By Winnie Bolton 
I’d like to share a story with you of an embarrassingly humorous story of what life was like at the Bolton household when we lived in Park Ridge, Illinois with our five children many years ago.
A neighbor, Dorothy Chapin, was the town’s official Mrs. Snoop. No homeowner arrived or departed without Dorothy’s welcoming ceremonial prying.
She knew mortgage payments, health problems, family eccentricities and sometimes about skeletons in neighbors’ closets.
Not living immediately next door to this all-knowing emissary, I considered myself safe, but fate had other plans for me.
Dorothy adored our kids – loved playing with them as she lived alone – and on numerous occasions would take them with her on a shopping trip. Having five youngsters under the age of 10 who with a sane mind could decline her generous offers?
I served Dorothy’s latest gossip disclosures in abundant portions at dinnertime amidst Barbie’s squeals for more of the green stuff, through interruptions of the usual, “Who’s zat;” the spillage of milk and Tom’s response of “Who cares?”
Then one evening again during meal time Tom remarked in a devilish tone that it would serve busy body’s talk if Dorothy would pass along, just once, a planted lie and later had to eat crow.
I laughed in agreement while watching little Teshie’s blond head bob up and down in unison with mine while her spoonful of peas went bobbing along, too.
Our ever-curious 10-year-old Kevin inquired, “What’s a planted lie?” and as always, Tom particularly enjoyed giving definitions as though he was explaining the plot to a spy novel.
Quickly Jimmie, age 9, muttered, “See Kevin. Nobody likes a tattletale.”
An unusual respite occurred the following week. No phones, unexpected drop-ins from Dorothy or offers for free babysitting.
Instinctively, I suspected that she was gathering the vital statistics on the new neighbors who had moved in earlier that week.
Shortly her inquisition would be complete and “I, mother of the darlings” would be privy to her findings. Ye gawds, was I addicted.
Our paths crossed one Saturday morning at the local supermarket. Pretending not to see me, although I caught her glance for a moment, Dorothy quickly headed for the door. I called to her but she didn’t answer. I was puzzled.
Wiping tomato sauce from Lenny’s drenched fingers during dinner, I joked about being in the doghouse with Dorothy. Tom just smiled with raised eyebrows.
“Maybe she’s cured,” Kevin said.
“What she catch,” Jimmy slurped with the spaghetti still dangling from his bottom lip.
“She’s not sick, dummy,” Kevin quipped. “She just had to learn a lesson, remember? Like Dad said.”
Quizzically, Tom stared at me from across the table as I developed an instantaneous lump in my throat.
We both knew in our heart of hearts that Kevin had once again mended all wrongs, taken care of the tyranny of the world as he was prone to do in the school yard when the bullies were beating up on the younger ones.
Wiggling, he boasted, “I planted that lie. I told Mrs. Chapin to keep a secret about you, Dad. That when you beat up Mommie and she cries, you kick her.”
“Oh daddy,” screamed Jimmy jumping up knocking over Barbie’s milk. “Can we watch her eat that crow now?”
Priceless memories we all have – especially the ones you couldn’t fabricate.
