STAY OFF THE FLOOR
I’ve mentioned my brother Darrel here a
little earlier. I’m sure you’ve come to understand how difficult it was for
me to have an older brother. He was like the rest of my world when I arrived. He
was already here, and as far as I could tell, had always been. Certainly, he was
fairly well established as the fair-haired prince. I felt it was no accident, he
called me “Dick” the day I was born. I’m sure the General and My Daddy
weren’t exactly happy that I was visiting them at this time. Things weren’t
all that great in their lives monetarily. They were yet to have their first one
hundred dollars. Of course, they worshipped my brother. He had stolen the hearts
of my grandparents too, and that didn’t make life any easier for me. To make
matters worse, when I came kicking and screaming into the world, I had a real
bad case of what the General called the “colic.” It seems I had this wild
shock of coal black hair, a very red face, and resembled my Grandma Lena, the
Cherokee. I constantly insisted on either being held or rocked. I was determined
to demand my place in the family and take away some of the luster from my older
brother.
The first fight I can remember us having was under the table in the kitchen. He
attacked me, for some unknown reason. I thought he was trying to eliminate the
competition, so I fought back trying my best to kill him, or at least mortally
wound him. I remember he hit me in the face during our scuffle. It was the first
time anyone had inflicted pain on me intentionally. It hurt so much that I
became enraged and renewed my efforts to destroy him. The General became so
upset, trying to drag a three and a half and five year old out from under the
table, that she dropped a big pail of milk she was trying to strain.
Now, the General already had her commission, but she was still coming along. So,
for the first time in my life I heard her say a dirty word. “SHIT,” she
screamed, as the milk went running across the linoleum. That startled me, and I
became frightened. I’d been traumatized by my brother physically and now could
see that he was trying to destroy my life.
In the following months and years we grew, fought, and basically drove our
parents crazy. One day the General announced that my older brother would be
going to school. I don’t remember my reaction to such great news, but what
followed was the tragedy of my life. The school had one bus to travel up and
down the rock roads to pick up children from three different routes. They’d
make one route, deliver the kids, and them make another run. Well, to get to the
gravel road to catch the bus one had to walk, what seemed like to me, for miles
and we’d have to leave well before daylight.
The General decided that it would be difficult for such a tender six-year-old to
go alone. So, she went to school and got permission to send me along to keep him
company. I was not to be promoted or graded but to keep my persecutor company.
This monster had now robbed me of my childhood and put responsibility on me that
I was nowhere ready to accept. To make matters worse, there was no cafeteria, so
I was stuck with the responsibility of carrying a sack lunch along. I was
expected to deliver this to the classroom intact. Years later, marking the
distance on the car odometer to prove to my two young sons I’d walked five
miles to catch the school-bus, I was amazed to find it was only a mile and a
half.
Now, the General had never heard of wall-to-wall carpet, and she probably
wouldn’t have liked it anyway with all the mud we tracked in the house. We had
linoleum on the floors and she would wax, and shine them every week to a high
gloss. Cleanliness was very close to Godliness in her mind; she took this all
very seriously. No one was allowed to get on the floor during those times of
cleaning and waxing. In them days, being of a tender age, I preferred crawling.
Naturally, when the General said, “Don’t get on the floor,” I interpreted
that as an order not to crawl.
Shortly after I started accompanying the tormentor to school the teacher had to
leave the room. She instructed us not to get on the floor and put a little
tattletale in charge to take names of those who disobeyed. This certainly
didn’t bother me; I was too big to crawl around anyway. I had me a grand ol’
time walking all around, talking and checking on the persecutor. He kept talking
about not getting on the floor. That was pretty crazy, as I wasn’t even
thinking about that and became quite confused by his attitude. The little snitch
kept turning her head to one side and writing something down. That suited me
just fine.
Upon the teacher’s return, the little snitch gave her the work she had been
doing. Seemed it had something do with me, which I didn’t quite understand.
Much to my surprise, the teacher called me to the front of the room and told
everyone I’d gotten on the floor. I told her that was a lie and commenced to
cry. She paddled me anyway. I felt betrayed by the tormentor that day. The
General had promised he would protect me against all injustice. He didn’t even
move, and appeared to be petrified.
A week passed, and I realized that it was important to learn what the teacher
wanted from us. I was very confused and felt desperate that some of the kids
didn’t see and understand as I did. One morning the teacher explained to us a
new procedure. We were to have an “IN” and “OUT” sign she had written on
a piece of cardboard. One side read, “IN” and the other side read,
“OUT.” If one needed to go to the bathroom, you had to wait until the sign
read, “IN,” then you could go and turn it to read, “OUT.” Only one
person could be absent at a time, so it was important that we understand. My
deductive thinking along bathroom habits was rapidly developing.
I sure didn’t want anymore humiliating experiences, so I paid very close
attention. I sat two seats from the back and that was a very busy sign.
Suddenly, after lunch, I had this urge to go to the bathroom. Every time I’d
start for the sign a big six-year-old would beat me to it. At last, I got to the
sign, but ALAS, too late. I had a very smelly result from all the running and
falling down. I was overwhelmed. I supposed the teacher would punish me, but it
was not to be. She actually ignored me for the rest of the day.
After what seemed like an eternity, I went to the bus and boarded. I hurried to
the back, hoping no one would notice I had a problem. Several others made their
way to the back and joined me. After a short time, they’d change to another
seat as far away as was possible. An older student, at least eight years old,
approached, “What is that smell?” he asked. Now, there was a young lady of
six, well informed about the activities with the “IN” and “OUT” sign.
Her name was BOW-WOW, and she had more than a slight problem unfolding her
tongue. However, she took it upon herself to announce in a very loud voice,
“DAT DICK, HE SHAT HIS PUANTS.”
Bow-Wow and I became fast friends later on in life and far beyond high school.
She was always ready to relate that unfortunate day to almost anyone who would
listen. Especially, if they were young, attractive, and seemed to have an
interest in my past failures and successes. I was pleased to see her tongue had
come untied as she got older and was able to relate that story without the
slightest bit of difficulty.