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Message-ID: <40093asstr$1040911803@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
Reply-To: anon584c@nyx.net
Subject: {ASSM} rp "Forget All That 09" {Pendragon} (MF rom wl lac) [9/12]
Date: Thu, 26 Dec 2002 09:10:03 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18, or otherwise forbidden by law to 
read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do 
something else.

    This material is Copyright, 1997, by Uther Pendragon.  All 
rights reserved.  I specifically grant the right of downloading 
and keeping ONE electronic copy for your personal reading so long 
as this notice is included.  Reposting requires previous 
permission.

    If you have any comments or requests, please E-mail them to 
me at anon584c@nyx.net.  

     If you save erotic stories, and you prefer that other 
household members not be exposed to them, I recommend that you 
use a file zipped with the PKZip option -spassword.  (Where the 
password that you choose would, presumably, not be "password.")  
This still leaves the titles of the files and the fact that they 
are encrypted open to anybody.

    All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as 
public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination 
and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly 
coincidental.


                         FORGET ALL THAT
                       by  Uther Pendragon
                        anon584c@nyx.net



Part Nine:
Continued from part Eight.

Despite their ages and educational attainment, Bob and 
Kathleen insist on being little children on Christmas morning.  
Their parents, who wouldn't have it any other way, fix stockings 
for them (and for me) late on Christmas Eve.  Sometime before I 
entered the family, Vi took on the task of preparing a stocking 
for each of her parents.  Bob's contribution to this is sporadic, 
but it included photos this year.  There were two stockings for 
The Kitten, since we had brought one from home.  I was really 
surprised that there weren't three.  There were a few sprigs of 
mistletoe around, one of them over the couch.  This is the 
assigned place for Bob and me on Christmas day.

(I don't think it is really fair to carry a baby under a 
sprig of mistletoe and kiss her there, but I kept that opinion 
all to myself.)

The stockings and one gift are opened in sleepwear, and then 
everyone scatters to dress for the fancy breakfast.  After that, 
the rest of the gifts are opened and recorded.  When we were 
dirt-poor students, our gifts were from Bob-and-Jeanette.  Now we 
each give a gift to each of the other members of the family.

(When she was a dirt-poor student, not that interns do so 
much better, Kathleen often gave gifts to Mom-and-Dad or to 
Bob-and-Jeanette.  Once she gave the two of us a used murder 
mystery.  I devour them, Bob seldom reads them.  Bob, who will 
ride Kathleen about anything, expressed real gratitude.  He told 
me, "All you got was a used book; I got a happy wife.")

Kathleen was more-or-less lying in ambush when I stumbled 
out of our room that morning.  "Is The Kitten ready?" she asked.  
Since I was heading for the bathroom having left a naked husband 
in the room behind me, I was rather abrupt with her.  "Tell me 
when she is," was all Kathleen said.  I had already fed The Kitten 
and Bob had been changing her.  When I got back to the room, I got 
her into a dress (sleepwear rule be hanged) and handed her to her 
aunt.  "Oh Kitten, you look darling," Kathleen said.  I knew that 
was the last I would see of my daughter until she got hungry 
again.

This year the first gifts for Bob and me were the matching 
sender and receiver of the baby monitor.  Our stockings, as well 
as The Kitten's were full of small-but-too-big-to-swallow toys.  
The Kitten's first gift was Now We Are Six (with the 
original Shepherd drawings) from her Aunt Kathleen.  She had 
warned the whole extended family that she was giving the series, 
which precluded duplicates but destroyed its surprise value.  Her 
gift next Christmas will be House at Pooh Corner, for 
example.

Kathleen's first gift was a photo album.  The first page was 
an enlargement of the picture of The Kitten that the Senior 
Brennans had used on their Christmas card.  The rest was blank, as 
she carefully showed Bob and me.  "Look, Catherine Angelique," she 
said.  "That's you."

The stocking ritual took quite some time, since Kathleen was 
holding The Kitten with at least one hand, and had to show her 
each of the gifts in each of her stockings.  The Kitten has a 
short attention span for toys, but not *that* short.  She 
got a rattle fairly soon and held on to it through the rest of 
the first stocking and part of the second.  The wrapping paper 
from her gift, however, captured her attention.

