Tag: true stories

True Confessions of an Epic New Miller Misadventure

Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash

Spring Break hit hard this year. 

The house we had giddily reserved for almost a week for our large young family was on a small island accessible by ferry. It had sufficient beds, a wood-burning fireplace, and a hot tub in the yard. We were anticipating a week of restful quiet, beach-combing, game nights, cuddling up with books, and soaking in the hot tub while hearing the wind sigh in the towering pines overhead. 

Alas.

Upon arrival on a gray and windy afternoon, we discovered that the narrow, steeply downhill driveway was covered with thick pine needles and did not allow us to turn or park our large van in the garage – firstly because we had no space on either side from the bare scratchy shrubs and row of thick evergreen trees on either side, and secondly because we would never have fit in the low, small garage anyway. No matter. We parked with the van pointed down on the slope, and unloaded our bins and bags of belongings, running in and out multiple times. 

The initial smell of the house was mildew. The smell only strengthened as we began to explore. Downstairs was worst – where the two rooms I was going to put six of my eight kids were. The two rooms each had a double bed and a trundle, and were connected by a bathroom in the middle. The bathroom doors in the bedrooms on either side were glass, but had been thoughtfully covered by curtains of fabric – allowing modesty but not stopping any light. And the light switches for the bathroom were in each bedroom – allowing anyone on either side to turn on or off the light at any moment, regardless of what the person actually using the bathroom expected or needed.

As my husband and I made up the trundle beds, we noticed that the floors were rather dusty and the mattresses were covered with hair. Human hair, and not just from the head. A small pill was also found in one of the beds – not one I could readily identify – and my husband quickly threw it away with disgust. Trying to erase these things from my thoughts, we headed upstairs to continue unpacking and settling in.

The main floor bathroom where each of my children were told to wash their hands had another glass door with another semi-private cloth curtain. The soap dispenser shot soap directly outward rather than down, so some of my kids came out with soap sprayed on their chests or arms.  

The dishwasher wasn’t actually attached to the cupboards or counter, so when my husband tried to help me open the door (because I was unable to wrench it open despite trying several times), the entire dishwasher tipped forward so his thumb was caught and wedged between the metal casing of the dishwasher and the top of the counter – still without the door open. Maybe I didn’t need to think about dishes yet.

Upstairs, I was surprised to note that the master bedroom was actually a loft, complete with two little nooks with twin mattresses for two more children and a full prospect of the living room, and no door at the top of the stairs. The master bathroom kept the loft theme, with an open space above the bathroom door (again, fully glass, covered with a thin see-through gauzy cloth curtain) that continued all the way through to the toilet and shower – allowing any sounds or activity therein to be discernible by anyone on the upper and main floor at any time. But then, privacy is highly overrated. 

The wiring was suitable for the age of the house – which is to say, it was outdated and quirky, with switches for various rooms or areas in mysterious, non-intuitive locations, sometimes on other floors altogether – one switch for the light in the master shower on the top floor was actually downstairs on the main floor, near the kitchen. The fairy lights strung fancifully in the little nooks upstairs were adorable – except that one set’s wiring had been disconnected from the plug altogether, and the end of the wire was stuffed under the mattress. Nothing like a fire to keep one warm at night.

Trying to get supper ready, I headed down to the kitchen to begin preparations. After setting a stack of fresh napkins on the table, I heated the oven and made the salad. When I returned to the table to start setting it, I was surprised to see a clear black handprint on the top of the stack of napkins. All the children denied it – but the culprit was easily found, since their entire hand was coated in a greasy film of black soot. What had they been touching?! I shrieked in alarm – and discovered that it had been the table itself. Apparently the chimney had just been serviced – there was an invoice and a report on the counter – and we found that the entire main living area and kitchen were coated with a thin layer of soot. The yellow cloth we found to use to clean came up with a black streak with every swipe. Running a palm over the kitchen counter, the palm turned grey-black almost instantly. 

When I then inspected the other kids’ hands and socks, a layer of grey-black grime was evident. All our kids were immediately advised to stop touching things (because apparently I was hallucinating about their ability to actually obey this order) and to replace their shoes, which they had removed. 

I was horrified and grossed out. I began texting the owner – only to be interrupted by a piercing scream of pain. My daughter stood in the doorway of the bathroom, bent double and shrieking in agony – she had been shot in the eye by a stream of soap. Since she was unable to see or move, my husband and I ran to her and dragged her over to the kitchen sink. We began an attempt at emergency eye-washing with cool water – while she continued to scream and writhe and fight us, unable to process or listen to anything we said, swollen eye shut tight and face contorted. Her eye remained swollen, pink, and weepy the remainder of our stay.

