Tell Me A Kid Story

blunthead said:

Yes you piddled during Father Goose when a character said...what was it, damn now I can't remember.

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Cary Grant says to Leslie Caron, "Same ol' loosy goosy"... every time!...hey high and dry!

Lepplady said:

Not to be all existential or anything, but everything that happens in childhood relates to who we are as adults. Every single minute we've lived has led us to become who we are today. What happened at six, ten, twenty, whatever age. It all adds up.
My childhood was unpleasant. I won't bore you with the details. Lots of kids have it bad. Sometimes that cycle continues, and sometimes kids are able to use that as a blueprint of what NOT to do. I hope I'm the latter. I don't drink or abuse drugs, and I try to be a good mom and gramma.

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Lepplady said:

One thing that has stuck with me throughout, though, is art. I've been drawing since before I could walk. I know, all kids dig crayons and sidewalk chalk, but I've been the artsy type all through school and ever since. I wish I'd gone to college for it, but there wasn't the money and I NEEDED to get away from home. So I joined the Army, hit the ground running, and here I am today, still painting, still drawing. Still being artsy.
Sorry my story isn't more entertaining.

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Such a good post Lepp. True in all regards ma'am. Kudos.

There was this once, down in North Florida, Joe and I were at Melvin’s place, place in the country. Melvin is an old man, losing his sight, same as Joe. Maybe that’s it, maybe that’s why, but Melvin’s kids focused on me for whatever reason. Melvin is standing in the pecan orchard, I hear him say something like, well I was using the Little Boys’ Room, sitting there doing my duty…and Melvin’s kids are head-butting me. Cute little devils, all soft and furry. I got two or three they’re standing there, regarding me, I’m trying to listen to Melvin…this old boy stuck his root through a hole in the wall, right about eye level. Bam! From one direction, little kid, lowers his head and rams me in the leg. Heh!

Joe saw it happening and he chuckled. Melvin, he’s saying something like I took out my knife, pulled the blade open, demonstrates what he….BAM! From another direction, another cute little kid, taking aim at my other leg. I’m dancing back and forth, kinda bent over, trying to hold onto their horns. Goats got horns? Or they call them something else? Joe’s eyes are watering, ‘cause we’re all religious folk here…Melvin’s doing something with his pocketknife, demonstrating…BAM! I’m holding one and the other little snapper rams my leg.

You boys pick all the pecans you want, Margaret and me we got all we need. So…we do…I got a couple little goats following me around, about knee-high or less. I figure, why me? Why me? Story of my life. Time it was through, every little kid there was head-butting me.

blunthead said:

I'm just afraid I'll share something idiotic and people will collectively think "Yep, sounds like him".

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Well.... you didn't try to spell "pharmacy" in the regional spelling bee with an f.

Grandpa said:

Well.... you didn't try to spell "pharmacy" in the regional spelling bee with an f.

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You don't know that.

blunthead said:

Also, the fire.

Brick wall first. 6-ish I guess, growing up in Jacksonville Florida, I had two good friends, Bruce and Paul. Mom liked when I spent time with Paul who was the son of her friend from church. He was good and saintly. She didn't like Bruce, though, who gave her reason. I always got into some kind of often serious trouble with Bruce. He was an influence on my bad. One day he and I decided to go exploring, most likely somewhere we'd recently been told never to, and came upon a brick wall which we must have decided was not in the way of our goal but was the goal itself; why else must we, instead of just walk around it (it was about six feet long), need to climb it?

It was bricks, but wasn't a wall, just a large pile of bricks cleverly organized to fool the unsuspecting. It was a brick trap for children to die in.

When we realized we'd been killed Bruce and I panicked and ran (but not before making note that I'd taken two to the head; him three) straight for our homes where dead children go when they don't know where else to go. I walked into the kitchen, up behind Mom who was washing dishes or peeling potatoes or washing potatoes, and I cried "Mom!!!". She said, "Just a second, what is it..." and turned around to see blood gushing down my face like lava on a volcano. This was the first time I caused my mom to turn (actual) white.