"I explained to Bob, when he was about that age," Bob's 
father said grabbing the paper which had wrapped her book, "the 
difference between soap and food.  Soap, I explained is rubbed on 
the outside of your face; and food goes in your mouth."

"It wasn't that age, dear," Katherine said.  "He was nearly 
two years older."

"Anyway," Bob's father continued.  "Bob explained to me the 
difference between food and paper.  Food, he explained, is rubbed 
on the outside of your face; and paper goes in your mouth.  
However," at this word he put the paper way out of her reach.  "I 
think we'll try to keep the paper out of his daughter's mouth 
today.  All gone, darling."  She was not pleased with this.

"You know, dear," Katherine said towards the end of this 
exercise, "it's always a temptation to tell a child 'But it's for 
your own good.'  Because, of course, you are continually making 
decisions for the child's good.  That never works.  No-one 
appreciates having things done *to* them.  And they 
appreciate it even less when they are asked to be grateful.  
Remember that, will you, when The Kitten has a better grasp of 
verbal communication.  You should remember that, as well, dear."

Now I was probably the first "dear," but I couldn't guess to 
whom the last sentence was addressed.  Kathleen, however, knew.  
She held up her bare left hand.  "'There's just one thing,'" she 
sang.  "'You ought to give at least an engagement ring.'  Mother I 
may *never* have any children."

"That's all well and good, dear.  It's your decision after 
all."  (Have I mentioned that the Brennans' idea of the relation 
between parents and adult children differ's from my parents' 
idea?)  "However, that decision doesn't provide you with a license 
to parent those who aren't your children.  Now does it?"

"No ma'am....  C'mon Kitten, we're going up to watch Aunt 
Kathleen dress.  I've showered so somebody else can use the 
bathroom."  She was on the stairs before I realized that she had 
been spanked; and she was in her room before I figured out that I 
had been, too.

Kathleen was still carrying The Kitten when we were all 
gathered for the fancy breakfast.  "Isn't she the cutest baby in 
the whole world?"  Bob asked his sister.

"I think so, but I may be prejudiced."

"I'm not prejudiced," he said.  (I'm reporting on his words, 
not testifying to their truth.)  "She's the cutest baby in the 
whole world, and I'll speak for the record."

"You may well be speaking for the record with these two," 
said his father in a bitter tone.

"Jeanette's not recording this," Bob said, "although I 
reserve the right to search her for a wire."  He wasn't doubting 
my word, he was being risque.

"But still...." his father said.

"Sir," Bob said in a voice that cut through his father's.  
"As the senior partner informed you, this firm is available for 
all manner of subcontracting, but *not*!"  That word cracked 
through the room, and he let a two-beat pause follow it.  "for 
micro-management.  Whether Jeanette is taping me now or will tape 
me in the future is a question between Jeanette and myself.  
Period.  Whether it's been settled or will be settled or will 
never be settled is an internal family matter."

Bob's father looked apoplectic during the first half of the 
speech, but he had some other expression by the end.  "I haven't 
done much right by you," he said to Katherine.  "But, by God, I 
sired a *man* on you."

"I think that you contributed a bit more to his being a man 
than the Y chromosome, dear," she answered, "and you did a lot 
right by me.  Do you mind if I say the grace?"

"Go ahead."  She said a fairly elaborate grace, thanking God 
for the food, the company, and the festive season.  Then she 
thanked him for the Prince of Peace and asked the blessing of 
peace on the family.  The amens were hesitant, but all around the 
table.

"Since the topic has been raised...."  I began.

"Never going to make her a real Brennan, are you?"  Kathleen 
said to Bob.  Her mother saw my hurt.  Kathleen had been the first 
person to call me a Brennan, when I wasn't.

"Topic doesn't matter, dear," Katherine explained to me.  
"Raise your own."

Bob cut through the last sentence with, "And, as the 
original speaker, you have the right of way and may plow through 
her speech, and mother's, and mine, ignoring us."

