Tales of the Vintage Berry Wine Gang

TALES OF THE VINTAGE BERRY WINE GANG

by

Daleen Berry

New York Times Bestselling Author

Copyright 2016 Daleen Berry

Published by Nellie Bly Books at Smashwords

Reprinted with permission from the Preston County Journal and News

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TALES OF THE VINTAGE BERRY WINE GANG

by

New York Times Best-Selling Author

Daleen Berry

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Part I

Family, Motherhood, and Childish Antics

Editor's Note: "Outlaw shopping with children" first appeared in the Preston County News in February 1988, and thus the weekly Vintage Berry Wine newspaper series was born. Ms. Berry's columns were published in Kingwood, West Virginia, from 1988-1992. Since that time, readers have clamored to have them in book form.

Outlaw shopping with children (and husbands)

I have a proposition for our legislators while they're in session at Charleston. I propose outlawing children and husbands in grocery stores.

This proposal comes on the heels of my most recent grocery-shopping spree, complete with three small children and one six-foot child. I use the term spree quite seriously, for when I arrived at checkout, I found I had accumulated a cart full of food, which, had it been weighed, would have certainly been fined for excessive weight load. The total bill for the abominable grocery cart came to $547.39.

It all began innocently enough when my mate decided that we should try an experiment with our children, ages three to seven. He seemed to think that we could help our offspring become familiar with the purchasing power of the dollar by taking them to the grocery store together.

I am not a complete fool. My children had accompanied me on numerous shopping trips previously and I knew what could be in store, excuse the pun, by taking them to buy foodstuffs. But I would not consider depriving my husband of the wonderful experience he would be treated to on this excursion. So, children in tow, we headed off to the local market.

Upon arriving at the store, which has to be the size of one football field, my four year old immediately made a mad dash for the entrance, feigning deafness to our cries of Watch for cars! Come back, right now! Do you want your bottom fanned?

Fortunately there were no vehicles moving near our brave child and we went into the store with our brood.

Now, all you ladies who shop know that, for some unexplained reason, stock boys painstakingly arrange the aisles so the first thing you come to is bread, followed by an assortment of canned goods. (They probably have malicious intent in mind, remembering the times their mothers made them finish their spinach.)

But, for whatever reason, the bread is always first. So we picked out several loaves of bread. Normally I would choose four loaves of wheat, enough to last for one week.

On this particular day, however, with children and husband eager to help, we would up with two rye, five white, one Italian, and no wheat whatsoever. How this came about I have no idea, or positive proof, but I suspect my family plotted to remove my wheat and replace it with something they liked while I was looking through the canned vegetables.

It was just as I picked out several varieties of vegetables to suit the entire family’s liking that the baby decided this was a swell place to pretend he was an Olympic runner. Running as fast as his chubby legs would take him, he disappeared quickly around the end of the aisle, with his father in mad pursuit. Ah yes, thought I, all the joys of parenthood.

While father and son were wildly dashing around the building (I knew from experience that the mischievous child would give his father a run for his money.) my five year old took advantage of being temporarily unsupervised, grabbed the buggy and started weaving down the aisle, knocking off canned goods as she went. Of course, cans being what they are, that caused a great deal of noise—and every other shopper in sight turned to see the cause of the commotion. I wanted to bury my face, which was turning several shades of red, in the sand.

By the time we placed the cans on their proper shelves, my husband had returned, out of breath. Seeing his frenzied look it took great self control not to laugh, but a grin I could not contain.

After all the excitement died down, we rounded the corner and found ourselves face to face with cookies galore. Now, in this establishment, the bakery is located directly in front of the cookie and cracker section. My children, with noses similar to bloodhounds, sniffed out the baked goods long before they came into sight. Like three excited jumping beans they converted on the bakery, noses pressed against the glass as if they couldn’t see the contents closely enough.

