Pooping Trees (rough draft)

 

Pooping Trees

Steamboat Island, located in the Puget Sound near Mud Bay is a little less than a half mile around and accompanied by approximately 40 homes. Of those 40 homes, one house stood out like a sore thumb. It was located at the northern most tip of the island, which opened a panoramic view of Hope Island, just to the East, and Squaxin Island due north. Looking west, Arcadia and Hungerford Point created a narrow passage northward. Access to the island meant driving across a very narrow one lane bridge. You may be thinking, Ok, it’s a bridge. What’s the big deal? The big deal is Alvie. My best friend, Andy, had an Australian Shepherd. This Australian shepherd wasn’t your ordinary shepherd or dog. Andy and his brother Ricky, taught Alvie how to skateboard. He was on T.V. and performed in the former King Dome in Seattle Washington. So, it is extremely hard to forget such an amazing friend and family member. I can remember Andy’s mom pulling up to the bridge, stopping, and letting Alvie out of the car to run across the bridge. To this day, Alvie is still one of the fastest and strongest dogs I have ever seen. Andy’s mom, Nancy, drove behind Alvie while he ran across the bridge and she did not cut him any slack. Nancy, honked the horn and raced up to him, causing Alvie to run at speeds close to 30 MPH. I’d always get nervous that Alvie would stop running and end up under their station wagon. Thank God, that never happened. I can still see Alvie streamline as an arrow rocketing across that 200-meter stretch like Usain Bolt. It was a sight to see! Anyway, that house which stuck out like a sore thumb, that was Andy’s house. I probably spent half my childhood at Andy’s: fishing, camping, crabbing, clamming, scuba diving, adventuring, boating, water skiing, and partying. Thank God we didn’t have smart phones, computers, or gaming systems like we have now. I wouldn’t be writing these stories and I would have missed out on some of the greatest life experiences. I consider myself blessed. We may not have had much money, but we had the best playground on earth.

Hope Island, just off to the east, was a little over a mile and a half around, and between 400 and 500 meters from Steamboat. 90 percent of Hope Island involved heavy brush, trees, nettles (a plant that stood three to four feet tall with stinging thorns), and berry bushes. For teenage boys, jumping in a dinghy and rowing over to the Island for a day of traipsing around in search of a new fort, playing army, fantasizing, or getting into mischief was living the life! Alvie joined in the fun also and usually swam the entire distance from Steamboat to Hope. The currents were strong and if there was much of a wind, the white caps sometimes crashed into and over his head. Andy often got nervous if Alvie began to slow down and start panting, for fear that he might drift too far from the boat and start to sink. I can remember Andy and I trying to rescue Alvie on one occasion, almost capsizing the boat while pulling him out of the water. I believe that was the first time I saw extreme concern and fear in my best friend’s face. I was truly worried for him. For any dog, even a Newfoundland, that swim was no piece of cake; hence, why I stated that he is one of the strongest dogs I have ever seen. Once Alvie reached the shore, he collapsed on the beach for an hour or so before moving. Alvie’s body relaxed to the point of practically melting into the sand. You’d swear he crossed over the rainbow bridge, but Andy never looked back. He knew his dog and had seen him crash on the beach after multiple trips to the Island. Andy, would always say, “Don’t worry, he’ll catch up.” He was right. We’d be halfway across the island and Alvie would come out of nowhere. He’d be strutting his stuff as though he just won the Westminster dog show. Alive was one of the gang and Andy’s best buddy. He will always be missed and never forgotten. Thank you, Alvie, for the memories. We love you!

I believe it was a beautiful spring day and I was between 16 and 17 years old. I had spoken to Andy the day before and let him know I’d be out the next morning. As usual, I drove up in my Datsun B210 hatchback and parked it right behind Andy’s 1970 Ford Torino. Andy’s Torino had a 351 Cleveland and ran like a raped ape. It is amazing we lived to see another day after riding with Andy! I had never been over 100 MPH until I road in Andy’s Torino. To this day, I can still remember praying in the passenger seat as Andy merged onto highway 101 at 120 mph on a 55-mph curve. All I could picture is drifting onto the shoulder, losing control, and soaring over the ravine into a mass of Evergreens. Thankfully, the good Lord was looking out for us that day, and many before and after. I know for a fact that we defied the laws of physics at that rate of speed. Anyhow, Ricky, Andy’s younger brother wasn’t driving yet but he was only a year behind us, so he ended up with a Toyota Celica a year later. Ricky wasn’t the younger brother that most older brothers try to lose or ditch. He was always welcome and added a bit of chemistry to the gang that kept things interesting, especially when intoxicated. To be honest, we were all quite interesting after a few beers or some Yukon Jack (nasty stuff). Yukon Jack and I had an awfully bad evening once, and without getting entirely off topic; let us just say, I had to be tied up and secured to the foot of a bed soon after our friend Troy, tried to hit me in the head with an iron skillet. Needless to say, I was a bit out of control that evening and had to be subdued. Getting back on track, I stepped out of my car to see Andy walking out from under the car port with a couple of oars, a life vest, and his faithful friend, Alvie. “Andy, are we bringing the fishing poles? I brought mine in case we decide to throw in a line.” Andy, stopped and stared at the ground for a second, looked up, and said, “I guess we can, but I figured we’d be running around the island more than anything, and it’s more junk we have to haul down to the boat.” “You do have a point and I don’t think the tides coming in until late in the day. Did you pack anything to eat?” I was infamous for not bringing food. Sadly, my mother passed away shortly after my 16^th birthday, so it was just my father and me. In other words, we lived the life of bachelors, which meant I was mostly responsible for preparing my own food. Not to mislead you or give you the wrong idea, my dad always made sure there was plenty of food in the house, but I was too lazy to take the time and put together a sack lunch before leaving the house. Now, if my mother were around, I’d have a five-course meal with me that could have fed an army. She always made sure her Boop (that’s me) had enough to eat. I believe Andy and the guys had a soft spot for me when it came to my mom, so it was a rare occasion that I received much flack for not having any food. “I think my mom made some sandwiches for us with chips and soda.” “Cool, I can’t wait to get to the island and see if anything has changed. Where’s Ricky? “He’s on the bulkhead getting the boat ready. Do you mind running up stairs and getting our food while I take the oars down?” “You don’t have to ask me twice”.  

