On Restriction – Again!

During my teen years, I cannot remember a single birthday when I was not on restriction. Honestly, I was a pretty good kid. I never went to any of those “secret parties” in the Old Fort. (These were the days when the Old Fort was in ruins, was clearly marked “Restricted Property,” and was completely surrounded by a high chain-link fence. Of course, every teenager who lived on the Fort Adams reservation knew how to get in and where to hide from the MP patrols.) I didn’t do a lot of things that practically every other kid my age was doing because my yearly goal was to live to see my next birthday.

My restrictions usually involved not doing the dishes fast enough or “talking back” to my mother. For example, when Dad asked why dinner was not cooking, Mother would declare, “I’ve told Barbara THREE TIMES to do the dishes!”

I would counter with, “No! She only told me ONE time!”

We were not allowed to defend ourselves against our parents’ accusations. But, I had a stubborn streak and I always believed I was entitled to a defense. Thus, because I was now too old to spank, I had many restrictions.

Years later I discovered my father called me his “daughter with a whim of steel.”

Something else I’ve always been stubborn about is taking “sick days.” To this day, I simply refuse to get sick, and if my body tries to “be sick,” I will not acknowledge it and take time off. Too much is missed and must be made up when you take a day off. That was a lesson I learned in third grade, a story I will not relate here.

But one day when I was a sophomore at Rogers High School. I was actually sick enough to stay home from school. Not only was I feverish and suffering from a terrible sore throat, but I had completely lost my voice, total laryngitis.

I thought, “Wouldn’t it be nice to take a day off and have Mother take care of me, for once?”

But that is not how the day played out. Mother had multiple meetings to attend that day. She even got out of bed before 10 AM to take care of business. As she headed for the car, she told me she was expecting several calls and asked me to take the messages.

Have you ever tried to answer the phone with laryngitis? I couldn’t even get out a croaking sound. After several futile tries at answering the phone, I finally gave up and just let it ring.

Additionally, it had been raining for approximately 40 days and 40 nights and the basement, where our washer and dryer were, was flooded. No laundry had been done for a week and I was completely out of anything clean, from the skin out. So, I was home alone, stuck hobbling around the house in my ragged pajamas.

“Oh, Barbara,” Mother added, one foot out the door, “Men are coming to pump out the basement today. Be sure to let them in and show them the problem.”

So now, a modestly vane 16-year-old girl in ugly, weak condition with no voice, dirty hair, and ratty PJs must also direct strange men through the house, while answering the phone with no voice. You get the picture. The day was a miserable disaster and I decided I would go to school the next day, even if I died in the process. This simply was not worth it!

The next morning I was up at pre-dawn, showered, dressed, and headed out of the house by 7:15.

Dad yelled, “Don’t you go anywhere until your mother takes your temperature and says you can go! And that’s an order!”

My voice had returned, but not to the degree that I wanted to get into a vocal altercation. I had to ignore the order because the school day would be half over before Mother got out of bed to fulfill those duties that Dad had just assigned her. Please note that she was not a bad mother, simply a night owl who considered her children old enough to take care of themselves. But Dad was not that observant of the pattern. So, off I went to school, confident not only that it was the right thing to do, but also the ONLY thing to do.

I was sitting in Homeroom waiting for the bell to send us to first period when over the P.A. system came THE VOICE. It said, “Bahbra Hahtley, please report to the principal’s office. Your fathah is heeyah.”

Oh, no! Everyone at school knew about Colonel Dean the Mean Marine. I found him scowling like a bulldog in the office, in full uniform with his swagger stick in his right fist, smacking his left palm, angry because this detour had made him late for work at the Naval War College.

“I’m taking you home!” he said. “You defied a direct order!”

I told him I had to go to my locker to get my books. He FOLLOWED me down the complex of halls, just as the bell rang and all the students emptied into the corridors to go to their first-period classes.

“Don’t walk ahead of me like you don’t know me!” he bellowed as everyone in the hall gave me “the look” of fearful sympathy.

Yes, I was literally marched out of school and put on restriction for two weeks, not for SKIPPING school, but for GOING TO school.

Who else do you know who can make that claim?