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