Batting Practice.
Interestingly ( or perhaps dusturbingly ) enough, most of my childhood memories are of bathtub activities. We took a lot of baths, my sister, brother, cousins, and I. In fact, I was in third grade before I learned that my fingers were not supposed to be all pruney like that. As I mentioned in a previous anecdote, my Mom more-or-less raised my cousins during the time that my aunt was divorced. Thus, for all practical purposes, my mother had five children ranging from birth to five years of age. Four of us; my cousins, Paul and Phil;my sister, Emily; and I, were between the ages of two and five. My mom always tossed the four of us into the tub at once. This made for some very fascinating discussions about what had "happened" to Em's "weenery." It was obvious to us [Paul, Phil, and me] that Em' had no weenery and we were quick to point this out whenever the subject arose. Em' was very exhasperated by this, and she declared that her "winnowee" was on her bum.
My cousins and I, being children, were not keen on backing down when it was obvious that we were right. But when Em's face turned red, we knew that we had better start pretending. You have to understand some things about Em'. She was born with fiery red hair and a wicked cow-lick that left her with a permanent mohawk. The surliness of her hairdo corresponded remarkably with her disposition and her marked propensity for violence. She was younger than we were and yet she could give us all a beating that made Dad's belt feel like an all-girl pillow fight in an anorexia ward. To her, every toy and house-hold item was a melee weapon. She was peerless in her ability to deliver blunt force trauma with a Rainbow Brite doll or Teddy Ruxpin. And that battery-pack in Teddy Ruxpin is a bitch! She could do things to you with a Skipper Doll that would make Schutzstaffel interrogators blush with envy. But what made Em' really scary, was that she was wild and uninhibited, the kind of kid that you don't turn your back on. Kind of like a billygoat. If you turned your back on her, even for an instant, you could get coldcocked for no reason at all. It was some scary sh!t. You'd be humming along to Dixie whilst watching The Dukes of Hazard and sipping apple juice and then WHAM, you'd get donkey-punched in the throat. You would hear her shrieking diabolical laughter. She sounded like an emphysemic Tasmanian devil in a yodeling match. Sometimes it was scarier to see her coming especially when she was stalking you; she would dash behind a piece of furniture and all you could see was her little red mohawk bobbing up and down with each step. It was like a fuzzy little dorsal fin. If you can imagine a sadistic Treasure Troll in a cloth diaper and plastic pants, you've got the picture. We were all terrified.
There was nowhere to hide. One morning, I was riding my Big wheel around on the enourmous brick patio in our backyard when Em' decided that it would be expedient to use my head for batting practice. It was Saturday morning and Paul and Phil were at home with my aunt so I was alone in the backyard with Satan. I had seen Em' pick up the baseball bat about five minutes earlier and had kept one eye pop-riveted to the back of her skull as she assaulted a bed of tulips and daffodils. My heart bolted and the back of my neck felt like a pin-cushion as she turned. I jerked my eyes away, retracting my gaze like a tape measure, and I pretended to make motorcycle noises as I peddled around the patio. "Don't look her in the eyes, it only makes her aggressive." Famous last words. My Big wheel jolted as the front tire grew wedged between a couple of bricks. I gulped. Sudden movements were bad. She always homed in on stuff like that. You know, the usual stuff like the smell of fear, fresh blood, shiny objects, small children, wounded animals, et cetera. ( Seriously, the first time I saw the velociraptors in Jurassic Park, I was like: "You f-ing amateurs!" ) I strained at the peddles in an effort to get the Big wheel moving again but I froze as I heard the crunch of monkeygrass. I had to look. I swung my head around to face the noise. All I saw were two crumpled tufts of monkey grass that were slowly standing back up. There! I saw a dark blur of OshKosh denim in my peripheral vision and I could hear the skuffling of her Buster Browns on the bricks. She was breathing heavily through her nose, a sure sign that she was focused too intently on being sneaky. I ducked instinctively, shoving my head between my knees. Crack! The bat caromed off of the top of the Big wheel's seat and the report was followed by a shriek of maniacal laughter. Strike One. I had to act quickly while she was winding up for the next swing. My blood was saturated with adrenaline and I had cotton mouth like a champ! I shot up out of my seat, spun to face her, planted the palm of my hand squarely in her face and shoved. It was like a reviewing footage of a tragic gymnastics accident. Everyone tilts their heads and grimaces and goes: "Ohhhh ouch!" as the guy's neck folds in half. It was that bad. Fortunately for her, her mohawk broke her fall and; unfortunately for me, she was back on her feet and charging before my squeal had escaped my throat.
