Elocution Lessons

Photo by Jens

Penny wasn't home. Elvis said she went grocery shopping with her mom and didn't know when they'd be back. Then he told me to quit asking every fifteen minutes because it wouldn't make them come home any sooner.

I was drowning in boredom. Playing with the poodles at the Airstream didn’t thrill me. I had more butterflies than my Critter Catcher could hold. Even the snap of Mom’s playing card in my bike spokes didn’t excite me, and neither did my Hoppity-Hop.

I went home, trying not to look bored, because if Mom noticed, she’d give me chores like cleaning the litterbox or washing windows. I quietly opened the sliding glass door and tiptoed to my room.

Flipping through my Tiger Beat, I found a glossy photo of David Cassidy. His white puka shell necklace gleamed, and his eyes sparkled like emeralds, but even he couldn’t save me from my boredom.

When Brother got bored, he took a nap. He said it made time go faster. I tried closing my eyes too, drifting a little and listening to the voices in my head, until laughter snapped me out of it. Was it Penny and Billy in the playground behind our trailer row? Or maybe it was Nasty Boy and his new girlfriend, or that tall, pimply kid with his booger-nosed sister, the new swing-hoggers at Happy Acres.

I heard laughter again, then a squeal. Someone was having fun, and I wasn’t there!

Dad sat in his Ames chair in the living room, reading the newspaper while Chopin played on the record player. Mom was at the kitchen booth, cutting recipes from magazines and sipping root beer. Trying not to run down the hallway, burst into the living room, or slam the sliding door on my way out was a full-time job for me. Whenever I forgot, our trailer shook like an earthquake.

"Why are you always in such a hurry?" Dad would ask. "Slow down and think about what you’re doing and how your actions affect everyone else."

But this time, I couldn’t help it. I ran down the hallway and, halfway out the sliding door, I mumbled, “Immmgonnegooutsyennnplay!” All I cared about was that my boredom was finally over because there were kids in the play area, and I didn’t care who they were.

“Wait!” Dad called, looking over his newspaper. "I didn't understand a damn word you just said."

Mom stopped cutting recipes, sensing the tension.

"You’re not going anywhere, young lady," Dad said. "I don’t know what’s worse, running through the house like a wild animal or sounding like one!"

Unfortunately, I had a problem with elocution.

Whenever Dad caught me mumbling or tripping over my words, he made me do an elocution lesson.

"Enunciate. Enunciate. Enunciate," Dad clapped and shouted. "You’re a civilized human being and capable of sounding like one. Now stand up straight. Arms at your side!"  

And then my penance for mumbling began.  

"The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain. Now, say it with me: the rain in Spain stays mainly in the..."

"No, no, no! Slow down. You’re not making the sounds right with your mouth. Watch my mouth."

I stared at his yellowed teeth while my mind wondered if those kids were swinging or sliding. I couldn’t tell.

"The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain. Repeat it, slowly this time." Dad watched every sound and shape my mouth made. I kept repeating that line about the rain in Spain until Dad decided he’d fixed me.

But then he made me do the brown cows and the Peter Piper one, too.

"How now, brown cow," I repeated until my cheeks hurt.

"Well done," Dad finally said. "Now you sound like a civilized human being."  

I couldn’t get out of the trailer fast enough. I didn’t want those kids to leave before I got a change to play with them. I yanked the sliding door open, finally feeling free.

“Wait a minute. Where are you going, Petunia?” Mom asked. I never knew why she called me a flower, but she did, and it always threw me off.

"ImmgoingovertooPenny'sndthengoingorrrtatheswings," I said.  

Dad and Mom traded looks. I bolted.  

Before Dad could say anything, I ran down the steps, knowing he could open the sliding door and catch me at any moment. As I fumbled with the gate latch, my fingers felt clumsy, like giant sausages.

I heard Dad yelling and thunderous footsteps coming from the trailer.  

I froze at the gate. Should I run to the playground or just go back to my room? I couldn’t handle another elocution lesson, but if I ran, I’d get a brief moment of freedom, only to be grounded forever. By then, those kids would be grown-ups.

I turned around and muttered, "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers."

Mom opened the sliding glass door.

A feeling of doom settled over me, worse than boredom.

"If you see Penny’s mom, please tell her I’ll return that cup of sugar later this afternoon. And be home for dinner." She smiled and let me go.

As I ran to the playground to play with friends, I wondered if all those elocution lessons would ever fix me the way Dad thought I should be.

Surprisingly, they did.