Descending the long steep staircase to the bulkhead, I remember hanging onto the rails to keep from falling. Whoever built the staircase, didn’t take into consideration the angle of decent or the narrowness of the steps. I don’t think I ever ceased to white knuckle the rails of those stairs in all the years I gingerly stepped down them. Falling on that set of stairs meant tumbling approximately 30 feet to the ground. Teenage boys might be physically resilient, but that fall wasn’t one I wanted to test. Reaching the bottom of the staircase and stepping onto the bulkhead, I saw Ricky and Andy to the right of me, lowering the boat into the water. The bulkhead consisted of large wooden planks and pilings, creating a manmade beach that protected the island from erosion due to high tides and inclement weather. Without the bulkhead, we’d have to use a dock to lunch and store the boat. It also made a great place to sit and fish when the tide was high. “Andy, did you remember the life jacket?” “Yes, you didn’t see me carrying it down with everything else?” “Yah, I guess I did but I forgot. You know how my dad is, so I just wanted to make sure.” Until the day I moved out, my father expected me to have a life jacket if I was going out on the water. I never asked him why he was so worried, but I can guess it was the protective instincts of a parent. No matter how strong or confident of a swimmer I might be, he didn’t budge when it came to the life jacket. Thankfully, I never had to rely on it but now that I’m a parent, I understand his reasoning. We love our kids, and we want the best for them, but we want them safe!

Now that we had everything in the boat, the challenge was getting into the boat without tipping it over. While we practiced our balancing acts, Alvie’s anticipation grew. Knowing what it meant as we climbed into the boat, he shook with nervous energy as he waited to launch himself into the cold currents of the Puget Sound. Soon, the three of us managed to get seated; Ricky at the bow, Andy amidships, and me at the stern. Andy usually did the rowing. I’m not entirely sure why, except that he feared I might drop an oar in the water. I was cool with it though because that meant I didn’t have to row. The dinghy barely fit the three of us and sat well below the water line. In other words, the hull created a sufficient amount of drag that made it very difficult to row. By the time you reached the beach, you were as buff as Arnold Schwarzenegger. The boat sat so deep in the water it was only a couple inches from spilling over. Needless to say, it was a regular balancing act from Steamboat to Hope in order to keep the water from spilling over and sending the captain and crew to the bottom of the ocean. So, while Andy kept us steady and true, I’d throw a line out the stern in hopes of catching a salmon or cutthroat trout on our way over to the island.

Splash, Alvie sprung into the water as soon as we cast off. Alvie always had a head start due to his overwhelming excitement to reach the other side. As Alvie started to swim out ahead of us, we played catchup rowing against the currents and manipulating the eddies that pushed and pulled against us. God forbid we had to fight a strong wind and white caps, or our work and Alvie’s became a lot more demanding. Alvie fought to keep his head above water while white caps collided against his body, and we did our best to stay on course, trying not to drift too far up the channel and away from Hope. Fortunately, this voyage was smooth sailing.  

Land hoe! We jumped out of the boat and set our feet on the pebble covered beach of Hope Island. Driftwood lay all around us and an old, pitted Styrofoam buoy hung from the bottom branches of a Madrona tree. Approximately 20 feet from us, Alvie lay crumpled from his crossing of the English Channel. The three of us turned around and grabbed onto the gunwale and pulled the boat closer to the beach berm. Then Andy wrapped the anchor line around a nearby tree while I snatched the fishing poles. Ricky seized the backpack and headed into a thicket of brush directly ahead of us. “Ricky, hold on!” Andy knew if Rick managed to escape us, our food might also, so he made sure to keep Ricky close. Three teenage boys on an island without food, not a good idea! “I’m taking a leak!!” Ricky tended to get snappy when Andy asserted his big brother voice. “Alright, I wanted to make sure you weren’t running off with our sandwiches.” “Whatever.” Andy and I wasted no time catching up to Ricky shortly after leaving the berm.  

Creating more noise than a heard of Elephants, we stomped through a detritus that consisted of pine needles, broken branches, twigs, and leaves. So, I guess it was a good thing we weren’t hunting. Thinking back, now I know why we rarely spotted wildlife. As we traversed the island, practicing our balancing acts on mossy covered fallen trees, we looked for the perfect place to set up basecamp. We were usually quite hasty when searching for a place to set our things down, but the truth is, we wanted to eat. As I stated early, and many males can agree, a teenage boy thinks about two things and two things only, food and girls. And in that order! Thus, basecamp meant, filling our endless gullets, taking a pee, and slinging expletives that might embarrass a sailor. God help you if you had to take a dump! Chances are, none of us brought a roll of toilet paper. You didn’t want to look for leaves! When I said pine needles and leaves, the pine needles outnumbered the leaves by a 1000 to one. To top it off, the odds of finding a leaf large enough to do the job was the difference between crapping your pants and getting your fingers a little dirty. Sorry, I have to take a moment for myself (laughing hysterically). Ok, I’m back. While writing that last sentence, it reminded me of another story that I will have to tell at a later date. I’ll give you a hint, it has to do with one of us putting our hand in a pile of crap. That’s all I can say. In other words, hitting the head before hitting the road; or water in this story, was a wise decision.

