Abandonment and Apple People

When I was seven, my family took a trip to visit my grandparents. I was an odd kid and I would spend hours in the back yard pretending it was a jungle or a dark forest full of trolls, warlocks, and ewoks. I mixed scifi and fantasy even then.

In the darkest back corner of the yard stood an old crab apple tree. The green fruit fell everywhere, but were too green and bitter to use for anything. I found a use for those poor neglected fruit. I put faces on them and made them my friends.

I gave them arms and legs, hair, and then got even more elaborate.

I soon discovered that after I punctured the skin and they baked in the summer heat interesting things happened.

They shriveled up and I liked the character it added. Soon I had whole families of crab apple people. The fresh ones were young and the shriveled ones were grandparent or grisly pirates. They argued, went to war, fell in love, had children, forgot birthdays and anniversaries...just like you would expect crab apple people to behave.

Sometime in the midst of playing, I realized I couldn't hear anyone. I checked the back door, locked. Front door, locked. Sliding glass door to the basement, locked.

My grandparents lived in Ogden. There was some festival in Salt Lake that my parents wanted to go see. They gathered the brood together and then someone thought to ask what everyone was thinking...cause I'm awesome.

One of my siblings chimed in with a very well informed answer after not bothering to check in the least.

I was not. Thank you, unknown sibling. Karma will find you.

I checked all the door several times. I was hungry and thirsty. I wanted in. Most seven-year-olds might have just curled up in a corner and cried. I never was most children. An image flashed into my brain. My salvation. I remembered seeing a window cracked, a can stuck in to hold it open, my salvation.

Of course, this window was to the second floor bathroom. Someone had stuck it in there to help air it out. Why? Well...when four adults and six or seven kids all use one bathroom...you know what I mean.

Now, how to get to the second floor? The old clothesline, of course.

Yep. I shimmied up that pole, ducked through wire, pulled my skinny frame up the T, and scalded the crap out of my hands on the hot tin edge of the roof. I slipped and fell, catching myself on the wires, and climbed back up. Bravely I licked my hands and tried again, pushing past the pain. Moments later I stood on the roof, triumphant.

I made my way to the window.

Now, the tricky part. The reason a can sat on the ledge was this window did not like to stay open. I pushed the can through and heard it fall with a loud thud to the tub below. Then I had to catch the window before it closed completely.

I lifted with those little stick arms that genetics gifted me, muscles strained and rippling like hot summer air. I managed to make a hole large enough to squeeze into, but once I no longer lifted on the window it slammed closed...or as closed as it could get with my chest in the way. I wriggled my way further into the room, dangling above the tub.

Finally I worked myself most of the way in, but my feet got caught.

Safe at last. I made myself a sandwich, got a glass of water, and waited for my family to realize their mistake. They did not until they arrived. My mom called the house, not really expecting me to answer.. I did and recounted my tale of woe.

I never made it to that festival...but neither did my siblings. Karma much? I think so.

Newspaper and Bathtubs Do Not Mix

When I was around four or five I caught a bit of wonderful 80's television. I managed to see a man with a mustache reading a newspaper in a bathtub while smoking a cigar. For some reason this image stuck in my young brain, teaching me that real men did such things. I'm pretty sure it was Magnum PI, but after scouring the whole internet for about an hour I could not find a clip or a pic to support my claim.

I did not have access to cigars, thank goodness, or a mustache, but I did have access to a bathtub, water, and a newspaper. Can you guess what I did next?

Okay, I know I draw myself in the bath a lot...like this post about my lovely wife and this post about joyous bum warmers. I have good reason to draw myself in the bath. I love baths. I always prefer them over showers.

I think it goes back to coming from a large family and not always being able to take them. I also have fond memories of long days picking blackberries in the Louisiana woods, dodging water moccasins, slapping away mosquitoes, and watching the fireflies blink in and out of existence in the thick night air. These days always ended with me tromping home slick with sweat, covered in mud, and dripping purple juice from my mouth. My mom always sent me to bathe. There is something about the hot water hitting aching muscles and tiny scratches that exhilarates me. Did you know blackberry bushes had thorns? Now you do. It is a good pain, like the ache after a good exercise. You know the hot water is doing its job.

Or, maybe, it goes back to when I was sick. I'd eat a huge bowl of tomato soup, take a crazy hot bath, and then crawl into bed. Worked every time. I would sweat the cold out while I slept and feel so much better in the morning. Maybe it goes back to the time I lived in Mexico where bathtubs are very rare and the showers are infested with worms and the mother of all cockroaches. That is a different story though.

No matter the cause, I like baths. I will continue to draw them...back to my story at hand. I dragged a whole newspaper into the bathroom, ran some hot water, and climbed in.

My little four or five year old hands didn't hold the paper very high.





The paper touched the water and started to get soggy and leak a little ink into the bath. I continued reading, despite the fact I could not really read yet. I was being a real man. I did not need to read to be a real man, just sit in the tub with the paper and grin at the world like I owned it.

The ink spread further and deeper into the water and the paper soggified even more. At some point my wet fingers could no longer grasp the paper and down it went, bubbling up ink as it sunk.

I had planned for this contingency. I reached for another page.

This page also refused to stay out of the water. The ink swirled around me and my page got soggier and soggier.

Can you guess what happened next? I dropped that page and reached for another. That one got wet and I grabbed another. The cycle continued for some time, each new page releasing more ink like some perpetual squid kicking machine...I may have to invent that. I was oblivious as I struggled to fulfill the task at hand, read a stupid paper in the bath like a freaking man. Maybe I would grow a mustache right there and then. I didn't know! Thank you, Tom Selleck!

Each time I reached for another paper I left dark smudges. I wiped the steam from my face. I smoothed back my hair. So, this is more or less how my mother found me.

I do not recommend you attempt this. Tom Selleck was wrong. It is not cool to read newspapers in the bath. It does not make you a man and it does not grow mustaches...unless you are happy with newspaper smudge mustaches. All it does it leave you an inky mess with a very angry mother. Don't live with your mother? All grown up? Doesn't matter. Wherever your mother is, she will be angry with you, and Tom Selleck for gifting it to the world, and me for bringing it up. Just say no!