Seems like every newspaper I pick up has a story about a baby-sitter from hell. My mother was so cautious about who sat with me, outside of the kindly spinster who loved children but was insane, that my early life was more interesting than that of most kiddies my age.

My maternal grandmother lived with us and she and I were devoted to each other. She, however, was a woman much in demand, and there were few days when she wasn’t out to tea, or an old settlers picnic, or a meeting of the Temperance Society, or just with old friends that had been friends of her family way back in Virginia.

When she wasn’t available to stay with me, my parents &045; wanting to go to the movies or a play &045; simply took me with them. I was told not to ask questions while the entertainment was on going with the promise that my mother would explain it all to me next morning.

The idea, I understand, was that I drop off to sleep during the production. Not a chance. I was born loving stories in any form &045; from the Bible, a movie, a play, the family circle. There was more than one seannachie in my family. I knew relatives dead in the Civil War as I knew relatives still alive.

So, not sleeping, I fastened my gaze on each play or movie with unwavering attention, and heard it again the next morning. I have and always have had every respect for my mother, but in the interests of truth I’m bound to say that she cheated a little. Left out bits, you know. I never mentioned it to her, knowing that if she realized I knew what was going on there would be no point in telling the story over again. I enjoyed any story even if it missed a few words.

In the absence of both mother and grandmother, my father was sometimes the sitter. I sensed, though, a certain reluctance on the part of my mother to give him that responsibility. Like most persons of Scottish descent, my father felt that a parent’s first obligation to a child was to educate it.

In our evenings together he taught me some marvelous songs: &uot;Did you ever think as the hearse rolled by/ that someday you and that someday I/ would lie in the grave and mold and rot/ while the worms crawled in and the worms crawled out?&uot;

I still remember some of the nice little rhymes, too. For instance, &uot;Bulldog on the land/ Bullfrog in the pool/Bulldog caught the bullfrog/ Green old water fool.&uot;

The other version of that was, &uot;Pharaoh’s daughter on the bank/ Little Moses in the pool/ She fished him out with a telephone pole/ And sent him off to school.&uot;

My favorite, though, was &uot;A funny bird is the pelican/ His beak can hold more than his belly can/ But I don’t see how in the hell it can.&uot;

He had a wonderful collection of stories, too. I was school age and I knew how Cleopatra had been conveyed, at her request, stark naked (the hussy) to Julius Caesar, wrapped in a beautiful rug. I, also, know all about Lady Godiva and the origin of the term, &uot;Peeping Tom.&uot;

My mother, who wouldn’t even read Grimm Brothers fairy stories to me because she thought they were too violent, was naturally not entirely enthusiastic about these literary additions to my education.

The insane lady I spoke of wasn’t exactly a sitter. She lived next door and we sort of struck up an acquaintance. She was very interested in nature and spent hours telling me about how useful insects were and how I must always be kind, kind, kind to them. I kind of lost faith in her the day I decided, out of the goodness of my heart, to pet a bumblebee.

There was a women’s lounge in the basement of the courthouse as I remember, where women coming in from the farms on Saturdays used to leave their children while the mothers did their shopping. There were always enough women sitting around with their knitting and such to keep an eye on the kids.

One of my aunts used to leave my cousin, my age, there, but my mother never could be persuaded to. When she shopped and neither my grandmother nor my father was at home, I went with her. It had its drawbacks, but I developed an amazing amount of endurance, not to mention a taste for marshmallow nut sundaes.

All things considered among the dangers to which I might have been exposed I’m glad to have escaped those beastly sitters.

Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column apperas Thursdays.