I put on my best Oh, I’m a helpless female, won’t you please rescue me? look and my husband gallantly offered, I’ll get them, don’t worry. I smiled at his departing back wickedly and hoped, just once, that the small fries would stick to the bakery counter like epoxy, as they usually did when I brought them to the store.

Imagine my surprise, when, a few moments later my husband and three happy children appeared behind me in the next aisle. Now why don’t they behave that well when I bring them, I thought? It was at that moment I noticed their arms laden with several white pastry sacks.

Look what Daddy bought us. How come you never get goodies for us, Mom? I looked daggers at my husband, who shrugged, shamefaced, and said, It was the only way I could tear them away from the doughnuts.

Against my better mother’s judgment, I stashed the sacks into the buggy and turned back to matters at hand, namely, cereal selection.

My normal method of buying cereal may be summed up in one word: nutritious. I choose several boxes of cereal that declare they contain enough vitamins and minerals to meet the surgeon general’s requirements, have little or no sugar and with significant amounts of fiber, something I’m sure my children have no appreciation for.

As soon as I started to pick the boxes from the shelf, I was barraged with cries of I don’t like that. Yuuch. I want this kind, it has candy on the box, and I think three of these will do, they each have a surprise inside. That last comment came from none other than, you guessed it, my adorable husband, who was becoming less adorable as our experiment neared its conclusion.

He himself was caught red handed several times as he attempted to add several more items, mostly of the junk food variety, to our blossoming buggy. I do believe he succeeded in sneaking some of them in when my back was turned because there was a growing pile of foodstuffs that my two hands alone couldn’t have possibly added.

Armed with a cart almost filled to the brim, what do you think would next come into sight but a tall rack, complete with small toys having a magnetic charge equal only to that of the earth’s gravitational force. I immediately left my cart to chase down my children, whose tiny fingers were speedily scattering toys as they hastened to examine each one thoroughly.

As I scolded the little rascals I looked around to see my mate deeply engrossed with another of his species, oblivious to anything except his conversation.

Within minutes the toys were once again in their proper places, thanks to much help from the tyrants who, under threat of banishment from the face of the earth, grudgingly consented to aid me.

By then they had lost interest, realizing that I flatly refused to give in to their childish cries for a toy. That’s because something more interesting and intriguing had caught their attention—candy.

Every mother has at one time felt as I did by then. There I was, having successfully passed by all the other obstacles. But before me was the grand finale, the last hurdle in the maze.

My children knelt and felt, picking up each small package while they pleaded with me to buy something for them. I was ready to pull my hair out, and scream like a mad woman. Then who should saunter over, finally finished with his discussion (probably about something as serious as how to solve the world’s problems) but my husband. When he calmly took the candy from 30 small fingers, I was sure he had finally regained the common sense he seemingly lost the minute he stepped into the store. But then he dropped it onto Mt. Everest—the pregnant shopping cart.

I gave him a look that I am positive could have been translated by anyone within a hundred-mile radius as You are dead meat. But, alas, the meaning was lost as our youngest trilled loudly, I hafta go potty.

Here I must give the man credit, for he scooped the child into his arms and went in search of a toilet. One other child hurried after him, despite my unhappy protests.

My eldest, seven, looked at me with supposed compassion in her eyes and asked, Are you tired, Mommy?

Tired? Who me? War weary may have been a more accurate description. But, nonetheless, I pressed on, intent only upon getting out of that store posthaste. It was while the cashier waited for my check that I made the decision to write our legislators.

Perhaps I am acting too quickly on this; maybe the proper law should state that we women are not allowed in stores, only our husbands, who must be accompanied by all their offspring. What an appropriate punishment for the crime!

Kidaches...no kidding!

I have a theory. And I’ve coined a new word for it, after contemplating why my head hurt so badly the other day. After all, I hadn't fallen down or banged it up against the wall (although it felt like I had). But, sure enough, I had a headache the size of a basketball.

