When We Were Short And Stupid: A Blogger's Collection Of Childish Tales

When We Were Short and Stupid: A Blogger's Collection of Childish Tales

The year was 1971. It was the Summer of my 6th year. My sister (who is 2 years older then me) and I had been dropped off to be babysat for the weekend by some old friends of our Mother.
To grant privacy to these people I shall from here on refer to them as Mr and Mrs Smith.
Mr. Smith was a tall, slender, silver haired man with piercing blue eyes. His hobbies were carving (disturbing) wall hangings of flying birds and Evergreen trees out of wood, reading the newspaper and his religion of choice, Christianity.
Mrs. Smith was a quiet woman. She garbed herself in nondescript brown dresses that she topped with an equally nondescript brown knit shawl. She wore her grey streaked hair in a bun and had some kind of head shaking problem. Like Katheryn Hepburn had. I remember staring in morbid fascination at the bun on top of her head, watching it wobble back and forth with each shake of her head. The only time I had ever seen her head stop shaking was the day she visited our home and was startled by the popping sound of a dying light-bulb from the hanging lamp above her perch on our sofa. That was good for 8 seconds of non-head shaking time. I know. I counted the seconds in my head when I saw her head go still. One one thousand...two one thousand...three one thousand...four one thousand (It's a miracle! She's been cured by the light bulb explosion!)...five one thousand...six one thousand...seven one thousand (look at that! Her heads completely still!)...eight one thousand...nine..(oops! Nope. Houston, we have head wobble).
Mr. and Mrs. Smith were a deeply religious couple. And very poor as they lived by the motto "God will provide" instead of the sin of a regular paycheck. They owned one tiny black and white television set which was turned on only for the local news so Mr. Smith could see how the world was going to hell and give him fodder for his weekly Bible Study sermon notes. The only reading materiel was religious in nature and the local newspaper. I tried to sneak the comic page out of his paper one day out of desperation for some kind of entertainment, and was lectured for a full hour on the evils of "worldly" entertainment created to corrupt my young mind.
The only snacks my sister and I were allowed were apples plucked from Mr. and Mrs. Smiths apple trees. Even that was strictly monitored. One apple between meals. The Devil might lead us into temptation if we consumed more than one. Devil temptation sounded like something I might enjoy so I snarfed down three of those forbidden apples while hunkered down behind Mr. Smiths wood shop.
It was Sunday and the last day of my sister's and my stay at the Smiths house. We were currently holed up in Mr. Smiths study perched on a hard leather love seat that was pressed in between the bookshelves. There were no toys, no books other for us to read other then "The Origins of God". We had been told to sit quietly as it was "God's Day" and reflect on His wonderfulness.
While sitting there quietly "reflecting" I suddenly became aware of a pressing consequence from my "dare the Devil to tempt me" multiple apple consumption. I crept quietly out of the study and slunk undetected into the bathroom and happily laid my "burden" to rest in a single porcelaine deposit.
All was going well until I tried to flush my deposited burden away. Three flushes later I stood staring down at the damning evidence of my temporary lapse of multi apple consumption temptation. It lay there bobbing, mocking me. I started to sweat. What was I going to do? I couldn't just leave it laying there!
I looked around the tiny bathroom frantically trying to find some solution. My eyes lit upon the tiny window above the bathtub. Eureka! Swathing my hand in Charmin, I reached in and snatched my sin evidence out of the bowl. Scampering over I reached up with my free hand to open the window and fling the monstrosity outside only the window wouldn't budge. It was frozen shut from years of paint layers. Now what?!
I did the only thing a desperate 6 year old could do when faced with this crisis. I buried it in the bathroom waste basket.
Multiple hand washings later, I slunk out of the bathroom and back into the Study.
"What took you so long?" My sister asked shooting me a puzzled look.
I answered her with a shrug and climbed back up beside her to resume my "religious reflection" on the sofa.
10 minutes later, I was pulled from my reflections by the opening of the Study door. Mr. Smith walked in, walked directly over to me and poked out his hand.
"Is this yours?!" He bellowed.
I looked down into his out thrust hand and there clutched in his gnarled age spotted hand was my previously hidden deposit.
The horror of the discovery has wiped all memory of what happened after that from my memory.

HaphazardKat