Part of the story

I started this story back in June and got stuck with the kettle girl, not knowing what to do with it/her. It was supposed to be 4-5 pages. On the flight back from Boston, I added the rest of the 12 pages.
GW

A Darkness of Auntie
By GW Hogg
©6-25-05


I had been looking forward to Memorial Day weekend ever since last year. I remember the way Nikki looked, smelled, felt; when I held her in my arms and gave her a kiss. A simple kiss on the lips, that evolved in a most wondrous way. Tongues were suddenly not just for talking anymore. I remember the way she looked, as the sun went down over the ocean. Nestled in a quiet spot on the dunes, the suns orange rays added a special light to her face and her short curly brown hair. We lay behind some bushes, listening to the waves, and the sound of the foghorns.
Now, a year later, I looked forward to renewing the friendship, the special warmth one feels when you hold someone close.

The sedan was packed. We squeezed ourselves, and the last minute stuff, into the car then headed out. It was going to be a fun-filled weekend of camping and listening to music. Mom and dad were glad we all wanted to go. Glad we enjoyed the music, even if it was folk music! But my reasons for going were a little different. Sure I enjoyed hiking and exploring around the area, but girls filled most of my thoughts now.
It was crowded in the little compact. Most of you today would call it a full-sized car. Since we were not going far, we would survive. It wasn’t a long drive; over the bridge, through the city, and over the final bridge. My older sister wanted to play her guitar, but there was no room. The fact that she had a propensity to yodel in some of her songs made it more important not to let her sing. Out in the wide prairies, or in the mountains, a yodel could get nicely swallowed up. In the tight confines of a car, our ears would suffer.

My younger brother had his flashlights, tools, map-making equipment and rope ladder. He was all eager to explore the gun emplacements. Wild imaginings of manning the massive guns and blowing up Japanese warships filled his thoughts. No one would bother using those nowadays, not when you could lob an ICBM over the pole in fifteen minutes. But I know what else he was thinking. The bunkers would make good fallout shelters. Especially since the wind tends to blow towards the city.

We were all restless and eager by the time we turned off 101 and drove to the gate. We were in luck; someone was there to open it. The thin, hippie-looking guy checked our reservations and opened the gate. Then it was a slow drive down the gravel road to the parking lot.

We found a nice campsite, not far from the lot and started setting up. It’s always good to get here early, before the Friday afternoon rush. Saturday? You sleep on the hillsides!
My brother and I helped dad set up the heavy tent while mom and sis set up the food. Once that was done, I set up my small tarp and sleeping bag. I didn’t want to be in the tent, it would restrict my prowling. Plus it never got that cold, even when the fog rolled in.

Silly sister grabbed her guitar and went off in search of music. Lunatic brother went exploring. Mom and dad went for a walk on the beach. I went prowling.

When the sun began to dip towards the fog, and the foghorns began their mournful sounds, it was time to head back to camp. I had looked everywhere but found no sign of Nikki. No, we had no set meeting place, we didn’t know who was driving what car. We had just told each other in our letters, that we would try and find each other. She was pretty sure that her parents would not be driving in till Saturday. But there was always hope they could get away early.

Dinner was simple, burgers, chips, and sodas. Burgers grilled outdoors are always better, and dad was pretty good on the fire pit. Then there was chitchat about who did what that day. Silly sis had that look in her eyes and we all knew she was composing a new song. I just hoped I was not around as she stumbled her way through it for the first few times! My brother had found some guys to go exploring with and they were planning a full-scale assault on the bunkers in the morning. After that, there were the lookout posts up on the ridges.
After dinner clean up was quick and dad made sure we all had our flashlights before we went off to listen to the music.

I stopped by the center of the campground and marveled at the two stainless steel kettles and the huge propane tank next to them. It looked as if you could almost take a bath in them!
“What are you cooking?” I asked the pretty girl busy stirring the pots and gave her a smile.
“Stone soup.” She said and smiled back.
“You can really make that?” She looked really nice in just blue jeans, boots and a half laced-up tunic. The view was enticing.
“Yes. Lots of people bring stuff just to be put in the pots.”
“I would think rocks taste the same everywhere. Why would you import them?” Long brown hair and green eyes; a sort of hippie cowgirl.
“Silly we don’t really use rocks.” And then she saw my grin. “I can’t do my work, with you pulling my leg!”
“What’s the diff?” I pointed to the two pots.
“One’s vegetarian. One has meat.”
“Is it any good?”
“It’s coming along. We’re shy a few things.”
“Well, I brought my wrist-rocket. Perhaps I can get you a squirrel.”
“Oh! You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“Naw. Not enough meat.”
“You’re terrible!”
“Thanks.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know.”
“I only have to do this for another half hour. Wanna go for a walk later?”
“Well…look, you’re awful pretty, but there is a friend I met here last year and she arrives tomorrow. I really shouldn’t.”
“She’s your girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Well, then she has no claim on you.”
“But…”
“No buts. Be back here in half an hour and we’ll go for a walk. It’s not like I’m asking you to the Prom!”
“No, it’s not. Okay, I’ll see you in a bit. By the way, my name is Greg.” And I reached over the kettle.
She wiped her hand on her apron and shook mine. “Cindy. Nice to meet you Greg. See you in a half. And bring some salt!”
“Okay Cindy.” I waved and ambled over to the next clearing and set of picnic tables. Four guys with guitars and a gal with a banjo where busy playing, singing and laughing. There were kids around the fire pit, roasting marshmallows and singing along. Kids have it so easy at times. Sweets and a song and they are happy. My thoughts were just starting down into one of my sister’s songs. ‘Oh come on now!’ I thought to myself. ‘It’s not like you are cheating on your wife! Cindy knows there is someone else. All she did was ask you to go for a walk. What’s the harm in that?’
I walked on until I found another group singing around another fire pit. They sounded much more interesting.
“Roll me o-ver, in the clo-ver.
Roll me over, lay me down and do it again.
Now this is number three,
fancy friggin, fast and free.
Roll me over,
Lay me down
And do it again!”