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Reminds me of a time we were playing in deserted structures by a railroad. I heard one of the kids yell my name and scream, "Come quick!" I ran around, and there was little Mikey, covered in blood. He'd fallen down one of the derelict walls to riprap at the bottom and busted his head open. Blood was streaming down, and he had his mouth open, screaming and crying, and blood had gathered in his mouth. That's one vivid memory that I had, I figured he'd gotten his mouth bashed in too.

I yelled for someone to give me a shirt or something, and Mikey's brother whipped off his shirt, and I wiped blood away to find the wound - just above his eye, as it turned out - and then wrapped and tied it up, stopped the bleeding. We carried him out to the street, to a local grocery store, where they called the ambulance. Later, little Mikey was grateful, thanked me, and my parents took me out for a treat. Turned out the hospital said I probably saved him from more dramatic blood loss and a transfusion.

That felt good. I found out later that the scalp is highly vascularized, and head wounds can be real bleeders.

Grandpa said:

Reminds me of a time we were playing in deserted structures by a railroad. I heard one of the kids yell my name and scream, "Come quick!" I ran around, and there was little Mikey, covered in blood. He'd fallen down one of the derelict walls to riprap at the bottom and busted his head open. Blood was streaming down, and he had his mouth opening, screaming and crying, and blood had gathered in his mouth. That's one vivid memory that I had, I figured he'd gotten his mouth bashed in too.

I yelled for someone to give me a shirt or something, and Mikey's brother whipped off his shirt, and I wiped blood away to find the wound - just above his eye, as it turned out - and then wrapped and tied it up, stopped the bleeding. We carried him out to the street, to a local grocery store, where they called the ambulance. Later, little Mikey was grateful, thanked me, and my parents took me out for a treat. Turned out the hospital said I probably saved him from more dramatic blood loss and a transfusion.

That felt good. I found out later that the scalp is highly vascularized, and head wounds can be real bleeders.

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Hence, Mom's whiteness.

I was an only child for about 6 years and my parents juggled their jobs, probably because babysitters were expensive. Dad worked the night shift and Mom worked the day shift. So while my dad was there, he was mostly asleep. But I got along fine. He taught me to scramble my own eggs and make a grilled cheese by the time I was 5 - I was using the stove while he slept - can you imagine?! But I knew how to do it. I could make a pbj or a bologna and cheese - I could even fry the bologna if I wanted to. Being alone so much gave me an incredible imagination. The girl in the living room mirror was "Girlfriend" and I thought she lived somewhere that looked so much like my place, but wasn't - it was just on the other side of big piece of glass that I couldn't get through - I guess I didn't recognize she was ME. I talked to and played with her all day long. And we also had other playmates: Chu-Ong, Chu-Ni, and Remy (I had to guess on the spelling, but that's how I pronounced them - I suspect 2 were Asian and 1 was French - I don't remember their gender at all - except Girlfriend, she was a girl). I truly believed they were all there with me all day long - well Girlfriend was there all day long - the others just came when we needed more friends for whatever reason.

Between both of my parents, I had 16 aunts and uncles, all married, all with children - so the aunts took turns calling me and checking on me - . They all have great stories of the things I'd tell them - what me and my imaginary friends were doing. Once I told one of them my dad wasn't there and Aunt Ann came rushing across town to check on me. Dad was pretty mad, because he was there. I was just making up stories and adventures.

Anyhow, my mother ended up taking me to a child psychologist and he told her I was fine, just making some friends up in my head - very ingenious survival skills. He suggested Kindergarten - and once I started the imaginary friends went away, or at least my memory now doesn't remember interacting with them after I started K - but this was in 1974 when Kindergarten was more like "playschool", I think that's what they called it even.

My dad also taught me how to skate when I was very little - before playschool. He took me to the movies almost every weekend - to see things like The Lincoln Conspiracy, some movie about Noah's Ark (both documentaries), and every Disney movie ever made. I was a lucky little girl, really. My mom was and continues to be a little chilly.

