It’s the Crate Bumpkin, Harley Crown - The Final List

  Initially, the room was in stunned silence following Buford’s pronouncement that he wished to serve the Lord via a midlife career change, then the chaos descended.

  “Now you’re my favorite son!” squealed Granny Crown, hurling herself into Buford’s arms and clutching him in a rapturous manner, leaving hamburger-grease streaks on his already sweat-drenched shirt. Then she paused and leaned back to ask a critical question. “Wait, have you ever had sex? They have an issue with that.”

  Buford sighed, not so gently removing Granny’s tentacles from around his waist. “Of course I have, Mother. How do you think we had seven kids?”

  Granny was not fully convinced. “Well, there was never any real PROOF they were yours, so I was never completely certain, especially since Betty has that reputation, and none of those kids look like me, which doesn’t seem possible, with MY dominant genes.”

  Of course, Momma Crown did not take this kindly. “WHAT reputation, Mother? This is news to me.”

  Granny glanced briefly at Momma Crown, then turned her still-hopeful eyes back to Buford. “People talk, Betty. People have always wondered what happened the night of the Zucchini Festival when you and Tommy Thomas went on that hayride alone.”

  Momma Crown let loose a sigh containing as much exasperation as she could pack into it. “Mother, we were NOT alone! There were at least twenty other people in that hay wagon! And Buford and I didn’t even start dating until years later.”

  “Well, you two sat away from everyone else in the wagon, and it was dark. Those are ingredients of the devil. No telling what you did when no one was looking. Or maybe they were looking and you found this appealing in a perverse manner. Once you’ve sinned, it’s a short tumble to hell.”

  Momma Crown practically leapt out of her chair and approached Granny. Momma noticed, with barely-concealed satisfaction, that Granny cringed slightly before recovering herself and pretending to check on the stuffed peppers sizzling in the oven. “You are a bitter, old woman, Mother Crown, and you are completely out of your mind!”

  Buford cleared his throat. “Betty, let me take over.”

  Granny Crown looked at Buford with gratitude, her once-again adoring eyes filled with assured salvation. “You’re such a good son, Bufe, stopping that horrid woman from-”

  “I’m not stopping anything,” clarified Buford. “I’m finishing it. Tell me, Mother, why do you suppose that I’ve chosen this particular moment to join the priesthood. Any ideas what might have happened recently that could, shall we say, cause me some concern?“

  “Why, I would have NO idea,” said Granny, edging slightly away from her glaring son, a move which certified her guilt in the developing inquest.

  Buford continued. “You are right, in that people talk. And most of the time it’s you doing the talking. And right now, I’d like nothing more than to go somewhere where people don’t talk, especially YOU. I’d like total silence, maybe for the rest of my life. And the only way to assure that type of solitude is to join an order of Jesuits who take vows of silence. And we get to live in a monastery, where the powers of Jesus will keep you and your hell-mouth out.”

  “Oh?” asked Granny with fake tremulousness, blinking her overly mascara-coated eyes with hummingbird rapidity. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Well, I just had a nice little chat with Mrs. Ferbisher. You know, the old nosey woman in that bridge club of yours? Where you and she and probably a whole coven of cackling harpies make up stories to impress one another.”

  Granny Crown gulped.

  “Mrs. Ferbisher, purely out of nothing but concern for my welfare, asked me if it was a good idea that I be working so hard outside considering my erectile dysfunction.”

  Granny made a small keening noise, similar to those heard in National Geographic specials before small prey breathe their last. Out of desperation, Granny sought any means of escape. “Buford… should you be saying such words in front of the child?”

  “It’s okay, Granny,” piped up Harley. “I know what erectile dysfunction means. It’s a kind of dinosaur.”

  Momma Crown jumped in. “That’s right, Harley, it’s a dinosaur. Now tell me, Mother, why you would be talking to anyone about Buford’s dinosaur? And choose carefully before telling your next lie, because I can assure you that Buford’s dinosaur has no problem whatsoever DOING IT’S JOB!”

  The doorbell rang, which was a really unfortunate happenstance for anyone wishing to see potential domestic bloodshed.

