|A lovely restored downtown|
Somehow the 1950s of my childhood seemed to be a sweeter time, almost innocent. The cars were big and roomy, without seatbelts. Keys were often left in the ignition, in case the car had to be moved out of the way for a tractor. Children could be left in the car; no one would take them. Everyone would watch the car anyway, to make sure the kids stayed there.
|A different town in a different state in the 1950s|
Perhaps leaving kids in the car wasn’t a good idea all the time. Maybe some wisdom should have been applied. I don’t know. But the story here is a true story, with details changed because it is a good idea to change some things.
Lenora had four kids, and was expecting a fifth any day. She had a list of errands to accomplish before #5 came: stop by the butcher and pick up the five gallon sealed container of newly rendered lard, go to the bank, and then drop off the newly-collected honey to be put in jars at her sister’s house. So far she had completed only the first one—picking up the lard.
Lenora left the keys in the car and told the boys what she would do to them if whatever. Then she went into the bank for just a few minutes. A few dang minutes.
When Lenora came out, she shrieked and shrieked. “What the________ have you boys DONE?”
The entire interior of the car was plastered, no, layered, with handprints of white lard. Coated from ceiling to floor mats, from rear view mirror to the back window in lard, thick greasy lard.
Then the honey had come out from the sealed jar and dumped in great sticky strands over the lard.
The doors were locked. The kids were not talking or responding, just giving a quiet giggle now and then. The keys were in the ignition.
Lenora sat down on the curbing and cried. What else could she do?