Dana Jean said:

Good for you, probably this, among other things, gave you such a high sense of duty that I get from your posts. It must have felt great to be told you did such a heroic thing and I bet it stuck with you to want to always be that way. Just guessing. Armchair analyzing. hahaha.

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My parents were certified first aid instructors. I would go with them as they taught. I was too young to take any classes, but a lot of it sunk in. That's another reason they were proud of me, I think. Well, that day, anyway.

I've posted a bunch of stories in one or two of the previous threads that included, but were not limited to, hitting police cars with eggs, maiming my little brother with a moped, incredible exploding microwaved eggs, friends falling down stairs after an AC/DC concert, urban surfing, petty vandalism, drive by paintball attacks and other misadventures in adolescent stupidity.

Don't think I've told this one though. It involves me and my buddy R.

I went to a regional vocational-technical high school. Votechs at that time still had somewhat of a stigma as being a place for the not so bright and as a landing spot for those doomed for failure. Totally not the case as neither I, nor the majority of my classmates were idiots, deviants, criminals, or hopeless burnouts. Sure there were some kids like that at my school. But there are kids like that at just about every school. Basically, the student body was made up of normal kids from seven or eight middle to upper-middle class suburban towns.

I was in the electrical shop and I'll tell you it wasn't a walk in the park or just a place to pass time until graduation. We had to take electrical theory from 9 - 12th grade on top of our regular math classes. And we did actual electrical work. We learned about residential and commercial wiring, motor controls, low voltage systems, etc. It helped prepare me for the working world and was a major factor in shaping my work ethic. I learned to juggle academics and work early on. Anyway, we basically spent one week in shop and then one week in regular classes over the course of the year. This story takes place the beginning of my Senior year. So this was September of 1990. Way back when I was still a SwiftPup.

In our junior and senior years, our shop classes was split into an "inside" crew and an "outside" crew. You would spend two semesters a year on inside crew and two on outside crew. The inside crew worked on electrical projects on the school grounds. We did maintenance on all the lighting, the pumps and filters for the pool, and all other types of electrical work on the campus. On outside crew, you worked on real construction projects the school was involved in. Basically, we were doing the electrical work on new houses and large residential home additions that the homeowners contracted the school to do. Pretty sweet deal if the school selected your project. All you had to pay for was materials plus 20%. You got your work done for a lot less money and contributed to the school at the same time. Our teachers were all licensed Master Electricians and they oversaw all the work we did as it was their license the permits were puled against. All of our work was inspected and signed off on by the towns electrical inspectors just like normal.

My friend R and I were both on inside crew for the first semester that year. Our job on Friday of that first week was to make sure the scoreboard on the football field was functioning properly before the first home game. Pretty sweet assignment right? We figured all we had to do was hook up the score board control box, test it's functions and make sure everything lit up. We thought the toughest thing we'd need to do is replace a few blown out bulbs. We were planning on spending the morning outside on a nice late summer day, futzing around with the scoreboard controls, all the while keeping an eye on the girls gym classes that were running the track that circled the football field. Piece of cake. Life was good

Well, we get down to the field and hook up the control box. We turn it on and nothing. No lights, no clock, zippo. Well, crap! Now we have to do some actual work. We bring our ladder down to the scoreboard itself so one of us can climb up to the fusebox and make sure the main switch is on and that the fuses are good. I'm the lucky guy that gets to climb up the ladder to the fuse box. It's about 7 or so feet up.

Up goes ole' SwiftDog. First thing I notice is that the the switch is on. OK, gotta be the fuses, I think to myself. As I'm getting ready to open the fuse box, I notice there are a few bees circling around. I don't think much of it. It's warm. We're on a field. Not unusual for there to be bees buzzing around. Well, I turn off the main switch, open the fuse box and....am greeted by an angry cloud of belligerent, buzzing, basta*d bees flowing out of the dang fuse box! They had gotten in via an open conduit hole on the bottom and built a hive inside. Luckily, they went out over my head when I opened the door so I didn't get stung. I wasn't going to hang around and wait for them to form an attack plan though. I jumped off the ladder as fast as I could and beat a path up into the bleachers.