It was my breaking point. At this juncture this property was beyond redemption for me. 

I communicated to the owner that we were too uncomfortable with the cleanliness (or lack thereof) of the house and would not able to stay – we would be leaving in the morning. She was apologetic and understanding, and quickly reimbursed us, but now we had to start repacking up everything we had just unpacked – which was a lot, since I had apparently excelled at efficiency, to my chagrin. 

My husband, searching online, found another large home nearby – the only other option we had seen that would accommodate us – and made reservations as it was, miraculously, still available for the dates we needed.

In the morning, we ate hurriedly and then, despite our children’s best efforts to sabotage our departure, managed to get everything reassembled and shuffled back into the bins we had come with, only breaking one glass bottle in the process.

Then my husband received news: The second reservation he had made was actually not available. At all. It had been listed by mistake, and the property was being used for storage for all the furniture from another property that had flooded the year before. So sorry for the inconvenience! 

Stunned, sick at heart, we quickly searched again online for any other available place that would work for our immediate housing needs and numbers – and came up empty. I began to weep as I continued packing up, facing the inevitable – we would be returning home after this disappointing and negative experience. Spring Break was a bust. The children who did not cry were pale and silent with disappointment – and that hurt my heart worse.

Then my resourceful husband located a possible option at a town we had visited a couple years before – but it was about four hours’ drive away. If we were willing to make it, it was available immediately and was spacious enough for us and had a hot tub to boot. Eyes wide with sudden galvanized hope, our packing went into fifth gear. Flinging the last coat and bag into the van and shuffling the last child in, we climbed into the van to make our way back to the ferry line – perhaps we could make the one leaving in about ten minutes! 

In the meantime, the gray and sullen sky had begun to rain. 

Engine revving, we lurched forward – then in trying to reverse up that steep driveway covered with (now wet and slippery) pine needles, the tires spun out and we couldn’t move backwards up the final stretch of the driveway. Three times, four, five – each time we tried, we spun out, tires whirling and smoking, engine roaring, never reaching the top of the driveway and the freedom of the lane beyond. Panicky thoughts of being trapped at this house began to rise in my mind.

I leapt out of the van, running back to the house for a broom – coming back to try to make a dent in the thick spongy layer of decomposing pine needles, eventually frantically scraping at them with the dustpan, since the broom was ineffective. My husband, now worried about the transmission and thinking we would need to call a tow truck to get out, called out the window for me to get off the driveway – he would try one more time and didn’t want to run me over!  Using only the back-up camera, he gunned it into reverse one more time – and lurched and spun, and despite more skidding and roaring, made it up to the top and backed into the lane! Flinging the broom back inside the house, I leapt into the van and we took off. Adrenaline pumping, we drove quickly and carefully down the winding narrow island roads to the ferry dock – only to see the cars from the most recent ferry driving past – the ferry back to the mainland was about to leave! 

We drove down to the waiting queue and were the last in line – and already mourning, I saw that the ferry was mostly full. Surely there would be no more space for our large van – and the next ferry was another hour and a half later. In shock, my mind couldn’t process what this meant.

But then – astonishingly, the people loading the ferry were waving brusquely at us to move forward! There was one last rectangle of space on board – and our van filled it exactly. Beaming broadly, I pumped my fist victoriously at the wonderful woman who had motioned us aboard, wishing I could leap out and hug her in gratitude. She merely smiled, clearly humbly unaware of how magnificent she was.

It was a glorious departure.

And when we finally arrived at the third reservation, the simple discoveries that the house smelled clean, there wasn’t a smear of soot in sight, the master bedroom and bathroom were private, the dishwasher opened in a most unexciting way, and that there were clean and plentiful hair-free beds for each and every child were causes for rejoicing and gratitude. 

Nothing like an incredible dose of perspective to create a heart of thanksgiving.

And create the firm resolve to just stay home next Spring Break.

Have you had any kooky misadventures these past few weeks? Sign up for my emails and keep in touch to let me know how you’re doing! And please share this post! Thanks a bunch.

Wear your crown. Carry your sword. – Maria Miller

Elmo in the Doghouse: Murder, Mystery, and Squawks in the Night

(A true story)

            It was a dark and windy night, clouds scudding rapidly across the moonless sky. The mango trees creaked, while the palmetto’s fan-like leaves scraped and rustled in the gusts of wind. Inside the house, our family was quiet and subdued as we prepared for bed. There had been several unsolved murders recently, and justice had to be done.