  “That must be the Fishbeins,” Granny Crown practically screamed. “I’ll go let them in.” She did a body roll over the kitchen counter and hit the ground running.

  “I’m warning you, Mother,” Momma Crown hollered after the fleeing form. “The only words you know right now are ‘welcome’ and ‘please have a seat’.”

  “Oh no,” sighed Harley. “We ran out of time and didn’t finish my list.”

  “Not just yet,” comforted Momma Crown. “We still have a few moments. Read Momma the rest of the names while I finish up with dinner.”

  Harley smiled. “Great! Okay, next we have…”

  And now, dear reader, I stop pretending to be Harley, and I offer up my thanks for the rest of the folks who have been supportive over the last year and a half as I tried to get the blogs up and running. I can’t possibly mention everyone, of course (there are over 2,000 folks on the Facebook fan page) but I’m going to try and hit the key players. This is risky, in that I’m sure I’ll accidentally leave out a critical supporter or two, which is a sad thing, but I’d rather take the chance than do nothing at all.

  And don’t worry, we’ll wrap up the tale of the Crowns in just a bit. (Skip down to the bit about “Okay, back to the story” if you don’t care to peruse the mushy part.) And here we go…

  To Suellen Hale Young, one of the first folks outside my immediate family and friends who became a champion for the blog, and helped start things rolling. We graduated a shocking number of years ago from Broken Arrow Senior High. And a shout-out to other folks from that time who have come back into my life, much to my great happiness:  Margaret Laws (Margaret the Strong), Gala Freisberg (who still makes me laugh), Debra Sparks Meeker (who gives me guidance in a special way), Connie Jordan Register (On va a la plage?).

  My re-discovered sisters, Mindie Dodson, Kellie Fox and Terry Hentschel-Wichelhaus. Jon Powell and Alan Mauk (dudes, we should have hung out more). Tammy McLean Pounds (love it when you call me “darlin”, even if you call everyone else that), Regina Miller-Fierke (deep thoughts, great discussions) and the incomparable Kate Todd. (Let’s shave the cat!)

  My newfound Facebook family:  Bex Swartz (I never got mad that time, by the way), Anne Sumner (the “good” kind of New Yorker), Michelle Phillips (always there, always supportive), Sandra Fitzgerald (ditto), Tricia Penolan (another great New Yorker), Cathy Keibler (your warmth is evident and appreciated), Brandi Suzanne Rogers (another one of the first supporters) and Wylie Joe Summerlin. Can’t forget Susan Heckler, Mike Shain, Douglas Redecopp and Stella Arcane Mage Hayek.

   And here’s a big, long list of others who pop up from time to time with comments and likes (yes, I see you). I’ve alphabetized this by first name, so you can just skim for your shout-out and then jump ahead:   Audra Hughes, Bambi English, Barbara Lindsay, Becky Arnett, Bill Borges, Brian Barrett, Carmen Dunnington, Charyse Crawford, Chele Hunt, Christopher West, David Ribbe, Deborah Megivern Foster, Doug Moore, Dusty Taylor, Ellen Sherman, Gretchen Doss, Hadi Hussainu, James Morris, James Scott, Jennifer Daniel, Jennifer Ray, JoeyandAngi Williams, John Carney, Jojo Stephens, Judy Pilder, Katt Heinemann, Laura Austin, Laura Evatt McCoy, Lauri Lundy Moreno.

  Linda Dillworth, Lindsay Reddin, Lisa Da Cuckoo Finch, Lisa Gasway, Lisa Jo Gage, Marcia Reid, Maria Schulte, Mari’ Antoinette Allen Hamilton, Melanie Reeves Alexander, Melba Malone Weaver, Merlene Dorner, Pamela Adams Holman, Pattie Bell, Pritchard Hoggard, Rebecca Kay Gary-Ingersoll, Rebekah Barthuly Soikkeli, Rhonda Bryant, Rianne Capron, Robert Willard, Roman Hisses, Sean Heggan, Stacy Cotone Peters, Steve Sells, Suthern Barbie, Tami Bottoms, Teresa White, Teretha Pass, Tyrik Parker, Valerie Every, Valerie Jay, Victoria Sharp and Victoria Taylor.

