I used to “not hear” my mom calling me to come inside when I was a kid. I’d be up the neighbor’s magnolia tree (excellent climbing trees, by the way) and hear my mom calling for me. My shoulders would sag and I’d try to figure out how much time I could get away with by pretending not to hear her. But by doing that, those minutes were tainted. The amusement that had been had, in spite of the heat, the humidity, and most especially, the mosquitoes, was now tainted to the point that you were forced to come to the conclusion that being inside would have an equal amount of fun. It was a real downer.
My point being, I grew up as an outside kid. These poor kids today. Always inside. They don’t know the joy of pretending to be a frontier-person, and pulling up the onion grass as if one were foraging for food on the wild frontier plains. (I did this much to my parents consternation. But don’t worry. I left plenty of grass for dad to mow.) But along with my love of the outdoors, I also had a love for animals. And this is where my family just loves to tell one story in particular. So I will beat them to the punch.
I was somewhere around 8 or 9 years old. As was my usual habit, I was in our backyard playing. I remember it being a beautiful sunny day, the light filtering through the leaves of the massive oak tree in our backyard, casting patches of light that flickered over the green grass below. I had been outside for a little while when something caught my eye. Now, let me explain to people from other parts of the country. In the south, we have squirrels. Lots and lots of squirrels. No, you don’t understand. They are freaking everywhere! And they are cute. Yes, I’m aware that they are just rats with fluffy tails, and that rats are probably very jealous and really pissed off knowing that if their tail was just a little fluffy, they’d be eating food out of people’s hands in the park. (That was a joke from a comedian, but I forget who. Either way, it’s still true.) I get it. But my 8 year old self just thought they were cute. And I wanted to pet one.
Anyway, there was a squirrel that was just chilling out at the base of the big oak tree. So I crept around and snuck up behind it. He (she? It?) had to know I was there. It has all that animal instinct stuff. Don’t argue with me. It totally knew. But anyway, I walked right up to it and yeah. I picked it up.
Oh don’t get onto me! I was freaking EIGHT.
Anyway, there was a little folding chair in the back corner of the yard, behind this big pine tree. All secret and away from peeping parent eyes. So I took my new animal friend, we’ll call Sasquatch the Squirrel, over and sat down. I sat there petting Sasquatch for probably a couple of minutes, convinced that this was a great idea. And just when I thought that Sasquatch was like all other animals that like to get pet…….… CHOMP!!!
Right on my thumb. (I didn’t have a lot of luck with my thumb. Sometime ask me about the time mom was working hard to get the ERA passed, and dad was (honestly doing a great job of) taking care of us. One night, while I was waiting at our little kid card table while dad was fixing dinner for us, I decided it was a good idea to staple my thumb. (Poor dad.) Back to the squirrel. Needless to say, after Sasquatch betrayed me and crushed my soul, I dropped him and he ran off, never to be seen again.
Okay. We probably saw him again, but they all look the same so for all intents and purposes, he was banished from our land.
I was so sad that my new friend had turned on me so violently. Okay, in all honesty, I was more concerned that I had probably done a bad, bad thing. So I, being the completely oblivious kid that I was, ran inside as if nothing had happened. I went into the living room where dad was sitting, probably reading a book, and plopped down in one of the chairs.
“What is that?”
“Huh? What?”
“What is that on your leg?”
I look down and sure enough, there are blood drops running down my leg. Me, being the incredibly intelligent 8 year old, and so quick on my feet, I came up with the perfect explanation.
“Oh. I tripped on a stick.”
Yeah.
I tripped. On a stick. That was my big explanation.
Again. I WAS EIGHT!!!!
Somehow, dad saw through my iron clad explanation of my arterial bleed. Alright. It wasn’t an arterial bleed. But there was blood! And when they couldn’t get me to break, even after cloistering me in an interrogation room, with a single light beating down on me while they yelled, “Where were you on the night of the 12th?!?!?”, they sent in their secret weapon.
They sent in my sister.
Let me set the scene here. I’m in mom and dad’s room, leaning on one side of the corner of their bed. My sister, aka Benedict Arnold, was leaning on the other side of the corner of the bed.
Sister: “What happened?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Sister: “I promise I won’t tell mom and dad.”
Me looking unsure at her.
Sister: “I promise.”
Me: “Okay. I picked up a squirrel and it bit me.”
Now, there was some delay in her reaction. Let me explain in “Mississippi-s” You know, one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, and so on. Here’s how it went:
“Okay. I picked up a squirrel and it bit me.”
One-
“MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Traitor.
Anyway, they rushed me to the ER. Where the doctor put a band-aid on my thumb and told my parents that he doubted that the squirrel had rabies, and that it probably wasn’t necessary to give me rabies shots.
See what kids are missing today? It’s really a tragedy.
