Australian Women's Weekly
14 April 1971
Oh, the horror of having to mix, dip, roll, and pack dozens of those chocolate-covered aversions, says Queensland reader THERESE BAKER, writing about one of those crosses that mothers of schoolchildren have to bear - catering for a tuck shop.
 |
| Australian Women's Weekly - 14 April 1971 |
READER'S STORY
CHILDREN were back to school. It was peace
at last. On with all the jobs that had been put off for the previous hectic six weeks. Marvellous amount achieved first day.
Second day, I was well and truly into the swing of it, window cleaning, floor scrubbing, shampooing carpets. Chores were being completed in record times.
In the afternoon, the girls home from school. "Mum, note for you," piped up the eldest. Note, indeed. More like a guided missile with primed warhead.
''Attention, mothers. First meeting to be held Wed., 9 a.m. Important. Please attend."
I went into shock. The duster fell from my palsied hand, I sank into the nearest chair, thoughts racing. I rapidly calculated the number of meetings and functions I would have to survive before the relief of the next Christmas vacation. The answer was: Far too many.
Wednesday morning dawned. Brightly shined, I presented myself at The Meeting. Many mothers were already occupying the choicest chairs - those nearest the exit. An air of pessimism permeated the gathering. A hush descended. The Take-Charge Corps had arrived. They actually appeared to bristle with bright ideas for raising money.
Top of the agenda was election of officers. After an hour of pleas, promises of assistance, checkmates, stalemates, officers were elected, the women concerned having accepted nomination so as to enable us eventually to leave for home some time that day.
I had served as an officer for the previous 12 months, and being a human wailing-wall for such a period is all anyone can be expected to endure.
"The meeting will now come to order" - a directive, of course, that went unheeded. Five minutes later, during a lull in the conversation. Mrs. New President leapt into the void to call for fund-raising ideas. Out of all the babble came this nerve-shattering idea:
Lamington drive.
My hair stood straight on end - no mean feat, as I was wearing a wig. I controlled an impulse to bolt while there was still time. Mothers sat shocked, unable to utter a word. This was immediately taken as acceptance, moved, seconded, and recorded in the minutes before we regained possession of our vocal abilities.
Mrs. Blah as usual took charge, dividing up willing and unwilling mothers into the following groups: Mixers, dippers, rollers, makers of tea, deliverers, orderers, cleaner-uppers, paper cutters, marker-outers.
Fingers felt sticky already
She also suggested and accepted dates and times, even I though they happened to be the two days immediately before the Easter weekend, a hectic enough time with- out a lamington drive.
I, among many others, still could not speak. Already our fingers felt sticky. Some mothers were so adversely affected as to be picking imaginary strands of coconut from their skirts, while others began nervously digging crumbs from their pockets.
I managed a few furtive glances at my shoes. Was it imagination, or were they really streaked with brown? Or was it the remains of last year's chocolate icing?
Shades of our last lamie drive. Will I survive?
Yes, we would, according to Mrs. Blah, as she-recited our battle cry, "Rally round the tuckshop," this being our incentive to keep going in the face of morning teas, fetes, barbecues.
Hours later, or so it seemed, "meeting closed" resounded through the room. Visions of film evenings, hot dogs, cordial, little sandwiches by the dozens still dancing before me, I made my way home to the comfort of a strong cup of tea.
There's another mothers' meeting over. Two weeks to stark-raving day, when I'll once again mix, dip, roll, pack dozens of coconut - covered aversions (lamingtons), despite overwhelming odds, heat, rheumatic fingers, numb feet, innumerable snags, wrong orders, not enough cake, too much icing, not big enough, too big, too wet, too dry.
But we'll win through, and live to fight another day, always with the thought that for each completed lamington, we are that much closer to our Utopia - er, tuckshop.
No comments:
Post a Comment