Pushing through a dense thicket, Andy leads our efforts as branch after branch slapped Ricky and I in the face. One from the left, one from the right, and another, and another, until both hands were guarding our faces, and all you could see is the other guys heals. Finally, the thicket opened into a clearing umbrellaed by three giant Evergreen Trees. The lowest branches were approximately six to seven feet off the ground and spanned some 25 to 30 feet out from the tree’s trunks. The effect was much like a cave, resembling protection and solitude. We found basecamp! Just as Andy stepped out of the thicket and under the canopy, “I think we found it.” I was quick to ask, “Found what?” Then I noticed nothing was hitting my face and hands and the brush quickly disappeared. I looked up under the shadow of the Evergreens and said, “Yah baby, let’s eat!” Ricky stepped out from behind me, “So cool. This is perfect.” I took the tree to the right, Ricky took the tree in the left, and Andy took the tree in the middle. Before I knew it, Ricky was yelling heads up as a flash of aluminum foil came hurtling at my head. At 16 years old, my cat like reflexes quickly seized the unknown object out of the air. “Thanks, do you know what kind of sandwiches she made?” Andy piped up, “I think it’s bologna and cheese.” “Bob, soda?” “Sure, toss it Ricky, but not as hard.” Ricky laughed and thankfully, lobbed it.

As the three of us sat down to eat our sandwiches and drink our sodas, Andy jumped up and grabbed a branch directly above his head. He swung his feet up and crossed his legs over the branch. Then he pulled himself up to the branch and rolled himself up and onto his belly. From there, he was able to reach up and grab the next branch and stand to his feet. Tearing the foil from my sandwich, I watched Andy climb the tree. “Holy crap, you made that look easy. How high do you think you can go? These trees have to be at least 80 to 100 feet tall.” Andy hesitated for a second, “I think I can get pretty close to the top, but I think you’re exaggerating, Bob.” “Well, they might not be that tall, but they sure look it.” Ricky watched while he stuffed his face with more than his bologna sandwich because he conveniently neglected to point out the peanut butter cookies that Nancy added to our lunch. So, he was slightly occupied. From age eight to 16 or 17, we couldn’t stay out of a tree. We liked to climb to the top of small Evergreens, swing the tops back and forth, build tree forts, and cross from one tree to another. In other words, this kind of thing was not uncommon for the three of us. “Ricky, throw me a couple of those cookies.” “Alright, hang on.”

“Ricky, these cookies taste home maid. Did your mom make these cookies?” “Andy, did Mom make the peanut butter cookies? There was silence from above as I looked up expecting him to answer, and then I heard a quite giggle, the snapping of small branches, and falling pieces of bark. I yelled up to him, “Andy, did Nancy make these cookies?” Then the giggle turned into laughter, hysterical laughter. Both Ricky and I stared up at the underside of the tree trying to figure out what was so funny. Ricky shouted, “What the heck is so funny?” And, Andy yelled back, “You will find out in a minute.” “Can you see him, Ricky?” “I can’t tell. I thought I saw his feet but I’m not sure.” “Ricky, Andy’s taking a shit, watch out!” Instantly, Andy broke into uncontrollable laughter as a large turd hit the ground directly between Ricky and me. We jumped back in absolute disgust but when the second turd, and the third turd, hit, and splattered several feet from the epicenter, we laughed until our bellies hurt, and tears flowed from our eyes. The smell was enough to drop a water buffalo! The kind of lurking putridity you cannot get away from. Ricky and I scattered into the thicket waving our hands in front of our faces and screaming for fear that the smell was going to kill us. Andy, he damn near fell out of the tree due to the weakening of his muscles from his overwhelming laughter. Fortunately, Andy made it down in one piece. I was laughing so hard I could barely stand, so I know I would have hit every branch on the way down. Lastly, that perfect basecamp, became the smelliest basecamp. So needless to say, we went looking for a basecamp without pooping trees!

Story Telling at its Best (rough draft)

 

Story Telling at its Best

            Ring, ring, knock, knock, “He is going to be mad.” I could hear footsteps coming to the door. I was shaking with fear because I knew how upset my dad got when I forgot my key. My dad worked nights and slept during the day, so when I got home from school, he didn’t want to be woken up. It was my job to remember my key and let myself in quietly. If I had homework, I did my homework. If not, my father expected me to leave him a note stating where I had gone. I heard the lock turn and the doorknob start to twist. The door cracked as my father opened it slightly and peered through the narrow gap with one eye. It was at that moment I felt his ominous presence staring directly down at me. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t. He knew why I was standing at the door, no need for an explanation, this had happened too often. I stood there with my lips sealed, staring up at him. Then he spoke, “Bob! Where is your key?” He knew my key wasn’t on me and probably knew exactly where I had left it, but I believe he found joy in hearing my explanation. I’m 52 years old now and I was eight years old at the time. I’ve raised three children of my own. I always found it entertaining to hear my children try and explain their way out of a situation. Nine chances out of ten, had they been honest, their punishment would have been much less severe, but they always managed to dig a hole to China that even Robert Shapiro would have had trouble defending. Let’s face it, children can create some pretty elaborate stories, but common sense isn’t their best quality. Standing there with my mouth partially open, my father answered for me. “You left it on the coffee table.” He turned around and walked away. I slowly opened the door and walked into the house peeking over my left shoulder to see my dad walking down the hallway to his bedroom. I knew this wasn’t over because he was entirely too calm and quiet. His sleep was especially important to him and I had just interrupted it for the umpteen time. I closed the door gently (as though I was concerned about his tranquility) and headed to my bedroom, not before I heard the words, “Bob, forget your key one more time, one more time and you will be restricted to your room for a month.” My father, a former officer, and Vietnam Vet pulled no punches when it came to restriction. In other words, half time for good behavior wasn’t part of his vocabulary. Also, restriction meant, in your room after school and on the weekends, no T.V., no desserts (my mother made the best pies) and no special events (birthday parties, movies with friends, sleepovers, etc…). I quickly answered, “Ok, sorry, I won’t do it again. Thank you.” As I started to close the door to my room, Pixie quickly shot between the door and the jam and jumped onto my bed. Although a dog, Pixie was a great listener and my best friend. Friends talk to friends, and I had some things to talk to Pixie about. “Pixie, I can’t forget my key again or I’m going to be on restriction for a really long time”.

