You Don't Deserve It

The Rogue Speaks:

Hahahaha!!!  I can really sink my teeth into this one, and with an absolutely true story.  Anyone who has been following my blog since the beginning knows all there is to tell about my relationship with my parents and siblings that made ours one of the most dysfunctional families you could ever meet.  Rod loves to tell this story—"a Frances story", as he calls it.

The prompt that Jenny has given us for this Saturday Centus is “my mother turned 80 today” and we have 100 words, plus the prompt, to write our little vignette.  But first, you need a little background info on the family dynamic.

The year Mother turned 80, my younger sister (my mother’s clone) planned the party.  The guest list reads like a family reunion, which it was.  As usual, my sister  presented her siblings with their portion of the bill for the food.  We had known this was coming, and I had asked my BIL in advance just what he thought the breakdown would be.  He told me around $200 per sib.  Turns out, that was FAR from correct.  Since none of us, least of all me, were consulted beforehand,  it came as a REAL shock, especially to Rod, who pays the bills.  We were furious, and informed her that the amount was way too extravagant and was totally ridiculous for what was served.  We gave her $200, the amount her husband had quoted, and that was that.

You Don’t Deserve It

My mother turned 80 today.  Family gathered at my brother’s for a catered affair.  As was tradition, my other siblings gave mother gifts they knew they would get back eventually. 

“You’ll get it back when I die,” she always said.  So she got some pretty nice stuff!

I painted and framed a cabin at a plantation in New Orleans.  We had been there for Mother’s 75^t.  The trip, my sister’s idea.

As the party ended, my mother’s oldest sister came through the line of well-wishers.  “A lovely party,” she said, “but you don’t deserve it.”  Everyone laughed. 

Aunt Alice, however, was not joking.

Thus ends my Centus for this week.

 

About a year later, Mother left Atlanta to live with my youngest brother in Knoxville.  We were asked to come fetch the stuff that she left behind.  My sister was in charge of distributing everything. 

My mother had never kept any of the paintings I had given her, except two.  One hung over her fireplace, and the other, the painting of the cabin, hung in the foyer.  I had NEVER intended to give her the one over the fireplace—she just took it, and I was afraid to say “no.”  That was before I got strong enough to think for myself.  The rest of the paintings she had given away.  I asked her once where she had hung the large painting I had given her of my brother’s two girls dressed as pilgrims.  “I was afraid you were going to ask me that,” she said.  So I started asking about all the other paintings I had given her.  Same story—all given away.

When I went to collect my stuff, my sister informed me that she wanted the painting of the cabin.  “You must be kidding,” I told her wryly.