"First," I said to Bob's father, taking this advice.  "Of 
course you have provided a lot towards Bob's personality.  The 
stories he remembers show that; and on that topic, I think I know 
what you do at Brewster.  I couldn't understand what you did 
before.

"Do you really want to hear?" he asked.

"Wow," said Kathleen, "that was quick restoration to grace.  
He never asked *us* if we wanted to hear."

"I really want to know," I said.

"I already knew whether you wanted to hear, Kathleen Violet.  
Anyway, it all starts with Ward Technology, a conglomerate, and 
Madison, then a small-time management consultant.  A growth 
conglomerate works like this (but the numbers are out of date; I 
worked them out long ago).

"Tortoise manufacturing is a corporation earning a hundred 
million dollars a year.  That is net profit after taxes.  The 
market values Tortoise at nine times earnings.  Hare conglomerate 
is a company also earning a hundred million dollars in the last 
year, but it has been growing at thirty percent a year in 
earnings per share.  So the market values it at twenty times 
earnings.  Hare buys Tortoise for a round billion in new Hare 
stock.  Then the merged company makes one hundred ninety-five 
million dollars in the next year.  For Hare, that is ninety-five 
percent more earnings on fifty percent more shares.  That makes a 
thirty percent increase in per-share earnings.  The market is 
proven right about Hare, it continues to value it at twenty times 
earnings.  Hare's shares are worth thirty percent more than they 
were last year.  The old owners of Tortoise are happy, since they 
have shares of stock worth over forty percent more than the 
Tortoise shares that they held last year.

"What no-one seems to notice is that the market now values 
at three-point-nine billion a mix of plant and equipment that it 
valued at two-point-nine billion last year when it earned five 
millions more profit.

"Of course, when a growth conglomerate slips, it is all over 
but the crying.  Well, Ward Tech had almost slipped.  Justice had 
nixed its largest acquisition of the year before, and its growth 
was much lower than expected.

"Now the other half of this is Madison...."

He said a lot more before Katherine said, "Her eyes have 
glazed over dear."

"I'm sorry," he said, "I thought that you wanted to hear."

"I wanted to *learn*," I said.  "It's just that there is 
more to learn than I can handle at once."

"What you really ought to do, dad," Bob said, "is to write it 
down.  I know some of it, but it's like the game 'Rumor.'  You 
tell me; I tell Jeanette; Jeanette tells The Kitten; and suddenly 
Madison is the fourth president, and Brewster Furniture makes 
office equipment....  Yeah, I know, in all your spare time."  
Meaning that he hadn't any.

"One possibility," I put in, "if this isn't a sore point 
right now, is to put it on tape.  Don't worry about filling 
cassettes, one story per tape.  Put a little card with each tape 
telling what the subject is and the date of recording and the 
date covered by the narrative."  Guess who made a few extra bucks 
transcribing for an oral-history project.  "If worst comes to 
worst, The Kitten would have a record of your voice.  At best, I 
might be able to type them up sometime.  Right now, I'm booked.  
But my part of the books dribbles off long before Bob's part."

"I, at least, am serious," Bob said.  "You don't know how 
important the memoirs and diaries of the less-than-famous are to 
historians.  Not meaning to denigrate you, but you aren't a 
politician or a general.  We have their memoirs; we'll have the 
biographies of the entertainers of this time.  But most of the 
stories don't say how the rest of the world operated.  Anyway, 
Kathleen might not have listened, but she'll read it if it's in 
print."  That is an article of faith in the family.  She read 
Britannica from A to Z, though she admits skipping parts of the 
duller articles.

"Think about it," Kathleen said.  "And, although I'm much 
more selective these days, I would read that."

Later, when Bob's father looked like he had finished eating, 
I asked him if that were true.  When he nodded, I told Kathleen 
to give The Kitten to him.  Having wrestled with her all through 
the meal, she was reluctant to give her up.  "But this was only 
niece time," she said.  "I haven't had any goddaughter time at 
all."  That lost.  Kathleen and I cleared the table and hurried 
in to share in the experience of the tree.

