Flushed With Excitement

I know that my grandson is trying to be helpful; he’s that sort of five year old who still wants to learn to do things the right way. However, last night I just had to draw the line. I had to tell him that we just don’t throw used toilet paper in the wastebasket. It’s just not done!

I know! I know; it seems terrible to me too, but I’m nothing if not a sympathetic grandpa. So I asked Te’Juan just why it was he was throwing the poopie -- his word, not mine -- the poopie toilet paper in the wastebasket instead of into the toilet bowl. I should have known that he would have a perfectly good and reasonable answer. He told me that he just didn’t want the toilet to overflow on the floor. A few more probing questions and I began to understand.

It seems that a few days previous to this Te’Juan had flushed this toilet and walked away, presumably done with his business, so to speak. Well, it seems that he had used a more than generous amount of toilet paper -- his mother had warned him to be really clean, so he really was -- and the toilet clogged, backed up, overflowing on the floor. The poor little guy was corrected and warned not to plug up the toilet again.

Well, Te’Juan is nobody’s fool; he’s very intelligent -- takes after his grandfather. He knew that when faced with conflicting requirements -- you know, like getting your butt clean but not plugging up the toilet -- smart people, even smart little people, will come up with a solution. His was to use the wastebasket. Now all of this was well and good and having heard the story I could have had my inventive grandson back on the right track in no time at all, except for his interfering grandma.

It seems that my wife had eavesdropped on my toilet class with my grandson and she just couldn’t contain herself. She had to point out that poop toilet paper in the wastebasket would soon be covered with bugs and was, therefore, a very dirty thing to do. Stupid me; I just thought it was dirty because it was poop! Anyway, she asked Te’Juan if he understood. He said not really. She then reminded him of the dog poop in the backyard with the flies on it. He said he remembered. She then asked if he wanted bugs in the wastebasket. He said that that would be yucky -- again, his word. Smart kid!

So now what? Well, every time that Te’Juan uses the toilet he immediately calls for management -- that’s me, grandpa -- to oversee the flushing operation and to standby with the plunger, the plumber’s helper. We haven’t needed it yet, but I guess it’s comforting to him to be so cautious. Somehow this all seems tied back to grandma’s interference and I can’t help but think that I was handling things better before she introduced bugs, dog poop and flies to the lesson.

I’m certain that somewhere in this story there is a moral or life lesson, but for the life of me I’m not certain what it could be. Perhaps it’s as simple as the fact that sometimes our best intentions overflow with unexpected results; or, maybe it’s that life is filled with choices: clean butt, clean floor -- take your pick. Oh well, next time I’m just going to flush the toilet when grandma starts to speak; I know what to do with poop.




Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (the hormonially-challenged) teacher. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large.

Two More For Dinner

Dinner went well until Mother swallowed too large a piece of turkey and, after a hurried but heartfelt thump on the back by Uncle Victor, ejected not only the lump of partially chewed meat but a proportion of her stomach contents as well. 

Donald looked at his mother with some anxiety while Jennie, a napkin pressed over her nose and mouth, hurried to open a window. “Are you all right, mum?”

“She's fine.” Oblivious to the smell of vomit, Victor returned to his plate, taking the opportunity to snag a second helping of roast potatoes. He nudged their mother with his elbow. “You're fine aren't you, Mum? The food was a bit richer than she's used to, that's all.” He speared a Brussels sprout and held it aloft. “Marvelous fare though, Jennie. Thanks for inviting us.”

“Er... You're welcome, Victor. I'm glad there's enough. Don didn't mention you were coming.”

“I didn't know.” Donald scowled at his brother. “You never said you were visiting.”

“It was a last minute decision.” Victor nudged the old woman again. “Wasn't it mum?”

“Last minute.” The old woman's movements were almost mechanical. Cut-stab-cut-stab-transfer to mouth-chew-swallow-repeat. 

Donald pushed his plate away, searching for a topic of conversation. “So what made you come this year? Don't you usually go to Ludmilla's?” Ludmilla was their sister. She lived only a few miles from their mother's house in Norfolk. “Not that it isn't a nice change you came here, of course. I was just curious.”

“Ludmilla's got the exterminators in.” Victor speared a piece of roasted turnip, added a slice of sausage stuffing and steered both through the pool of cranberry jelly. “Someone complained about the rats.”

Their mother's eyes flickered briefly. “Rats.” 

Donald nodded sagely. “Ah. She always had a problem with rats. Comes of living on the fens, I suppose.” 

“So they say.” Victor gave a snort of laughter. “Though the mud helps preserve the bodies.”

“Bodies?” Jennie turned from her street gazing. “What bodies?”

Donald narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Didn't I ever tell you, love? Ludmilla's a mortician. I'm sure I would have said.”

“We've been married eleven years, Donald, and you've never mentioned it once.” Jennie's tone was as cold as the congealing gravy. “I think I'd have remembered, especially after Uncle Ron died . We had such a fuss trying to find someone willing to reassemble him after his accident.”

“You should have asked, Don. Ludmilla would have been more than willing.” Victor gestured at her with his knife, mercifully devoid of content. “She's got a beautiful blanket stitch. She wins prizes for it.”

Donald looked at their mother. She had, thankfully, cleaned up most of her plate and was reaching for the dish of turkey slices. There was a sudden noise from the region of her armpit, the sort of sound cloth makes when it rips down a seam. A bulge appeared in the sleeve of her dress. Victor looked alarmed.

“Have you torn your dress, love?” Jennie reached to push the plate of turkey closer to her mother in law but stopped in mid-action. “Donald? There's something on her sleeve.”

Donald followed the line of her pointing finger, expecting but dreading what he saw. A single white maggot worked its way out of her cuff and dropped to the table, and where there was one, there were a hundred more. The bulge in her sleeve was wriggling. “Victor? I think you need to take mum for a comfort break.”

“If you think so, Donald.” Victor stood, very deliberately placing one hand over her arm to prevent further escapes. “Come on mother. Let's get you sorted out. I told you not to eat so much.”

“Eat much. Eat.” Their mother grinned suddenly, her teeth yellow against the dark cavern of her mouth. “Food good.” Her elongated vowels were the sound of wind through a mausoleum.

“Jennie's glad you enjoyed it.” Victor steered her out of the room.

Donald sighed. Jennie had a look of clouds before a thunderstorm. He reached across the table and picked up the stray maggot, popped it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I should have told you this a long time ago, love, but our name hasn't always been shortened to 'Stein'...”

Rachel Green juggles time between walking in the Derbyshire Dales and writing. She doesn't walk all that much.