My first kiss (well, not my FIRST kiss, but the one that counted, I guess) happened at my best friend's birthday party in the basement of her family's house in Cerro Gordo, Illinois.
So, there I was, freshly fourteen, my same old devil-may-care smile spreading over new braces smarting on my teeth, new shirt and shoes, gangly arms exhibiting an ever expanding galaxy of freckles, a wild tangle of red hair that had put up a good fight being wrestled back into a ponytail by an ambitious scrunchie, and I’d brought with me along with my new denim purse, machinations to plant one on Beau Rollins*. See, I knew he was coming to this party, and I had decided I was going to kiss him... and when I decided to do things, I usually did them. (This approach prevails today.)
He was what we called back then, "Cute.” Tall, muscular and skinny at the same time, and he had a brown flop of hair that actually had some style that reflected pop culture of the time - which in small towns is usually about 5 years off , but it was 1993, and that skater chip was still cutting edge in a town where most kids got their hair cuts in their back yards.
Anyway, he walked in, and sat right by me. I remember thinking, "Dang it, I wish I hadn't worn white socks," as I glanced down at my feet. Then, it occurred to me that I'd never considered wearing socks of a different color before, and I figured my sudden distaste for this fashion transgression was a sure sign that I, at that moment, had grown into a mature woman... which, of course, was belied by the itty-bitty-titties reluctant to the tutelage of my training bra.
As the evening went on, we'd had cake and pretzels and pop and juice and cookies and all the things kids this age roll their eyes at, embarrassed of the moms who dared to provide these treats... which, of course, we grazed upon greedily. Beau kept bumping his knee against mine while we talked about baseball and dirt bikes. Then, finally, he asked me if I wanted to go, "over there.”
"Over there," was a dark corner by the washer where Sara's mom had hung some towels to dry. "Over there," was where some kids were disappearing for ten minutes at a time, returning with flushed faces and wide eyes. "Yeah, dude, let's do this," I replied and grabbed his hand.
Once behind the privacy towel, I wrapped my arms around his neck and planted my lips hard on his. He seemed surprised by my move, and I wondered what the heck he was expecting me to do if not that. He pulled away a little, and led me closer to the washer. Leaning back against the washer, he grabbed my belt loop with one hand and put his other on the back of my neck, leaned over me, and softly kissed me. My body relaxed and leaned into him and..... I felt it. As the real life version stood at ardent attention against the dark denim of his jeans, the word for it, "boner," popped into my head. I, of course, immediately started laughing into his mouth. He pushed me away, incredulous, mouth agape, "What!?"
"Nothing," I mumbled, "Just something from earlier." So, he tried again to, with all earnest, romance me into pressing myself against his pecker while he kept darting his tongue in and out of my mouth really fast. That's when my giggles gave way to guffaws, and Beau turned bright red, ripped back the towel, and stormed out, me yelling after him, "WHAT!? IT'S FUNNY, DUDE!" I remember he marched right upstairs and asked Sara's mom if he could call his mother to get him. He waited outside. I never saw him again, because my family had recently moved to the town next over, and I no longer went to his school.
He would later tell everyone that he’d felt me up, that my boobs were gross, and that I’d asked him to get me pregnant.
*name changed
Friday, October 19, 2012
Monday, March 14, 2011
Sock it to 'em.
Considering I was a pretty rough and tumble kid, I find it surprising I didn’t get my first set of stitches until 1987, when I was eight years old and in the third grade.