  And finally, much love to my mother, Dee Taylor, who through all the times of good and bad and ups and downs, has always loved me, and to my partner, Terry, who still sometimes thinks this whole blog thing might not be worth it, but let’s me play anyway…

  Okay, back to the story:

  A bit later, the Crowns and the Fishbeins finally sat down to dinner.

  “So,” said Ida Fishbein, serving herself a surprising portion of pea salad, “why are you being so quiet this evening, Beatrice?”

  Granny Crown glanced furtively at Momma Crown before answering. “Oh, Ida, you know how I get a little peaked sometimes when the seasons change. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

  Ida paused, a dab of mayo on her chin. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you peaked. In fact, I’ve never seen you NOT dominate a room with just a Bible verse and some subtle hints of blackmail. Something extraordinary must have happened after you left the ‘Jesus and Bagels’ meeting this morning over at the Hyatt.”

  Momma Crown grinned broadly. Spearing another stuffed pepper, she shared some news with messy-chin Ida. “Oh, Beatrice has a new outlook on life. Lots of things have changed.”

  “Beatrice?” asked Granny Crown. “You always call me Mother.”

  Momma Crown continued beaming. “That’s one of the things that has changed, Bea. Another new development is that you will start helping out with all the meals, since I pay for all the food despite you having tons of your own money, yet you come over every night and don’t do a damn thing but eat it. I believe Harley is ready for you to make dessert.”

  Harley was leary, because Granny Crown interactions often ended in tears, or at least door-slamming. “I am?”

  “Yes, you are,” said Momma Crown. “What would you like?’

  Harley considered. “Ice cream?”

  “Perfect! What flavor?”

  More of the Harley thought process, then: “Butterscotch.”

  Granny Crown gasped. “The child can’t be serious. It will take ages for me to make homemade ice cream, and there’s no such thing as butterscotch ice cream.”

  Momma Crown smiled coldly. “Well, Beatrice, you claim to be such a marvelous cook, I’m sure you can manage it. Now get your ass in the kitchen and don’t come back unless you’ve got a nice bowl of butterscotch ice cream for your favorite granddaughter.”

  “Well,” said Ida Fishbein, using her napkin to daintily wipe away the smidge of mayo she had finally discovered on a her chin. “I believe this is the best meal that Beatrice has ever eaten.”

The End.

It’s the Crate Bumpkin, Harley Crown - Part 3

  Momma Crown sighed for the twenty-second time that day as she entered the living room and approached her mother-in-law, who was standing at the picture window in the front of the room. “Tell me, Mother,” she queried, “why is it that Buford is your son when he‘s being good, and only my husband on the days that you don’t like him?”

  Granny Crown didn’t even bother to look at Momma, her eyes remaining fixed on whatever horrid spectacle she had encountered on the lawn. “I don’t claim him when he does something that a child of mine wouldn’t do, and I certainly never taught him to do THAT.” She pointed out the window with a dramatic flourish, as if instructing a jury where they might find the serial killer in the courtroom.

  Momma Crown almost didn’t even bother to see where the gnarled finger was directing eye traffic, but she did glance briefly and had to pause. Buford was facing away from them on the far side of the yard, and if one were inclined to assume that men would always be doing something sexual if given the opportunity, it certainly did appear that Buford was fiddling with something about groin height. And his buttocks were vibrating.

  “The neighbors,” whispered Granny, her words dripping with outrage. “They must be mortified!”

  Momma turned away from her husband’s jiggling bum so she could address Granny properly. “So it would be okay for him to do this as long as the neighbors couldn't see him?”

  “I didn’t say that,” murmured Granny. “But it will certainly make the next meeting of the Ladies’ Auxiliary more challenging than it really needs to be.”

  Just then there was a loud roar from the lawn, followed by a zipping noise, so they both turned back to the window to review the latest developments. Buford was now slowly walking along and trimming the edge of the grass, after apparently having resolved some type of snafu.

  “So, Mother,” said Momma, “he was just replacing the line on the weed-eater and you were convinced that he was intent on spilling his seed far and wide. Great. Now, go into the kitchen and apologize to your granddaughter for calling her daddy a fornicator.”

