That Awkward Stage Where Things Get a Bit Heated

My mom went through a strange phase when I was about 8 years old.  She was about 50 then, and she had this really odd behavior at times.  But Rebecca and I knew exactly what to do.

In the middle of pouring split peas into the pressure cooker or feeding wet laundry through the wringer, Mom would give a sudden desperate little shriek.  Then she would sink into the nearest chair and gasp, "Fan mich!  Fan mich!"

Rebecca and I would immediately kick into action, whirling around and grabbing whatever our hands landed on--Rod and Staff Sunday school papers, the latest letter from Aunt Vina, the Spectors catalog, probably even a fly swatter--and then we'd stand there pumping vigorously with whatever object we had, fanning Mom as fast and as hard as we could until her breathing returned to normal and with a tired sigh she would tell us we could stop, and then she'd slowly get up and go back to work.

We took this job seriously, as I recall, and didn't make fun of her like we did with so many other things she did.  Or I should say "I" and not "we," generally speaking.

Suddenly, in this as with so many other things, I have turned into my mom.

In the middle of the night, the middle of church, the middle of supper, suddenly I turn into a human percolator as an unbelievably super-heated something comes boiling up inside, out to my shoulders and down my arms, up my neck and through my ears from bottom to top, forward to my face and back to my scalp.

My eyes pop and my mouth flops open in an explosive "PAAAHHHH" and I fight an impulse to tear off my garments like the people of Nineveh in terror of judgment.

My face turns bright red, sweat glistens, I grab the nearest Sunday school quarterly or newspaper and FAN FAN FAN.

This evening I had a reading and signing at Barnes and Noble.  Now this is a great honor for an author and an event at which one should conduct oneself with grace and dignity.

I was standing there reading a chapter from Tea and Trouble Brewing to the assembled audience when suddenly THERE IT WAS, that maddening heat rising like some nuclear reactor gone wild.  I wanted to yank off the chic little jacket Jenny had picked out for me and run outside into the rain.

But no.  I calmed myself.  I can wing this.  Keep reading.

I could feel my ears heating up and my face breaking out in a sweat.  I wasn't sure I could breathe.  My clothes were stifling.

In a millisecond I evaluated my audience.  A bunch of women, almost all older than me, and a few men who looked very married.  Safe people.  You gotta do what you gotta do.

"Listen," I said, "You'll have to excuse me, but I'm at that stage."  And I pulled out my bookmark, an old postcard-sized reference card from Paul's mom listing a prisoner in Gospel Echoes' Bible course program, and I rapidly fanned myself until the crisis passed.

"We understand," said the ladies, laughing.  "We've been there."

The men didn't act perturbed.  It probably made them nostalgic, like they should reach around and grab a Windows for Dummies off the rack and help me out.

When I came home, two people from the audience had posted pictures of the event on Facebook.  One of the shots had caught me in the heat of the moment, little white card flapping.

I showed it to Emily.  She laughed.  "Wow.  Really??"

She'll get it when she's 50.

And that chic little jacket I wore?  That one that is 45% wool and has a row of five closely-spaced buttons that are fastened shut with hard to manage loops?  That jacket can quietly go into the attic until this stage is over.

Quote of the Day:
"Enjoyed hearing RG columnist Dorcus Smucker read tonight at Barnes & Noble. Especially the story about fishing with her son. And especially especially when she said the word "puke.""
--Bob Welch, who until recently was also a RG columnist, on facebook.