Remember when we were kids, and Mom or Dad had that one story that we just loved to hear over and over again? For me, there are two stories that my Dad tells that fit that bill for me. One is about my Grandma Johnson being shot in the posterior region with a BB gun and who may or may not have pulled the trigger. The other story is about Bobby and the Pig & Whistle. I could listen to every detail of these stories over and over and never tire of it.
My family tries to get together every so often, and when we do, we love to have a bonfire in the evening. Inevitably, amidst the crackling of the fire and the stories and laughter, the kids (my daughter Carly, and her cousins) will say “Tell us the Play-doh Story!”. And so, the ritual continues on as I share it with you…
I was born and raised in Melbourne, Florida, until I was a little older than 11. We lived in a small house in the back of our subdivision on Ixora Park Drive. I shared a room with my older sister, Pam. I can still see that room – our beds were covered in pink and white checkered gingham with shelves wrapped in the same matching print above each.
While I lived in Melbourne, I was proud to be a part of the Brownies (precursor to Girl Scouts) and my troop met down the street from my home. We must have had a badge project that day that included making homemade play-doh. I was quite proud of how well my large batch of goo turned out and I brought it home to show my older sister. That evening, after being tucked in for bed, my sister and I found that if you threw a piece of play-doh on the ceiling, it would stick! We delighted in this scientific marvel and continued laughing and throwing until the entire batch of play-doh was attached to our bedroom ceiling.
Well, I’m afraid we couldn’t keep our giggles contained quietly behind our bedroom door, because at some point, my Dad came into the room to see what all the commotion was about. As Dad stood just inside our bedroom illuminated by the soft light of the living room lamp, my sister and I could see the shadow of one looooooong strand of play-doh hanging just above Dad’s head. Suddenly, the idea of throwing play-doh on the ceiling didn’t seem like such a great idea anymore.
We held our breath and exclaimed. “Yes, Daddy, we’ll be good! Good night!” Anything to get him out of the room and out from underneath our misbehavior! The longer he stood looking at us, the longer the piece of play-doh stretched. And then….it happened. That piece hanging for what seemed like eternity fell right atop Dad’s flat top. Dad threw on the bedroom switch and turned his eyes to the ceiling…and the rest is history.
I believe the punishment for that little escapade was 500 handwritten lines of…
I will not play after bedtime.
I will not play after bedtime.
I will not play after bedtime.
I will not play after bedtime.
The memory of that adventure is as vivid in my mind as this morning’s breakfast…
I miss that house and the memories we made inside. Oh, if only the walls could talk! But those memories of our home in Melbourne live on in our stories as we share them with others.
Dara<3
My childhood home in Melbourne. The room I shared with my sister is the window behind the tree and to the left of the front door.