  “She has no idea what that word means.”

  “Apparently you don’t either.”

  “I’m okay!” hollered Harley from the other room. (Translation: I like my life much better when the old woman isn’t near me.)

  “Furthermore,” continued Granny, “I have no intention of apologizing. My children have been trying to get me to do that for 50 years and I’ve never done it once.”

  “And all of your kids turned out so well,” muttered Momma. “Especially the two who went to jail.”

  “Those were circumstantial situations,” scoffed Granny.

  “The convictions or the kids? Anyway, I’m going to go help Harley. There’s still hope for her generation. Let me know if your son decides to impregnate some more lawn and garden equipment.” 

  Momma Crown reentered the kitchen. “What’s the next name on the list, sweetie?”

  “Why is Granny so mean to everybody?”

  “I don’t know, darlin’. She probably bit into something sour when she was a little girl and never forgot about it. Who’s next?”

  Harley checked. “Chandra Sullivan.”

  “Chandra? Is she still in that all-girl band with… is it Chavonne Hayes?”

  Harley nodded. “Yes, she’s next on the list. Their band is really good. It’s called the Flaming Assignment Girls. My favorite song is ‘I Should Probably Put You On Hold But I’m Bored So I’m Just Going To Hang Up’. Everybody claps really loud on that one.”

  Momma paused. “Flaming Assignment Girls? Those are some interesting initials.”

  Now Harley paused. “Initials?” She wrote out the name of her friends’ band. “So that would be ‘F’, and then ‘A’ and then… Oh.”

  Momma nodded. “Yes, it makes a word that we probably shouldn’t-”

  “I don’t think they meant for the initials to spell a British slang word for cigarette.”

  Momma smiled. “Well, look at that, I may have done something right with you.” She squatted down so she could look her daughter in the eyes. “Harley, don’t ever change.”

  “I’m not going to, Momma. I don’t know how.”

  Granny Crown clattered into the kitchen once again, completely ruining the tender moment of bonding, which was one of Granny’s special talents. “Betty,” she barked.

  “What’s the matter, Mother? Not enough people in the living room for you to torment?”

  Granny grimaced. “I was trying to be nice and let you know that you need to get started with those stuffed peppers if dinner is going to be on time for the Fishbeins. You haven’t had enough practice to make them as quickly as I can.”

  “You’re just hungry, Mother. You couldn’t care less if the Fishbeins get to eat or not.”

  Granny snorted. “While I am starving to death because you haven’t placed out any appetizers, I’m only looking out for your social standing. The Fishbeins are on lots of committees, and one of those organizations might be able to help you out some day. Probably not, because it would mean you had actually done something artistic, but one never knows.”

  “Tell you what, Mother,” said Momma, taking a seat next to Harley. “Why don’t you get started on stuffing the peppers while I finish up here.”

  “ME?” asked a startled Granny. “Why on earth should I start the peppers? This is your house.”

  “Oh, you’ve waited until NOW to realize that? Besides, everyone knows you are very good at shoving things where they don’t naturally belong. I’ll join you in a second.”

  Granny made a huffing noise, but quickly began dragging things out of the refrigerator, already relishing the high praise that she was surely to get for the finished meal, compared to the mediocre culinary output that this house usually experienced.

  “Now,” said Momma to Harley. “Let’s try to get through these quickly, if we can.”

  Harley nodded, referring to her list. “Um, there’s Bobbi McDonald Klinger. She works in a dentist office during the day, but then she goes home and writes stories. She’s good. You should read the one about the avocado that learned how to talk. It’s very moving.”

  “Avocados can’t talk, Harley,” intruded Granny, as her greasy hands violated wads of meat. “That’s just silly.”

  “It’s a parable,” explained Harley. “I like parables.”

  Granny Crown chose that moment to become very interested in some handy bread crumbs, mainly because she had no idea what a parable might be, but she certainly wasn’t going to admit that. Besides, the word sounded like something that spokes models were always warning her to avoid on Fox News.

  “Let’s finish your list, Harley,” prodded Momma Crown.”

