Sunday, November 15, 1998

Love knows no age, nor does jealousy

By Sharon Randall

Looking back, I admit, she had reason to hate me. It was simple. We loved the same man.

They walked in together, her on his arm. I offered my hand. She declined.

Then I looked at him, and his face lit up with that same, sweet light that always made my knees go weak, years ago, before she came along.

What happened next was not my fault. He left her side, took me in his arms and kissed me.

OK, so I kissed him back. Yes, on the lips. And he didn't wipe off my lipstick.

If looks could kill, I dare say you'd be reading not my column, but my obituary. She swooped in like a hawk after a rabbit, wiped his mouth with her hand and shouted a word that seemed to sum up her feelings for me: "Nasty!" Perhaps I should've backed off and let her have him. But, no. I tried to reason.

(Here's a tip: Never try to use reason in matters of the heart, especially with a woman who could have you killed.)

"It's OK, honey," I said. "He's always been my baby." Her head, I could almost swear, spun clean around on her shoulders.

"No!" she hissed, "he's my daddy!"

I did not hit it off with my nephew's 2-year-old. Matter of fact, I spent most of a three-week vacation trying to persuade Kiowa to like me, or at least not have me killed.

Then one day her mom called me at the lake where I was staying to ask me to baby sit.

Throwing a fit

"She'll throw a fit when I leave," Claudia said, "but it won't last long, probably." Right about the fit. Wrong about the probably. I tried my best to comfort her, promised her everything from junk food to vast sums of money.

"Want an Oreo?"

"I want my daddy."

"Want my Visa card?"

"I want my daddy."

"Want to drive my car?"

"I want my daddy."

"Want to feed the fish?"

"OK."

So we walked down to the lake, sat on the dock and cast my last loaf of bread on the water. Such a miracle. She stopped crying, started giggling, pointing to this fish and that. We had a long talk about, well, mostly fish.

Then Sam showed up. I'd been feeding him the past two weeks, an old bass half as long as my arm. I'd named him for my favorite politician, the late Senator Sam ("I'm just a country lawyah") Ervin, who had by far the sharpest wit and bushiest eyebrows of any human I'd ever seen.

Sam the Bass scared the Pampers off of Kiowa. She threw her arms around my neck, screaming, "That big ugly fish is gonna get me!" (Here's another tip: Never try to reason with a terrified 2-year-old, especially if the terror makes you her friend.) I scooped her up, held her tight, took as much comfort in her arms as she did in mine. I'd been too long without a baby to hold. Those who have them ought to rent them out to those of us who don't.

When she stopped crying, we went back inside to make a pie. And to read some books. And paint pictures with water on dry rocks. Pretty soon, it was time for her to go home.

"Want to see your daddy?" I said, zipping up her jacket.

"No," she said. "I want to see Sam."

Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards. Her column regularly runs on Sundays.

Scripps Howard News Service