It was a panicked sprint that carried me the thirty-or-so yards to the back door of the house. She was right on my heels and her laughter had taken a crazed throaty tone, indicating that she was done playing and had grown feverish with bloodlust. My shoes tore at the grass and my Toughskins whistled hoarsely between my thighs as I ran. I was pulling away, but I still had to negotiate the impending bottleneck at the backdoor. The tarnished brass knob presented a formidable challenge. I was only four and I had the dexterity of a quadriplegic ox. Besides, theretofore, none of us had ever succeeded in turning that knob. It was an obstinate old relic that only "big people" [adults] could manipulate. If we ever needed to get into the house, we had to assemble ourselves at the door like little siege engines and pound away with our little fists and yell until Mom opened it from the inside. But I didn't have the luxury of time that day so Mom was of no use to me. On the bright side, though, I wouldn't have a screen door in the way to slow me down. All we had was a classic exterior door with a window in the upper half.
I had to climb six whole stairs to reach the porch and at four years old, a stair comes all the way up to your groin. I busied myself with the ascent. Em' had to lug the bat up the stairs with her so that bought me a couple of very precious seconds. I had the tickling sensation in the back of my neck because I expected her to take a swing at me at any second. Finally! I heaved myself onto the porch and dashed to the door. I took a running leap and bear-hugged the enourmous doorknob. My feet dangled beneath me as I grappled with the stubborn mechanism. I glanced back over my shoulder just in time to see Em's face as she crested the stairs. She was breathing heavily and her face was suffused with a red glow. The bat was at the ready, raised in the air above her head. Her tongue never seemed to fit in her mouth and, as always, it was thrust out to the side. Her tiny irises and dilated pupils were mere specks floating on the whites of her eyes and her smile was empty and manic. I could see the gates of hell reflected in her visage. Then would have been an appropriate time to scream something like: "The power of Christ compels you!" But I was too busy begging the obstinate brass knob for my life.
To my utter astonishment and immeasurable relief, the knob gave a mechanical belch and began to turn. I hung on for dear life as the door swung slowly inward. I was in no mood to enjoy the ride. ( Later on, I would introduce the concept of door-swinging to Paul and Phil and we would spend an entire afternoon swinging on my bedroom door until the hinges tore out of the jamb and the door fell on Phil.) I dropped onto the kitchen floor and landed awkwardly before staggering around to the back of the door and slamming it shut. I listened for the clink of the engaging latch and when I heard it, I collapsed with my back to the door. My heart was playing my sternum like a kettledrum and mouth was so dry that I was choking on my own tongue. Silence...
This is the part of the movie where the good guy thinks the bad guy is dead and he turns around to kiss hot babes or play a power love-ballad on his air guitar while the credits roll. I was young but I wasn't stupid. I knew that the beelzebatter was still out there. I tilted my head back slowly. Maybe she had been distracted by the mailman or some other small defenseless creature. CRAAAAASHHHHHH!!!!!!!! I screamed like a little girl. The bat blasted through the glass in the window above. I was baptised in a fountain of falling glass. I was young but I wasn't stupid. The sound of breaking glass! I went cold with dread. That sound was the precursor of the ass-ravaging hell that only Mom could dispense. That sound made big people foam at the mouth and chase you through the house. That sound meant that your bum was doomed.
I had glass in my hair and down my shirt. But that wasn't why I was crying. I was crying because Mom was foaming at the mouth as she stood, towering above me with a beefy wooden spatula in her hand. She was livid. I squealed and hid my face. With one fluid and powerful motion, Mom lifted me from the floor by the arm and set me aside on my feet. The glass grated and crunched under the soles of her shoes as she stepped to the door and flung it open. Mom stood in the doorway and Em' stood on the porch beyond, framed in the silhouettes of Mom's thighs. A twinge of glee checked my tears as I saw the fear spread across Em's face. She turned to run but Mom snatched her up so quickly that she seemed to have vanished. All that remained was the baseball bat which rolled to the edge of the porch and went clickedy clacking down the steps. POW POW POW POW POW!!! The sound of wooden spatula connecting with diaper-clad bum. And then Em's howling. My bum was already burning in anticipation. I turned to run. But Mom's hands were like vices. She spun me around to face her.
