Drawing on the chesterfield

Michael was kind enough to stop by here and post another one of his stories from the past:

Aprilbot,

Robotic little sis. Thanks ever so much for baby-sitting last night and for the home repair. I know my lovely wife, Deanna, was a little angry with you for the motor oil you spilled on our new chesterfield; but I understand completely. After all, sometimes when it comes to chesterfields the creative urges can’t be squelched even though there may be a tremendous price to pay for it, like the dent in your head where Deanna tagged you with that crowbar as she was chasing you around the house.

It reminds me of a time when I was young. I had my felt pens. I loved my felt pens. They were in colours of yellow and green and blue and purple and orange. In fact, when I was younger, I loved my felt pens so much, I often felt like I was a little kid drawn with a felt pen. Strange, eh?

I remember looking over my old colouring books: My C for Chicken book on which I scrawled an orange colour across the chicken, leaving the C for corn untouched. This is because I prefer eating chicken to eating corn. Then I had a very, nicely coloured scarecrow and horse colouring book. I don’t think I coloured them, because the scarecrow had on a red shirt and the horse was brown, and I didn’t have those colours in my felt pens. I think those might have been the pages mom liked to show off, when she was in her "Michael is so talented" mood. Now the very simple drawing I had done of a zombie, a house, a tree and a bird were coloured with colours I had, so I was pretty sure I coloured them. But I am rambling too much. The important part was the joy I had with my felt pens.

Now there was one occasion with my felt pens where I had become a little overenthusiastic with my artistic endeavours. And as many young chaps my age, I sought forgiveness for my deeds before they were uncovered by my parents, in the hope that I could avoid wear and tear on my bottom. So, I went to my mother, as she was washing the dishes and I said, “Mom..I know…I just know you’re going to be mad at me.”

I gave her my best hangdog look, but it didn’t work as mom grasped my wrist and snapped the bone right there. I guess I don’t know if the bone really snapped, because we never went to a doctor to check it out; but as I think back on it and how it looked at the time, with my hand bent back like that, I think it was snapped. I held in the pain though, as mom said, “What happened, honey? Tell me what it is.”

Well after that snapped wrist I was suddenly in hysterics. I grabbed mom around the neck and said, “I’m scared to tell you-ma…I know you’re going to be mad! You’re going to HATE me, ma!! Please don’t hate me, please!” After all, if she was willing to snap my wrist before she knew what happened, I knew it was going to be a lot worse when she did find out. I know when I tell this story to other people, they generally say, “Cheeze Mike, will you shut up? I’m watching the game.” But for me, it was a real fear of losing parental love.

Mom grabbed my left elbow, and I thought she was going to snap my arm, but then she grabbed my shirt with her left hand and pulled it tight around my neck so it was hard to breathe. Then she said, “Michael…I want you to be able to trust us with your problems…”

She pulled back and did the standard Patterson hand to her chest to indicate deep emotion and said, “You’re expecting me to be angry & I don’t even know what’s happened. Tell me, sweetheart…”

Well, I fell for it. I gave my mom a big hug and said, “I drew all over the new couch with felt pens.” Why didn’t I say “chesterfield “ instead of “couch”? Well, mom likes the States’ way of saying things, sometimes, and I thought that might help. But it didn’t. Right after I said that I could feel mom’s head expand in fury. I could feel her growing 5 eyebrows of anger. And most importantly, I could feel her dig those sharp fingernails into my back.

So, you see, robotic little sis. When Deanna nailed you with that crowbar, that was just her way of showing that she still loves you, even though the new chesterfield is ruined; just the way my snapped wrist and deep scratches down my back showed my mom’s love for me. Now if you could just stop hiding in the basement behind the central vac and come get a butter tart, I think we would all feel a lot better.

Love,
Michael Patterson

Thank you for telling me that story, Michael, and also for luring me out of the basement with those delicious butter tarts. These stories from the past are most instructive. Do you think it would have been a good idea to go to Deanna before the oiled chesterfield was discovered and to beg her not to hate me for what I had done? I am quite interested to learn the most effective strategies for negotiating Patterson family life.

Aprilbot