  Harley turned her eyes once again to the sheet. “Okay, there’s Yvonne White who talks to me every day and always says nice things. And Darlene Cunningham who is a production assistant at ‘Backup Dancers From Heck’. And Kathi Sandlin Andrepoint, who works in the Recruiting Department at Bonnywood Manor. And Sage Thunderbolt, who is a former prawn star who found Jesus.”

  Granny Crown paused with the stuffed peppers shoved halfway into the oven. “Could you repeat that last one?”

  Momma Crown intervened. “I don’t think you need to hear it again. Keep going, Harley.”

  “But the child just said something about pornography, I’m sure of it.”

  “Mother, let her talk! She never gets to when you’re around.”

  Granny made a disgruntled noise, then turned to attend to the dinner salad, firmly convinced that her endless suffering on earth was going to be amply rewarded once she made it to the pearly gates. Then she began chopping an onion with much more violence than was necessary.

  Harley continued. “Um, and then there’s HRH Tammy Christesen and her Royal Consort Muffin Bruce. Jennifer Coit, who makes sure that I watch the right TV shows and doesn’t let me get too lippy. And the Davis sisters, Sara and Melissa and Tiffany, who between the three of them need more therapy than can possibly be available.”

  Suddenly, there was the noise of determined stomping on the back porch, and then the door flew open and crashed against the wall, exposing a very sweaty and probably smelly Buford. He had some news for the startled viewing audience assembled in the kitchen.

  “I’ve decided to join the priesthood.”

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It’s the Crate Bumpkin, Harley Crown - Part 2

  Before Momma Crown could counsel her child that it was entirely possible to be popular without being a miniature slut, there was a clatter as Granny Crown traipsed into the kitchen from the living room. “Mother!” exclaimed Momma Crown. “When did you get here?”

  Granny Crown sighed, which was clearly a trademark move with this family. “I’ve been here  a bit. I was checking to see if you’ve bothered to dust the house this year. What is that child babbling about being popular? She needs to be more popular. Maybe she’ll get out of the house more often and I won’t have to think of new things to say every time I see her sitting there like a toadstool.”

  “Mother, she’s not deaf.”

  “I’m NOT deaf,” confirmed little Harley. “I’m alive just like you.”

  Granny Crown glanced briefly at her 47th grandchild, grimaced, then turned her attention back to her 6th daughter-in-law. “Why won’t you let the child be popular?”

  Harley immediately changed sides in the brewing battle, as children are wont to do, not yet understanding things like consequences and alimony. “Yeah, Momma, I wanna be popular. Please?”

  Momma Crown rubbed her left temple, begging the creeping baby migraine to return to its cave. “Harley, sweetie, you can be as popular as you want. But you are not going to do it by waving your fanny at all the boys.”

  Granny Crown snorted. “Isn’t that how you landed my son?”

  Momma forced herself to smile in Granny’s direction. “Can I get you something to drink? Hopefully something that will make you lose your ability to speak?”

  Granny waved her hand. “I’m fine, thanks for finally asking now that I’ve been here at least thirty minutes. We old people don’t need as much lubrication.” She studied the mounds of paper on the table. “What is this child doing?”

  “Mother, you can speak directly to her, you know.”

  Granny sighed again. “Of course I know that. But what would be the point? I’ll still have to come to you for an actual answer that I can understand. Is she applying for boarding school? I can certainly help her with that.”

  Momma Crown, firmly convinced that a tenth cup of coffee certainly couldn’t do any more damage at this point, reached for the pot while explaining. “We’re helping Harley decide who to invite to her Halloween party.”

  Granny looked at Momma in surprise. “Halloween? Surely the child understands that-”

  Momma held up her hand. “We’ve been down that road. It’s not important. We just need five names. And don’t ask any more about that part, either. You really don’t want to know.”

  Granny reached down and snatched the piece of paper out of Harley’s startled hand. “Is this the list?”

  Momma and Harley both nodded.

  Granny scanned the wrinkled sheet, then threw it down on the table. “All of these scamps are horrid little creatures. This is boring. I’m going to go watch wrestling. Let me know when dinner is ready.” She turned and marched back into the living room.