It was early in the school year at St. James Catholic School in Decatur, Illinois. (My little brother and I shuttled to Decatur to go to this school instead of the farm school closer to us because, my all day-working parents were enticed by the school’s all day-kindergarten program.) Getting to school early that morning, my brother and I climbed up onto one of the concrete platforms that flanked the big stairs leading to the grandiose entryway of school. Over my uniform of a navy blue jumper that had secret shorts under the skirt on account I seemed to have my feet over my head at least fifteen times a day and a light blue, button-down, neatly collared shirt; I wore a grey, acid wash denim jacket from which I’d painstakingly peeled the Rainbow Bright decorations I’d suddenly grown too old to endure. It was draped lazily off of my shoulders. I was an expert on how tough kids wore their jackets because I watched “21 Jump Street.” I knew the only accessories that would complete this outfit and tell the world I was a total bad-ass were lace fingerless gloves. I didn’t have any of those, so I’d taken a pair of my dad’s tube socks, cut five holes in the ends of each, and shoved my arms into them. They were pretty big socks, dad-sized and white with bands of yellow and blue at the tops. I’d wrongly anticipated that my thumbs would be right about where the heels were, resulting in a big wad of the sock positioned in the palm of my hand while my fingers poked through the small holes along the seam. Whatever. It was good enough, and none of it mattered, because the day before, I'd seen “Who’s That Girl?” starring Madonna.
The movie’s story revolved around a street-wise smart aleck, Nikki Finn (Madonna). Nikki wore skin-tight animal print dresses, high heels, and a leather bomber jacket. She sported bright red lipstick and a platinum blonde, bobbed hair-cut that was kind of curly. She laughed a lot, did what she wanted with a carefree attitude, and had a pet cougar that she walked around on a studded leash. Add the generic 80s plot of, ‘despite her great attitude and plucky charm, she gets mixed up with some bad dudes who are hunting her down for something they think she did, but she’s always one step ahead of them,’ mixed with the blossoming of an unlikely romance, and you had the movie equivalent of crack cocaine to an eight year old girl’s brain. I don’t remember specifics from the movie, but I do remember immediately after I watched it, I ran out to the tree in our back yard and climbed up to the top. Sitting up there, I felt charged and excited, and I decided that I would be a bad-ass just like Nikki Finn from that moment on. Then, I looked down and saw my brother come outside. I fished around in my pocket for a peanut and shoved it into the new vacancy left by a tooth I’d just lost and hurried down the tree to play a joke on him.
So, my brother and I were up on the concrete platform by the stairs before school, and I remembered that I was supposed to be a total bad-ass. So, I jumped up and down and made like I was boxing my brother. Right jab, left hook, shuffle step, shuffle step. Jake whined at me to STOP IT, which, in the tradition of older sisters, only encouraged me to do it with more voracity. Well, at that point, I right jabbed, left hooked, and then shuffle stepped right off the platform landing directly onto my chin on the stairs below. Dazed, I opened my eyes to a LOT of blood pouring from my face onto the stairs. I started to cry. An older kid, who was often nice to me and named Greg, led me to the teachers’ lounge where I was cleaned up by the nurse and got to lie on the couch and drink a can of coke while she called my mom to take me to the emergency room. I ended up with five stitches that I thought kind of smelled like Cheerios, and I got grounded for ruining a perfectly good pair of my dad's socks.
Two weeks later on the playground at recess, my best friend, Heather McKay, hit me in the face with a baseball bat.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
It was early in the school year at St. James Catholic School in Decatur, Illinois. (My little brother and I shuttled to Decatur to go to this school instead of the farm school closer to us because, my all day-working parents were enticed by the school’s all day-kindergarten program.) Getting to school early that morning, my brother and I climbed up onto one of the concrete platforms that flanked the big stairs leading to the grandiose entryway of school. Over my uniform of a navy blue jumper that had secret shorts under the skirt on account I seemed to have my feet over my head at least fifteen times a day and a light blue, button-down, neatly collared shirt; I wore a grey, acid wash denim jacket from which I’d painstakingly peeled the Rainbow Bright decorations I’d suddenly grown too old to endure. It was draped lazily off of my shoulders. I was an expert on how tough kids wore their jackets because I watched “21 Jump Street.” I knew the only accessories that would complete this outfit and tell the world I was a total bad-ass were lace fingerless gloves. I didn’t have any of those, so I’d taken a pair of my dad’s tube socks, cut five holes in the ends of each, and shoved my arms into them. They were pretty big socks, dad-sized and white with bands of yellow and blue at the tops. I’d wrongly anticipated that my thumbs would be right about where the heels were, resulting in a big wad of the sock positioned in the palm of my hand while my fingers poked through the small holes along the seam. Whatever. It was good enough, and none of it mattered, because the day before, I'd seen “Who’s That Girl?” starring Madonna.