            Looking out the window of the bus, my mind drifted to changing out of my school cloths, grabbing a Twinkie, and heading over to Stevie’s house. Only two stops away, only one stop away, there’s the sign, Wildwood Mobile Home Park, the place where dreams were made. At least, I thought it was a dreamy place. I’d already spent three years there making friends, climbing trees, building tree houses and forts, riding bikes, and many other adventurous activities that eight-year-old boys engage in. As the bus came to a stop, the air brakes let off a distinct blast of air and out flipped the stop sign. I grabbed my lunch box and quickly hopped up from my seat. As I started down the aisle, I suddenly felt like the aisle began to narrow, the driver seemed so far away. I didn’t understand what was going on. I even felt my heart begin to thump in my chest and a cold sweat come over me. Then it hit me, it hit me like a ton of bricks. My key! I had forgotten my key again and it was only yesterday that my dad threatened to place me on restriction for a month. I had just experienced my first dose of anxiety. I knew I screwed up and the fear of telling my dad scared the pants off me. What am I going to do?

            As I stepped off the bus, I paused and stared at the entrance to the mobile home park. My mind spun like a turbine. What do I say? Do I tell him the truth and accept my punishment? He’s going to be very mad, and I can hear his footsteps now as he makes his way down the hallway. I don’t want to see his face, and I know he doesn’t want to see mine. A month is forever. I won’t see my friends. They might forget about me or go fishing without me. Slam!! The door of the bus closed behind me and I was suddenly brought from my trance to the roar of the bus engine and the smell of suffocating diesel. Diesel always made me feel like I couldn’t breathe, and does to this day, so I instantly placed my shirt over my nose. Standing bemused and looking up the street and to the right, I saw my dad’s orange Vega in the driveway; reminding me of what’s to come. We were the third trailer on the right out of approximately 60 mobiles. I can still recall the fading yellow shutters, white siding, and dingy brown skirting with a small four-to-five-foot crinkled section where a young boy ran his bike into our home but that’s a story for another day. The thought of knocking on the door and telling my dad I forgot my key again, sickened my stomach. How can I get out of this? I can’t wake him up, yet I have to get into the house and let my dog out to go potty. I can’t play outside until my mom gets home, or Pixie will poop and pee in the house. My mom and dad will surely know I neglected to remember my key. I must have stood on the porch staring at the front door for 20 minutes trying to come up with a story that my dad would believe. I had nothing, nothing at all. I’m going to have to tell him and accept my punishment.

            Suddenly, a switch flipped, and a light came on in my head. Unfortunately, not a very bright light, as you will find out. I ran around to the front of the house and I looked up at the three windows to my room; thinking, what if I opened the window far enough that I could get my hand inside and crank the window open. I could climb inside and my dad would never know I forgot my key. The early style 70’s mobile homes had hand cranks you turned to open horizontal louvered windows. Usually, the windows had two or more louvers, and to this day, I still wonder what made me think I’d fit between the louvers. I believe they only allowed for a six-to-eight-inch gap between each piece of glass. Although an eight-year-old boy doesn’t have the best common sense. There I was, standing on the tongue of the trailer, trying to pull the window open. All I needed was a couple of inches, so I could slip my hand inside. The window was tighter than I had expected but I kept pulling and pulling. Just a little further and my hand will fit inside. And then it happened! Right when my hand started to slide through the crack, a chunk of glass popped like a firecracker and shot past my head and shattered into a million pieces right in front of my dad’s Vega. At that moment, the air became still, and my heart started thumping in my chest. What did I just do? How do I hide this? I can’t, my dad will surely find out and my mom will see it as soon as she gets home from work. The thought of one month of restriction didn’t sound all that bad compared to what was in store for me now. Why didn’t I simply tell him the truth?

             KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! DAD! DAD! KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! Twist, pop, and opens the door with a blast of warm air, and my father standing over me with profound concern. My dad was quick to ask, “What’s wrong?” “You are not going to believe it! A kid just threw a rock at my bedroom window and broke it.” My dad looked out the door and scanned the street quickly, then back to me. “Where did he go?” I didn’t hesitate for a second, “He road off on his bike. I tried to catch him, but he was too fast.” As I looked up at my father, I could see the wheels spinning as he studied me in silence. That’s when my worry started to intensify; for fear that he detected some discrepancies in my story. Thus, I felt it necessary to add some details. “I’m not sure who he was, I’ve never seen him before. I think he’s probably from King Arthur’s Court. King Arthur’s Court was a shanty trailer park, or as my father stated, “A rough neck of the woods.” My father knew that some of the children from King Arthur’s Court spelled trouble, so I guess I thought he’d buy that story for sure. “Let me get my pants on and I’ll be right out.” That was a first, my father had no problem parading around in his tighty-whities. Let me tell you something, that was a good thing because his tighty-whities weren’t only tight but ultra-thin; hence, his underwear deserved an “R” rating that made the “R” in rating blush. I headed to the front of the house and gazed up at the window with complete dismay, anger, and confusion. Why would anyone do such a thing? I had to sell my story because my dad was coming around the corner any minute and this was story telling at its best.