  Harley peeked around the corner, waiting for Granny to move out of earshot, then looked at her mother and whispered. “Daddy says he drinks because of Granny, too.”

  “Interesting,” breathed Momma Crown. “You and your father seem to be very chatty. You might have to fill me in some day. Okay, the stuffed peppers are calling. Who is next on your list?”

  Harley looked down. “Lisa Wines.”

  “Lisa?” asked Momma, mildly surprised. “Isn’t she in Europe?”

  Harley nodded. “She lives in France. In Paris. She does Bo He-man things, and tries to stop pressing of minor T’s, and wants a world piece. And she blogs.”

  “What does she do with dogs?” hollered Granny Crown from the other room.

  “Mother,” hollered Momma back. “If you want to be a part of the conversation, you need to come back in here. I’m not in the mood to translate for you.”

  “I’ll stay right where I am, thank you very much,” came the reply. “Even if it’s so dusty in here you’d think it was Oklahoma in 1934.” This was followed by a clearly fake but exuberant sneeze.

  “I know what an Oklahomo is!” piped up Harley. “It means ‘the land of the red van’. We learned that in school.”

  Momma forced another grim smile. “It’s so nice to see that paying all those school taxes has been worth every penny. But I don’t think Lisa can come to the party. She lives too far away.”

  Harley frowned. “Can’t we just go pick her up? She can sleep over.”

  Momma sighed, then reached down to tenderly caress her daughter’s hair. “You are such a pretty little girl.”

  From the other room: “But when God was handing out brains, she thought He said train, and she got at the end of the line.”

  “Mother!”

  “Betty, we have to face things for what they are or-”

  “We can face them later! Watch your damn TV show.”

  Harley: “Why does Granny want me to get on a train?”

  Momma Crown stroked her hair again. “It’s nothing, sweetie. She’s old and she sometimes forgets where she’s at. Or why she even bothers to come over here. Okay, who’s next on your list?”

  “Lisa Whitlock.”

  “Hmmm. I don’t think I know this ‘Lisa’.”

  Harley nodded. “Yes, you do, Momma. She’s a nurse, and she lives in the Land of the Red Van like Granny was just talking about. She helps people. I like people who help people. Don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” confirmed Momma Crown. “But if she lives in Oklahoma, she can’t come, either. It’s too far.”

  Harley frowned again. “We can’t go get her in the car?”

  “No, sweetie. It would be a very long drive, and people will get cranky.”

  Harley pouted. “Then I don’t understand why we have cars, if they can’t go get your friends when you want them to.”

  From the other room: “Buy the child a map.”

  “Mother, that’s TWO strikes…”

  “Betty, the commercials are on. I know all I need to know about ‘Metamucil’. I have to do something to pass the time.”

  Momma Crown sighed again. This was truly a day for sighing. Perhaps records would be broken. She looked back at Harley. “Okay, sweetie, who’s next?”

  “Lisa Golden.”

  From the other room: “Child, why are there so many Lisa’s? Is there some kind of club? Are you in a cult?”

  Harley, bewildered: “Is she talking about farming? That sounds like a farm word.”

  Momma Crown, exasperated: “Mother, would you PLEASE-”

  “Betty…”

  “-stop throwing out your mean little comments while I’m trying to-”

  “BETTY!”

  Pause, then: “What, Mother?”

  “You need to come in here. And don’t bring the child.”

  Momma Crown glanced at Harley, who quickly made a motion that she would rather do anything in the world than go in the living room. Staying right here was just fine. Moving to the back porch would be even better.

  “What IS it, Mother? Can’t you just tell me?”

  “Fine. That husband of yours is fornicating on the front lawn.”

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It’s the Crate Bumpkin, Harley Crown - Part 1

  Editor’s Note: As we roll toward Thanksgiving, I thought I’d show my appreciation for those folks who have been great supporters of my blog posts. In the little story below, which should run about 3 or 4 parts, I’ve sprinkled in shout-outs to readers and references to past posts as a celebration of the people who have helped make the Bonnywood Manor community what it is. And if you’re new to the party, don’t worry, this story stands on its own as well. Enjoy.

