As a four-year-old, whenever I saw beautiful flowers—also known to adults as weeds—I’d pick them, roots, bugs, and all, and bring them to my mother. She would always stop what she was doing, cut the roots off, shake out the bugs, and arrange them in a glass, which was actually a pint-sized mason jar. She’d add water, and to my delight, set them in the middle of the kitchen table. She received many such bouquets practically every day when the dandelions and wild daisies were in bloom. One day, I picked some of the pretty red flowers from her flowerbed and took them to her. She put them in the jar of water, but I was told not to pick any more of them, as those flowers had to stay in the flowerbed. At least this time, there was no lecture.
Some evenings, Dad would take us for a walk down to the spring. He’d carry a jug to bring spring water back to Mother, but I’d yank out a handful of the little blue forget-me-nots, roots and all. On those nightly trips to the spring, Dad always made sure I was wearing my rubber boots, knowing very well I’d be in the spring’s runoff to get those flowers. Going downhill to the spring was a pleasant walk, but coming back up took much longer. Still, with the blue flowers in hand, I couldn’t wait to get home to give them to Mother with pride. Looking back, I’m sure she knew the trip to the spring meant forget-me-nots would be forthcoming, but she always acted surprised.
Daisies were one of my favourite flowers, not only to pick for Mother but also to use for my mud cake decorations. When I wanted to make mud cakes in the backyard, Mother would give me a plastic glass with water in it to mix with the mud. In the backyard, Mother could keep an eye on me through the pantry window. The one rule we had to follow was that wherever we played had to be in an area where Mother could see us when she looked out. She never seemed to have a problem with my brother, who spent countless hours in one spot with his toy trucks. I, on the other hand, never seemed to stay put for very long.
And then disaster happened on one of my mud cake-making days. At least to me, it was devastating. I had spent what seemed like a long time carefully picking the tops off countless daisies, popping them into a paper bag. Then I took them back to the cardboard box containing the mucky mixture of mud and water. Ever so carefully, I plucked the white petals off each flower and laid them in a row all along the edge of the box. With the rest of the petals, I made X’s, all over the wet mud. I then squished all the yellow centres, pressing them one by one into the mud cake. This provided a pretty yellow icing effect over the white X’s. My mud cake was now ready for drying, so I left it sitting in the sun, while I went back to playing with my dolls. While I was gone, one of the barn cats must have spotted the box sitting there in the sunshine, thought it would be a nice place for a snooze, and crawled in. When I returned to check on my mud cake, the cat was in it, but there were also a bunch of squirmy things beside her. I can still remember running to get Mother, screaming, “Mommy! Mommy!” Poor Mother thought something dreadful had happened to me and raced to the kitchen door to see what was wrong. Out of breath from running so hard, I blurted out, “Come quick, Mommy, the barn cat made a mess in my mud cake!”
Mother and I made our way around to the back of the house. I arrived at the box first and was pointing my little fingers toward it when Mother arrived. She looked in and discovered the barn cat and five newborn kittens covered in daisy parts. Mother told me the cat had just had her kittens, but we’d have to clean them up. My brother had no interest in seeing the kittens, as he was busy making roads in the mud with his toy grader. He’d see them later, he told Mother. We then went back into the house. Mother carried out a warm pan of water, and she gave me another box which contained an old, folded blanket, a facecloth, and a towel. Carefully, she lifted each kitten out of the muddy, colourful cake, washed it off with the wet facecloth, dried it with the towel, then placed it in the box with the blanket, while I stood there gazing at my mud cake, now a disastrous mess. The barn cat was at first uneasy about this procedure, but she let Mother wash her too after all the kittens had been taken care of. She was quick to jump into her clean surroundings with her kittens. Mother then carried the cat family over to the barn and set the box inside to the right of the walkway.
Before we headed back to the house, we went to the garage, where Mother gave me another box so I could make another mud cake. The original was unsalvageable and was placed into the garbage. Seeing how upset I was, she took time, after checking on my brother, to help me pick more daisy blossoms, which cheered me up a bit. I was then given another plastic glass of water, along with a wooden spoon, which made mixing the muddy batter easier than the stick I had used earlier. By the time Dad arrived in the dooryard, I had made another mud cake masterpiece, dotted with daisy pieces for him to see, and a tale to tell him as well.
We all have those stories, don’t we? What kind of mischief did you get into as a child? Or perhaps your own children or grandchildren had unforgettable adventures that still make you smile? We’d love to hear about your own “disaster” moments or any hilarious family escapades! Share your memories in the comments below.
