Lessons Learned From a Snake, a Cake, and an Apple by Jean V. Dickson I don’t remember the argument. It’s the rage, frustration, and anger I remember. Forty-five years later, I still have no clue WHY I was so angry with my mother. I do remember something, however. At three years old, revenge wasn’t in my vocabulary - but it was in my heart. Outside on a sunny day a slithering line of brown ripples through lush green grass. I’ve found my perfect revenge. A garter snake! Even whispering the word, snake, Is enough to make my mother shiver and shriek. Racing to the door; up goes the mail slot; in goes the snake. I sit down and giggle. I wrap my arms around myself and giggle some more. I almost wet myself with delight I’m so eager for my mothers coming fright. In my imagination I see Mom walking, suddenly stopping, face turning white, mouth opening, a horrified howl. I would like to say I heard a scream. I would like to say my revenge was satisfied. I can’t. Instead I waited for the scream. Wait. Wait. Wait. Fast forward ten years. Once again I’m waiting - waiting for my sister’s fiancée to get out of the bathroom. He carefully brushes strands of hair forward to cover his bald spot. I watch him spray until his hair’s a solid mat of fastidious fibres studiously cemented to the crown of his head like a rooster’s comb. Later, I have the pleasure of watching him water ski. Speedos several sizes too small - partially hidden by an overlapping stomach dancing to the drum-beat thump of skis hitting waves, varnished mat of hair flapping up and down in the breeze. To say I like Don would be like saying a person with a sensitive nose likes the smell of wet burlap bags. At dinner I notice Don shaking the pepper over his food. And I get an idea for payback. There, on the table, a single slice of birthday cake remains. I’ll play a nice little girl and give that slice to Don. But I can’t just give him plain vanilla cake. I have to spice it up. I lift the icing - and add pepper. I even scoop out part of the cake and scoop in a teaspoon of pepper. Carefully I reassemble the cake. My brilliant alterations are barely noticeable. Innocence exuding from my face, I’m an angel, bearing a gift in my hands. I offer the cake to Don. He lifts a fork to his lips. I anticipate a cough, cake spewing across the table, Don’s eyes watering from the strength of the spice. I wait. And wait. And wait. In the years past I’ve often wondered if Don saw me doctoring his cake and decided to spoil my plan by showing absolutely no reaction at all. Or was he so used to pepper he never even noticed additional seasoning! Or, perhaps, like my mother, Don was wise enough to know that revenge, like pepper, is a disappointing dish. It’s best not served at all? Let’s go back to when I was three years old, sitting on the front porch, waiting for Mom to scream. Mom heard the bronze mail flap shut - CRACK. Looking into the hall, she sees IT! Her first instinct is to scream. But my giggling gives me away. If she screams, I’ll learn to revel in revenge. If she berates me, well … all that will do is build a wall of anger between us. Mom steps over the snake, opens the hall closet, gets her broom. Sweep, sweep, sweep - down the stairs and out the back door. One reptile out the door, the other giggling on the front porch. Mom always said, “Things done in spite don’t turn out right.” I heard it often enough. Too bad I didn’t ‘hear’ it - I never learned from the hearing so I had to learn from the hurting. Let’s go back in time. I’m not three. I’m not 13. I’m 18 this time. Saturday morning tasks - my mind isn’t on scouring the pans, wiping the sink, water pooling on the floor. Instead, I’m thinking of the dress I made my sister. Gail’s difficult to buy clothes for - no waist, no hips. You could say she’s not a woman of substance. Most things don’t look good on her. Then there are her allergies - only 100% cotton will do. I knew the dress was going to look good on her before she even slipped it over her head. It did. It looked more than good. Gail was gorgeous! I finish wiping the counters, grab the garbage, step down the stairs and out the back door. I lift the lid to the garbage can not concentrating on task at hand - that grey blue fabric sure did change Gail’s blah blue eyes to bright blue. Grey blue fabric. Grey blue fabric!!??!! What’s it doing in the garbage can? Drenched and dripping from my hands, the remains of Gail’s beautiful blue dress. Cut to pieces, soaked in salad dressing. My masterpiece! All my work; all my planning; all the hours away from TV and telephone working to make her beautiful. Why did she do it? Revenge! It had to be. Just another instance of getting back at Mom through me. My childish pranks - the snake, the cake - aren’t such fun anymore. Revenge is a lovely apple if you overlook the worms. I’m not three or 13. And I’m certainly not thin anymore. I still wrestle with rage, frustration, and anger. However, revenge isn’t as tasty as it once was. Now I know the apple’s sweet but the worms silence your heart. You never get revenge; it gets you. Revenge, like a wormy apple, is best left on the ground. * Jean V. Dickson offers you this article to reprint or repost - FREE - provided that her name and contact information (supplied below) is included. Jean V. Dickson is a Canadian-based entrepreneur who puts creativitys ZING into training and communications. For more information on creativity and innovation, visit jvdcreativity
Posted on: Fri, 31 Oct 2014 16:25:09 +0000
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