The Groundhog Ate Poison and Died

As far as I could tell, we would be living on Rawles Avenue, and Hazel would be my substitute father and strict boss-of-me forever.  Then one day Prince Charming rescued me and carried me off into the sunset to a place called "Thank God That's Over."

At age twelve, every day of my life was a rerun of the one that preceded it, or so it seemed.  There were no after-school activities or sports or social events or weekend plans or vacations or fun.  On rare occasions, if Mother and Hazel did plan something other than "nothing," and those plans were leaked to me in advance, life in the tiny white house on Rawles became unbearable for the big people.  Spare the rod, spoil the child was more than a proverb to Hazel; it was an entitlement that came with being the head of the household, but how do you justify spanking a child who is talking incessantly, running in circles, and bouncing off the walls because she is overcome with giddy anticipation?

"Is it today?  Are we going today? Tell me again.  We're going where?  We're doing what?  Will it be fun?  Is it far away?  Who all is going? Are we going today? Who's gonna be there?  Is it today?"

For seven years after Hazel met Mother in church and rescued her and her two daughters from Mother's fear of homelessness, it was Groundhog Day every day.

*Note:  The only exception to the above was when there was not a

 religious revival going on somewhere within a fifty-mile radius of Indianapolis.

Then one Sunday morning in 1958, the groundhog ate poison and died.  It occurred so fast that no one had time to mourn seven years of yesterdays--except for Hazel, that is.  Prince Charming came to church, met and fell in love with a pretty maiden in need of rescue, my mother, and everything changed.  We were married and carried off into the sunset to a place called, "Thank God That's Over." Goodbye Rawles Avenue.  Goodbye boss-of-me. We had a new house in the suburbs now and another head of the household.  A new life where every day would not be like the day that preceded it.

What?  You don't say?  The big hog's not dead after all? It was just the stomach flu?  Really?

*Note:  The only exception to the above was when there was not a

 religious revival going on somewhere within a fifty-mile radius of Lawrence. 

"Here Hoggy, Hoggy, Hoggy.  Want a cookie?  It's reeeeaaalll good.  No, really it is."