I'll Eat My Hat

I’ll eat my hat!

My mother exclaimed, “I’ll eat my hat if that man shows up while I can still answer the door without a walker!”

My fiancé looked as if he were trying to decipher a foreign language. Apparently, residents of the Philadelphia main line do not use such idioms. In a span of two seconds, I observed Jack’s perplexed facial expression failing to obscure his mental visual of my mother pulling out a fork and knife and cutting into her smart navy-blue derby she had just worn to church. But there would be time later to explain this and other colorful colloquialisms frequently heard in my hometown. Right now, the issue at hand is the repair of the tile in the roof.

The broken tile had been a topic of concern for several weeks, but it was elevated in priority about 4 hours ago when rain from an unannounced spring shower permeated the interior of our home through the cracked roof tile. Upon coming downstairs, Mother was horrified to discover water dripping down the northeast corner of the dining room wall.

By the grace of God, the rainfall was short-lived, and the streaming water had simply resulted in a damp and discolored rivulet on the Victorian wallpaper. Honestly, it probably would blend in once it dried. However, my mother was in crisis mode. She had summoned Harold Greely, retired engineer, a week ago. He had promised to come on Wednesday at 9:00 am to inspect the roof situation. Unfortunately, his cousin had a pipe burst at 8 am, and Harold notified my mother he would have to reschedule for Thursday at 3 pm.

Yet, Harold did not knock on our door Thursday at all! At 1 pm, unbeknownst to us at the time, Harold’s wife Marla was not feeling well. She decided to check her blood pressure, which clocked in at 200 over 140. Harold quickly chauffeured his beloved wife of 45 years to the ER in the next town, where they spent the rest of the day. Marla’s medicine was adjusted, and she was sent home.

Meanwhile, my mother, Elaine Whitman, president of every civic and church organization in our town, was pacing the front porch wondering where on earth her handyman was and why he hadn’t called. Just as she was about to dial the local police to inquire as to whether there had been any wrecks in town, the phone rang. I picked it up and was relieved to hear,” This is Harold, and I need to speak to Miss Elaine. I’ve had one heck of a day, and I’ve got some explaining to do.” My mother was exasperated but comforted, and Harold promised to try to come Sunday afternoon; even though he never worked Sundays, he would do this for her. Elaine Whitman did not approve of working on Sundays, but she convinced herself that this one time would be ok, since the situation was urgent, and she did have to prepare the house for the tea!

Of course, all that was before the appearance of the rivulet in the corner of the dining room this morning! Just when I thought the situation could not become any more distressed, Jack turned on the TV, and we all heard John Grady, the local meteorologist, brother of my best friend from grade school, announce the possibility of a thunderstorm tomorrow afternoon around noon. Jack’s eyes said he feared what was about to happen. The blood drained from Mother’s face; she was silent for a moment, and then the tears spouted from her eyes. “How am I going to host my music club tea with damaged

wallpaper and a wet spot in the corner of the ceiling? And what if it storms and the water leaks in again!?”

This explanation piqued my imagination, and I envisioned Mother’s Monday music club tea; twelve middle-aged ladies wearing floral dresses with matching pocketbooks and pumps, some donning hats. They would be sipping their tea, clearly leaving lipstick smudges on the china teacups. Then entertainment would commence; Elain Whitman would sing in her best falsetto, accompanied by her sister Emma on the grand piano. The ladies would be smiling and tapping their toes to the tunes of Burt Bacharach, the artist of the month. And I could see it all. . . just as my mother belted out, “I’m never going to stop the rain by complaining…” the clap of thunder would shake the house! The teacups would rattle, and an unexpected water feature would be born in the southeast corner of the dining room.

I stifled my giggle, and Jack brought me back to the present with a heavenly smell from the kitchen! After enjoying a delicious breakfast of crepes and cappuccino, a much-needed diversion, Mother insisted Jack retire to the living room and that we would take care of washing the breakfast plates and coffee cups. She then whispered to me, “Laura, it’s too bad you’re not marrying a man who knows how to repair things. Jack is young, and he could certainly hop right up on that roof if he wanted to and if he knew what to do up there. But I see he is more of a city-type boy.”

“Mother! Please don’t insult my fiancé! He has many wonderful qualities, and just because he lacks training in slate roof repair does not mean that he doesn’t know how to use a hammer or a screwdriver or fix a clogged drain if he needed to!”

“Oh of course, honey! I didn’t say anything bad about Jack! Jack is wonderful. It’s just that I am a widow, and it just would be nice to have a man in the family who could do some things around here.” Poor Mother, she looked sad that she had hurt my feelings, and I was sad that she had to face the maintenance of the old family home by herself.

Not one to linger for long, Mother charged to the next room, briskly passing Jack as he put down the newspaper. She picked up the wall phone and sought out some sympathy from the next-door neighbor Carol, “I am disappointed in Harold Greely! This is not like him at all, giving me one excuse after another. And Laura’s boyfriend doesn’t know how to do anything around the house except cook! Your Bucky would have known what to do. He would have been on this roof and had the leak fixed by now, rest his soul.”

As she hung up the phone, Mother obviously was contemplating how close she was to literally experiencing rain on her parade. The tears appeared just as she shook her head and repeated her utter disappointment in Harold Greely, thus, my mother’s threat to eat her hat if Harold would indeed actually appear on the scene.

When what should appear in our driveway but a ten-year-old but spotless, bright blue F250 pickup truck, delivering Mr. Harold Greely to our home just in the nick of time to prevent my mother from a full-blown panic attack. Jack was the one to herald the arrival, “Miss Elaine!! I think it’s time for me to whip up a lovely French desert just for you! I’ll call it ‘chapeau bleu