Everything was old at Great-Aunt Mary’s except for the new decade, until we moved in.
We temporarily suspended her tranquility while Dad built our new home in the tiny farming community of Hartford, New York, fifteen miles away. Dad’s ancestors were literally among the first settlers, arriving from England in 1638. They produced the first female white child born in Hartford. I guess native Indian babies didn’t count.One morning, David and I spontaneously began a game of King of the Mountain on Aunt Mary’s coal pile, heaped in a corner of her garage. The smooth coal didn’t hurt as we pushed each other down its slope, and the slippery pile created a challenge to ascend.
Exhausted, we flopped down and burrowed into the coals, covering all but our heads. The heaped coal pile was no longer heaped or relegated to its corner. A black cloud coated and followed us as we went inside for lunch.
A hasty exit was sternly forced upon us by Mom and Aunt Mary. We obediently shoveled the coal back into place, gave ourselves the most thorough scrubbing of our lives, and only played that game once.An ancient chamber pot rested under the bed where David and I slept. It resided there since before we were born and hadn’t been used since indoor plumping was installed, which seemed like a big waste of a handy utensil. It should have been removed.
I woke up in the middle of the night, too afraid to use the bathroom downstairs. A couple days later Mom discovered my night-deposit in the pot. I only did that once, too.
Lesson Learned: Not everything bears repeating.
Now it’s your turn: Were any of your activities blackballed?
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