The movie’s story revolved around a street-wise smart aleck, Nikki Finn (Madonna). Nikki wore skin-tight animal print dresses, high heels, and a leather bomber jacket. She sported bright red lipstick and a platinum blonde, bobbed hair-cut that was kind of curly. She laughed a lot, did what she wanted with a carefree attitude, and had a pet cougar that she walked around on a studded leash. Add the generic 80s plot of, ‘despite her great attitude and plucky charm, she gets mixed up with some bad dudes who are hunting her down for something they think she did, but she’s always one step ahead of them,’ mixed with the blossoming of an unlikely romance, and you had the movie equivalent of crack cocaine to an eight year old girl’s brain. I don’t remember specifics from the movie, but I do remember immediately after I watched it, I ran out to the tree in our back yard and climbed up to the top. Sitting up there, I felt charged and excited, and I decided that I would be a bad-ass just like Nikki Finn from that moment on. Then, I looked down and saw my brother come outside. I fished around in my pocket for a peanut and shoved it into the new vacancy left by a tooth I’d just lost and hurried down the tree to play a joke on him.
So, my brother and I were up on the concrete platform by the stairs before school, and I remembered that I was supposed to be a total bad-ass. So, I jumped up and down and made like I was boxing my brother. Right jab, left hook, shuffle step, shuffle step. Jake whined at me to STOP IT, which, in the tradition of older sisters, only encouraged me to do it with more voracity. Well, at that point, I right jabbed, left hooked, and then shuffle stepped right off the platform landing directly onto my chin on the stairs below. Dazed, I opened my eyes to a LOT of blood pouring from my face onto the stairs. I started to cry. An older kid, who was often nice to me and named Greg, led me to the teachers’ lounge where I was cleaned up by the nurse and got to lie on the couch and drink a can of coke while she called my mom to take me to the emergency room. I ended up with five stitches that I thought kind of smelled like Cheerios, and I got grounded for ruining a perfectly good pair of my dad's socks.
Two weeks later on the playground at recess, my best friend, Heather McKay, hit me in the face with a baseball bat.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Closet Hamm's.
The first time I drove a car was when I was about seven years old. Sitting on the seat, I couldn’t even reach the pedals of my grandma’s ’84 Chevy Citation. So, I had to push the front bench seat all the way back and kind of stand on the floorboard, bending my scabby knees and arching my back into a lazy S shape, gripping the steering wheel, and standing on tip-toe to see over the dash, all while trying to operate the gas and brake. This was how I’d practiced it, so this is how I was going to do it.
My grandmother was a woman who kept three cases of Hamms and Meister Brau in her bedroom closet. She only drank half a can at a time about once every two weeks or so. Often, she would pour me about a quarter of the can into a small glass, but only when we had spaghetti. So, she was far from being a drunk. But, she let a seven year old, scabby-kneed, gap-toothed girl who often cracked wise and had dirt under her fingernails to drive her car, because she needed to smash the hulls of the walnuts she’d gathered from the tree at the way other end of the creek. You see, walnuts fresh off the tree are these green and brown warty bulbs. The hard hulls encase the shell that encases the nut. When you touched them, they’d leave a swipe of bright green on you. I would often rub some on my hands and arms because I loved the smell, kind of citrus-y and very sharp. The hulls were tough, thick and messy, and it took a LOT of effort to peel them from the shells. So, my grandma decided that it would be better to just take the buckets she’d gathered and dispense their contents up and down her driveway and slowly drive the car back and forth over them, breaking the hulls but not the shells. To me, this idea qualified my grandmother as pretty much the smartest person in the world.
