Growing up, gifts were important to us. We didn’t have much money; it was the thought that counted. My parents’ birthdays and Mother’s Day and Father’s day were particularly important.
That’s where the liquid powder comes in. I was nine or so, scrounging around the house for something to concoct for her, or some forgotten item that would delight when wrapped. I noticed her powder that always sat atop the toilet tank in her and Dad’s bathroom. It was that old fashioned kind of powder, with the wide bowl and powder puff, and a fancy plastic top with a gaudy plastic handle sticking straight up out of its center. I removed the top, smelled the powder, and noticed the powder dust right away.
That’s a shame, I thought. Powder would be so much more efficient if it were liquid. Within moments, riding a wave of creative frenzy, I was in the kitchen, stirring her old fashioned kind of powder into a stew pot with a wooden spoon. Small clouds escaped the stew pot, and although I hurried, I didn’t make it in time. She turned the corner, and, like a flash of lightning, my sanity returned to me.
The details of the next few moments evaded both of our memories soon after, and the joke of the liquid powder became an indelible, delightful gift to both of us. We remember only my mom holding me by one arm as we ran in circles, she trying to catch up with me to paddle my behind, and I determined to outrun her. Eventually the circular chase melted into laughter, and we chuckled about it often for decades to come.
What a great visual!
What a fun and special memory. Laughter shared is a true gift.
Awesome story! I can relate: my mom was not so much into makeup, etc., but she too had that same type of powder – how ingenious you were! Is that a painting you did?
I think women of that day were often treated to such powders. No, not my painting, Irene, but an interesting story. After Mom died, my “adopted” sister Barbara and I were going through things in the garage, cleaning out the house for sale. I found the portrait in the back of one of the storage cabinets. I was immediately struck by it; it so matched the glamorous photos I’d seen of my mother taken before I was born. I had never seen it! Barbara, who lived in Arizona at the time and saw Mom more than I did for those final years, said she’d stumbled upon it when helping Mom with Christmas decorations that were stored in the same cabinet. Mom said she hated the portrait and swore Barbara to secrecy. It now hangs above my desk alongside of a photo my sister took on Mom’s final birthday. Young and old, equally lovely.