The Kitten, as I expected, made out like a bandit.  Instead 
of being grateful for all the toys and books she received, she 
resented all the wrapping paper that she was being denied.  We 
left the party suddenly for some cereal and fruit.  There were 
piles of presents for us when we got back.

Bob and I got matching shirts with large pockets like his 
father was wearing.  I'm not sure that I want my daughter to get 
more experience picking pockets than she has already, but she 
certainly enjoys it.  I also got a necklace of beads like 
Katherine's but even more splendiferous in color.  It has larger 
and, therefore, even less dangerous beads.

The Kitten, on top of everything else, got a child's picture 
book *in French* from Bob's father.  I gave him a big hug in 
gratitude, forgetting that it wasn't -- technically -- a gift to 
me.

Kathleen put off Bob's gifts to her until the end.  Then she 
unwrapped a box, searched the wrapping paper, opened it to find 
another box, unwrapped it and searched the wrapping paper....  The 
picture set was taped to the bottom of the fourth box in.  
However, she opened that box and unwrapped, opened, and searched 
the fifth box before looking at the pictures.  There is no telling 
with a Bob box.  Bob and I got a hug in thanks.  She expressed more 
enjoyment over the pictures than over the very nice blouse that I 
had given her.  On the other hand, the pictures would have been 
rather dull without The Kitten; and I made her myself.

The other picture set was wrapped somewhat less complexly.  
The family talked about extreme Bob packages from the past.  He 
used to do this to his parents as well, and to me; but he has 
slacked off in recent years.  Ours are generally less elaborate 
than Kathleen's.

Sooner or later, every Christmas includes the story of the 
year Bob gave his sister a series of *seven* boxes, each of 
them padded from the larger one by crushed newspaper, and all of 
them otherwise empty.  After she had thrashed around in the 
discarded wrappings for a length of time which increases with 
every retelling, he got the book from his room and tried to slip 
it into the wrapping paper under the excuse of helping her look.

This story seems to require four Brennans to tell it 
properly, leaving me the only audience.  In a few years, The 
Kitten will join me.  This Christmas, looking at four adults 
laughing uproariously, she decided that it must have been 
something that she had done; she waved her hands to keep us 
laughing.  I'd planned to feed her just before leaving for my 
family's celebration.  She'd awakened hungry earlier than usual, 
however, and we hadn't managed to stretch the times much.

I fed her much earlier than I had planned, and downstairs.  
The latter was a mistake, because the bustle disturbed The Kitten, 
and it distracted me from my speech when she paused.  Midway 
through the feeding, Bob's father asked if he could read "King 
John's Christmas" from The Kitten's new book.  I asked her, and 
reported her permission.  I felt like a servant of the Pythoness.  
When she was in the play-with-the-nipple stage, she cut it short 
to admire all the talk going around.  That didn't cut her ration 
by much, and I let it go.  With any luck, my parents would be 
through their meal by the time she got hungry again, and it would 
be a good excuse for short goodbyes.  I left The Kitten with 
Katherine, and went upstairs to express some milk from my other 
breast.  I don't mind nursing The Kitten before the family, but 
nursing a damn machine should only be done in private.  They held 
the poem until I got back down.  The king got his India-rubber 
ball just before it was time to leave for my parents' house.

Since the car seat was in the van, we drove that to my 
parents' house.  "Every time I drive this route with you," Bob 
said, "I expect to be told that I'm not old enough to drive you 
home."  Daddy had objected to Bob's driving me on a date when Bob 
was newly licensed.  Daddy then drove us to the movie, however, 
showing that it was a real concern for my safety, not just 
another power play.  Since Bob never had a moving violation and 
my father had frequent ones, that concern might have been 
misplaced.

"You aren't going to act the bear like that with The 
Kitten's dates are you?" I asked him.

"Probably not.  Since I won't let her date until she is 
twenty-one, I figure that all of her potential dates will have 
established a driving record.  If it is without blemish, I'll let 
her ride with them."  Bob and I have to discuss the dating rules 
sometime in the next thirteen years.

Mommy gets to have her celebration on Christmas.  That means 
that the Brennan feast is delayed a day.  The Brennans almost 
never have guests to what is, to them, a major family feast.  
Mommy, on the other hand, always wants guests.  She doesn't have 
much of a selection on Christmas day, but the dual inconvenience 
shows her power over those who come and over us.