            “Bob, Bob.” Startled and expecting him to walk up to me; there he was, looking down at me through my broken window. “Yes Dad.” “I don’t see the rock. Are you sure he threw a rock?” “Yes, I think so. Why?” And again, that pause as his eyes were directed to the windowsill, then to the driveway where the glass lay, then back to the window and outside again. The anticipation was killing me. He reminded me of Sherlock Holmes the way he examined a scene. All he needed was a deerstalker and his Calabash pipe. “Bob, is there a rock out there?” Oops, I didn’t think about that one. “Umm…no.” “Bob, I find it strange there isn’t a rock in the window or your room. I also find it odd that the glass is outside and not inside.” My central nervous system instantly locked up. My eyes froze on him and my jaw dropped. Why does he have to know exactly what happened? Why is this so important? Why can’t he believe my story? This could all be over with if he’d let it go. He could be back in bed and I could be enjoying an afternoon snack while getting my play clothes on. “Bob.” Oh no, what is he going to ask now. “Bob, is there something you’re not telling me?” “Maybe the rock bounced off the window and the glass fell out.” No answer. Where did he go? “Bob.” Damn, there he was again but standing right next to me. I wonder if Holmes had Ninja training also. I jumped about ten feet off the ground. “Why are you so jumpy?” “I thought you were still in my room.” “Nope.” “So, Dad, do you think we can fix it?” “We can fix it but I’m not sure we will find the boy.” Of course, the last thing I wanted my dad to do was go looking for the boy. Why, because there wasn’t a boy! I was quick to add, “Probably not. He rode away really fast.” Then my ears began to burn as my father presented his closing statements. I even turned my head back and forth expecting a jury to pop out of nowhere. “Bob, this is what I think happened …” If I had known better, my father had someone tailing me. He knew exactly what I did and why I did it. Even though there wasn’t a rock, and the glass was outside and not inside, I stuck to my story for two weeks. Unfortunately, those two weeks were spent in my room until I told him the truth.

Would you like to know what made me come forward? It isn’t what you think. Two weeks to a child seems like eternity when you’re confined to your room, especially when your friends knock on your window every day and ask if you can come out to play. Naturally, you’re thinking that I couldn’t handle the time in my room. Nope. My mother made lemon meringue pie and my father fed it to my dog. Yes, he fed my piece of sweat lemon meringue pie to my dog and right in front of me. He simply stated, “All you have to do is tell the truth and you can have a piece of pie.” I guess food is not only a way to a man’s heart but it serves as a truth serum also.  

Pixie and My Mamma's Yarn

Pixie and My Momma’s Yarn

    If anyone has ever had a dachshund, then you’re probably aware of their gluttonous behavior. A dachshund will eat virtually anything. For instance, Pixie consumed plastic soldiers, Legos, yarn, pennies, a loaf of bread, a dozen herring, and half the State of Washington. Well, perhaps not Washington. Oh, just in case you’re wondering, the yarn is the finale.

    When you were a kid, do you remember the Little Green Army Men? If my memory serves me right, the package consisted of 10 or more soldiers. I believe each bag came with a machine gunner, a binocular dude, a mortarman, a captain, and most importantly, “Bazooka Man!” bazooka man was the bomb! It was on rare occasion to run across a bazooka man in the packaging, so this soldier was dear to any youthful mind. Also, did I mention Pixie, the gluttonous Wienerschnitzel? Well, she was also a kleptomaniac. Meaning, she stole every toy she could get her gums and teeth around. Yep, you guessed it! Little Green Army Men were a regular part of her diet. Hence, I learned quickly that my toys were in grave danger when Pixie patrolled the floor of my bedroom.

    It was a Saturday morning, no school, and Mom and Dad sleeping in. I had the kitchen, living room, and my bedroom all to myself. This meant a big bowl of Corn flakes, my dog, and war on the floor! I know, “War on the floor.” What the heck is that? First of all, when I was in my mid-twenties, war on the floor was popular. I got down on my hands and knees and set up dioramas of Little Green Army Men fighting and dying on the battlefield. Hello!! I was eight or nine years old, not my twenties! Hmmm… As I kneeled on the floor and took my toy soldiers out of the bag; one by one, something was terribly wrong! Everyone was accounted for, except bazooka man. Where did he go? I searched my room from top to bottom and one end to the other, and no bazooka man! Eventually, I managed to get distracted with other activities, so the search and rescue efforts were scheduled for another time.