Standing in front of the garage with her arms folded, she watched me struggle with shifter. “You gotta press the the brake ALLLL the way down,” she hollered. As I whispered to myself, “you gotta press the brake ALLL the way down,” I grasped the steering wheel, pressing my chest against it, and stomped down on the brake with all my might, finally managing to fumble the shifter into R. “Now, let off the brake SLOWLY, but keep your foot on it,” she yelled, arms crossed. “..now, let off the brake SLOWLY, but keep your foot on it…” I whispered inside the car, looked down, and let my toe off the brake. The car lurched back, scaring me, so I stomped my foot back down on the brake and looked over the dash through the dirty windshield at her. My grandmother was furrowing her brow. I could tell it was because of me and not the sun, because her glasses had turned dark by this point. For a second, I was scared she wasn’t going to let me do it anymore, and I couldn't believe how sweaty my hands were. “It’s ok, just let the car rollllllll back.” Again, I repeated her instruction inside the car as I wiped my hands down the sides of my jeans one at a time. I let off the brake and the car rolled, just like she said it would. Keeping my toe on the brake this time, I felt more in control. I was smiling a big gap-toothed smile at her, she laughed and said, “DON’T LOOK AT ME, LOOK BEHIND YOU!” I swiveled my head around and could only see the top of the big oak tree down at the end of the driveway through the back window. But, I could feel and hear the steady whup whup whup of the walnut hulls bursting under me as the car slowly rolled over them.
When, I reached the end of the drive, she waved her hands to get my attention, “Put the car in drive and just let the car ROLLLLLLLL forward back to me!” Into the hot air inside the car, I mouthed those words as I’d heard them and pressing on the brake with all my might and more confidence than before, I shifted the stick to D and let off the brake. The car rolled forward. This was easier, because I didn’t have to look behind me and could see out of the front. With a newfound casualness, I sent the green and brown bulbs to bursting under me, though, more intermittent now. As I rolled to the threshold of the garage door, I eased my toe onto the brake and put the shift in P. Grandma said, “Thanks, kiddo!” and opened the driver door. I hopped out, and she pulled the car the rest of the way into the garage.
We gathered up all the nuts in the driveway. Just as she’d predicted, it worked perfectly, and I still think this is the most practical application of a car. I still have no idea why she didn't get in the car with me as I was doing this. I mean, sure, she was always pushing me to be my own person and would often make me figure things out on my own, buuuut, ultimately, I think she just wanted to see the hulls exploding, because...well, it probably looked pretty cool.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
My grandmother was a woman who kept three cases of Hamms and Meister Brau in her bedroom closet. She only drank half a can at a time about once every two weeks or so. Often, she would pour me about a quarter of the can into a small glass, but only when we had spaghetti. So, she was far from being a drunk. But, she let a seven year old, scabby-kneed, gap-toothed girl who often cracked wise and had dirt under her fingernails to drive her car, because she needed to smash the hulls of the walnuts she’d gathered from the tree at the way other end of the creek. You see, walnuts fresh off the tree are these green and brown warty bulbs. The hard hulls encase the shell that encases the nut. When you touched them, they’d leave a swipe of bright green on you. I would often rub some on my hands and arms because I loved the smell, kind of citrus-y and very sharp. The hulls were tough, thick and messy, and it took a LOT of effort to peel them from the shells. So, my grandma decided that it would be better to just take the buckets she’d gathered and dispense their contents up and down her driveway and slowly drive the car back and forth over them, breaking the hulls but not the shells. To me, this idea qualified my grandmother as pretty much the smartest person in the world.