Okay, this is my kind of music! I sat down and a lady handed me a cup. She first grabbed a bottle of wine, then looked at me a second time and grabbed a jug of lemon-aid.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Do you know the songs?”
“Sure do! My dad has a bunch of these records.”
“Good, we need to be able to drown out the yodelers on the other side of those bushes!” And she winked at me.
“Be glad to help.”

The song came to an end and they launched into ‘A Gob is a slob’. The group soon noticed that I had changed genders on the song and they let me finish the last half, just to see if I could fix the end. I did, and there was a good round of applause.
“Nicely done young man.” The lady next to me said.

We all launched into ‘Bell Bottom trousers’ and finished that with a lot of laughter. It was time to go. I thanked them all and they told me to come back anytime.

It was a short walk back to Cindy. It was getting dark, but I could still see without the flashlight.

She was just taking off her apron when I got there.

(The story continues, but I felt that 17 pages was too much to post. At least this gives you a taste. I can send you the rest if you want. Just email me. GW)

Fishsticks

I think I was perhaps seven, maybe eight. (Mom and Dad might remember.) It was dinner time, but we were told we had to put our laundry away first. “And don’t use the back stairs, the door sticks.” Said mom.

So I grabbed my stack, and as the rest of the kids went to use the front stairs, I headed to the back of the house. I knew a secret way to open the door.

Into the back sun porch, up the steep narrow stairs and I was in the upstairs sun porch. The sun porch filled the whole back side of the house and the three walls were covered with windows. The floor was a sealed blue Linoleum and there were little drain holes at the corners. I suppose in case you left the windows open. Mom said that originally, there were no windows.

There was a double-hung window in the fourth wall and it led to my bedroom. Between the window and the door to the stairs, was the sticking door. A regular door with glass panes. I knew that if I ran at the door, my arm out front, and hit the wood side of the door with my palm; I could pop the door open. I had done it before and I felt clever. So I put my laundry down, backed up and ran at the door, hitting it with my palm.

And my palm went right through the glass!

I don’t remember screaming, but mom and dad we there in seconds. Nor do I recall the blood pouring from my sliced up arm. But I suppose I must have bled like a stuck pig. Mom disappeared and then reappeared, wrapping my arm in a white towel. Then my dad carried me down the front stairs and outside to the van for the drive to the doctor’s office. It was an English Thames, with a metal cover on the engine, between the driver and passenger seats. I remember mom placing the backing sheet with fishsticks on the engine cover.

So as we drove to the doctors, at least the four other kids could eat dinner. I don’t think I ate, I was probably being held safely on my mom’s lap, as dad drove.

I do recall my older brother telling me that I would get a lollipop for each stitch the doctor had to do.

I wonder if there were emergency rooms back in 1964? Today, that is where you go. But back then, we were driving across town to Dr Payne’s office. I guess dad called ahead, because there was a doctor waiting. Not Dr. Payne, I guess she had the night off.

It’s funny how people talk of how traumatized kids can get by some disaster. But I think that kids can be very resilient and over time, an incident can just become a footnote in a persons life.

So I sat there, as the doctor washed the blood off my arm. It didn’t look too bad, a small slice in my thumb, two parallel cuts over my wrist. An interesting group of gouges close to my elbow, they looked like a thin leaf and a wide leaf, joined together. Unlike leaves, these were bright red. Oh, and one little cut at my elbow.

The needle injects the Novocain around the leaves and the doc begins to stitch things up. I don’t remember seeing the stitching, so I am sure I wasn’t allowed to watch. Then some butterfly bandages and wrap my right arm in gauze and stuff.

We piled back into the van and started the drive home. “There are some fishsticks left, if your hungry.” Mom said. “But your little sister ate all the ends off. That’s the only part she likes.” So I munched on lukewarm fishsticks as we drove home.

Oh course, I had to explain why I did what I did. And yes, a good example of why you should listen to your mother. And yes, perhaps the lesson didn’t sink in that well.

I do remember that my older brother and I thought it was real neat that the blood on the floor was still wet after three hours. Good thing it was linoleum, for it made it easier for my mom to mop up. I don’t remember if she had trouble cleaning up the trail of blood that lead to the front door. Dad carefully removed the broken glass from the door and later replaced it with a board.

Dad said that if I had not pulled my hand out quickly, but done it slowly and carefully, I might not have been cut as badly.

Years later, mom told me that if the two parallel cuts were much deeper, then it would have slice my tendons and would have lost the use of my right hand.

Oh, and there were seven little stitches. And no lollipops! My older brother was telling fibs!

Postscript- My brothers and sisters could not add much detail, neither could my mom and dad. But oldest sisters said that mom forgot the ketchup for the fishsticks!