I may not have mentioned this, but my mother is quite… um… short. About 5’4” to be exact. My sons are both over 6 foot and I am a respectable 5’7”… (and ¾ but what’s in a quarter of an inch..hehehe… )
I sometimes tease her bout her lack of stature, although she can be quite fierce. Possibly a Lily, if she was a cat, deceptively small but also quite murderous. Today’s story took place while we were at the hospital, otherwise I would have been straight round to help, laugh a bit and probably even take some photos.
Mother’s day began well enough, and she thought she would do a little gardening, in the front garden. The dogs accompanied her – they do most places, the kitchen… the toilet… the bathroom… sometimes even in the bath to her annoyance. Erin sat like a lady, watching Mum as she weeded. Rocky watched for a little while, then decided that the life of Monty Don was not for him and legged it. He cleared the three foot high hedge like a steeplechaser and galloped off down the street.
What did my mother do? Well, what would any self-respecting 70 something lady do… she hurdled the hedge like a professional and galloped off down the road after Rocky, screaming:
“Come back you little $%&*@!!”
Knee problems forgotten – indeed, fallen by the wayside – my mother retrieved the runaway Rocky and marched back up the road. All this time, Erin had been waiting patiently in the garden – “Have a good run did you, Mum? Perhaps we could go in now, I’d quite like a drink of water and a biscuit…”
However, because the back door was open, the connecting door between the hallway and the front room had slammed irrevocably shut. No amount of kicking, swearing, jumping up and down and gibbering in rage (my mother) or furious barking and scratching (the dogs) could open the door.
Mum decided that the best course of action would be to shut the dogs in her bedroom so they couldn’t run off, and go down the alleyway around the side of the next door house to gain access to her kitchen via the back door. My mother bravely battled six foot tall brambles, creeping underneath them where necessary – whilst only wearing a thin t-shirt and trousers – and finally made it to the kitchen.
She tried the connecting door from that side. She couldn’t shift it, but worked out that the force of the door slamming had snapped the barrel of the inside mechanism cleanly in two and jamming the door firmly shut. Having access to tools from the kitchen she thought she might have better luck back on the other side, so, quite quickly, as she could hear the dogs thundering about upstairs and didn’t know what they were doing, she seized a hammer and a screwdriver and ran back outside to fight her way back through the thicket of thorns like some feminist Princess Charming bent on rescuing her incarcerated canines.
My mother burst out of the alleyway, leaves in her hair, scratches all up and down her arms, a wild look in her eyes brandishing the large hammer and screwdriver –
“All right love?” said her neighbour from over the road, eyeing her somewhat dubiously.
“No I’m $%^&* not!!”
Her neighbour is a lovely young man of about twenty five or so with a wife and two kids, but he at once summoned the help of his friend, a strapping bloke, and his well-equipped tool box. It took them over an hour to get it open. The dogs were delighted to be reunited with the rest of the house…
When I came round later that day after I’d been to the hospital, the dogs were sleeping peacefully in their beds and Mum was sitting innocently on the sofa. I noticed at once she had a bruise on her face from where her hands had slipped and smacked herself on the nose while trying to wrestle open the door.
The whole sorry tale came out – and her concluding words were:
“But look! I made bread!”
Really. She never ceases to amaze me, one way or another. I did tell her to make sure she carries her phone at all times though… just in case she gets trapped in a teacup. Or something. No telling what next…