Standing in front of the garage with her arms folded, she watched me struggle with shifter. “You gotta press the the brake ALLLL the way down,” she hollered. As I whispered to myself, “you gotta press the brake ALLL the way down,” I grasped the steering wheel, pressing my chest against it, and stomped down on the brake with all my might, finally managing to fumble the shifter into R. “Now, let off the brake SLOWLY, but keep your foot on it,” she yelled, arms crossed. “..now, let off the brake SLOWLY, but keep your foot on it…” I whispered inside the car, looked down, and let my toe off the brake. The car lurched back, scaring me, so I stomped my foot back down on the brake and looked over the dash through the dirty windshield at her. My grandmother was furrowing her brow. I could tell it was because of me and not the sun, because her glasses had turned dark by this point. For a second, I was scared she wasn’t going to let me do it anymore, and I couldn't believe how sweaty my hands were. “It’s ok, just let the car rollllllll back.” Again, I repeated her instruction inside the car as I wiped my hands down the sides of my jeans one at a time. I let off the brake and the car rolled, just like she said it would. Keeping my toe on the brake this time, I felt more in control. I was smiling a big gap-toothed smile at her, she laughed and said, “DON’T LOOK AT ME, LOOK BEHIND YOU!” I swiveled my head around and could only see the top of the big oak tree down at the end of the driveway through the back window. But, I could feel and hear the steady whup whup whup of the walnut hulls bursting under me as the car slowly rolled over them.
When, I reached the end of the drive, she waved her hands to get my attention, “Put the car in drive and just let the car ROLLLLLLLL forward back to me!” Into the hot air inside the car, I mouthed those words as I’d heard them and pressing on the brake with all my might and more confidence than before, I shifted the stick to D and let off the brake. The car rolled forward. This was easier, because I didn’t have to look behind me and could see out of the front. With a newfound casualness, I sent the green and brown bulbs to bursting under me, though, more intermittent now. As I rolled to the threshold of the garage door, I eased my toe onto the brake and put the shift in P. Grandma said, “Thanks, kiddo!” and opened the driver door. I hopped out, and she pulled the car the rest of the way into the garage.
We gathered up all the nuts in the driveway. Just as she’d predicted, it worked perfectly, and I still think this is the most practical application of a car. I still have no idea why she didn't get in the car with me as I was doing this. I mean, sure, she was always pushing me to be my own person and would often make me figure things out on my own, buuuut, ultimately, I think she just wanted to see the hulls exploding, because...well, it probably looked pretty cool.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
So, there was this owl
So, there was this owl that lived in our barn when I was a kid that used to terrorize and tease me when I'd go out to feed the dogs. He wasn't there EVERY night, but enough nights. And, by "terrorize me," I mean he would swoop down at my head and land right in front of me and spread its wings out SUPER wide (he was one of those tall, huge, brown barn owls with a tawny belly) and probably had a wing span of at least 5-6 feet. Then, he'd walk towards me and hiss.
Well, one night, I decided I'd had enough. I concluded that it was just a big, dumb, beautiful bird, and I shouldn't be afraid of it, because... COME ON, I was the kind of kid who thought having monsters under the bed was a GOOD IDEA! Anyways, I stood at the back porch screen door with a small bucket of leftover gravy, three half-eaten biscuits, bread heels, a couple pats of butter that fell on the floor, half a baked potato, the peels of several apples and carrots, and the big wooden spoon used to stir all this in with the dogs' brown kibbles. My other hand clasped on the screen door latch. My throat was swallowing hard, and my mouth squirreled up into a defiant sneer as I gritted my teeth and stormed out the back door with the bucket of orts held wide, out to my side so I wouldn't spill any considering my walk had really progressed to a kind of bouncing, trotting run.