    Although it was Saturday, I still had chores to do, and one of those chores was scooping the poop. Yay! This was my favorite chore of all! Not!! Yet, I knew what would happen if I neglected to scoop the poop. Do you remember the old push mowers with the horizontal blades that turned with the rotation of the wheels? Do you also remember where the grass went when you pushed the mower? If you’re unfamiliar with this type of mower, there wasn’t a grass catch, at least not ours. The grass ended up just below the knee. In the 70’s, cuffing your jeans was not uncommon, and my father happened to be a big fan of cuffing. Do you see where this is going? If not, you soon will. Remember the pooper scooping chore that I knew not to forget. Well, this is why. My father can be a very stubborn man; and I too, inherited some of that stubbornness, but this was beyond stubborn. Saturday, often was the day that my father mowed the lawn, and guess what, I didn’t scoop the poop. I also wasn’t around to fix my mistake, so my father mowed the lawn anyway, and to prove a point, he didn’t scoop the poop. This was supposed to be an object lesson. Although to this day, I’m still trying to figure out who the object lesson was for? I arrived home to find my father at the front door. He was wearing his grass covered pants, and something else lodged in the cuffs of those pants. You guessed it, poop!! He had poop all over the lower half of his legs and more poop in the perfect catchall of his cuffs. I laughed then, and I still laugh now. Really, who mows the lawn while they watch poop fly into the air and onto their clothes? Seriously, I still don’t understand the lesson here. Of course, I didn’t laugh out loud because he was quite furious at the time. So furious that he gave my dog to the neighbor and made me believe I’d never get her back. Thankfully, all I had to do was ask the neighbor for my dog back, and remember to pooper scoop every morning.

    What goes in, must come out! While I pooper scooped, I noticed something green protruding from one of Pixie’s monuments, so I knelt down to take a closer look. No way! Pixie had eaten bazooka man! As I slowly excavated bazooka man from the mire of dog feces, it was evident that he received a barrage of fatal wounds. His legs managed to remain intact, but his shoulder, arm, and head were partially missing. Carefully, I picked bazooka man up by the tip of the bazooka and carried him to the hose, and I wondered why my fingers smelled like poop the rest of the day, sheesh! Anyway, as I washed bazooka man off, I realized he was much more valuable because of his battle scares. None of my friends had a bazooka man like mine! He was one of a kind. So much so, that all my friends wanted my bazooka man. On another note, I have always questioned the resilience of Pixie’s digestive tract. Somehow, she managed to pass a two-inch plastic soldier with a bazooka jutting from its arms, and never missed a beat. Ouch!!

    As much as you may think my day was over, it had just begun. After a long hard morning of scooping poop and saving bazooka man, I sat in my bean bag chair eating PB&J, while watching Pixie stroll across the living room floor. As she strutted her stuff and patrolled the carpet for remnants of food, I noticed something unusual about her posterior end. Not only was she walking funny but something was hanging from her pooper, approximately two to three inches from her pooper. At first, I thought it was a bad case of diarrhea, but the color didn’t jive if you know what I mean. I got up from my bean bag chair and called Pixie, but she appeared to ignore me. It was as though she knew what I was up to; thus, trying to avoid my pursuit. Eventually, I caught up with her and managed to lock her between my knees as I crouched over her. As I crouched over her and lifted her tail, I saw a blue piece of yarn protruding from her anus. I couldn’t believe my eyes; she had eaten some of my mamma’s yarn! So, as curiosity overwhelmed the cat; well, it overwhelmed me. Without thinking, I grabbed the yarn. Pixie shot from underneath me at Mach 2 and yipping from the living room to the kitchen. I can still hear her today, yipe, yipe, yipe…As she tried to get away, the yarn kept coming out. “Tried,” that’s right, the yarn was still attached to her bum! Much like fishing, I caught a whopper, and it wasn’t getting away. A good twenty feet of yarn exited her poop shoot before the end came free. That poor dog probably thought I had a hold on her insides and would never let go. I was so amazed by the event that I placed the yarn in a small jewelry box for safe keeping. Several years later, while cleaning my room, I came across the box. Let’s just say, when I opened the box; what had grown, died, and grown and died again, was beyond anything words could describe! So, I’ll leave that to the imagination. 

7 and 7, the Police, Dad and the Zipper

7 and 7, the Police, Dad and the Zipper

    I screamed in horror and disbelief, my twig and giggleberries were suddenly zipped securely in my footed one-piece pajamas. What had I done! At approximately two or three in the morning, my crazy and wild evening had ended in pain and agony. The year was 1976, and I was eight years old. My father and his friend; Cecil, decided to get together and have a few drinks. Cecil, a retired police officer, always had great stories to tell and acted much like my uncle. It wasn’t often I enjoyed the company of both while my mother was out of the house, so I made sure to be present with both ears tuned into their conversations, which may have been a grave mistake, considering the evening to come.

    As my father and Cecil sat on the plaid, yellow, black, and orange recliner and couch that Pixie soiled several years earlier, I sat quietly listening and watching them drink ice cold glasses of “7 UP.” I gazed at the bubbles and dew running down the sides of their glasses, and every time they took a drink, my ears perked to the sound of ice clattering back and forth against the glass. I sat there salivating, but I knew how my dad felt about soda and the sugar that inspired a hyper and uncontrollable me, so I attempted to appear sad, deprived, and weak. I loved 7 UP, and seldom as it may seem, it happened to be a hot summer day in Olympia, Washington, which made it that more enticing to the eyes, ears, and taste buds.

    “Roberto, are you thirsty?” Whenever my father called me Roberto, I knew he was feeling good and most likely, pleased with me. Although at this time, I wasn’t entirely sure why he was feeling good; extremely good, other than his best friend was visiting and it was the weekend. The “Roberto” thing, that was a French name that I acquired over the years because he and his family spoke fluent French, and spent many years in France while my grandfather served in the United States Army during the Korean and Vietnam Wars. “Yes, I would love to have a glass!” Finally, I was going to get a cold glass of 7 UP. By this time, the drool from my mouth could have filled a small glass. I was thirsty and especially thirsty for my favorite soda. This was an extraordinary occasion, and I was going to savor every minute of it. I watched my dad get a glass from the bar, add some ice, and fill my glass with 7 UP, and something else from the bar; hmmm. Cecil, was quick to say, “do you think that is too much Dan?” “No, I’ll tell him to sip it.” Again, they had my attention. What were they saying? Why do I need to sip my soda? Is it because I won’t get any more and I need to make it last? I was perplexed, but I didn’t care! I just wanted my 7 UP.

