"THE DOGHOUSE"

by Trudy Le Beau

(c) 1989


I have many special memories of my childhood, but none are as clear as the day I landed in "the doghouse" with my grandmother.


My family lived in the Wisconsin countryside and my grandparents lived in a large two-story farmhouse next door, with only a double gravel driveway separating the two houses. Grandma Bose was the kind of grandmother you'd find in any children's storybook: tall and big-boned, with silver hair that fell in soft waves around her face and wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. She was my confidante, my co-prankster, my teacher, and my best friend.


I spent my days helping Grandma in her garden, running clothespins to her, as she hung her wash on the line, and playing cowboy on a saddle-shaped limb of her cherry tree. Evenings at Grandma's were filled with playing endless games of canasta and eating large bowls of popcorn that she made in a black cast-iron skillet. Even the dreaded Saturday morning housecleaning chores were a lot more fun at her house, even though I had to use Q-Tips to get the dust out of her intricately carved mahogany dining room table.


Whenever Grandma would bake pies, she would make her special treat out of the leftover pie dough. She would roll out the dough, spread on a thick layer of preserves, fold it over once, sprinkle sugar and cinnamon on top, and bake. I was at her house so much that I was sure my parents would forget who I was. Grandma's face would light up whenever she saw me, and she would always put aside her work to entertain me. She rarely needed to scold or punish me, for I would never think of doing anything to lower myself in Grandma's eyes -- that is, until I committed the sin that put me in "the doghouse."


It was a Saturday morning in the middle of summer. I was helping Grandma in the kitchen. For some now-forgotten reason, I was very angry with one of my older sisters. I was pouring out my heart to Grandma about the terrible wrong that had been inflicted on my six-year-old ego. Then I used a very appropriate word, I thought, to describe my evil sister. Today, I suppose that word would be considered a fairly mild cuss word, but back then, I'm sure it was shocking to hear, especially coming from a small child's mouth.


Grandma calmly told me that I would have to spend a week in "the doghouse" for calling my sister such a bad name and immediately sent me home. Being in the doghouse with Grandma meant that, for the length of my sentence, I couldn't come into her house, I couldn't play in her yard, I couldn't call her on the phone, and I couldn't even talk to her if I saw her outside. In short, I was banned from every part of my life with Grandma.


I shed a lot of tears as that tortuous week ground slowly by. I looked out my window with longing eyes as I watched Grandma hang her wash and gather rhubarb from the garden. I dreamed of popcorn, playing cards, and cherry trees. I realized that I had done a bad thing by calling my sister such a nasty name and very quickly decided that neither one of my dopey sisters was worth the agony I was experiencing. From then on, I vowed I would live by Grandma's favorite saying: "If you can't say anything nice about someone, don't say anything at all."


I remember waking up the following Saturday morning, reprieved at last. Flying across the driveway, I found Grandma in her kitchen, waiting for me with open arms, the double deck of canasta cards on the kitchen table and her special treat baking in the oven.


She never said another word about my transgression; she didn't have to. She knew that a week of separation from her was all that I would need to learn my lesson. She was absolutely right -- that was the only time I was in "the doghouse" with Grandma.