Strangely, she wasn't foaming at the mouth and her eyes were wide with concern and compassion. "Are you alright?" she asked. I nodded and sniffled as she dusted the shards of glass out of my hair and pulled my shirt off. Em' was still wailing behind her. "You two need a bath." Mom sighed.
My cousins and I, being children, were not keen on backing down when it was obvious that we were right. But when Em's face turned red, we knew that we had better start pretending. You have to understand some things about Em'. She was born with fiery red hair and a wicked cow-lick that left her with a permanent mohawk. The surliness of her hairdo corresponded remarkably with her disposition and her marked propensity for violence. She was younger than we were and yet she could give us all a beating that made Dad's belt feel like an all-girl pillow fight in an anorexia ward. To her, every toy and house-hold item was a melee weapon. She was peerless in her ability to deliver blunt force trauma with a Rainbow Brite doll or Teddy Ruxpin. And that battery-pack in Teddy Ruxpin is a bitch! She could do things to you with a Skipper Doll that would make Schutzstaffel interrogators blush with envy. But what made Em' really scary, was that she was wild and uninhibited, the kind of kid that you don't turn your back on. Kind of like a billygoat. If you turned your back on her, even for an instant, you could get coldcocked for no reason at all. It was some scary sh!t. You'd be humming along to Dixie whilst watching The Dukes of Hazard and sipping apple juice and then WHAM, you'd get donkey-punched in the throat. You would hear her shrieking diabolical laughter. She sounded like an emphysemic Tasmanian devil in a yodeling match. Sometimes it was scarier to see her coming especially when she was stalking you; she would dash behind a piece of furniture and all you could see was her little red mohawk bobbing up and down with each step. It was like a fuzzy little dorsal fin. If you can imagine a sadistic Treasure Troll in a cloth diaper and plastic pants, you've got the picture. We were all terrified.
There was nowhere to hide. One morning, I was riding my Big wheel around on the enourmous brick patio in our backyard when Em' decided that it would be expedient to use my head for batting practice. It was Saturday morning and Paul and Phil were at home with my aunt so I was alone in the backyard with Satan. I had seen Em' pick up the baseball bat about five minutes earlier and had kept one eye pop-riveted to the back of her skull as she assaulted a bed of tulips and daffodils. My heart bolted and the back of my neck felt like a pin-cushion as she turned. I jerked my eyes away, retracting my gaze like a tape measure, and I pretended to make motorcycle noises as I peddled around the patio. "Don't look her in the eyes, it only makes her aggressive." Famous last words. My Big wheel jolted as the front tire grew wedged between a couple of bricks. I gulped. Sudden movements were bad. She always homed in on stuff like that. You know, the usual stuff like the smell of fear, fresh blood, shiny objects, small children, wounded animals, et cetera. ( Seriously, the first time I saw the velociraptors in Jurassic Park, I was like: "You f-ing amateurs!" ) I strained at the peddles in an effort to get the Big wheel moving again but I froze as I heard the crunch of monkeygrass. I had to look. I swung my head around to face the noise. All I saw were two crumpled tufts of monkey grass that were slowly standing back up. There! I saw a dark blur of OshKosh denim in my peripheral vision and I could hear the skuffling of her Buster Browns on the bricks. She was breathing heavily through her nose, a sure sign that she was focused too intently on being sneaky. I ducked instinctively, shoving my head between my knees. Crack! The bat caromed off of the top of the Big wheel's seat and the report was followed by a shriek of maniacal laughter. Strike One. I had to act quickly while she was winding up for the next swing. My blood was saturated with adrenaline and I had cotton mouth like a champ! I shot up out of my seat, spun to face her, planted the palm of my hand squarely in her face and shoved. It was like a reviewing footage of a tragic gymnastics accident. Everyone tilts their heads and grimaces and goes: "Ohhhh ouch!" as the guy's neck folds in half. It was that bad. Fortunately for her, her mohawk broke her fall and; unfortunately for me, she was back on her feet and charging before my squeal had escaped my throat.