  Little Harley Crown was sitting at the breakfast table in her momma’s kitchen, quietly studying a list of names and occasionally glancing at several stacks of reference materials spread around the table. She did this for quite some time, until Momma Crown, realizing that it was approaching the dinner hour and she would soon need Harley to help her stuff some bell peppers, sat down across from her youngest daughter.

  “Harley,” said Momma Crown, carefully choosing her words because her special child was apt to veer into parts unknown without any warning. “What are we working on?”

  Harley looked up from her tattered list and made a slight grimace. “I’m trying to figure out who to invite to my Halloween party.”

  Momma Crown was taken aback. Halloween? That had been weeks ago. It was nearly Thanksgiving, in just a few days. Momma Crown chose her words with care once again. “Harley, do you understand that Halloween is already gone? You’ve already been trick-or-treating. The parties are all over.”

  Harley sighed, in the overly-dramatic fashion which was very popular with youngsters who were firmly convinced that their parents had no intelligence whatsoever. “I know that, Momma.”

  “Then help me understand why you’re still working on this list.”

  Harley’s little face hardened in determination. “Because Daddy always says you should finish everything that you start.”

  Now Momma Crown sighed. “Sweetie, your daddy’s a drinker.”

  “I know that, too, Momma. I’m not a Ignor Aunt. Daddy told me he drinks all the time because he’s just trying to get it right. He’s not a quitter. And I don’t wanna be a quitter. So I want to finish this list before I start something else.” Harley suddenly snatched up a nearby sheet of paper, scribbled something on it, then shoved it back to its original position.

  “What was that all about? Did you decide who to invite?”

  “No,” smirked Harley. “I was making a note. To not make lists when mothers are close.”

  Momma Crown sighed again. “Look, Harley, if you still want to make this list, you can do that. But you need to hurry. We have the Fischbeins coming for dinner.”

  Harley wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like them.”

  “And why not?”

  “They smell like fish!”

  “Harley, they do NOT smell like fish. They are perfectly-decent, non-smelly people.”

  “Then why do people call them the fish-bins? That’s not a name, that’s something you smell like. And they smell like fish bins. Everyone knows that.” Harley again snatched up her wrinkled list as if the matter was now settled and dismissed.

  Momma Crown quietly stood up, walked to one of the kitchen counters where she calmly fixed her seventh cup of coffee for the day, then brought her treat back to the table. “Harley, let’s work on the list together. Momma is good with lists.”

  Harley eyed Momma suspiciously. “You aren’t going to make fun of me, are you?”

  Momma took a sip of her coffee. “Why would I? You have plenty of brothers and sisters to take care of that for me. Now, this list. What’s the hard part about deciding who gets to come. Can’t you just invite everyone?”

  “Oh no!” breathed Harley, horrified. “We can’t do it that way. I can only invite five people, so I have to decide who can’t come.”

  “Five?” asked Momma Crown. “Why only five?”

  “Because only six people can fit in the Crate Bumpkin, just me and five friends. Everyone knows that.”

  Momma Crown languidly stirred her coffee. “Well, then, I guess I’m not everyone. I had no idea that the Crate Bumpkin had an occupancy restriction. And Harley?”

  “Yes, Momma?”

  “What’s a Crate Bumpkin?”

  Another look of horror crossed Harley’s face, filling it with utter shock and outrage. “How can you not know what the Crate Bumpkin is? You’re a grown-up. You’re supposed to know about everything.”

  Momma Crown absently fiddled with the handle of her cup. “Well, I might have known what it was at one time. But then I had seven kids, none of whom bothered to follow the same flight pattern as the siblings before them, and I’ve been married for ten years to a man who apparently thinks his last name is Crown Royal. Things start to get by you. So, please. Tell Momma what this dang Crate Bumpkin IS.”

  “You said ‘dang’…”

  “Dang is fine. Dang is wonderful. You can say it from the time you get up until the time you go to bed and Momma will love you just the same as always. Now. The Crate Bumpkin. Explain.”

  Harley sighed again, an expression which would have normally been cute on her cherubic little face, but was not particularly so at this moment. “The Crate Bumpkin. Linus and Sally? “The Peanuts?” It comes on Halloween and gives a ride to all the good little boys and girls.”

