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I’m Telling Mom! • Southern Rural Route

Remember those childhood days when you screeched at some recalcitrant relative, “I’m telling Mom!”? After Momma passed to Glory, it was necessary for me to choose another Mom-like figure for such threats. I chose our family’s iron-fist-in-a-velvet-glove, Miss Priss (my sister).

I was in Poppie’s kitchen the other night trying to prepare a cake mix on the same counter as his toaster oven. At my request, he had earlier put two baking potatoes in the toaster oven.

I guess he forgot to poke holes in the potato skin. Or maybe I forgot to tell him to poke holes. All of a sudden, one of the baked potatoes exploded.

I was so startled, I screamed. Poppie, on the other hand, never budged from his recliner to find out what happened to me. At first, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Poppie doesn’t hear so good even with two hearing aids. I thought he might not have heard the explosion but by golly, he MUST have heard me screaming bloody murder. I could have been standing there in the boogie man’s stranglehold with a knife at my throat. Does Poppie bother to check? Noooooooo.

I rightly accused him of this shortcoming.

“You screamed,” he explained. “So I knew you were all right.”

My mouth agape, I put my hands on my hips. “What has to happen to get your attention? The potato firing out of the toaster oven like a guided missile? Do I have to create an earthquake by falling to the floor before you think something might be amiss?”

This went back and forth for several minutes before I became so exasperated I hollered, “I’m telling my sister!” I guarantee you, that shuts him up every time.