I’m surly when I’m sick.  I don’t whine.  I’m not demanding.  I’m surly.

I don’t know if there is such a thing as a Southern Dictionary, but if there isn’t there ought to be.  For my purposes, let’s pretend. 

If you looked up “surly” in the Southern Dictionary, the word would be defined as “not fit to be around.”  And, while I don’t remember hearing my mother use the word “surly”, she threw the definition around quite a bit.  And, not just when we were sick...

Bad behavior would get a “not fit to be around”, as would poor hygiene.  And anyone who “pitched a fit”, was definitely “not fit to be around”.

Demonstrating our unfit status, she required us to spend sick days in our bedrooms; in the bed with the lights out, creating a strangely comforting atmosphere, almost like another layer of blanket. 

After successfully seeing my sisters off to school, mother eased my bedroom door open.  Light in the hall glinted off a chrome television stand as she attempted to navigate shag carpeting.  As long as I didn’t move, her progress continued quietly, albeit slowly.  If I so much as opened an eye though, she burst forth with a string of whispered epithets that seemingly propelled the stand over the bumpy surface.  She plugged it in.  She turned it on, and after several seconds, the tiny light in the middle of the screen burst open to reveal Bob Barker and “The Price Is Right”.  It was never anything different.  It was as though he waited for my mother to plug him in.  I dozed as buzzers buzzed, wheels spun, and curtains opened.  “But wait, Bob!  That’s not all!”

The next time I saw her, my mother held my lunch tray.  Lunch was always chicken noodle soup and saltines.  And, no matter what ailment waylaid us, we drank ginger ale.  The only other time I ever had ginger ale was in the Shirley Temples I was allowed to order with my birthday dinner.  Ginger ale became important.

The sound of my sisters’ excited voices accompanied blinding sunlight splitting the curtains. The room grew warmer.  I shucked blankets, wishing for a break in their footfalls, a hand on the doorknob.  Their voices faded as they dispersed. 

Smells of supper seeped under the crack between my bedroom door and the floor.  I could always tell what she was cooking.  I could also tell it was time for Dad to come home. 

He always stopped.  He opened the door with his shoulder, his head turned in the other direction.  He slipped inside, closing the door softly behind him.  His weight on the edge of my bed pulled me towards him.

“Well!”  To this day, he starts many sentences with a hearty “well”. 

“How’s my girl?”  Awkwardly, he stroked my hair from my forehead.

“Okay,”, I squirmed, delighted at the attention and unable to contain a smile that might be interpreted as a “Get Out Of Jail Free” card.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to be sprung.

He answered my word with a pat to my head and a “Good”, before turning to leave the way he had come.

I continue my mother’s tradition with my own kids.  A sick day means a day spent in the bedroom.  Wheeling in the television would be much easier over hardwood floors, but I don’t have to.  The television is always there, behind the doors of an imposing armoire, and the remote control is within easy reach.  What with all we’ve learned about food in the last forty years, I’ve altered the sickroom menu by substituting broth for soup and foregoing crackers altogether.  Perhaps some nice yogurt if you’re still hungry?

And, no matter how much time passes, nothing pacifies me as well as a darkened room and a softly playing television.

Don’t open the door unless you’ve got food.