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They called themselves Busy Fingers. They made crafts. Wreaths and stuff. Armed with glue guns, they created works of art out of grapevine leaves and baby's breath. They drank White Zinfandel. Upstairs in my bedroom, surrounded by Glow Worms, the echo of their high pitched laughter wafted up to me...
It was the early 1980's and my mother was into art and crafts. My sister tells me I would wake up the next morning and drink the dregs from the leftover wine glasses. This seems very probable; more probable, actually, than trying to imagine a time when my mother belonged to a ladies arts and crafts group.
She even took a ceramics class.
"Where was this class again?" I asked her once, genuinely curious.
"Oh, I don't remember...downtown somewhere..."
My mother is one of the hardest working women I know. I'm fascinated by this period of time when she was a young woman, far younger than I am today, and made space in her life to do things like...paint ceramics.
As far as I know, three creative treasures were born out of that ceramics class: Mrs. Claus, a pumpkin wearing a witch's hat, and a haunted house. The latter two become illuminated via a switch. All three are frigging awesome. Throughout my childhood, these pieces made cameo appearances at Christmastime and Halloween, jazzing up the end tables with their festive flair.
There have been a few casual conversations regarding who would eventually inherit these beloved family tchotkes, but nothing serious. That is until recently, when I just came right out and said it: "I want that GD haunted house".
A nervous smile flashed across my mother's face. "It's not up to me! Take it up with your sister!" Great.
This certainly had the potential to get ugly. Later that evening I was informed of a counter offer from Sissy: Mrs. Claus and the pumpkin for the haunted house.
So she was going to play hardball. I rattled off an email:
"I wasn't born yesterday, betch. Mrs. Claus stands alone. This ain't a two for one deal."
I thought my tone was jokey and silly, until I got her response:
"Why don't you just take everything."
Ah, the passive aggressive route. Always a strong choice. Well played, Sissy. But two could play at that game:
"Okay. Gee thanks, Sissy!"
As a rule, my mother doesn't like to be in the middle, which can be pretty annoying at times. She hated that her daughters were fighting over something so foolish, and she even threatened to settle everything once and for all by just wrapping all three pieces up at Christmas and having us choose a box at random.
No! Was she out of her mind? I told her she's the one who crafted these ceramics, so she should be the one to choose who gets what. They reminded us of happy childhood memories; we coveted them because she made them, after all!
It was sister against sister.
Sissy had decided to take the angle that I only desired the haunted house because she'd always wanted it. "Your whole life you've always wanted what I wanted, just because." She had a valid point there, but I'm in my thirties now and this hasn't applied for years. She was flailing wildly, grasping at straws.
"I don't want it because you want it, you idiot; I want it because it's fucking awesome!!"
I said as much to Hubby. He felt the situation was getting a little weird and had asked me to remind him, what was this thing again?
It's a haunted house. Okay? A scary, hand-painted haunted house. The light shines through the little window panes when it's all lit up, and there are trick or treaters huddled outside, afraid to knock on the front door. There's a witch on a broomstick on the roof, with the yellow moon shining behind her, an owl sitting in the oak tree, and a tombstone sticking out of the ground that reads 1892. There are supposed to be two ghosts hanging out in the tree as well, but they've since broken off.
It is a splendid piece of artwork and I have loved it from the moment I set eyes upon it. Who wouldn't?
Hubby digested this information. "And your mother made this?"
"Well, no. She painted it. Haven't you been listening?"
So I was getting a bit testy. Ceramics can do that to a person.
That Sunday, Sissy and her kids came over for a visit. My parents were also planning on stopping by. When they knocked on the back door, I noticed Dad was carrying a box, an orange pumpkin peeking out from the top.
"But I don't want the stupid pumpkin!" I began, only half in jest, before I was informed that they'd brought a bunch of things over for us to divvy up between ourselves.
Being an adult can be hard. And sometimes it's fun, when my sister and I get together, to act like a couple of assholes. It's shocking how quickly we can revert back to being bratty children. I'm not sure my mother thinks it's as fun as we do.
In the end, Sissy conceded and gave me the haunted house. She is the elder sister, after all, and used to making the tough sacrifices when it comes to these types of situations. (You know, with arts and crafts and stuff.) Mrs. Claus and the pumpkin head are now in her possession. In a spontaneous measure of goodwill, I mentioned perhaps sharing custody of the haunted house and switching off every year, but when Sissy looked receptive to this offer I asked that she please not make me do that.
Later that evening, I stood alone in my kitchen and plugged in the haunted house. I was having a moment, so to speak. I clicked on the switch and the house lit up in all its magnificence. And there I was, hands clasped tightly in front of my chest, wearing an expression of jubilant glee, a maniacal little laugh escaping my lips. It was really mine. All mine. Mine, I tell you! Ahahahaha!
Not gonna lie. On Halloween night, our front window was the most bitchin one on the block.
Thanks, Mom. (And you too, Sissy.) xoxo