    “Ah…,” that was the best glass of 7 UP ever! “Can I have some more Dad?” “What,” he replied! “I thought I told you to sip it!” Frozen and eyes as big as silver dollars, I didn’t know what to say. I’m not sure what I feared most, getting in trouble or missing out on another glass of 7 UP. “I’m sorry, but it was really good!” Both Cecil and my dad chuckled and proceeded to pour me another. “Now Bob, sip this one because this is your last one!” When my father said Bob, I knew I better listen because he was serious, and it took me about ten minutes to find out how serious he was! Remember that “something else,” my father added to the 7 UP, that was “Seagram’s Seven Crown,” and mixed with 7 UP; equals, 7 and 7. In other words, I had a little 80 proof whiskey added to my 7 UP. So, you can guess what happened next.

    Spinning, spinning, spinning, the room continued to spin, and Cecil and my dad became four. I can remember my father staring at me with concern and asking, “are you ok, you’re awfully quiet over there?” Before I could answer, I suddenly remember opening my eyes and looking at my father’s feet. I had fallen, flat on my face, and narrowly missing the coffee table. For some strange reason, my body went limp, and I had no control over my faculties. My dad and Cecil attempted to pick me up and put me back in my chair just as I turned my head and vomited down the front of my clothes. The vomit matched nicely with my paisley and mustard colored pants. As I was trying to regain my senses, all I could hear is Cecil and my dad laughing hysterically, as tears ran down their cheeks. I also heard Cecil say, “Dan, we are in big trouble when Dorothy gets home?” My mother was five feet two inches tall, and a buck twenty-five, if that! But, do not be deceived, her Irish and German temperament put the fear of God in most people that knew her! My dad quickly turned to Cecil and said, “let’s get him cleaned up and in bed before she gets here. He should sleep like a baby.” Yeah, right! 

    There I stood, screaming and crying, trying to figure out how to undo what I had done. I couldn’t touch it, and I couldn’t look at it. All I could do was close my eyes and scream! Suddenly, the door to the bathroom flew open and I damn near jumped right out of those PJs, nearly leaving my valuables behind! “Booper, what’s wrong?” “What did you do?” “OH NO!!” In the blink of an eye, my mother was just as horrified or more to see what I had done. “Dan!” “Dan!” “I need help!” Right then and there, I knew The Eagle Had Landed because my mother did not yell help unless it was someone’s Last Will and Testament. So, if you think it took very long for my dad to enter the room, you’re wrong. For the first time in my early childhood, I realized that my dad was the flash! To this day, I believe he could have been the first man to break four seconds in the 40-yard dash. We lived in a single wide mobile home, approximately 60 to 70 feet long, and I felt every step as he dashed the length of the trailer. Bam! The door flew open again, and this time I know I left some DNA behind. “Dan!” “He has his wee wee stuck in the zipper of his PJs.” At that moment, man to man, I honestly felt my father’s empathy and compassion because he looked at me with complete and utter sorrow. Before my dad could get a word out, my mother had already looked into her crystal ball and revealed the previous evening in great detail. “Dan!” “Why does he smell like alcohol and vomit?” If you think my father had a chance to answer, you’re wrong again. “You and Cecil got him drunk, didn’t you?” “Didn’t you?” There I am, poor little me, frozen like Michelangelo’s David, for the whole world to see, and wondering if my life will ever be the same. Again, before my father could get past the word I, my mother said, “You did this, and you’re going to fix it!” I’m sure you’re familiar with the expression, “Yes dear.” Well, my father was quick to answer, “Yes Dorothy.” My dad knew he was in deep kimchi, so he listened and kept silent. Needless to say, it was a long night. My father managed to help me out of my predicament, and I lived to tell the story. Although I did learn one thing vastly important about those PJs, never go commando! 

        

7 and 7, the Police, Dad, and the Zipper

This is the title to my next short story. I hope it gains your attention and interest.

Pixie, Me, and the Plaid Recliner

1973

                                                    Pixie, Me, and the Plaid Recliner

     I can still hear my father, "take your dog outside when you get up in the morning. If you don’t, she will poop in the house." Unfortunately, at five years old, the only thing I heard was the noise projecting from his mouth. My dog, Pixie, was supposed to sprout hands, stand upright, and open the door all by herself. This was not only impossible but inconceivable for a dachshund. At 7:00 am in the morning; my ears, eyes, and nose were only interested in the bacon and eggs my mother was cooking in the kitchen. Needless to say, my father’s instructions went in one ear and out the other. And, Pixie’s food went in one end and out the other, just not where intended.

     My first run in with Pixie’s calling card proved to be quite painful on the derrière. I have two words, "new couch." A recliner and sofa made of quality plaid corduroy. The color was even more enticing. Yellow, black, and orange; hmmm, "that’s attractive." Or, should I say that it was attractive for 1973, so people thought. It was a Saturday morning which meant, Scooby Doo, Hanna Bar Bara, and the Three Stooges. Considering the circumstances, I was right up there with Larry, Curly, and Mo.