I scuttled into the barn and yelled at Clancy, Lady, Peanut to "GET BACK! WAIT!" as they sniffed anxiously at the bucket and whined a little bit with anticipation. I set the bucket down and gruffed at Lady again until she reluctantly sat back down in wait. She never had a BIT of patience when it came to food. Reaching into the deep, plastic trash bin that we kept the dog food in, I found the little metal pail and scooped kibbles into each of the dogs' dishes, the kibbles making a sparkling, crashing sound into the bowls. THAT'S when I heard the tell-tale shuffling up in the high, far, dark corner of the barn. That's when I always heard it, and I knew he was there. I scooped the left-overs on top of the kibbles, meting out each portion fairly; because, I was (in my child mind) certain that skimping on one dog would result in the kind of brawls I had with my brother when he got the last of something, or I did, and I didn't want the dogs to think I favored one over the other. Admittedly, though, I always liked Lady the best. I set the dishes down and said, "GIT AT IT!" and the dogs sprang to action, muzzles working fast and smacking at the slop.
The shuffling in the dark corner continued, and I tossed down both buckets into the trash bin with the dog food, and made sure the lid was on tight. I turned, my back to the corner and tried to walk with the most nonchalance I, or any nine year old girl with perpetual grass stains on her knees could muster. Just when I'd cleared the barn door, I heard the flapping, and even though I didn't want to, I HAD to glance back, and I did... just in time to see that big bird swooping straight down at my head. He did his usual thing where he grazed the top of my head and landed on the ground in front of me about ten paces. Turning, he spread his wings and stepped towards me to hiss. This time was different though, because instead of running back to the house, I stopped cold and raised my hands up high and yelled out, "YOU DON'T SCARE ME, NOW GO ON!" and gesticulated wildly to further drive my point home. He stopped, too, just for a moment and instead of hissing at me, just stared at me but with his head turned to the side and his one eye fixed on my wild arms. I stopped moving and held my breath, took a step towards him, and started to feel my fear turn into curiosity. All the sudden, my head was swimming with the idea that, maybe he'd let me TOUCH him! And, that we would form a bond, and I would be like one of those people they find in the jungles that were raised by apes and wolves who had a secret, special bond with animals! That, eventually, this owl would be so endeared to me that he'd do my bidding! And I'd be known around town as that "girl who has a pet owl," and I'd be able whistle or something like that, and he'd come swooping out of the sky to perch on my shoulder! I'd be like a SUPER HERO!
Then, he regurgitated the disemboweled body of a huge rat, and without looking at it, but looking directly at me, kind of danced on it with his talons, ripping a little more guts free of the body.
I screamed and ran back to the house.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Well, one night, I decided I'd had enough. I concluded that it was just a big, dumb, beautiful bird, and I shouldn't be afraid of it, because... COME ON, I was the kind of kid who thought having monsters under the bed was a GOOD IDEA! Anyways, I stood at the back porch screen door with a small bucket of leftover gravy, three half-eaten biscuits, bread heels, a couple pats of butter that fell on the floor, half a baked potato, the peels of several apples and carrots, and the big wooden spoon used to stir all this in with the dogs' brown kibbles. My other hand clasped on the screen door latch. My throat was swallowing hard, and my mouth squirreled up into a defiant sneer as I gritted my teeth and stormed out the back door with the bucket of orts held wide, out to my side so I wouldn't spill any considering my walk had really progressed to a kind of bouncing, trotting run.
I scuttled into the barn and yelled at Clancy, Lady, Peanut to "GET BACK! WAIT!" as they sniffed anxiously at the bucket and whined a little bit with anticipation. I set the bucket down and gruffed at Lady again until she reluctantly sat back down in wait. She never had a BIT of patience when it came to food. Reaching into the deep, plastic trash bin that we kept the dog food in, I found the little metal pail and scooped kibbles into each of the dogs' dishes, the kibbles making a sparkling, crashing sound into the bowls. THAT'S when I heard the tell-tale shuffling up in the high, far, dark corner of the barn. That's when I always heard it, and I knew he was there. I scooped the left-overs on top of the kibbles, meting out each portion fairly; because, I was (in my child mind) certain that skimping on one dog would result in the kind of brawls I had with my brother when he got the last of something, or I did, and I didn't want the dogs to think I favored one over the other. Admittedly, though, I always liked Lady the best. I set the dishes down and said, "GIT AT IT!" and the dogs sprang to action, muzzles working fast and smacking at the slop.
