That’s right. I’m going to post my one of my latest “very-short” stories. For some background, I was supposed to take a conversation that I had with somebody in the past and try to emulate the excellent job that Chaim Potok did in his book, “The Chosen.”
The short-story is entitled, “Spitting in the Dishwater.”
It was a balmy summer day. I wanted to be outside where the sun shone bright, the wheat was almost ripe, and where the green grass was just waiting for me to run around on it. Instead, I was trapped inside, washing the dishes. Ah vell, I thought to myself, such is life. There were a lot of dishes that day. This little boy was not very impressed.
Suddenly, without much thought, I spit into the dishwater.
“JOHN!!” That sharp word, my name, came into my range of hearing. Uh oh, I’m getting it now. I looked over at mom, who had been baking chocolate chip cookies, with questions popping from my eyes. “What did I do, Mom?”
Her heavily wrinkled face, weighted down with the cares of bringing up four sons, looked at my young and immature face. Her eyes wore a coat of astonishment. Her usually slightly bent back was ramrod straight. “You spit in the dishwater. What made you do that?”
I grimaced. Conversations I had with Mom in this nature sometimes involved bloodshed. “Um, well, I, uh, I, guess I thought spitting in water would be a good place to spit.” I wasn’t sure at this point how the conversation would go. If I was lucky, Mom would just say, “Don’t!” and all would be peachy, but sometimes there were consequences for actions.
“Well son,” she came over to the counter and gestured with her hand, “Why don’t you consider the simple fact that spitting is rarely a good thing to do. If it’s necessary to spit, the ground outside is the only acceptable place for spittle.” Deep down inside, I smiled to myself. This was good – it was the type where not many actual bad things would happen to me.
“Drain out your water and make sure it doesn’t happen again!” Her normally calm voice was rough along the edges.
I promptly obeyed. She was not the type of person you messed with.
She went back to making her wonderful cookies and with downcast eyes, I resumed washing the dishes. The sun was still shining brightly, but for me, it had darkened a little. The wheat was still standing out in the field, but I didn’t have the desperate desire to go ride the combine like I used to. The green grass was still there, but I had no desire to run around on it. I had disappointed my Mom. I vowed that I would never spit in the dish water again.
thesinger
Without love, 