Some People Cannot Say the Word

Some people cannot say the word “penis” and my dear mother rest her soul, was one of them. We were on a camping trip (in my other life) with Mom and Dad and my younger brothers in one trailer and the ex and I and our two young ones were in our trailer. The destination was Belden.

Dad loved to fish and he thought the north fork of the Feather River was the best place to fish as he had done that along there for many years prior. We were somewhere downstream from the PG&E plant. Our little area that we pulled into was about eight miles from town and there was nothing around there for miles. It was very peaceful.

Dad loved to cook and even though his trailer had a nice kitchen in it, Dad preferred to cook outside. And Dad was not a typical camper. There were no hot dogs or hamburgers on our camping trips. Dad had to have steak and all the fixings.

One morning, while Dad was outside cooking the bacon, eggs, and pancakes, we were in his trailer with the little ones and Dad came flying in yelling, “I am going to eat that s-o-b alive” and when we finally found out what had happened, he told us a bee flew up his wide legged khaki pants and stung him where men do not ever want to get stung.

What do you do for a bee sting there? No one had a clue. We decided to leave Dad in the trailer while Mom, the ex, and I drove out to town to call an advice nurse at the nearest hospital. Finding a telephone booth (remember those?) at a gas station, Mom made the call while we were standing next to her outside the booth. Mom always giggled when she was nervous. Somehow, Mom thought this may be the end of her sex life with Dad due to this problem. She was very worried to say the least. She got on the phone with the nurse and the conversation went like this: “My husband got stung by a bee (he he he) on his thing (he he he)”

“I’m sorry ma’am, could you please repeat that.”

“My husband got stung by a bee on his thing (he he he)”

“On what, ma’am?”

“You know, on his thing (he he he).”

(At this point the nurse probably thought this was a prank call if she didn’t sooner.)

“Where?”

“On his... his…vagina.”

We could not believe our ears. Poor Mom, she did not know what to call “it.” With four sons, all Mom ever called that part of the anatomy was “ding-a-ling” and she felt silly using that terminology with a health care professional. Apparently, the only thing she could think of was the word “vagina.”

Mom was the sweetest, nicest, and most naïve person you would have ever met. For a woman who had five kids, she was still naïve to the day she passed away. I remember a friend saying that “Anni was a sly as a fox” and maybe he was right.

She claimed helplessness a lot of the time and Dad would have to pick up the pieces, like cooking for example. Dad did most of the cooking at our house. He was good at it. He even made homemade raviolis. All Mom was really known for was her gnocchi and her apple strudel. But when Dad said “jump” Mom would ask “How high honey?”

In the phone booth, my ex-husband grabbed the phone and went into graphic detail to the nurse about what happened while mom and I got back in the truck and waited for his return. Laughing, he came back to the truck and said the remedy was something akin to what is done for snake bite. My naïve mom turned fifty shades of red. I was actually surprised she understood what he was saying because often, we had to explain jokes to her. Then he said something about striking while the iron was hot as it related to swelling and really got her to giggling. I think we all laughed at Dad’s expense all the way back to the campsite.

Dad was not allergic to bee stings, thankfully. And, since Dad removed the stinger, all that was necessary, according to the nurse, was to ice the area. There was nothing else that was needed. Back at camp, Dad was snoozing in the trailer; I am sure worn out with all the commotion of the morning and the resultant pain. We were all so concerned and here he was asleep and leaving all the worry to us. All was well and Mom and Dad went on to have a normal sex life for years later.

I sure do miss my folks. It was never a dull moment and the childhood memories, even this one as an adult, were priceless. My husband, Bill, does not like to camp. He had enough of it as a kid when his dad really roughed it out in the wild and they used a burro to haul in the camping equipment. His idea of camping now is slow room service at the Hilton.

I guess I like that idea.