Anecdotes From My Father's Childhood: Part 2

When we last left little Dennis, he was waiting for his mother to finish applying the chamomile lotion that would sooth his many hornet stings so he could run down to the lake before the other neighborhood kids had gotten bored of surfing and moved onto something new.

His impatience overtakes him and he stands up, telling his mother he’s fine, and runs towards the front door.

“Hey, hey, hey! I don’t think so, buddy. You’re not going anywhere with all those stings. You just sit inside for awhile and stay outta trouble for the next hour or so. I don’t need to be worrying about you running all over town lookin’ like that. Sit down.”

As his stoic father leaves the house for work, Dennis tries to convince his mother he’s fine. It’s pointless, she won’t budge. He isn’t aware of just how damaged he looks, covered in angry, red bumps and his mother isn’t prepared to answer questions about why her son looks the way he does. Small towns are notorious for gossip, Bedias being no different, and she refuses to allow rumors of her as an unfit mother to spread around the neighborhood. She's worked too hard to keep her four children – 2 boys and 2 girls – clean, fed, and well-behaved for a hornet attack to change things.

The day wore on and hour after hour Dennis asks his mom if he can go outside to play. “I’m fiiiine, mom. I really am. I feel good. Fit as a fiddle!” It was like talking to a brick wall. He was beginning to worry she might not let him ride the tractor and the thought was so terrifying he immediately reassured himself that no one could be so cruel.

His father comes home tired and in need of a hot shower. He says nothing but pats his injured and clearly miserable son on top of his sandy-blonde head before heading to his room to clean and feel human again. Dennis knows he’ll have to wait ‘til his daddy reemerges from the bedroom before he can state his case for freedom. He’ll tell daddy that mom’s “actin’ real crazy again” cuz sometimes that makes him laugh, knowingly.

His plan fails. His father's just as obstinate as his mother, refusing not only to let him play outside, but to let him ride the tractor as well. Dennis realizes he must look a lot worse than he thought and runs to the bathroom to survey the damage. He’s shocked to see red, mottled skin and quarter-size bumps all over his body, some overlapping one another to make miniature mountain ranges on his shoulders and back. He admits to himself that they still sting a bit and are beginning to really itch but what could be better for such an ailment than a slow ride on a big, yellow tractor? Tears begin to well in his eyes before he can stop them but he refuses to let any spill over onto his face. He is 12-years-old after all.

When all the kids begin to gather on the road outside, pushing and arguing about who gets to be first when the tractor pulls up, Dennis’ brother and sisters join the group. It’s only Dennis who’s left to peer out the window, seething with jealousy.

After the tractor has been chugging up and down the street for over an hour, each time passing with a different group of kids sitting on and around his uncle, Dennis hasn’t moved from his seat near the window. Head resting on his chin, permanent frown on his face, his mother finally gives in and tells Dennis he can go for “one ride. Just one.”

Dennis is beyond surprised, he’d given up hope long ago, and he runs out the door as fast as his feet’ll carry him before she can change her mind. He runs down the front porch, mom watching from the kitchen window, down the lawn and around the front gate. He decides he’ll cut through the neighbor’s yard in order to get to the queue of children that much quicker. It’s as his colt-like legs are really flying that he sees a couple stubby posts ahead. He realizes, with only milliseconds to spare, that he’s about to run into a barbwire fence and puts on the brakes, his heels sliding against the dirt, his arms flailing in big circles trying desperately to stop himself before he slams into the nearly invisible steel cables. He manages to stop inches away from the rusted spikes and chances a glance back behind him, at the kitchen window. He sees his mother’s face and even from this distance he knows it’s not good.

His mother marches out the front door, down the steps and with hands on both hips she yells, “Get your butt back inside. Now.”

That’s it. He’s done for. He has no choice but to march back inside, head hanging, feet dragging. He was so close. Without a word he resumes his watch of the tractor’s circuit through the living room window, defeated. He’ll not be getting a ride on the tractor this year. He spends the remainder of the evening debating the usefullness of hornets and barbwire.

Thirty years later tragedy becomes comedy as my siblings and I listen to the grown-up Dennis tell this story. He still feels sorry for that poor kid who spent the longest day of his life covered in hornet stings and chamomile lotion.  But now he has his own tractor and gets to ride it whenever he wants - he's even used barbwire on a professional level. Though, even today, he still has no idea why God created hornets.

