Charles W. Dowdy
by Charles W. Dowdy
We went up to the Mississippi Delta to spend a little quality time with the in-laws several weekends ago and things could not have been better. Well, you know, things were fine. Oh sure, there are the occasional set backs we always have when I get together with “Mom” and “Dad,” but they’ve pretty much come to accept me as one of their own. At least my mother-in-law doesn’t scream each morning when I come into the kitchen anymore, carrying on like she’s never seen a grown man in his underwear.
The occasion that weekend was a little tennis tournament my wife and I were playing in. Luckily we were able to bring all four children with us, and since we were obligated to more than a few tennis matches, this left the entire weekend for the in-laws to bond with the little tykes.
Perhaps there was a sour moment on Friday evening when my wife began her fashion show of tennis attire. This was quite a collection of outfits and accessories, from the color coordinated skirts to the new racket, new shoes and the high priced instant tanning spray she would apply just before each match.
As the fiscally responsible member of my little brood, I think it is perfectly natural that while everyone else was seeing a darling pink tennis skirt with floral bloomers I could only see dollar signs. My choice of words, calling her a “sold out retail tennis hussy,” was unfortunate but it was only among family and not something that should have been taken quite so seriously.
And then perhaps there was a dark moment or two later that evening when my mother-in-law invariably pulled out the old picture book from my wife’s childhood. It remains my opinion that this book contains an inordinate amount of pictures of my wife’s previous boyfriends. It’s like we’re all gathered around the campfire as my mother-in-law dutifully recites each of their accomplishments: this one plays professional football, this one is a preacher, this one has kids that behave. Blah, Blah, Blah.
Still, despite that outburst, and that humongous, gaping hole in my underwear at breakfast the following morning, things were still going swimmingly well.
Unless of course you believe what some of those bucket heads up in the Delta were saying. I don’t know, maybe they’re not quite as competitive up there. I wasn’t exactly screaming at my wife. I was motivating her. What’s the point of playing if you’re not playing to win? And if she’s going to spend all that money on gear, it wouldn’t kill her to drag her color-coordinated rear end off the baseline and try to dig up some of those drop shots.
Even so, there was barely a cross word amongst us until it was time for us to leave. As usual, my father in law had filled the car with gas and packed all of our suitcases. He even likes to get the engine running for us.
It was only after I got in the car that I realized something was amiss.
Then I knew that at some point in the weekend my mother-in-law turned the kids loose in the attic again. Granted, my initial contention that she had locked them in the attic all day may have been unfair. My son is only seven years old, and what may have only been thirty minutes could have seemed like “hours and hours and hours” to him.
The reason I knew they had been in the attic, other than tears and the possible heat stroke, was the assortment of junk that was crammed into my car.
“One man’s junk is another man’s treasure” is nothing but a selling position. Who could possibly want crooked crutches, a bent curtain rod or a brass deer head? And that was only what I could see from the driver’s seat. The deer head was especially troubling. It featured a full rack of sharp horns just screaming “impalement!” Displayed on a shelf, it might be an object of questionable taste; in the hands of a seven-year-old it became a deadly weapon.
Quite simply, these items dredged out of my mother-in-law’s attic were not artifacts to be passed down through the generations. These were pieces of junk that belonged in a garage sale or a flea market, where you swindle people into buying the junk your family would not take.
Of course, I honestly did not realize I was speaking out loud when I wondered what in the world her house looked like twenty years ago.
And if my mother-in-law can be forgiven for accidentally throwing that brass deer head in my direction, then surely I can be forgiven for that.
Charles Dowdy lives in south Mississippi with his beautiful wife, four kids, and a menagerie of furry things. He’s in the radio business, but also writes a weekly column for several newspapers. He loves to hear from editors. Write him at cwdowdyjr@yahoo.com -- especially if you’re an editor.
Want to read more of Dowdy’s stories? Check out the USADS HUMOR SECTION for a long list of hilarious articles. Or try these:
The Waiting Room War Zone
Baby Room Racket
Hijacking the Family Memories
All of the above will take you to even more Dowdy articles. We promise!
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