The Brennans have turned the oddity into an advantage.  They 
have a Christmas celebration one day and a Christmas feast the 
next.  Meal preparation takes most of the day, and makes the 
feast much more special.

My mother's guests this year included a widower, three 
widows, a single woman of my mother's age, my brother, Dave, and 
us.  Dave is older than me and younger than Greg.  (Which makes him 
both my older brother and my younger brother; think about it.)  He 
is also bad news.  Bob had told Dave very quietly on a previous 
such occasion that touching me would be an occasion for seriously 
mixing it up with Bob.  "And which of us would win that one?" Dave 
had asked.  Bob is bigger, but Dave fights dirtier and much more 
often.

"And which of us would be violating parole on that one?" Bob 
had replied.  He'd made his point.  If the police have to be 
called, and I am under oath to call them if any such fight 
occurs, they know Dave.  Bob, on the other hand, has no arrest 
record; he's a college professor and the son of the president of 
the town's largest private-sector employer.  This year, Dave 
seemed to be on is best behavior.  He said nice things about The 
Kitten, but didn't try to touch her.  It may have been Bob 
hulking over us, it may have been a lack of interest in babies.  
Dave was even drinking tomato juice, but his presence raised the 
tension level.

The Kitten was a hit with the older guests.  Her grandmother 
was the only one who didn't coo over her.

Dinner was much later than the year before.  I feared that 
The Kitten wouldn't last through it; but the recent changes had 
blown the schedule to smithereens, so I couldn't be sure.  We had 
some of my milk in a bottle.  I didn't feel that walking away from 
the table to go breast-feed would be a big hit.  I would feel less 
comfortable feeding The Kitten in front of my family, let alone 
their guests, than I did in Bob's old church which I attended 
once or twice a year.  Bob's only worry, and a serious one, was 
that he would have to leave me to care for The Kitten.

"And what do you do, Mr. Brennan?" one of the widows asked.

"Call me Bob."

"Mr. Brennan teaches school up in the North," my mother put 
in.

Bob has the least pride of status of anyone I know; Mommy's
statement is technically correct; Bob's mother teaches school, 
and he reveres her.  Even so, saying an Assistant Professor 
"teaches school" minimizes his standing.  And Bob is "Dr. 
Brennan" or "Professor Brennan" rather than "Mr."  I never 
understand what advantage Mommy sees in this, her daughter's 
social standing must reflect on hers to some degree.  And Mommy 
cares about social standing.

"Oh, what is the name of the school?"

"Grand Valley State University," Bob said.  "It's in 
Michigan."

"They call a school a university?"  The woman wasn't nasty, 
but neither was she bright.

"No," I said, "Mother calls a university a school.  And, to 
some extent, it is."

"We," Dave put in, "are eating with an actual university 
professor.  Aren't you impressed."  Dave, having spent five years 
in high school, regards himself as an expert on education.

"Were I a professor at thirty-two, you would have reason to 
be impressed," Bob said.  "Unfortunately, I'm a mere assistant 
professor.  That's a much commoner breed."

"I," said the widower suddenly, "am more impressed by 
thirty-two than by an assistant professor.  Oh to be young again!"  
That brought laughs and agreement from the table.  Soon, the 
conversation got around to the ills that flesh is heir to.  The 
details were excruciating.

Half way through the meal, however, The Kitten demanded 
food.  Bob pushed his chair back and I passed him the bottle.  
"Sorry," he said, "our child needs feeding."  Mommy expostulated, 
but he ignored her.  He knew that The Kitten's cries would start 
my breasts working whether he had a bottle with him or not.

"He shouldn't be feeding the child now," Mommy told me.  
"And how do you know he can do it right?"

"Mother, only he has ever bottle fed The Kitten.  If I'm in 
the same room, my breasts leak."  Now that is sober fact.  I 
expected some complaint that I would feel comfortable breast 
feeding my child in front of my in-laws but not in the same house 
as my own family.

