It was to be a fort building Saturday summer day for me and my neighborhood pals. A day in the cool woods sweating, working, and getting dirty. With no grown-ups. I was elected to bring a rake and shovel. My friends would bring the other necessary fort building stuff. All had agreed to meet at 10 AM, in the woods where our new fort was to be built.
I had a little trouble getting away that morning. Dad was home, puttering around in the basement where the rake and shovel were stored. Being a kid, the plan was to get the tools out of the house without being seen. The way I figured it, Dad wouldn’t have been too keen in having his prized Sears & Roebuck implements dragged off to the woods. Responsibility wasn’t a trait I’d yet developed. My track record for winning foot races was darn good. My track record for losing things even better.
Finally, I heard the car start up and Dad backing the car from the driveway. Mom was on the porch waving. Telling him not to forget the milk. Immediately, I ran down the basement steps, grabbed the rake and shovel, and clanged my way out the back door. Darting through the yard, curving around a giant lilac bush, I slid down an embankment to the railroad tracks. I was in the clear.
The morning was hot and humid. The sun beating down with nary a breeze blowing. Already my hands were sweaty, the tools slipping from my small-handed grasp. I took a minute to get a better grip, then continued north, walking the tracks between the rails, finally arriving at the trail leading up a hill into the woods. The trail wasn’t my favorite because of the steep climb. But, it was the shortest route to the fort-building site. I stopped and looked around for my buddies, but they were nowhere in sight.
Didn’t even make it halfway up the trail when all hell broke loose. I had stepped directly on a small hole in the hill. The home of many, many yellow jackets. Immediately, they were upon me. Their guards having buzzed for an all-out attack. Immediately I dropped the rake and shovel and ran down the hill for home. Screaming “Help me!” at the top of my lungs. Waving my arms frantically, warding off all I could. Slapping dozens that were administering painful stings. All the way home, ducking and a weaving between the rails, like a midget prize fighter. Finally, I was in my backyard. The long-range fliers of the horde adding their stings to the final tally. Suddenly, they were gone. The crazy buzzing had stopped. My arms and legs had stopped. I screamed for Mom and Dad and they soon came running out the basement door. Mom’s eyes were as big as saucers. Her face white as a sheet. Dad pulled my shirt over my head and began scanning my body, counting bee stings. More of an amazed expression on his face, than a pissed one. Mom and Dad were eerily quiet. Breaking the silence, I mumbled an incoherent rake and shovel confession.
Dad replied, “Look at those stinging devils, Liz. They’re hanging all over the boy. The ones hanging there … see … they’re the ones he smacked and ....” With a stern whisper of, “Shush now, you’re scaring him,” Mom grabbed me in her arms and whisked me away to the upstairs bathroom. In a matter of minutes, I was sitting naked in our ancient claw-foot bathtub, slouched down in water to my shoulders.
Mom and Dad never took me to the ER, though Memorial Hospital was a block away. Never even called our doctor. Mom did call every neighbor within a half mile radius. In no time at all, folks of all descriptions were peeking in our bathroom at my riddled, naked body. Each visitor handing Mom a small yellow box. She would ceremoniously rip off the box top and empty powdery contents into the bath water.
Finally, all the coming and going stopped. I was soaking in the tub, my eyes closed. Listening. Dad was counting out loud the number of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda boxes laying about our bathroom floor, “… eight, nine, ten, and that one over there makes eleven.” Mom bewildered and exclaiming, “Jeeesuz, Garland. Did ya count ‘em? Ninety-one stings on this boy’s body! He’s one lucky fella."
Many years later, while on a trip above the Arctic Circle in the North Sea, I was given a telegram with bad news. My Mom was dying of cancer. As I packed my bags for the long journey home, my thoughts were scrambled, frantic, and sad. No amount of baking soda was going to save her. Not even at the most sophisticated hospital.
On the flight home, high above the Atlantic Ocean, I thought hard. Remembering all she had done for me and others. I filled page after page of my notebook with entries, while fellow passengers watched a movie, conversed, listened to music, slept. I was still writing when the plane taxied to the gate.
As I type this story, those pages of that day lay on my desk before me. Some torn. Some crumpled. Beckoning me to make this one final entry.
Thank you, Mom, for teaching me that kindness is the greatest wisdom.
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