Now my friend R is just about giving himself a hernia he is laughing so hard when he saw the bees come out and me jump off the ladder. He ran up to the bleachers right behind me so he didn't get stung either. Now we gotta figure out how to get rid of the bees. We ended up going up to the maintenance building and asking the groundskeepers if they had any insecticide. They asked us why we needed it and when we told them they just about peed themselves laughing. Hardy-Har! Jerks! Actually, I would've laughed too if it wasn't me that got bee bombed Guess I can't blame them. Anywho, they had this kick-a** spray that shoots the insecticide about 20 feet and kills big ole' buzzy bees dead on contact.

R and I troop back to the football field with three cans of bee-be-gone and proceed to douse the hive with it. BOOYAY! Take that you blasted bees!

We wait about 20 minutes and when we don't see any bee patrols we go back down to the scoreboard. I make R climb up this time. He goes up and scoops out the hive and all the dead bees. YUCK!

We replace the fuses and get the board working. We ended up having to replace like half the bulbs as well. Luckily, there were no hidden surprises in the bulb housings. What should have taken like an hour ended up taking half the day. Of course, our instructors had heard what happened from the groundskeepers when we went back up to the shop. Our bee strafing cracked them up too.

It's funny when I look back at it now but it sure wasn't funny when I got bee bombed!

R and I are still tight. We've been friends since 5th grade. I met him when my family moved to the town I spent the majority of my formative years in. We played little league together, graduated HS together, been in bands together, got up to some utter craziness in Vegas when his sister got married and hung out with some kick-a** touring bands together. I was the best man at his wedding and am Godfather to one of his sons. We live in different states now but keep in touch.

We still crack up over this story when we talk about it

SusanNorton said:

The first time I was asked out on a date was my freshman year of high school. My yellow princess phone rang, and when I answered it was John Messman calling to ask me if I was going to the upcoming dance. I said no, that I wasn't going. He said, "Okay. I just wanted to know, because I've asked another girl and am waiting to hear if she can go with me. But if she can't, would you go with me?" I said "No," and hung up. Really - was this the way guys operated? I wouldn't have gone with him even if it was a proper invitation, but surely I deserved a better introduction into the dating world than this, I thought. Surely, I should be the first choice for someone calling to ask me to a dance, especially someone who washed his hair once a week, right? Or was this some kind of joke? A friend of mine was dating a guy in my homeroom, and one day this guy came up to me and said, "My friend Steve is very shy, and nervous about asking you to the dance because he's afraid you'll say no. If he asked, would you say yes?" Well, I'd fallen into this trap before and wasn't about to fall into it again. "No," I said. I was really proud of myself for not being gullible and saying yes. Surely, if this Steve wanted to ask me out, he would do it himself, like on television. He'd call me on my yellow phone, and I would smile and twirl my hair like Marsha Brady, and say, "Yes, Friday night sounds great! See you then!" My friend called me that night, surprised that I'd turned Steve down. Oh, I said, was that a real thing? Why didn't he ask me himself? "Because he's super shy, like you," she said. "He sits at home reading all the time, like you, listening to Beatles records and staring into space, like you." Oh, I said. Can you tell him I'd like to go with him? "He's already asked Laura, because they're friends, but he really wanted to go with you." Did I mention that Steve looked like a young Donald Sutherland?

This was the first of many things I have done/not done that caused me regret later in life. I have many regrets. Most of them about situations that didn't live up to my Brady Bunch expectations.

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I never went to one school dance....not even senior prom. No one ever asked.

Sundrop said:

I never went to one school dance....not even senior prom. No one ever asked.

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Dopes.

(((Dana Jean and Sunny)))-- kids can be so cruel to others. Both of you are so special to the SKMB. I am pleased to call you Tet-Mates and friends!

~I could have danced all night...........I could have danced all night.................~