About that time one of my youngsters came in with a question. As I was listening to her and deciding how to respond, another child came running, telling me about the most ridiculous, absolutely incredible thing that boy behind me did today. Well, lo and behold, it wasn't two minutes later before yet another one rushed in to tattle, quite loudly, (naturally) on her brother, who, by the way, came in screaming incoherently about how his sister retaliated when he did something (who knows what, by then?) and, at the same time, lunging forward to grab her braid, hanging on for dear life as she, too, began screaming.

At that point, I lost it all and joined in the screaming myself. Somehow it seemed like poetic justice. By the time everything had gotten figured out, i.e., the question answered, the proper exclamation made, the tattler spanked, along with the braid climber, I realized I had made an important discovery.

I promise that anyone subjected to the antics and shrieks of a small being under five-feet-tall will be inflicted with a kidache at one time or another. A kidache, unlike a toothache, encompasses ALL aches, and is probably, nine times out of ten, what you've REALLY got when you only think your stomach, or your back, or whatever, hurts.

In this way, kidaches are unique. Plus, they’re guaranteed to produce the worst pain ever. A typical action that brings one of these aches on is the sight of a two-year-old sitting, fully dressed, in the bathtub, with three empty bottles scattered around him, their goo all over his hands and (of course) in his eyes. After tending to his needs, which involve washing all the shampoo from his eyes and removing his bubbly clothing, you lean back, feeling just a twinge of relief at having survived the episode—only to notice this increasing throbbing sensation at the back of your neck. Relax! It's just a kidache.

Another prime time for a kidache is when you have herded all your young 'ens out to the family car, with explicit instructions to get inside and buckle up so you can head over to see Aunt Sophie at the hospital. Of course, because you had to wet down the cowlick on kid number one, and redo number two's ponytail, and find number three's shoes, which were smashed almost beyond recognition in the bottom of the toy chest, you ran out the door without bothering to notice you forgot to put on your pantyhose. (If you don't mind wearing a nice dress with orange striped bobby sox, then go ahead, you'll be fine.) So, you turn around and head back toward the house, warning the children to stay right where they are—under threat of death and dismemberment.

Not five minutes later you rush madly out of the house, fly into the driver's seat in a way that would have made Reggie Jackson proud, turn around to count heads, and discover one is missing. A few yells later and who should come around the side of the house but the errant youngster, none the worse for the wear. Except his once-white shirt now has dark brown spots on it, his shoes have mud up to their laces, and his face looks like he wants to join the Sioux Indian tribe. (Poor Aunt Sophie, she'll be dead and buried by the time you get there.) But wait, what's that burning feeling deep in the pit of your abdomen? Relax, it's just a kidache.

And don't worry. The good news is that eventually they go away. The bad news is that no one can say for sure when this happens. Some people conclude that kidaches, like the creatures they are named for, disappear after every youth in the house has turned 18 and/or gone through puberty (whichever comes first). Other experts (mothers, naturally) maintain that isn't so, and they don't go away until the child has gotten an education, a job, a bank account and a mate. Still others, heaven help us, say that kidaches never go away; they just change from year to year.

Oh no, I feel this incredible pressure building up at my temples. Aspirin anyone?

Of words, kisses and chewing gum

The adventures in child rearing are abundant. Every parent has his or her own fond memories to treasure long after the children have grown up. Too, there are the accidents, the problems and the worries. But, a small remark or comical action can make all the worries disappear in a minute.

I’ll relate a few of my own experiences, which I wrote down and was reading again the other day. Perhaps they’ll brighten your day, or at least convince you that having children can be fun.

More than a year ago, Zachary, who would have been less than two years old at the time, poured an entire bottle of olive oil down the commode. He had watched me pour some into the bathwater, and decided to copy my actions. The result was an irritated mom—olive oil, after all, is expensive—one upset child, and a greasy toilet. Just one of the minor occurrences destined to happen while living with children.

Too often we fail to appreciate how much children, at an early age, can absorb and grasp. Not long after the above incident, we were sitting, listening to a lecture, and the same boy explained that his sister was aggravating him. The word was applied correctly, and since she was misbehaving, she was being an aggravation to him. (How many times, as he grows older, will he hear about how aggravating he was to her, I wonder?)

