Today is a dreary, dark, cold, damp day in Nashville.
Well, that wasn’t very positive, now was it? Let me reword that…
Today is a… ummmm
Today is a Thursday.
We do not have flooding.
The tornado sirens are not going off.
In Barrow, Alaska it could be considered a sunny day.
And, I just saw snow. Snow always makes me happy.
Let me tell you about my Dad, the fairy. This should make you laugh.
First off, I often call him Mine Daddy. When I was little, after a long play time in the bath tub, I would call out, “Come get me mine daddy. I’m getting older by the minute!” I really don’t remember this, but the name stuck.
By the way, he’s the only one who can shorten my name and call me Lib. ☺
My brother, Gary can also mess with my name and I don’t really care because I change-up his name all the time. I call him Gary B., Gaybee, Bodean and P.L. Flow (see Happy New Ear to Hugh too, Prances from 12/30/11) He calls me Libs, Lib, The Libster, and when I was more talkative, he got away with calling me The Mouth. (What? You think I’m still talkative? That’s just hard for me to believe!)
Anyway, during those early childhood years of losing teeth (And isn’t that just strange and gross when you think about it?) I was completely curious about the Tooth Fairy. I probably would still be a believer if Dad had not tripped up trying to get my tooth out from under my pillow. He fled the scene, dropping my bounty (a 50¢ piece) in the middle of the floor.
Bad thing was, I went to Sunday school the next week and proudly told everyone that my dad was a fairy.
That caught on like wildfire, especially among the deacons.
Dad was not amused. Mom thought it was hilarious.
I had my own little mishap playing Tooth Fairy when Alli was little (and NO I didn’t wear my fairy wings for this role – see Mommy in the Skype with Diamonds from 9/15/11)
Alli, being the curious and smart child that she is, put her tooth way under her pillow. She was sleeping on the bottom, double bunk of her bed, back in the corner. For the life of me, I could not get to that tooth without waking her. SO, I decided to crawl under the bed and reach up from the back. Keep in mind, there was not much clearance under there. Oh, and I had not told Larry what I was doing.
Well, somehow I managed to get my arm stuck between the bed frame and the wall. Seriously, I could not move. This gave me severe giggles, which I had to stifle, which made my arm hurt. If Alli had woken up, she would have seen my hand sticking up above her pillow. I can only imagine the scream that would have produced. So, while I was trying to figure how to get my hand free, Larry went to bed and realized I was not there. He kept walking by the door looking for me. I was dying under there, trying not to laugh. Finally, he came into Alli’s room to see if I had fallen asleep reading to her. That was when I kicked him in the foot.
Then the whispering began.
What are you doing?
Shhhhh. I’m stuck.
How did you do that?
Shhhhhh. I don’t know, but what do I do?
Don’t wake her!
Move your arm back.
Shhhhh. I can’t! NO! Don’t pull my legs. OUCH.
Shhhhhh. You’ll wake her! Hey, I know what to do.
So, Larry acted like he was telling Alli goodnight, kissed her on the head, stuck his hand under her pillow and swiped the tooth, and at the same time managed to shift the bed a little and set me free. I slipped her money under her pillow and all was well.
My friend J. got caught in a worse situation. She slept in her birthday suit, and after going to bed remembered that she needed to play Tooth Fairy. As she was leaving her daughter’s room, she woke and said, “Mom? Why are you naked?”
Okay, back to Mine Daddy…
If being called a fairy was not enough humiliation, how about being called Flash?
When I was still living at home, my friend, D. from Ohio came to visit Nashville with her parents. Mom and I were at the house and Dad was at work when they arrived. I left with the 3 of them to play tour guide around town, and at the same time, Mom left for the grocery.
From the backseat, I gave directions on where to turn, what to look for, etc. as we drove by the homes of the stars, the Ryman, the Parthenon and other cool tourist sites in our fine city.
D. was a fun-loving gal, but I soon observed that she did not take after her parents, who proved to be a little serious.
While I was out with our guests, and Mom was at the grocery, Dad came home, got a shower and put on his robe.
When he heard a car in the driveway, he assumed that it was Mom.
It was not.
Much to my horror, when we pulled into the driveway, my dad came out the door, ran down the sidewalk, and in front of the headlights of my friend’s prudish parent’s car, he opened his robe and did some kind of shimmy.
He swears he had on his shorts. I can’t confirm this, as I looked away.
It was monastery quiet in that car, and I can still see the look on the frozen faces of Mr. and Mrs. H. as they stared out the windshield.
D. broke the silence when she asked, “Was that your dad?”
I was traumatized for life. No one wants to think of their parents being intimate and doing silly things like flashing each other.
As was previously planned, they came in to visit over dessert.
Dad had gotten dressed.
We were trying to have a normal conversation in the living room. My Dad looked mortified. Our guests were at a loss for words. I tried my best to play hostess, but it was just too awkward. I couldn’t look at Dad. He couldn’t have eye contact with anyone, and both of us were holding back laughter.
Mom came bopping in the door about 10 minutes into this visit, her arms full of groceries. She looked puzzled at what was pretty much total silence. Dad helped her, and while in the kitchen made the mistake of filling her in on the event of the evening.
She came back in the room with a strained look on her face, tears welling up in her eyes, shoulders shaking while trying not to burst out laughing.
Lucky for all of us, the guests left after one cup of coffee. We were supposed to have met the next day for breakfast, but they canceled.
We are puzzled to this day how the story spread. By the following week it seemed that everyone in the city knew about it. People around the Opry (Dad’s workplace) began calling Dad The Alabama Flash, or Flash for short.
30 years later, he still gets called Flash and the story has morphed into a dozen different versions. Just recently I heard him correct someone who was sharing the story.
He said, “NO! I had on my shorts!”
I hope this bit of humor brightened your day.
Be careful playing Tooth Fairy, and never flash unless you have a positive ID.
– Libby Lu