The shuffling in the dark corner continued, and I tossed down both buckets into the trash bin with the dog food, and made sure the lid was on tight. I turned, my back to the corner and tried to walk with the most nonchalance I, or any nine year old girl with perpetual grass stains on her knees could muster. Just when I'd cleared the barn door, I heard the flapping, and even though I didn't want to, I HAD to glance back, and I did... just in time to see that big bird swooping straight down at my head. He did his usual thing where he grazed the top of my head and landed on the ground in front of me about ten paces. Turning, he spread his wings and stepped towards me to hiss. This time was different though, because instead of running back to the house, I stopped cold and raised my hands up high and yelled out, "YOU DON'T SCARE ME, NOW GO ON!" and gesticulated wildly to further drive my point home. He stopped, too, just for a moment and instead of hissing at me, just stared at me but with his head turned to the side and his one eye fixed on my wild arms. I stopped moving and held my breath, took a step towards him, and started to feel my fear turn into curiosity. All the sudden, my head was swimming with the idea that, maybe he'd let me TOUCH him! And, that we would form a bond, and I would be like one of those people they find in the jungles that were raised by apes and wolves who had a secret, special bond with animals! That, eventually, this owl would be so endeared to me that he'd do my bidding! And I'd be known around town as that "girl who has a pet owl," and I'd be able whistle or something like that, and he'd come swooping out of the sky to perch on my shoulder! I'd be like a SUPER HERO!
Then, he regurgitated the disemboweled body of a huge rat, and without looking at it, but looking directly at me, kind of danced on it with his talons, ripping a little more guts free of the body.
I screamed and ran back to the house.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
You ever been frog gigging?
Well, according to my childhood memories, it's when you get to stay up late late late, and you get to go with your dad, uncles, and a few of their buddies down to the lake with a small row boat tied to the roof of your daddy's '83 Ford Bronco. You have to sit on the hump, which is the wheel well behind the back bench seat. It's cramped, but you have the important job of holding the two thermoses; one is soup, the other, hot cocoa. They're the kind of thermoses that have been going on occasional hunting trips and to a full-time job every weekday with the occasional Saturday over-night shift longer than you've been alive, and they have handles on the side.
You know you probably SHOULD be tired, considering you had baseball practice that ran long into the evening leaving you to race home JUST in time for dinner but still being late enough that you had to do the big ol' heap of dishes afterwards. Seemed like every dish in the house was dirty, and you pouted when mom rubbed some Noxema on your sunburned shoulders, forehead, and nose. But, you know something is up, because no one has told you to "GIT IN THE TUB!" yet. As the evening turns cool, instead of putting on your peejays, you decide to put on your shoes and a Bears Super Bowl XX sweatshirt. Just when you're coming back into the living room, you see dad putting on his jacket and grabbing the thermoses and a lunch pail, but he's not in his work blues, and he winks at you, and you smile big cuz you know you're coming along, and you're NOT tired.
So, now you're on the hump in the back of the Bronco pretending to get the jokes your dad, uncles, and a few of their buddies are telling, holding the thermoses. The truck pulls off the main road onto the little dirt embankment just after the bridge and before the Isaak Walton League sign. Upon cutting the rumbling motor, the crickets and frogs seem louder here than on the farm. The doors creak open, the guys hopping out, but instead of scrabbling over the seat, you hop out the open hatch window in the back. The guys are untying the small row boat, occasionally cussing at the knots, and they get it down. Your uncle, Tag, tosses you the rope to put in the back of the truck. Trying to look dutiful instead of dorkily overjoyed with the opportunity to show off how you learned to properly stow a rope earlier that summer at Shambaugh's farm from old man Shambaugh himself; you look down and carefully set about winding the rope just right so it unfurls cleanly instead of knotting when needed again.