Courtney, the aggravater in the above incident, also said something quite endearing several months ago. Upset about something, she pouted, I’m impressed. Depressed was the word she was looking for, but it’s the thought that counts.

The comments children make are precious—and one of a kind. Recently, our six-year-old was eager to tell me about her day at school. Excitedly, she said another student wanted to know if I wanted to buy some heart attack candy. It took a second, and having her repeat her question, before I realized the candy was hard tack—not the kind one eats to produce an attack of the heart.

Another memory in the collection, which I had forgotten, although how, I don’t know, occurred while at the car wash last spring. Some well-meaning person (who shall remain nameless) gave Zach a piece of chewing gun, which he promptly chewed, before placing it inside his nose. After several unsuccessful attempts at having him blow it out, a trip to the doctor was necessary. It took only a few seconds and the offending piece of gun was removed, a happy ending to an otherwise serious problem.

Things like these are easily forgotten though, especially in light of other, lighter incidents. This summer, after bringing home several flowers to plant, Zachary wanted to look through them as I carried them from the car. Kissing each individual flower, he told me how much he liked them.

Ah yes, just another typical day.

Finally—I’m in vogue!

I knew that if I waited long enough, it would happen. And, after years and years, it has. Are you ready for this? The Bain de Soleil model (of sun tanning products fame) is now wearing a much lighter tan in advertisements. This of course means that I am now in fashion.

It would appear that after much warning from health officials about the danger of developing skin cancer due to excessive sun bathing, a deep, dark tan is no longer The Look.

Wonderful! I’ve been standing in the wings, like an ugly duckling among beautiful swans, waiting years for this announcement to be made. My skin, you see, has always been fair—very fair. Even when I made a concerted effort to join the ranks of the sunbathers with their dark extremities, I didn’t get very far.

One year we vacationed in Texas, while I was still in school, and I did return home with a dark tan. With the hot Texas sun beating down, one had no choice but to become somewhat darker. (It was the year the temperatures soared above 100 degrees and claims were made that eggs could be fried on the pavement.) My estimate of dark however, paled in comparison with my erstwhile friends who had lain in the sun for hours at a time the entire summer.

That was the only time I ever had a tan to speak of. At that point I made the momentous decision that no matter what, I did not want a suntan. Not for love, money, or anybody. So I would walk down the street, through the bronzed masses, a cheerful smile on my pale face.

Am I a health nut? No, not really. Although I do admit to being a bit smug now that the public everywhere is forced to realize that sunbathing, unless done with a good sunscreen, is hazardous to one’s skin. I learned this long ago, when my father, who is as fair-complexioned as myself, developed skin cancer. He was always burnt to a lobster red on his forehead, and finally the inevitable happened. Fortunately, the cancer was removed, and he suffered no great aftereffects.

This is, perhaps, part of the reason for my refusal to acquire a suntan. But the overwhelming explanation is something called a dislike of torture. I believe that to submit to the rigmarole of changing into a bathing suit, lathering oil all over one’s body to help bake the skin and lying there under intense heat is an agony that I have no desire to be a part of. (Besides, it’s a great waste of time. What else can possibly be done at the same time you’re sunbathing?)

Besides, while you lay there and cook, you sweat. Yuck! If I want to perspire I would like to get better results than dark, prematurely aged skin.

What about the bugs that threaten to eat you alive while the sun’s rays beat down? It always happened whenever I even attempted to intimate the golden girls. First one bug, and then another, and before I knew it I was swatting at so many of the little pests that what energy the heat had not sapped, my battle against the bugs had.

That’s a thought in itself worthy of consideration. It seems to me that lying in the sun is like going to a beauty parlor. While in the beautician's’ chair, the temptation to go to sleep is very strong, at least for me. Well, after a session in the sun it’s the same thing, only worse. I’m so tired I can hardly