June 26, 2023
Greetings from the problem child,
“You’re going to get in SO much trouble!”
These words were usually delivered by someone’s sister, often one of mine. When I was a kid, they were the majority party in my neighborhood, or so it seemed, such was their influence.
I could have started those words at the top of any number of escapades from my first decade or so of living. Petty theft, jumping fences to run through neighbor’s yards, climbing in Mr. Berry’s cherry tree, sneaking out, sneaking in, eating one of Dad’s special cookies. Well, two.
Smoking in the garage, kissing in the garage, jumping off the garage, setting fire to the garage. I was not a terrible boy, but clearly, the garage was a bad influence. There was the time I set fire to a cardboard box in the basement, (not the garage) which might have gone undetected, even with the smoke, except was part of my sister’s school project. So, she was right to register a complaint, and I hold no grudge about that. Well, it’s been over fifty years, I should be over it, especially since it wasn’t my diorama.
In later years I could blame most of my sins on the Perrine Brothers, a nearly trademarked brand of juvenile delinquency. I would share some of those exploits, but the statute of limitations may not have expired on one of them. (For too long I thought it was ‘STATUE of limitations’ which made perfect sense because I thought that was the name of that statue of the blindfolded lady with the scales of justice.) So, we’ll come back to that chapter after I consult with my attorney, who would have to be appointed for me.
There was some trouble that followed me home from school, documented by the nuns of St. Matthews. If the timing was right, some of these could be diluted by faulty witnesses, blaming others, mistaken identity, or simply crying. I’ll caution young readers here, crying only works occasionally, and if you do it too often you get a reputation. I still cry when the Starbucks barista gets my name wrong, just out of reflex.
My parents were no more dangerous than any others on our street when it came to punishments. Nevertheless, they were to be feared. We were not beaten with switches or locked in closets, but privileges could be revoked, or rights withheld. Saturday morning cartoons, desserts. Freedom. Remember being ‘grounded’?
My sisters, who never did anything wrong, were sometimes absorbed into my shenanigans. Once when my uncle-cousin was babysitting us, we pretended to be watching TV in our den. There were louvered French doors that didn’t lock, so we wrapped a few hundred rubber bands around the handles which made it impossible to open. This made it so we could jump out the window to go do something else, anything else other than what we were supposed to be doing. It seemed like a foolproof plan. Who would have thought someone would actually try to check on us?
In a park a few miles from our house, my friends and I discovered the opening to the storm drain that emptied into the creek that ran along the bed of the park. I say ‘discovered’, but it’s not like every kid in the east side didn’t already know about it. We just finally worked up the curiosity, and the courage, to explore it.
The concrete drain might have been four feet in diameter, although my memory said it was larger. It was dark inside, as tunnels often are, but occasionally there was light from the streets above. We may have brought flashlights, but if I’m honest, I can’t imagine being that prepared.
We walked deep under the neighborhood above, walking awkwardly, our Kmart Converse-knockoffs wedged on the sides of the curved concrete, straddling the stream of water that flowed along the bottom of the pipe. If you think that maybe there would be rats or snakes or something up in that dark, wet place where all manner of civilization’s detritus flowed, you’d probably be right. If you think it was really scary, it wasn’t at all. No one cried or made those silly sounds you make when a spider walks on your neck.
There was a story that kids had been trapped in the tunnel by a flash flood and died, so we all knew that even though our parents hadn’t specifically forbidden us from wading under the city, this had to be kept a secret or we would get in trouble. Of course, we had to tell people about it. You can’t climb Everest and not say SOMETHING. And somehow, even without Twitter, word got back to our parents.
I’m not saying that somebody’s sisters are to blame for all trouble that I got into. Well, I am saying it, but in a way I can deny later, and maybe they won’t recognize it and tell on me about it. Old habits die hard.
In truth, my sisters and my friend’s sisters, were not saints, although most were named after them. They were as full of mischief as their scruffier, louder, less sophisticated siblings. But it could be true that their influence saved the brothers in the neighborhood from wandering down a worse path. Maybe we owe them a debt of gratitude.
Nah.
Hope this finds you tattled on,
David
PS: I only ate one of Dad’s cookies. Dawn ate the other one.
Copyright © 2023 David Smith
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