Nurse Judy and the Fourth
Judy Conlin
I knew it was going to happen. It happens every year around the Fourth of July. I have remained silent regarding the upcoming event, hoping it might slip by unnoticed. This being the 250th birthday of our country, however, it is being touted everywhere. There is no way for Nurse Judy not to hear about it. I brace myself for what I know is coming.
I want to put up my Fourth of July decorations and proudly hang the American flag outside my front door, but I hold off. Maybe she is so incensed by the heat and the rain that she has forgotten all about what is coming up. There is no sense in reminding her, so our home remains undecorated.
She remains in her disagreeable mood, whining about the heat or the rain daily. I am happy about this. I even buy her a cute umbrella with cats and dogs on it and the message, “It’s raining cats and dogs.” She doesn’t thank me, but she tucks it into her designer purse.
Just as I begin to believe that I’ve won for once, she pops into my office, where I am trying to write an article for the paper, and addresses me with a frown on her face.
“Just when were you going to tell me about our Fourth of July plans?” she asks.
“There are no big plans,” I say. “We are just going to have a quiet Fourth here at home.”
“Do you not listen to the TV?” she shouts. “Do you not read the news? This is a big deal this year. This is America’s 250th birthday.”
“Of course I know that,” I say, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a quiet celebration.”
“It certainly requires a huge” — she draws out the word with stars in her eyes — “celebration.”
“The country will take care of all the hoopla,” I say. “We can just have a backyard hot dog roast and play patriotic music.”
“Like fun we can,” she retorts. “We must go to a bigger and better location where they have more and better food than hot dogs, and where they have bigger and better fireworks than we’ve ever seen before.”
“That would cost an enormous amount of money,” I protest.
“You are 90 years old,” she says accusingly. “You won’t be here for the 300th reunion, or even the 275th. Now that I think of it, you may not be here for the one next year. You’d better take advantage of this one. You know you can’t take your money with you when you go.”
I think about what she’s said. I’m surprised that she just wants it to be special. She isn’t asking for anything specifically for her selfish self, as she usually does. My greatest fear has been that I am going to be bombarded with requests for a new wardrobe for her, all in red, white and blue. She must have a bikini, a cover-up, some tennis outfits, a new square-dancing costume, some evening wear and accessories, and her own big bundle of fireworks. I am so relieved that she is turning into a kinder, gentler Nurse Judy that I respond, “Just where would you like us to go?”
“Oh, Nashville, Tennessee; Washington, D.C.; or Las Vegas,” she says.
I am overtaken by the cost of such trips, but she has once again impressed me by choosing places that I have always loved to visit. She really is growing into a much better person.
“I guess I could investigate taking a trip. I’ll do a little research and see which might be the best.”
“There isn’t time for research,” she says. “I have to know right away.”
“Why?”
“Because it depends on where we’re going and what kind of things we have to buy.”
“We won’t have to buy anything. Everything is at the resort.”
I knew it was coming. It just took a little longer than usual. Nurse Judy hasn’t changed one bit. She’s just as avaricious as ever.
“I must have an entirely new Fourth of July wardrobe that is appropriate for a 250th birthday party,” she says.
I sigh. Duped again.
More later,
Judy