  Momma Crown immediately went to the counter and poured herself an eighth cup of coffee. While she poured half the jar of sugar into the lukewarm liquid, creating something akin to molasses, she pondered. Was is worth trying to explain the real story to Harley? Momma glanced at her watch. Nope. It was too late in the day. There were peppers to be stuffed.

  She returned to the table. “Okay, then. You can only invite five people. Who’s first on your list?”

  Harley grinned, now somewhat excited about the turn of events. After all, there had been a few times when Momma had actually proved worthwhile, so maybe this wouldn’t quite be the drudgery things often were when parents tried to provide direction and guidance. Harley snatched up her list and read the first name. “Tiffany Davis.”

  Momma Crown’s eyes widened. “Tiffany? Sweetie, you know that Tiffany can’t come. She’s… away for now.”

  The grin disappeared from Harley’s visage, replaced by an expression somewhere between crestfallen and defiant. “I know she’s in the Santa Torium. But I thought they might let her out of her cage just for my party. They can lock her back up when we’re done.”

  “Harley, honey, Tiffany’s not really in a cage.”

  “Dewey Potter says she is.”

  “Dewey Potter is a wretched little boy that you should never talk to. Anyway, Tiffany needs to stay where she is until she gets better. The doctors and nurses are trying to help her understand some things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you can’t attack the mailman because he didn’t bring the ‘Pretty Princess’ crown that you ordered. You should never hit anyone just because they didn’t bring you something that you want.”

  Hayley considered this. “I guess you’re right. I don’t like it when Mellie Jo hits me just because I was borned.”

  Momma Crown nodded only slightly. “Well,  your big sister does have some issues of her own.”

  Harley looked up expectantly. “Can we send Mellie Jo to the Santa Torium, too? So they can help her understand that she’s mean and wicked?”

  “Maybe some other time,” said Momma. “We’re on a schedule right now. Okay, cross Tiffany off the list and read me the next name.”

  Harley reluctantly made a squiggly line on the paper, then cleared her throat. “Laura Hopeman.”

  Momma Crown’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “Laura Hopeman? Have we been introduced?”

  Harley nodded. “Yes, Momma, you know her. She’s a strut.”

  “A strut?”

  “Yes, Momma, a strut. We learned about struts and hordes in the health film we watched at school. Struts and hordes are naughty, and they talk to boys a lot.”

  Momma Crown finished the remainder of her coffee in one gulp. “Harley, just what kind of film was this?”

  Harley shrugged. “I don’t know, Momma. A health film. They made us watch it or we couldn’t go to recess.” Her eyes suddenly lit up. “Oh! I almost forgot about recess. Laura is a Jungle Jim Girl, too. She’s very popular.”

  Momma Crown felt the first tingles of a headache. “And who is Jungle Jim, Harley? And why does he have girls?”

  “Momma!” snipped Harley with exasperation, realizing that her mother’s ignorance had become burdensome once again. “You climb on the Jungle Jim. It’s not a person. It’s on the playground back by the fence.”

  Cautiously, Momma Crown asked for further detail, ready to run if things got darker. “Okay, Harley. What do Jungle Jim Girls do?”

  Harley rolled her eyes, her mother’s worthlessness cemented in her mind forever. “They climb to the top of the Jungle Jim so the boys can see their panties.”

  “Oh my God!” gasped Momma Crown.

  “Momma, we’re not supposed to say ‘oh my-’”

  Momma Crown waved her hand. “Not right now, Harley. We’ll talk about that part later. Why are the girls showing their panties? And where are the teachers.”

  “They’re usually drinking, Momma.”

  Stunned, Momma Crown glanced at the coffee pot, but decided a ninth cup would make her head explode. She turned back to Harley. “Okay, I need to talk to some people at your school. And you are not wearing any more dresses to school. In the mean time, Laura Hopeman is NOT coming to your party.”

  Harley frowned. “But she’s popular, Momma. Don’t you want me to be popular?”

  Momma Crown decided that the ninth cup just might be worth the risk.

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