            My dad’s chicken house had been broken into twice in the past few days, with two feathered victims left bloodied and dead, despite his taking extra caution to check for openings for predators and lock it up at night. There was only one suspect: My sister’s old orange-and-white cat, Elmo.

            After the double murders, my dad had caught sight of Elmo unwisely lurking around the scene of the crime, during the hours the door was left open for the hens to wander and scratch in the yard. He had been seen standing below the open door, poised as if to jump inside the coop, but had quickly darted away when he saw my dad come out on the porch. He had been known to try to stalk the chickens in the past (granted, without any success, since they were about as large as he was), and Dad was quick to point out Elmo’s guilty, furtive air that he had worn the past week. The theory was that he was getting old and bloodthirsty, sneaky and able to kill but unable to devour his victims. To my dad, there was no doubt: Elmo needed to be humanely and quickly put down before more innocent chicken lives were ruthlessly taken.

            In our family, any of our animals that took the life of another of our animals was quickly dispatched, usually by my dad, in the form of an appointment with a shotgun in the back corral. Elmo was our family’s oldest surviving pet in our home in the tropics, and despite his grumpy ways, was generally viewed with fondness and affection. Until now.

            Elmo the cat was finding himself decidedly in the doghouse.

            During the family court held that night, with my dad as prosecutor, jury, and judge, there was only a slim chance for Elmo. But my sister and I quickly appointed ourselves the defendant’s attorneys, and pled for a delay of execution due to lack of evidence. We said that if there was another such incident and Elmo was indeed caught as perpetrator, we would no longer stand between him and a justly deserved death sentence. We only asked for at least a week’s reprieve or till a more thorough investigation could be done. Our dad, torn between wanting vengeance for his chickens and upholding unbiased justice, reluctantly agreed.

            For the next few days, Elmo, sensing the grim skepticism of my dad toward his innocence, only added to his tarnished reputation by being excessively slinky and furtive. We kids kept a sharp lookout for any convicting behavior, but everything was quiet. Very quiet.

The tension grew.

            My parents’ room was closest to the chicken coop, and each night my dad would lie in bed awake, listening for any sound of a poultry commotion, silently daring the cat to try his luck one more time. Each morning, we children would anxiously ask if anything had happened in the night, holding our breath till we heard that Elmo was still on probation.

            Then, one night as my parents were getting ready for bed, my dad heard it: a squawking and fluttering, and a loud agitated scuffling from the chicken house. This was it! At last, if he could get there in time, the culprit would be brought to full justice!

            Without pausing to pull on pants, my dad thundered out of the house in only his white briefs. The door slammed behind him as he pounded down the porch, jumped the steps, and charged up the lawn in the windy night toward the chicken house. Reaching the coop, he barely slowed before flinging open the back door of the coop that had been somehow pushed ajar. The chickens were squawking, thrashing about, and screeching with such noise my dad’s approach was unnoticed by the killer within.

            Reaching in, he grabbed the furry beast in the midst of attacking the chickens, and in righteous indignation, holding Elmo fiercely by the scruff of his neck, began spanking him, saying through gritted teeth: “Bad cat! Bad cat!”

            Suddenly, my dad smelled a rank and fetid odor. It appeared to emanate from the creature he had assumed was Elmo. He stopped, and, holding up the animal carefully in the dim light, was stunned to see that he had been spanking a large, dirty-gray, wild possum. The possum, startled and immobile, gazed back at him in shock.

            By this time, my mom had followed him outside and was standing on the porch, peering across the wind-swept, dark yard. She saw him standing stock still next to the chicken coop, clad only in his underwear, holding something out at arms’ length. She called out, “What is it?”

“A possum!” He yelled back, with some consternation. “What do I do with it?”

“I don’t know!” she exclaimed, starting to laugh at the odd question. “Just throw it away!”

            Dad carried the possum off into the night, far away from the chicken coop and over toward the fence of our property, where he chucked it into the bushes. Then he returned to latch up the chicken coop again, and head back to the house to shower and get in bed, both relieved and somewhat chagrined to have the case closed in this unexpected way.

            The next morning we children were delighted to hear that Elmo had been fully exonerated and his innocence reestablished. He was indeed now out of the doghouse. His expression that morning might have been interpreted as slightly relieved to be off the threat of death row (but then, cats are usually somewhat inscrutable).

            As for the possum, we never saw it again, possibly due to its permanent shock at being the recipient of a spanking when it was just trying to snag a free chicken dinner. My dad later found a small gap in the slats next to the chicken coop door that had allowed the predator access, and after it was fixed everyone slept with far greater serenity.

Especially the chickens.