Instead, she said, "Leaking breasts!  Ladies don't mention 
leaking breasts.  Janice has your daughter ever talked about 
leaking breasts at the dinner table?"  Janice didn't think so.  
"George?"  The widower had no daughter.  "Well, if you had, you 
wouldn't want her talking about leaking breasts."

Now, two cases of incontinence had already been mentioned.  I 
don't think that leaking breasts are that much worse than leaking 
bladders.  Also, of the five mentions of leaking breasts, Mommy 
had managed four.  And these were, as the TV censors say, 
gratuitous.

"This criticism of formula is simply a modern fad anyway.  
Isn't that right, Father?"  Mommy calls Daddy "Father" when any of 
her children are in the room.  Why is a mystery, but then most 
things about Mommy are mysteries.

"Mommy," I said, "I respect Daddy's skill and knowledge as 
a pharmacist."  And I do.  He isn't that effective a businessman 
and had been a lousy parent, but he knows drugs and their 
interactions.

"And well you might," Mommy said.  "He built The Pharmacy up 
from next to nothing."  Which he didn't, in the first place; and 
which would imply business skill rather than professional 
knowledge, in the second.

"But I don't think he would feel comfortable criticizing the 
position taken by the AMA with regard to substances which are 
not, after all, prescription substances in the USA."

"What has that to do with your father's putting years into 
building up a business that you ignored and abandoned?"  I had 
"abandoned" the pharmacy by marrying a man who wasn't going to 
carry it on.  My marrying one who was going to carry it on had 
been Daddy's dream, but certainly not Mommy's.

"Nothing, I was just pointing out that the American Medical 
Association endorses breast-feeding for at least one year.  Your 
opinion to the contrary notwithstanding."

"It's not polite to always change the subject, Jeanette.  
That's the trouble with these bossy modern women.  They turn their 
men into wimps doing women's work, ..."  (Now Bob complains that 
his strength has declined from the summers when he did highway-
construction labor.  But "wimp" isn't the first term which comes 
to mind when you see him.)  "and then they try to change the 
subject to their private concerns."  (All my comments had been in 
response to hers.)

Mercifully, mention of modern times led to a general chorus 
of complaints.  The sin of women working competed with the 
difficulty of hiring housemaids and cleaning women on affordable 
terms.  I don't want to suggest that anyone raised a possible 
conflict between these two evils.  It's just that both topics were 
broached and people had to choose which one to address at any 
particular moment.

Daddy did contribute to this conversation.  The economic 
problems of this country were entirely due to three causes: the 
minimum wage, affirmative action, and "paying people to not work 
and worse, paying them to have babies."  Oh to be back in the 
glorious, untrammeled, economy of 1931!  But I didn't say so, I'd 
used up my parent-contradiction quota for this year.  As I said, 
he is careful about your prescription.  If you have prescriptions 
from two doctors, or from one careless doctor, take his advice.  
But not his advice on politics or economics.

Bob brought The Kitten back in.  I took her, and Bob dug in 
to what was left on his plate.  It was the best appetite that I've 
seen him exhibit in that house.  We had brought presents to Mommy 
and Daddy from each of us and photos from The Kitten.  These would 
be opened later.  We were given our presents in public, one for 
each of us.  Bob got a tie; The Kitten got a stuffed animal (an 
elephant, I thought it was cute); I got a blouse which was too 
small and too young for me.  We thanked them effusively.

The Kitten was getting crankier and crankier, an excuse for 
us to leave.  "You didn't even give me a chance to hold my 
grandchild," Mommy said.

"You didn't ask when she was in a good mood," I replied, 
silently thanking God.  We drove off with The Kitten complaining 
about the car seat even after the van got moving.


Continued in Part Ten.
FORGET ALL THAT
Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
1997/12/24
1999/12/30
2000/09/10
2002/12/26

This is the ninth segment of the last story (so far) in a 
series of stories about the Brennans.

The next segment is: 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan/fat_d.htm
Parts 10-12 

The first story in the series is:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan/forever.htm
"Forever" 


The directory to the entire series is:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan.htm
Brennan Stories Directory 

The directory to all my stories can be found at:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/index.htm

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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