A Musecrafter Challenge...

You can imagine my excitement to have "Mother dear" coming to dinner. I planned the best meal possible. Well, in fact, it was the same one I tried to serve Mick Jagger -- roast beef, roasted potatoes, fresh corn on the cob, salad, and apple pie topped with vanilla-caramel swirl ice cream. Perhaps Mother dear would be more gracious.

The bell rang. But it wasn't my usual Beethoven's Ninth chime. No, it was a John Philip Sousa march. The lady had her own entrance music! How did she do that? I still pondered the miracle as I opened the door, muttering, "How can one reject a transcendental masterpiece for a militaristic marching ditty?" ...when I came face to face with her.

"Jo Ann?"

"Yes," I replied in a tiny voice. Her looming presence, a tall lady dressed in flowing black from her dark hair down to black boots, sent my pulse racing.

"Quit slouching!"

I straightened up, the fight or flight mechanisms churning on the edges of my brain.

"Aren't you going to invite me in? Surely I raised you better than that, young lady."

"But Mother dear, you didn't raise me. You're just a painting..." She glared, her eyes rolling toward me like a hurricane on the run. I opened the door.

"It's about time." She flipped off her black cloak and handed it to me. It felt heavy, like iron in my hands. As I reached to toss it over a chair, she went rigid, electrified.

"Hang it proper."

I raced to the closet. Things weren't going well. Perhaps my good cooking would score me points. Something burned my nose as I hung the ugly wrap. Smoke. Smoke coming from the kitchen!

"I believe your kitchen is on fire, young lady." She said it calmly, in a quiet voice that registered not a modicum of surprise. That was the problem. She didn't find it surprising that I could burn down my kitchen cooking dinner. There was no time to worry about it as I rushed to save my roast beef.

It was too late. Coughing, I opened the oven door and more than smoke stung my eyes. My beautiful dinner was nothing more than charred black remains, one big mound for the roast surrounded by little black pimples that used to be potatoes. I checked the temperature guage. How did it get on "broil?" Easing the door closed, I looked up to see her standing there.

"I'll be leaving now." Just a few words that said volumes. I had failed my Mother dear test. Failed miserably. Now she was leaving because I was such a hopeless case. I followed her to the living room and produced the gruesome cloak from my closet. A dust bunny fluttered out as I opened the door. Her eyes, registering disdain, followed its delicate flutter down to the floor. Mother dear didn't need to say anything. I flushed in humiliation.

She left in silence. Perhaps even her stamina had faltered in the light of my incompetence. The lady didn't give up on me though. Within a week, I received "Good Housekeeping" magazine in the mail, a generous gift subscription from Mother dear.