Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Whoa, Bessie!

Mom was a model when she was in her teens. So were her two sisters—cute little French girls with large breasts, tiny waists, and small hips. The kind you don’t want to stand next to.

She thought I’d turn out cute and be a model too, so she had the Inoculator shoot one of my vaccines way underneath my upper arm so it wouldn’t be visible during photo shoots. Turns out she didn’t have to worry about that.

Being a model, Mom dressed herself beautifully and expensively, except for that ugly powder blue and black strapless, one-piece bathing suit. We were living in Minnesota, where Dad was the branch manager for a loan company (the kind where you could get a loan at 20 percent interest or for your firstborn), and Mom ran the appliance department for Northern States Power.

One rare, warm day while I visited friends, Mom and Dad drove out to our land, jumped on our horses, and rode around the ranch.

Dad rode Lucky, his Arabian–quarter horse, and Mom took Red, my graceful, five-gaited American saddlebred. As always, they rode the fence line, checking for loose wire and anything needing repair.

They then rode up our hill, where we intended to build a home “some day.” Once atop the ridge, they rode freely without obstruction. Dad led as he coaxed Lucky into a lope.

At one point, wondering if Mom was following, Dad turned his head and looked behind him. Then did a double take.

Mom’s strapless bathing suit became a birthday suit that hadn’t held up to the rigors of a canter. She was a model of sheer freedom.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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1 comment:

  1. ...and that, Auntie, is how your little brother came into the world, or some such human interest line. I see that we can't all be models of virtue.

    Actually, a nice story.


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