Pennies from Heavin’

Have you ever been embarrassed when a new friend learns something about you that even your oldest friends don’t know?

I met Bonny through NextDoor Aromas, an online communication tool that allows residents of Aromas, California to post notices and warnings, seek help in finding missing pets, provide referrals for services, along with a myriad of other things. Aromas is not unique in having this email group. I believe there are hundreds or thousands of like groups out there.

About five years ago, Bonny posted that she was looking for a local playmate for her daughter, Anjalee, who was three or four years old. My daughter Meghan was a year older. I quickly responded to Bonny’s email because I too was looking for a local playmate for Meghan. (Meghan’s preschool was a thirty-minute drive away, so all of her school buddies lived pretty far from us.)

Bonny and I first met at her house. The kids seemed to get along pretty well. We arranged to meet at a park a few days later.

We had only had a couple of playdates when I invited Bonny, Anjalee, and Anjalee’s baby brother Owen over to our house for lunch and a playdate.

The girls ate a frozen pizza (cooked, of course), along with some blackberries and blueberries that Bonny had brought over.

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The jar sits on the floor of our bedroom.

—   —   —

The girls are running around the house. Bonny doesn’t seem concerned about her daughter so I pretend that I’m not concerned about Meghan and what she might be getting into. I actually trust that Meghan won’t get into too much trouble…

Bonny and I are sitting at our kitchen peninsula. Bonny’s feeding Owen berries as he sits on her lap. We are talking for several minutes when it occurs to us that we haven’t heard or seen the girls for a while. The silence is a warning.

We mutually decide that we had better check up on them. We hear giggles coming from the master bedroom. They’re muffled because the door to the bedroom is shut. Uh oh.

What are they doing in the master bedroom? I never even saw them pass through the kitchen to get to our room.

Not wanting to scare the girls or interrupt their frivolity, I slowly and quietly push open the door. And stop dead in my tracks. Bonny, holding Owen in her arms, is so close behind me we nearly collide.

Our bedroom has wall-to-wall cream-colored carpeting. Usually. The flooring before me is peppered with tiny dark circles. I don’t identify the dark circles as being pennies until after I scope the scene further and see Meghan and Anjalee gleefully taking turns sticking their tiny arms into my penny urn, and then throwing handfuls of pennies across the room.

“Meghan!” I yell. Both girls freeze, their wide eyes signaling not only their astonishment but their guilt.

“What are you doing?!” I groan unnecessarily. I know exactly what they’re doing. I’m careful to control my temper and not scream lest I look like an unfit parent to my new friend. Besides, it’s my fault for letting the girls run wild in my home unsupervised.

Bonny admonishes her daughter and sits Owen on the floor, away from where the pennies have fallen. To my chagrin, she then drops to her knees to begin the tedious task of picking up pennies from the high-piled carpeting.

“No, Bonny! Don’t do that!” I am stricken. God only knows how long it’s been since I vacuumed the carpet in this room. Moreover, Bonny is going to be able to see under my bed. With no bed skirt, all she has to do while she’s on her hands and knees, is turn her head and I’ll be busted.

Over the course of twenty-two years in this house, Pat and I have shoved so much crap under our bed and I don’t remember ever cleaning under there. Bonny’s going to bear witness to inches of dust and great balls of dog hair! I am mortified.

“No, Bonny! I’m so, so embarrassed about what it looks like under our bed! Please don’t pick up the pennies. Meghan and I will do it after you guys leave.”

“Don’t be silly, Jill. If we all work together it won’t take nearly as long to clean up.”

A handful of pennies zips through the air.

“Meghan! Stop! No more throwing pennies!” You little shit. “Get down here and help pick up these pennies!”

“But it’s so much fun,” Meghan laughs.

“I don’t care. You’ve caused a big mess and now you need to help clean it up.”

I drop to my knees, securing my pick-up zone next to what I know to be the messiest section of the bed’s underbelly. The crypt where Pat’s and my junk goes to first hide and then die.

This is hard! The carpet’s pile is so loose and long, it’s difficult to grasp even one penny with my bent fingers let alone the thousands and thousands we have yet to go. I stand up and go to the kitchen to grab a few bowls for us to use as receptacles for our pennies. Once full, we can then dump the pennies into the larger glass urn.

This is slow going. Back on my knees I start picking at pennies again. I can see that Bonny is making much more progress than me. The two girls are not pulling their weight. For every five pennies they pick up, they drop two. They’re also taking each penny they pick up and walking it over to the urn. In the corner of the room. One. At. A. Time.

“Bonny, please don’t judge me by the condition of my floor and under my bed. I’m so embarrassed.”

“Jill, it’s fine! Everyone keeps junk under their bed.”

The process of picking up pennies has turned our two-hour playdate into three hours.

Finally, most of the pennies appear to be back in the urn. Let’s put an end to this friggin’ play date.

—   —   —

Bonny and her kids have been gone for over an hour and Meghan and I are still finding pennies in the carpet and various hidey-holes in and around the room and adjacent bathroom. We find at least a hundred pennies under books, clothes and papers that cover our bay window seat. My neck aches, so we call it quits for the night.

—   —   —

Later that night, as Pat and I pull down the blankets to get ready for bed, more pennies are found. Our multicolored comforter served as excellent camouflage for the little buggers.

—   —   —

Months pass and we still find pennies. We still haven’t cleaned under the bed. You’d think we would have made a clean sweep of it as soon as Bonny left the house that day. But, typical me. Why do something today that you can put off until tomorrow? Or next week? Or next year?

—   —   —

Years pass and we’re preparing to replace our bedroom carpeting with hardwood floors. Now is the time we have to commit to excavating the underbelly of our bed and slaying the living and ever-growing mess that resides there.

Hundreds of pennies.

—   —   —

So last night at dinner I tell Meghan the penny story. She has no memory of the incident. Pat tells her that for years afterward, we kept finding pennies that she and Anjalee had flung across the room.

“Six years later,” Pat says, “I’m happy to report that I think we’ve finally picked up our last penny from that day.”

“Oh, no you haven’t,” chimes in ten-year-old Meghan. “There’s a penny stuck in the window frame in your room.”

What?