2003-01-04 - 7:25 p.m.
THE DARKEST HOUR
In some families, the hour may be darkest just before the dawn. In this family, the darkest hour is well before the dawn. The darkest hour is a daytime away from dawn. The darkest hour is the hour that begins at approximately 5:30 and, on a good day, ends at suppertime. Once, hope existed that we would outgrow this problem. Now Mr. Philately and I realize that we will just have to outlast it.
Something magical and ugly happens at 5:30 p.m., regularly that you can set a watch by it. It�s inception appears as innocent as the field of wheat in Alfred Hitchcock�s �North by Northwest.� The grain is golden. The grain is waving. The girls seem happy and engaged, usually with each other. My mother�s ear can hear them across the house and, if I didn�t know any better, I would sigh with contentment. But my mother�s ear hears something else. It hears that the tones are just likely sharp.
Soon, the laughter picks up. At first, the laughter sounds real and heartfelt. All too soon, the laughter is the auditory equivalent of a clown�s funhouse. The undertones say, �There�s a guy here with a gun and he�ll shoot me if I don�t laugh.� The laughter is just a bit maniacal. My early warning system�s message ricochets through my brain just as a drop in sugar strains my body. I shout out a warning. �Danger, Will Robinson, danger!� But it echoes through the void of space.
Next, the wrestling begins. The girls sprout spiritual ears, tails, and cold noses. Their insides become magnetically charged with opposite charges. They get within a few feet of each other and the deed is done. They are now on top of each other, thrashing around. �Danger! Danger!� I shout. �Mother, you are overreacting,� they reply. I sigh. I might as well be telling a group of new high school graduates that some day they might appreciate high school.
If it were any other time of day, I might stand a chance. But for me, as for my mother before me, 5:30 p.m. is crabby hour. I�m hungry, I�m tired, I�m trying to get supper on the table�and cooking, which I hate, is not a substitute for Prozac or a good stiff drink. (Actually, sniffing the cork of the cooking sherry might help but I like to stay awake through supper.)
If I�m very, very lucky, the phone rings or Mr. Philately comes in or something else intervenes at the critical moment. On nights like tonight, nothing intervenes. As the singer Stan Rogers once said of the wind on the great lakes, �It goes from calm to 100 knots so fast it seems enchanted.� And then the storm hits. Sometimes it�s a storm named Day-Hay. Sometimes it�s a storm named Kat. Sometimes it is just a little snow squall. Sometimes it�s an F-5 tornado. Sometimes it passes quickly. Sometimes it stays the night and part of the next day.
And then the light dawns again�at least until the hour before supper.
LAST YEAR: Surely? Not!
LAST FIVE ENTRIES:
Mock Trial
Defending Spaces
Not One-Size-Fits-All
Forget the Suitcase
Routine
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Copyright 2006 by Ellen |
