As a little kid growing up we had a big couch. It was a dusty looking dark blue. As I recall, it had a faint pattern in the fabric, or, perhaps it was just the texture. I dont really remember, but the fabric was different. It seemed like it was a wool and polyester blend; it had that wool feeling, and yet a plastic feel too. I remember it had two large seat cushions. They were very dense, really heavy. As kids, we would get our pillows and blankets. We would take the cushions from the couch and lay them on the living room floor to make little beds. This was the perfect set up for watching cartoons on a Saturday morning. The couch had the hide-a-bed option. Occasionally, the bed would also be pulled out for cartoon time. The couch always scared me a bit. I wondered if it could open up on its own, and swallow me. Would anyone know where I went? or, what would happen if some one didnt know I was under the covers, came along and folded the bed into the couch - with me still in it. Back then, I guessed I would just have to wiggle out of the rolled up mattress, making my way to the floor where I could squeeze out under the end of the couch between the two big brown square feet. I comparison to the couch, our roll-away bed was an easy one to escape from, if trapped inside. Each end folded upward toward the center, making a U shape. A small bar went from one side of the frame to the other, holding the two sides upright, so it could easy be rolled and stored away. Some times, we would lay across the width of the roll-away bed and have other kids fold up the ends. It was like you were the hot dog in a hot dog bun. Then we would slither our the end, just to prove we could escape. As kids, there were many good times - good memories from that couch we had for so many years. Although I do not remember this specific incident, Mom would tell a story about that couch. It would have happened in Rapid City, South Dakota - or perhaps Billings, Montana. I would have been about 3 or four years old at the time. Mom said we were sitting on the couch together. She had her sewing gear out, stitching something, while I sat next to her. I was very intently looking over the pictures in a childrens book. Mom had a hat pin. These were pins about two and a half to three inches long, with a disproportionately large plastic head on them - the head was usually white or had a grey pearl look to it. Mom would take the tip of the pin, lightly touch it to my arm, then quickly move her hand away to continue innocently sewing. I would look up, not knowing what touched me, or who did it. Thinking it must have been a bug, or something, I went back to my book. As soon as I was buried back in the book, Mom would touch me with the pin again, immediately pull her hand back. Once more, startled I would look for the culprit. No one was there, just Mom sewing away. Not finding anything, I returned to the booked. It happened a third time. Each time, equally baffled over what was touching me, I would look for the source, each time without success. Mom said the fourth time she did it, I caught her. She had a real good laugh about it, while I being the lesser sport, didnt think it was that funny. Mom returned the hat pin to her pin cushion, and then went about her sewing - I reengaged the book. The pin cushion, I do remember. Mom had it for years and years. It looked like a tomato. It was round, looking like a red ball that had been compressed down a bit to make it take the shape of the fruit. It had green lines stitched up the sides, kind of like the ridges of a tomato while the top has a green spot, where the stem would be. It was always full with pins and needles poked into it. It looked like a cross between a tomato and a porcupine. With the hat pin safely in the pin cushion, Mom went to the kitchen to check on something in the oven, leaving me on the couch with my book. She told me she was had her two hot pads, one in each hand. She was bending a hot stove. The oven door laying down in front of her, the rack pulled out with a pan of hot food, lifting it from the oven. She looked to her right to see a most terrifying sight. Her young son was running toward her with his arm stretched straight out in from of him, holding the hat pin in his fingers. Mom said I looked just like a knight in armor, with his lance protruding forward, charging into battle on a well suited horse. In her position, there was nothing she could do. I apparently poked the needle into the cheek of her tushy. The facts of the story would vary, depending on Moms disposition when telling it. Sometimes it was a two inch needle - other times it was six - occasionally it was the size of a large knitting needle. Some days I just poked her with the tip, others I pushed it in all the way. Some days it was a story about a cute little kid who innocently played the same game Mom played - Other it was about a rotten kid who never could take a joke. One thing remained consistent: it was always entertaining to hear Mom tell the story. There were so many stories and memories from the couch which we had for many, many years. Although the couch seemed a bit scary to me when I was alone, it was always comfortable and fun, when full of brother and sisters or, Mom and Dad.
Posted on: Sun, 27 Apr 2014 13:45:50 +0000
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