Elephants, fleas and good memories (with emphasis on the final syllable

Barb, Carolyn, Bev, Pat on one of our annual sisters' trips

               You remember “Golden Girls,” right? And how Sophia often said, “Picture it: Sicily, 1925.” Well, one year--two-ought-ought-three, to be exact—we four Couch sisters, two of whom were 50-something and two who were in our 60s, settled into a time-share condo shared by the out-of-state sister.

                No husbands, brothers, children or grandchildren allowed. Or parents. One husband always got knots in his knickers every year when this trip was planned. “It’s just not right for you to go off without me,” he whined to his wife, but she pulled her five-foot-five frame up to his chin, locked her wide eyes onto his and said, “I’m going!” Sixty-somethings with strong sisterly ties can do this.

                Before the trip, the host sis had sent the rest of us an email: “Let’s do a white elephant exchange. Bring the grossest, most ridiculous, silliest thing you can find. Wrap it in brown paper.”

                When we were ready to exchange, the brown blobs were arranged on the coffee table. The eldest got to go first. That was moi. I selected what turned out to be a nine-inch tall, cone-shaped candle of the art deco style (I suppose), where various brown shades of wax were mixed together, shaped, then while still warm, sliced downward all around the candle. Like fondue pots, this candle had enjoyed limited popularity. Barb said she’d hidden it in the cupboard over her fridge for many years, just waiting for the perfect . . . uh, event.

                Next to draw was the youngest sis, wife of the Pulaski County judge (at that time). She chose my elephant—heavy and round. (Aren’t elephants always heavy and round?) Like a child, I could hardly contain my glee. Her new hobby was flower arranging, and when she peeled the paper back, she found a brown glazed clay pot with an unfinished neck, strings of unglazed clay fired onto the bottom, willy- nilly. I would imagine that art student got an F for his work.

                Let me digress to tell why I had the ugly, deformed piece. While living in Arkadelphia, I tried to walk Feaster Trail daily after taking Billy to school. One spring when the wildflowers were in bloom, I was drawn to the Mill Creek bank on the southwestern edge of Henderson State University’s campus. I noticed what appeared to be an art studio dump—pieces begun but broken, perhaps abandoned after grades were posted. I picked out several things to decorate my own flower garden. They didn’t have to be whole, just interesting. At home, I laid the round pot on its side so it couldn’t catch and hold water. It was truly the grossest elephant I had. We shall see what Sis does with it.

                Barb unwrapped a low-slung rabbit with grapes on its head and ears like Dumbo’s. “A bunko prize,” Teacher-sis explained. It elicited much amusement. Then she had to take the final elephant. From a lunch bag, she drew out a small, pink, unopened square package and held it out for all to see. Such raucous, tears-inducing laughter you’ve never heard from four women who were thankful they’d out-grown the need for that “gross, ridiculous, silly” feminine hygiene product.

                Next time: fleas.