CrossRoads Farm

Three Sides to the Story

07 June, 2005 - 7:19 am

Everything is about perception.

There are three sides to every story. Yours, mine and the Truth. Or in this case. Dee’s, my mom’s and what really happened.

Friday I drove down to Aunt Dee’s house in Massachusetts for a packing party she was having to help prepare her for her move to the other side of the state. Dee had invited my parents, Gumby, and another aunt to come help. There were dozens of jobs to be done and the more the merrier.

Gumby was due to arrive at 7:30 to get to work. So Dee, myself, and my girls got going right after breakfast. 7 AM. Gumby showed up at 9:30 without my mother. He was supposed to bring her along so she wouldn’t have to wait for Dad to get himself together. But she had a hairdresser’s appointment at 10. She’d known about this weekend’s plans for three weeks but she didn’t change her appointment.

Gumby chose the most time consuming, two person job he could find - insisted on doing it the hard way and then stood in the sun complaining about the heat. We finally have warm weather and he’s bitching about it.

Instead of working.

Dee and I worked hard all morning, sat down long enough for a hot dog and a beer, and got right back to it. We went up to the perennial garden to do a few things and around three o’clock the heat was beginning to get to Dee so she suggested a “sit-down-and-have-a-beer-job we can do.” We headed down to the patio. I got the beer and a church-key and Dee got a garbage bag full of empty number ten tin cans she’d gotten from a restaurant. The idea was to pop holes in the bottom of the cans with the church-key and make pots for transplants. We had just gotten comfortable when my folks showed up.

I don’t know why but my parents have a way of bringing any kind of productive situation to a screeching halt. And at this point I was wondering why they’d shown up at all. It was 3:15 and there was no way once Dee and I sat down for dinner that either of us was going to do anything more strenuous than put the kids to bed.

So here I am popping holes in cans. Saying my hello’s without getting up for hugs. Mom came over and said, “Here let me help.” She took the church-key from me and picked up a can. I’m sure that Mom was just trying to get to work as soon as she could and latched onto the first thing she saw. She felt bad that she and Dad had shown up so late. Me? I was too tired to argue. But Dee grabbed the church-key from Mom and said, “No, that’s a job for someone who’s been working since 7.” I thought her tone might be unnecessarily harsh, but she was clearly frustrated by what she considers my parents disregard for everyone around them. (It isn’t disregard, it’s a lack of sensitively – they aren’t doing it on purpose they are simply oblivious.)
My mother – in her teacher voice – said, “Dee, don’t even start. I wanted to be her at 9.” It was a valiant effort at standing her ground but she chose the wrong opponent.
Dee looked Mom straight in the eye, ”Then you should have changed your hair appointment.”

I didn’t stick around for anything else. I excused myself to use the bathroom.

I’m sure that Dee thinks my mother was just trying to take over the easiest job she could, now that she had finally arrived.

And I’m sure Mom felt that Dee was being ungrateful. After all they were doing Dee a favor by helping at all. And it wasn’t her fault that my grandmother messed up the hair appointments. I wish I could tell you what that meant but I didn’t ask.

I don’t use the same playbook the rest of the family does.

They were both a little right, and both a little wrong.

It’s all about perception.

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