-Age

Anecdotes From My Father's Childhood: Part 1

As I'm trapped in snow and dreaming of summer I offer you a tale of embellished truth from the Dinner-Table-Talk of my youth. Not to be taken seriously (as the details are hazy) or lightly (as the details are inconsequential):

It’s a sunny day in a small town outside of Houston, Texas. In fact, Bedias is buzzing with the sounds and smells of summer on this particularly balmy Sunday afternoon. Dads are just coming home from work in the cattle yards, dirt and dust making a home in each line on their face; moms are bringing plates full of barbecued meats and potato-based side dishes out to tables laid with checkered cloths; kids are running amok with no shoes, no shirts and no worries because it’s summer and there is nothing to fear with school still weeks away. It’s 1965 and no one’s thoughts spread much further than the town, the weather, and the event about to go underway.

However, little Dennis is sitting in his living room, staring out of the freshly washed windows with a sour look on his face and an impressively contained temper that only years of practice allow him to keep brewing just under the surface. The dozens of hornet stings on his back and torso, along with the heavy smell of chamomile from the lotion generously applied to his entirety by his mother are mere annoyances compared to the torture of his current situation. He continues to glare out the window, having never known such injustice…

Earlier that day, Dennis was no different than any other kid in town, caught up in anticipation for later that evening when conditions would be ideal – after the worst of the days heat had passed but before the mosquitoes would really start to feast. He’s twelve years old, wearing overalls and telling his mother over a quick bowl of frosted flakes just how excited he is that today his uncle is giving all the kids in town a ride on his John Deere tractor. Uncle Speedy does it every year during the summer and the kids look forward to this event the way kids in other towns look forward to the circus or trips to amusement parks. He only got two rides last year but this year he’s much bigger, having completely grown into the Nike sneakers of his three-years-senior brother, and is sure he’ll get at least four rides this time, if not more.

While he’s in the middle of explaining all this to his mother, who’s washing dishes in the sink and “mm-hmm”-ing when appropriate, and as a spoonful of cereal that will in no way impede his monologue precariously approaches his already full mouth, a boy runs up to the front porch and yells through the screen door that “we’re all going down to the lake to surf! Ask your daddy for a board and get down there quick!”

Dennis isn’t one to ask his daddy to find him a board, no siree. He adds the half-finished bowl to the pile of dishes in the sink and runs out the back door before his mother can protest. He scans the backyard for some long pieces of wood he can use to surf – the way they do it in California. He’s seen all the surfer movies and figures with his long blonde hair, blue eyes, and tan skin he’s halfway to hanging ten already.

Jackpot.

He sees a long board nailed on either side to two tree stumps, an old makeshift bench that hasn’t been used in years. Perfect. He is one to ask his daddy first before ripping old benches apart so he runs back into the house and into his parent’s bedroom. He asks his father, whose sitting on the side of the bed putting on his work boots, ready to start the day, if he can “pry off the board from that ol’ bench outside.” His father takes a minute to tie his last shoelace, thinking. Dennis knows better than to interrupt his daddy while he’s thinking. His father finally assents with an “OK” and Dennis is out like a flash, realizing he’s already lost precious time at the lake.

He examines the bench, both hands on his hips, foot tapping and eyes squinting, trying to find just the right way to extricate the board. There are only two rusty nails on each end of the plank, securing it to the stumps and he figures he’ll just have to give it a good tug and they’ll come right out. He starts on the left side and pulls, propping one foot against the side of the stump for extra leverage. He hears the nails squeak as the board is somewhat loose already but no amount of pulling can loosen them any further. He tries the other end and gets the same result. He kicks at the board swiftly with his left foot, the one he uses to score goals in soccer. Nothing. He steps back, scratching the side of his face and hoping he doesn’t have to ask his daddy for help. His father doesn’t like working in the heat and wakes up most summer mornings already grumpy with years of experience telling him it’s gonna be another exhausting day with the cattle. Then it hits him.

He lays down on his back next to the bench and slides over, through the dried-up weeds and tall grass, until he’s positioned directly under the bench, the coveted board a foot or so from his face. He places both his hands and feet against the board and pushes with all his might. He can hear the nails creaking as the board begins to give. Then he feels it. A sharp pain in his right shoulder. He figures he must have leaned against a jagged piece of glass and slides an inch to the left. Then he feels it again. His back. His chest. His arms. All over! He tries to swat at what he has now realized are hornets while simultaneously crawling out from under the bench, but the stings keep coming. When he’s finally free and standing, he realizes he must have been screaming as his parents are running out the back door, worried looks on both their faces.

When the damage has been assessed, Dennis is told by his father that he’s disturbed a hornets’ nest and they’re still “buzzin’ around mad as…well, hornets!” and by his mother that he has “twenty-two stings and the beginning’s of a nasty rash.” Dennis can’t believe his bad luck but is already making plans to trade what he knows to be a worthless baseball card to the neighbor kid (who only pretends to know about the sport) for a chance to use his board. He’s not going back out there again, that bench is a permanent backyard fixture as far as he’s concerned. The hornets can have it.

To be continued...


-Age