Inside the small row boat are some, what look like wooden mop handles, with small trident spears attached to the end. And some flashlights and a bucket. Your dad, uncles, and a few of their buddies, scoot the boat into the shallow, dark water. You, unable to contain your excitement at this point, go to jump into the boat, but your dad gives you a “HEY!” You look up, and he asks, “Where are the thermoses?” “Oh, yeah!” you exclaim, and hurry to hop up on the back bumper, reaching inside the open hatch window and grabbing them. They’re right there next to your expertly stowed rope. So, now, thermoses in hand, you join the guys in the small boat and your uncle pushes it off slowly from the shore and hops in. Everyone has a spear, and just when you’ve given up hope that you’re going to get one, your dad hands you a flashlight and finally… a small spear of your own! The directions that follow are this:
-Shine the flashlight into the water.
-When you see a frog, spear it.
-When you spear a frog, put it in the bucket.
We had a big frog leg barbecue the next day. DELICIOUS.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
You know you probably SHOULD be tired, considering you had baseball practice that ran long into the evening leaving you to race home JUST in time for dinner but still being late enough that you had to do the big ol' heap of dishes afterwards. Seemed like every dish in the house was dirty, and you pouted when mom rubbed some Noxema on your sunburned shoulders, forehead, and nose. But, you know something is up, because no one has told you to "GIT IN THE TUB!" yet. As the evening turns cool, instead of putting on your peejays, you decide to put on your shoes and a Bears Super Bowl XX sweatshirt. Just when you're coming back into the living room, you see dad putting on his jacket and grabbing the thermoses and a lunch pail, but he's not in his work blues, and he winks at you, and you smile big cuz you know you're coming along, and you're NOT tired.
So, now you're on the hump in the back of the Bronco pretending to get the jokes your dad, uncles, and a few of their buddies are telling, holding the thermoses. The truck pulls off the main road onto the little dirt embankment just after the bridge and before the Isaak Walton League sign. Upon cutting the rumbling motor, the crickets and frogs seem louder here than on the farm. The doors creak open, the guys hopping out, but instead of scrabbling over the seat, you hop out the open hatch window in the back. The guys are untying the small row boat, occasionally cussing at the knots, and they get it down. Your uncle, Tag, tosses you the rope to put in the back of the truck. Trying to look dutiful instead of dorkily overjoyed with the opportunity to show off how you learned to properly stow a rope earlier that summer at Shambaugh's farm from old man Shambaugh himself; you look down and carefully set about winding the rope just right so it unfurls cleanly instead of knotting when needed again.
Inside the small row boat are some, what look like wooden mop handles, with small trident spears attached to the end. And some flashlights and a bucket. Your dad, uncles, and a few of their buddies, scoot the boat into the shallow, dark water. You, unable to contain your excitement at this point, go to jump into the boat, but your dad gives you a “HEY!” You look up, and he asks, “Where are the thermoses?” “Oh, yeah!” you exclaim, and hurry to hop up on the back bumper, reaching inside the open hatch window and grabbing them. They’re right there next to your expertly stowed rope. So, now, thermoses in hand, you join the guys in the small boat and your uncle pushes it off slowly from the shore and hops in. Everyone has a spear, and just when you’ve given up hope that you’re going to get one, your dad hands you a flashlight and finally… a small spear of your own! The directions that follow are this:
-Shine the flashlight into the water.
-When you see a frog, spear it.
-When you spear a frog, put it in the bucket.
We had a big frog leg barbecue the next day. DELICIOUS.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Sausage Ride Spoke Card, COLOR.
Prisma Color Markers in Light Peach, Buff, and Pink Blush.
Cheapie Crayola markers in Tan, Yellow, Pink, Mauve, Brown, and Sea Green.
Crayola color pencils in Steel Grey and Greenish Blue.
as a spoke card:
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Annual Sausage Ride Spoke Card, SNEAK PEAK
First inking of penultimate draft. Color, text, and fine-tuning coming soon.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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