It was a panicked sprint that carried me the thirty-or-so yards to the back door of the house. She was right on my heels and her laughter had taken a crazed throaty tone, indicating that she was done playing and had grown feverish with bloodlust. My shoes tore at the grass and my Toughskins whistled hoarsely between my thighs as I ran. I was pulling away, but I still had to negotiate the impending bottleneck at the backdoor. The tarnished brass knob presented a formidable challenge. I was only four and I had the dexterity of a quadriplegic ox. Besides, theretofore, none of us had ever succeeded in turning that knob. It was an obstinate old relic that only "big people" [adults] could manipulate. If we ever needed to get into the house, we had to assemble ourselves at the door like little siege engines and pound away with our little fists and yell until Mom opened it from the inside. But I didn't have the luxury of time that day so Mom was of no use to me. On the bright side, though, I wouldn't have a screen door in the way to slow me down. All we had was a classic exterior door with a window in the upper half.
I had to climb six whole stairs to reach the porch and at four years old, a stair comes all the way up to your groin. I busied myself with the ascent. Em' had to lug the bat up the stairs with her so that bought me a couple of very precious seconds. I had the tickling sensation in the back of my neck because I expected her to take a swing at me at any second. Finally! I heaved myself onto the porch and dashed to the door. I took a running leap and bear-hugged the enourmous doorknob. My feet dangled beneath me as I grappled with the stubborn mechanism. I glanced back over my shoulder just in time to see Em's face as she crested the stairs. She was breathing heavily and her face was suffused with a red glow. The bat was at the ready, raised in the air above her head. Her tongue never seemed to fit in her mouth and, as always, it was thrust out to the side. Her tiny irises and dilated pupils were mere specks floating on the whites of her eyes and her smile was empty and manic. I could see the gates of hell reflected in her visage. Then would have been an appropriate time to scream something like: "The power of Christ compels you!" But I was too busy begging the obstinate brass knob for my life.
To my utter astonishment and immeasurable relief, the knob gave a mechanical belch and began to turn. I hung on for dear life as the door swung slowly inward. I was in no mood to enjoy the ride. ( Later on, I would introduce the concept of door-swinging to Paul and Phil and we would spend an entire afternoon swinging on my bedroom door until the hinges tore out of the jamb and the door fell on Phil.) I dropped onto the kitchen floor and landed awkwardly before staggering around to the back of the door and slamming it shut. I listened for the clink of the engaging latch and when I heard it, I collapsed with my back to the door. My heart was playing my sternum like a kettledrum and mouth was so dry that I was choking on my own tongue. Silence...
This is the part of the movie where the good guy thinks the bad guy is dead and he turns around to kiss hot babes or play a power love-ballad on his air guitar while the credits roll. I was young but I wasn't stupid. I knew that the beelzebatter was still out there. I tilted my head back slowly. Maybe she had been distracted by the mailman or some other small defenseless creature. CRAAAAASHHHHHH!!!!!!!! I screamed like a little girl. The bat blasted through the glass in the window above. I was baptised in a fountain of falling glass. I was young but I wasn't stupid. The sound of breaking glass! I went cold with dread. That sound was the precursor of the ass-ravaging hell that only Mom could dispense. That sound made big people foam at the mouth and chase you through the house. That sound meant that your bum was doomed.
I had glass in my hair and down my shirt. But that wasn't why I was crying. I was crying because Mom was foaming at the mouth as she stood, towering above me with a beefy wooden spatula in her hand. She was livid. I squealed and hid my face. With one fluid and powerful motion, Mom lifted me from the floor by the arm and set me aside on my feet. The glass grated and crunched under the soles of her shoes as she stepped to the door and flung it open. Mom stood in the doorway and Em' stood on the porch beyond, framed in the silhouettes of Mom's thighs. A twinge of glee checked my tears as I saw the fear spread across Em's face. She turned to run but Mom snatched her up so quickly that she seemed to have vanished. All that remained was the baseball bat which rolled to the edge of the porch and went clickedy clacking down the steps. POW POW POW POW POW!!! The sound of wooden spatula connecting with diaper-clad bum. And then Em's howling. My bum was already burning in anticipation. I turned to run. But Mom's hands were like vices. She spun me around to face her.
Strangely, she wasn't foaming at the mouth and her eyes were wide with concern and compassion. "Are you alright?" she asked. I nodded and sniffled as she dusted the shards of glass out of my hair and pulled my shirt off. Em' was still wailing behind her. "You two need a bath." Mom sighed.
posted by Reckless at 10:38 AM
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