Alas, Poor ... , by Ricky

If someone else is reading this to the story telling group, then know I can’t be with you due to water leaking into my basement. Alas, it is the poor house for poor me.

When my spouse, Deborah, was a little girl of 4 or 5 years, she would frequently spend the night with her grandmother, Marie. Marie’s house was a small two-story home with two bedrooms up a narrow and steep stairs and with a front porch that had a swing. The indoor bathroom was on the ground floor. Deborah really loved the house and her grandmother. At night they would both sleep in the same bed under a thick layer of blankets and in the winter, quilts.

Marie was rather elderly and could not use the stairs without some degree of caution and did not like to go down to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Consequently, she had a ceramic chamber pot which she kept under the bed in case of need. In due time, Deborah noticed it and inquired as to why it was under the bed and what was its use. Naturally, Marie explained what it was and how it was used. Deborah began to help Marie safely negotiate the stairs in the morning to empty the chamber pot. Deborah was allowed to carry the pot back upstairs and return it to under the bed.

One fateful day the pot slipped out of Deborah’s hands and fell to the floor shattering into several pieces. When Marie came upstairs in response to the noise of the pot breaking, she found Deborah in a mild state of shock and fear. Marie knew how to take such accidental breakages in stride. She looked woefully at Deborah, who was barely able not to cry, and defused the situation by saying in a very sad voice, “Poor pot.” They both burst out laughing and “poor pot” became a private funny memory for them. If things were not going well, either one could say “poor pot” and immediately cheer up the other.

As for poor Yorick the slain court jester, I believe Shakespeare killed him — in the library — with the quill. Yorick probably told Will a "Rickyism" (a play on words) and was stabbed in the heart for his trouble.

© 15 June 2015

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com