     As I sat comfortably in my father’s recliner with a bowl of Sugar Puffs watching Scooby Doo, my Scooby (Pixie) was lying next to me. Squeezed between my leg and the arm of the chair, Pixie’s nose was inches away from my bowl, yearning for one tiny morsel. Suddenly, an odor entered my nostrils, my eyes flicked open as wide as silver dollars, and my stomach began to turn. The smell was neither sweet nor fragrant; thus, I feared the worst. With a leap from my side, Pixie majestically held her head and tail high, as though proud of her accomplishment. Unfortunately, the foul odor remained and the sweat on my brow began to build. As I peeked down from the corner of my eyes, I was horrified by the monument that Pixie left to commemorate her parting. "Oh God," my mom is going to beat me and my dad is going to kill me”.

     “What am I going to do?" "How do I keep Mom and Dad from finding out?” I placed my bowl of sugar puffs on the coffee table and scurried off to the bathroom. I quickly mummified my hand with toilet paper and returned to the scene of the crime. Carefully, I slid the odiferous monument off the recliner and onto the carpet. As for the remnants, I gently rubbed them out with the toilet paper and proceeded to pick the monument up off the floor and deposit it in the trash. As for the lovely plaid recliner; the yellow, black, and orange colors camouflaged the monumental trail that was left behind, so I thought.

     A couple hours had passed since I removed the evidence from the crime scene, and I heard the sound of my parents’ bedroom door open. I was quick to start casual conversation in hopes of avoiding Pixies mark on society. “Good morning Mommy, did you sleep well?” “Yes I did booper." My mother was always in a good mood if she called me boop or booper, so I joyously thought I was in the clear, but this was not the case. “Whew, what is that smell?” I quietly sat in my bean bag and acted as though I didn’t hear a word she said. As I sat patiently, I could hear my mother opening and closing cabinets in search of the God awful smell that was emanating from the kitchen. “Robert David, why is there poop in the garbage?” “I don’t know." Of course, this is a familiar phrase to parents who are not naïve to a child’s deceptive ways; thus, raising a red flag. “Robert, the poop didn’t get in the trash by itself." “Did your dog have an accident?” “Yes Mom, just a small one, so I cleaned it up." “Where did she poop?” Now my mind went into a spin and my breathing began to increase. Why did she have to ask, why does she need to know, and what do I say. I knew if she found out that my dog pooped on my dad’s new recliner I wouldn’t see daylight for a week. The truth was the furthest from my mind and I don’t think Pixie was in any position to accept the blame. “On the floor Mom, right next to dad’s recliner, and it’s a good thing Pixie didn’t poop on his chair or she would be in big trouble." This particular statement still puzzles me to this day. If you’re going to lie, why dig the hole any deeper than you have to? It doesn’t make sense. It must be some kind of Jedi mind trick in order to draw the obvious away from our parents’ attention, yeah right. As my mother walked over to the spot next to my father’s chair, I quickly sat down in his chair covering the spot where Pixie pooped and pointed at the floor. “Right there Mom, Right there." “You must have done a good job because I don’t see anything, way to go boop!” Yes, I was safe. I jumped up from the chair and ran off to my room. “Robert! Why are your pants wet?” Oh no!

     Pale as a ghost, I turned around and froze. I didn’t know what to say. “Robert, how did your pants get wet?” Like a record repeating itself, “I…, I…, don’t know." At that moment I realized my mother could read my mind because she looked straight down at my dad’s recliner and back at me. “Pixie pooped in your dad’s chair, didn’t she?” I was horrified; I knew what was going to happen. I lied, I didn’t let my dog outside, and I let my dog poop on my father’s new chair. My life was going to end, and I thought owners were supposed to outlive their animals. It just didn’t seem fair.

     My mother told me to go to my room and she disappeared to the back bedroom. I knew what she was doing and the anticipation of hearing my father’s footsteps coming down the hallway caused me to break into a cold sweat. I could only converse with my dog. She was my companion and faithful friend. I would stare into her eyes and tell her what I did and what was probably going to happen. I know she didn’t understand what I was saying but with a turn of her head and a flick of her ears, she sure made me feel like she did. This was very comforting to a five year old boy who was about to receive his father’s wrath. Like my mother, my father not only called me by a specific name but with a specific tone, which was an indication of his attitude and feelings towards me. I still can hear his voice to this day, “Bob." He would draw out the name Bob and raise his tone a couple of octaves. When this happened, I knew I was in trouble.

     “Bob, what have I told you about letting your dog outside when you get up?” Panic, shear panic! I knew what to say but my mouth wouldn’t say it. All I could do is repeat two of the most famous lines of all, “I don’t know” and “because.” Unfortunately, my answers weren’t a good enough excuse. For the first time, I received a spanking from both my mother and father; thus, I assumed my punishment was over. I was wrong; this wasn’t the highlight of the punishment, which was still to come. “Bob, go to bed!” As I lay in my bed talking to Pixie, my back faced the door to my room. I heard the door open and footsteps behind me. “Bob, maybe this will help you to remember to let your dog outside.” As I turned over in the direction of my father’s voice, I stared into the presence of Pixie’s monument. My father placed Pixie’s poop next to my head; approximately two to three inches from my face. I could see the texture glistening before me and its smell penetrating my nostrils. This had to be the worst punishment of all. It was a nightmare and I was going to awaken at any moment. What parent makes their poor little child sleep next to a turd. Well, my father was that parent. Let’s just say Vietnam had an effect on him, “PTSD.” His eccentric behavior may have not been the most appropriate method of discipline; but to this day, I don’t recall sleeping with Pixie’s monument ever again.