Prunes

As a small child I grew up in North Kansas City, Missouri. My Mom, sister, and a step-father named Bill Steele all lived in a little house across from the local grade school.

Before I was old enough to go to school, we added another bedroom to the back of the garage and Bill Steele's mother moved in. I think the first words out of her mouth were “Don't you dare call me granny!” She was a mean spirited old crone and it didn't take long before she had made herself known. Mom was off to work, Bill was off to drink, and Granny was going to babysit for the day. The first I knew of trouble was when the frumpy and ageless hag tried to serve me prunes at breakfast. I told her I didn't like prunes but she wasn't in the mood to have a four year old child make menu choices. She informed me that I was to either eat the slimy things or I could go back to bed and stay there until the time I submitted. Luckily, even as a small child, I could spend countless hours sleeping away the day. If the choice was sleeping and dreaming of the day when the old bat would go away, or, eating those crappy prunes, I was more than willing to meet my fate. When Mom returned from work that afternoon the prunes hit the fan! I was kicked out of bed, dressed, fed something, and then told to go outside and play.

From under the kitchen window I heard Mom lay down some law. I'm not sure what was said but I know I was never again asked to eat prunes.