Sometimes our parents teach us what NOT to be, without saying a word.

I was six when my parents divorced and my mother went to work outside the home.

My older brother, my hero, left home two years later – when I turned eight.

This is a day in the life of my eight-year-old self.

I wake in a panic to shut off the alarm of the clock radio.  Groggy, I rub my eyes as I sit on the side of my bed. The beast at my feet whimpers to let me know he has to go out.  While he is out back I open a can of Strongheart and scrape the contents into his bowl. He comes back in and wags his tail as he begins to gobble down his breakfast.

Opening my closet door I reach to pull the string that lights the solitary bulb – in a sleepy daze I bend to pick a worn dress off the closet floor. I give it a quick snap in an attempt to smooth out the wrinkles.  My dog has finished his breakfast and is stretching in my doorway as I dress for school. He follows me down the hall into the bathroom as I make a half-hearted attempt to smooth out my unruly hair with hairbrush bristles that are too soft to get through the thickness.  In a rush, I slip on my socks and shoes, grab my sweater and head back to the kitchen to get the 35 cents for my lunch from the change jar.  As I step out the front door, I whisper to my faithful companion, “I will see you after school buddy”, being careful not to wake my mother, I quietly close the door.

My dog watches me from the window as I cross the lawn to Billy’s house.  I knock on their front door.  Billy’s mom is expecting me, I step inside to the aroma of bacon and burnt toast.  Dropping my sweater to my elbows I turn so she can fasten the buttons on the back of my dress – she pats my shoulder, that is my queue that I am all buttoned up and I can put my sweater back on – as I turn to face her we exchange a warm smile.  I thank her and walk out to the bus stop.  Billy comes out a minute later as the bus is rounding the corner.

At the end of the school day, we hop off the bus as we say goodbye to the grandfatherly driver.  Billy races up his drive and is greeted by his mom’s beaming smile.  I can see that she is happy to see him.  He races past her as she stands to hold the door for me.  Again, I lower my sweater from my shoulders and turn.  This time so she can unbutton my dress before I head home.

Upon entering my house, I am greeted by my faithful dog, who is bigger than me.  After some ear scratching, I let him out. Then I change out of my school clothes into a pair of navy corduroys and a tee-shirt.  Letting the dog back in, I throw his ball down the hall for him to chase until he decides it is more fun to lay down and chew on it.  Then I get the jacks and position myself on the floor with my feet against the kitchen cabinets so the jacks and the ball are trapped by my legs.  My first round is easy, Onesies, then Twosies – quickly I finish with Tensies – there is no challenge to this game anymore, but I finish each round and play again and again.

Bored with my game of jacks, I go to the picture window.  I can tell by the haze of cigarette smoke that my mother was home all morning.  The smoke hangs in multiple layers as the sunlight beams through the window – I promise myself to never smoke.  Out the window, I see Billy and the other kids riding their bikes in the street out front.  They wave to me as they struggle to not crash into each other while doing figure eights.

I need special permission to go outside.  She says she could get into trouble if anyone found out I was home alone.  I think it has something to do with the money she gets from dad.

I know where she is and I know the number by heart.

I dial the phone to ask if I can go out front and ride my bike.

When the man answers I ask for her by name – I hear him set the phone on the counter.

He tells her that her daughter is on the phone asking for her.

Then I hear my mother’s voice,

“Tell her I am not here.”

He picks up the phone and tells me what she has instructed him to say.

As I hang up, I weigh the possibility of getting caught if I were to go outside.

I ask myself, how would she know? – but this day I choose to follow her rules.

So I stay hidden in the depths of this smokey pit.

One day soon I will come to realize that the punishment for going outdoors is much less painful than waiting for these days to slowly tick by.

I tell myself outloud, “Maybe tomorrow.”

I flip on the tv and open the cabinets in search of dinner.  Opening a can of mushroom soup, I grab a spoon and start eating.  I am no longer allowed to use the stove after I blackened the tines of a fork roasting a hotdog over the gas flame.

I finish the evening in the glow of the tv and looking at some books.  But I cannot help going from window to window to see what I am missing. When the sun goes down, I tuck myself into bed.

I struggle to stay awake, then, after midnight, I hear her car pull into the driveway… her car door slams shut. My heart begins to pound as her keys fumble with the lock, my dog’s low growl assures me he is at my bedside.

Once inside she finds her way into the kitchen, I can tell by her mumbling and the slamming of cabinet doors that she has had a bad day.  After several minutes, her footsteps come down the hall and she flips on my bedroom light, my dog is immediately on his feet.  I pretend to be asleep – praying that tonight she will leave me alone. My room goes dark again. The sound of her footsteps fade as she enters her bedroom down the hall.

I hear the air escape her lungs as she falls into her mattress.

Taking a deep breath of relief, I look at my clock radio and do the math – I have another six hours and twenty minutes to remain behind these doors until my daily escape to the bus stop.

***

After reading this you should have a clearer understanding of my undying love for an alert dog at my side, my passion for the great outdoors, and for the 52 doors and windows that stand wide open in our home.

This is a different post than usual.

I have learned that we need to be reminded of the bad times

in order to appreciate the good.

This helps keep life in the proper perspective.

*****

Please share this site with your family and friends!

Subscribe to get our email sent to your inbox so you never miss a post.

All photos, thoughts, experiences, and opinions are my own.

Copyright © Lost Mule Lodge 2018 All Rights Reserved