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.
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
