desperately grab something for her to evaccuate the contents of her stomach into:  My Father’s hard hat.  (My Father worked in various capacities for the construction industry for a number of years and always had at least one hard hat in his car).

Dana was in the middle of the backseat, hard hat in her lap letting ‘er rip.  Of course, a hard hat is NOT the most stable of vessels being rounded over the top and my Father didn’t seem keen on slowing down, so up over the hills we flew, Dana’s first Easter dinner splashing on us, on the floor of the car, and the car seats.

I tried to help her hold the hard hat steady.  Using my upper body as a shield so she didn’t splash puke onto the brand new stuffed bunny I had received early that morning.  The gore was causing my own mouth fill with that familiar feeling of excessive saliva. . .the precursor to my own puking.  Did she just splash puke on my hand?  OhGAWD!!!

Fortunately, at that very moment, my Father turned the car violently to the left and we bounced into my Grandparent’s driveway.  Tiffany and I bolted as rapidly as possible racing to the house.  “Dana puked!  It’s soooooo gross!  She puked in Dad’s hard hat.  HAHAHAHAHA!”

I don’t recall much more about that Easter.  However, I do recall being just ever so slightly jealous that for all the puking I had done myself over the years, I never once had the privilege of barfing into a hard hat.

If you celebrate Easter, I hope it’s happy and barf-free!  

If I have time, I’ll be back later with a Friday Funny.  And I’m working on some really good stuff for next week.  (Ok, you got me.  I’m thinking about working on some really good stuff for next week.)

Meanwhile, sometime Saturday or Sunday, I’m going to add a link re-directing all traffic from the old blog to this one.  I’m told that means all the content on the old blog will no longer be available at that location (It seems to have transferred here in good order).  If you haven’t already done so, please take a minute to bookmark this site and sign up for an email subscription so you don’t have to deal with a pesky redirect next week!  THANK YOU!  🙂

 

 

5 Responses to “A Sweet Little Easter Story About Barf”

  1. If I made Easter cards, I would write If you celebrate Easter, I hope it’s happy and barf-free! on all of them this year. 🙂
    nothingbythebook recently posted…And, of body parts againMy Profile

  2. Shay says:

    Listen, you, I don’t care WHERE you are, as long as you’re somewhere! You had me freaking out a little bit with your important announcement! I’m excited for you, and keep on keepin’ on…b/c you’re awesome.
    Shay recently posted…Spring Break 2013 Woooooo-Hoooooooo!My Profile

  3. Shay says:

    Okay, look, I WAS right! Here’s my comment! The wine hadn’t gotten to me, after all! Haha
    Shay recently posted…Spring Break 2013 Woooooo-Hoooooooo!My Profile

    • admin says:

      Ha! I can totally relate! Thank you for your support and dedication – even after a few slurps of wine! I can’t wait to read SPRING BREAK a little later this morning. 🙂