Being home sick from school in the mid 80’s-90’s was way different than it is for my kids in the 20-teens. I recall getting sick a few times as a kid and being confined to the living room in front of the TV. This meant bingeing on daytime TV, of the basic cable variety. Hell, we lived so far outside of the City Limits I was well into Middle School before we got cable. It was a regular Little House on the Prairie, except we were in the armpit of the Southeast, so more like Cape Cod Style House in the Pine Tree Forest.
I recall being in about 3rd grade and wearing a god awful sweatshirt dress with a print on it that Lisa Frank would deem as tacky, laying on the brown leather couch, with a raging fever, covered in a rust-colored Afghan crocheted by my Grandmama “Kakeen” and watching “The Price is Right”. That meant it was lunchtime. My sweet Mama stayed at home at this point in her life and was able to be with me when I was home sick from school. She would inevitably fix me Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup and a grilled cheese, complete with a Smurfs glass filled to the brim with Coca-Cola. Every time I have any of those foods, either together or separate, I am immediately transported back in time, to that couch, and that feeling of the cold, sticky leather, and the scratchy but warm and conveniently ventilated Afghan.
Once Bob Barker announced that we should Spay or Neuter our pets, I knew that meant it was Mama’s turn to have the remote. “Days of Our Lives” followed by “General Hospital”, or it might have been vice versa. I can’t recall. She would, nine times out of ten, eat an apple and a piece of cheese as her lunch and watch these dramatic stories while I zoned in and out of a feverish nap.
Once the soaps were off that usually meant it was time for Donahue or Oprah, which she would watch while folding laundry, dusting, and vacuuming. She did that every single day. If she wasn’t cleaning the house, she was ironing, and that meant she was watching her shows on a tiny black and white portable TV while sitting on her canary yellow Naugahyde cushioned stool.
I vividly recall slinking into the kitchen one afternoon when I was home “sick” and one by one eating an entire box of Jello Pudding Pops. I would very quietly tip toe into the kitchen, where Mama was ironing in the sunken “Utility Room” just 20 feet away from the scene of the crime. It was one of those variety boxes. You know? The ones with Chocolate, Vanilla and Chocolate-Vanilla Swirl Pudding Pops. There couldn’t have been more than 8 in a box, so I justifiably felt like it wasn’t a Federal Case that I ate all of them in an afternoon. Boy, was I wrong. That was the last time Pudding Pops were allowed in our home. All thanks to my borderline compulsive eating.
After Oprah was off, it was time for Mr. Rogers. I loved Mr. Rogers and greatly admired him. He really appealed to the part of me that nobody listened to. Not that my family ignored me. On the contrary, my childhood ego was very much fed. I was adored and complimented by my sisters, doted on and babied by my Mama, and goaded on and told I could do anything I set my mind to by my Daddy. I had just never known a man to be as kind and gentle as Mr. Rogers. He really wanted to know what I had to say, what I felt. He was invested in my emotional well-being. As wonderful as my parents were, if I heard; “I’ll give you something to cry about!” once, I’d heard it a thousand times. I knew that was not something the benevolent, soft-spoken Mr. Rogers would ever say. Not in a million years! He would say; “There’s no person in the world like you. And, I like you just the way you are.”
It was about this time that Mama would bring me what she lovingly referred to as a “Nanoo Milkshake”. This was my favorite part of the day. She would blend together a banana, milk, vanilla, sugar and sometimes an egg. Yes, an uncooked egg. It was delicious and cooling and sweet. Just what a seven year old needs when she’s sick and feeling hot and achy. It was a hug in a glass.
Nine times out of ten she would hand me the milkshake and kiss my forehead to check my temperature. I remember her beautiful tan hands and her sparkling diamond wedding ring. She always smelled clean. Like soap. She would smile at me and glance at the TV and kind of sigh. She did not share my love for Mr. Rogers. “Why does he have to talk to the damned camera like he’s talking to a Golden Retriever? Children don’t need to be talked down to! He’s just so creepy, Katey. I mean, a grown man that plays with puppets? Really?!” Those words were like a dagger to me. I remember dramatically looking at her with my mouth agape and a big fat tear rolling down my chubby, hot cheek. I thought to myself “Mama doesn’t like Mr. Rogers? How could she not love him? He’s so sweet, and gentle! He loves me just the way I am!”
Mr. Rogers would go off and I could not turn the channel quickly enough. The cursed MacNeil/Leher Hour theme music would come on and I would promptly turn the TV to one of the local channels, which most of the time was also airing a news program, but at least it was about things I knew about. Not about stocks and bonds and politics, talked about in such a serious timbre it made my little girl soul sad. It actually depressed me. It was a completely different feeling than how the “SPECIAL” announcement on one of the major networks made me feel. Seeing that rainbow colored animated slide made my heart jump for joy because that usually meant one of two things: A Peanuts Special or a Garfield Special. Sometimes it meant a really bad tie in with a major motion picture marketing ploy; i.e.; Star Wars Christmas Special, or Ewoks: The Battle for Endor. I cannot tell you the number of times I played the dubbed version of what I called “The Wicket Movie”. I so badly wanted to be Cindel.
Once the news went off, I knew Daddy would be home soon. He’d pull into the garage and open the door into the den. He would walk past the Grandfather clock and it would make it’s rattly clinging noises as the chimes vibrated under his footsteps. He’d smile and say “Hey”. And then he would put down his briefcase and place the back of his wedding ringed hand on the side of my neck, just under my ear, and press firmly for a couple of beats. I can still smell the leather from his briefcase and the Crown Royal from his person. Most days, he would have a drink before he left The Store and came home. He’d ask me how I was feeling and if Mama had given me any medicine lately. Being a pharmacist, he was always quick to dispense meds if we were not feeling well.
Then, he’d disappear for a few moments and Mama would call us to dinner. My sisters and I would get our plates and most of the time they would head upstairs to eat in their TV room, and I would be sequestered to Mama and Daddy’s bedroom as I was still sick. You see, if Daddy was home, the couch was his. No question. It was just understood. I don’t ever remember having to be told. It was the law of the house.
Those days are still so vivid in my memory. I can still see everything in my mind. The feeling of being so vulnerable and weak coupled with being cocooned with love and comfort is still such an indelible memory.
Her Mama's Child 