Hop on Your Tooties and Fly

“Hop on your tooties and fly!”  Mom screeched, finally at the end of her endurance with our badgering.  She had been spending the quiet Saturday afternoon stretched across her bed with a dime-store novel, but my older sister and I were bored.  We had interrupted Mom periodically throughout the afternoon with requests to be driven to our third cousins’ house to play. What started with, “Mom…Mom…Mom,” escalated to, “Mother…Momma…Mommy,” and climaxed with, “Mother Marie!...,” which snapped Mom’s last nerve.  Taking her exclamation as permission, the next move was for us to figure out how to get six miles up the highway to take advantage of our liberty.

            We were fourth and sixth graders and it was the early 1970s.  Six miles on a highway wasn’t a Mount Everest challenge, but it did present opportunities for adventure.  We mused for a few minutes about our mode of transportation.  If we walked, we would be wasting precious play time just getting to our cousins’ farm.   We would have to take our bicycles, we reasoned, and since Mom had told us to hop on our tooties, she must have meant our bikes.  We headed out to the yard to mount up and ride, just to discover that one of the bikes had a flat tire, and although we could ride double on the other bike for short distances, it wouldn’t work for our marathon trek.  This setback only slowed us for a moment before we decided that Mom must have implied permission for us to use whatever conveyance we could find: there was always one bike in working order.

            Dad’s bike had a banana seat, and since we were acting under Mom’s authority, we figured that we shouldn’t have to ask his permission.  Besides, he was busy working in the automotive garage next door and would not appreciate being interrupted.   So we hopped on Dad’s shiny chrome bicycle, which he had meticulously rebuilt from an old discarded frame and finished out with a metallic-flaked red banana seat.  It was a real show-stopping bicycle, worthy of any small-town parade trophy. 

            The journey was not bad for me.  Being the younger sister, I rode on the back with my sister pedaling the entire way.  She was the instigator of many childhood schemes, so of course she was in charge of getting us to our destination.  While we rode, we mused about whether or not we would get into trouble for our adventure, always concluding that, “Mom told us to do it," punctuated by my sister’s occasional complaining that she was doing all the work…as usual. 

            We really surprised our cousins when we showed up by ourselves, and their parents shook their heads and chuckled at our adventure.  We assured them that, yes, our parents knew where we were, and since we didn’t have a phone at home then, as far as we were concerned we were free for the afternoon. 

            We roamed the farm and generally acted like kids without a care in the world.  As dusk approached and we were still hanging around, our cousins’ father suggested that they take us home.  Realizing our fun was over, and enjoying one final leg of our adventure, we piled into the back of his pickup truck with our bike. 

            Before we got to the highway, a mile or so down the dirt road, the pickup slowed and drew even with another vehicle.  It was Mom and Dad coming to get us.  A hot sense of dread flooded through me.  All at once, I realized that I was going to be in trouble.  The only previous time that Dad had gone looking for me ended with a spanking that made sitting uncomfortable for several days. 

            After the adults chatted for a few minutes, we proceeded, watching as Dad turned the car around and followed us home.  Driving down the highway we schemed how we would stay out of trouble.  We were pretty sure that Dad wouldn’t spank us in front of our cousins, and their parents, who were his cousin and her husband.  Maybe if the adults had a fun evening Dad would forget that we’d stolen his bike and he had to come find us. 

            When we got home we went back to the bedrooms and continued to laugh and play with our cousins, including our other sister who had not been part of our escapade.  Famous for staying up talking late into the night, it was no surprise that we extended our visit for hours.  Finally, our cousins were summoned to go home, which meant that the hour of reckoning had arrived for us. 

            The two of us adventurers schemed about how we would hop in bed and feign sleep so Dad wouldn’t punish us.  Meanwhile, our oldest sister smirked, sure that Dad wasn’t going to let a little sleep deter him from meting out justice in order to keep us on the straight and narrow path.  Quickly saying goodbyes instead of the usual three-stage farewell ritual, we threw off our clothes, ducked into our pajamas and huddled in bed.  We then waited breathlessly for Mom and Dad to come back into the house. 

            We listened attentively as Mom and Dad locked up the house and turned out lights.  Still quaking under the covers, we heard them go to bed.  Had gotten away with our adventure, or was Dad just postponing our spanking until morning?  I tossed and turned all night long, afraid that Dad would wake up and remember that we had earned a spanking.  The morning came and Mom woke us up to get ready for church.  Would Dad spank us before church?  Nothing was said as we went through the Sunday morning routines.  Sitting in church I concluded that Dad hadn't wanted the church ladies to know he'd spanked us, so he was waiting until we got home to administer his correction.  Dreading the seemingly inevitable punishment, I remained on edge until after Sunday dinner.  Amazingly, nothing was ever said about the incident--ever.  I don’t recall Mom ever telling us to hop on our tooties and fly before the memorable trip to our cousins’ house, but I can assure you that she never said it again…at least not to us!