I well remember at four
years old my mother warning me not to put my hand in the roller of the ringer washing
machine, even then an antique of sorts.
No sooner had she left the room than the fascination of those rollers
began calling my name. I remember
reaching my hand up tentatively and whoosh, I don’t remember the terror or the
screaming but I am sure I must have felt and done both. My hand was immediately stuck and being
pulled upwards in the roller. The
machine did not have an automatic release (which they later had) so my hand
just kept going while I tried to pull out of it. To this day I have the scars on my right hand
and a crooked index finger.
Zip forward some 50 years or
so and I find myself compelled to write little notes to my mother.
“Mom, don’t touch the
instrument on the counter, it is sharp.”
Yes, today my mother cut her
finger on a contraption that she did not recognize. It happened to be an apple corer which I had
used to cut up an apple for my lunch. I
left it on the counter with the core still sticking up. My poor mother’s cataract must really be
severe (and she is still resisting having it looked after) because she thought
she was looking at a peculiar candle holder!
If this keeps up I am going to
have to hide all sharp objects! At least
she hasn’t really hurt herself yet so right now there’s a little fun in
discovering what mischief she gets into while I am at work. I hope the charm doesn’t escalate into deeper
anxiety. If so, I have her instructions
to put her out of her misery. As if I
could ever do that!
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