My Near-Death Adventures (99% True!)

by Alison DeCamp

  Credit 32.3

  Stinky Pete runs toward the shore, panicked, his branch inches from Mr. Crutchley’s grasp. I barely see Mr. Crutchley’s fingers reach out and clasp the branch as the icy water bubbles around him. Stinky Pete plants his feet firmly, ready to reel in Mr. Crutchley like a prize trout, when the branch springs back, Mr. Crutchley’s arms bounce up, his head goes under, and the whole world stops breathing.

  Stinky Pete stands on the shore, motionless, the branch still in both of his hands, and stares at the last place we saw Mr. Crutchley’s head before it was folded into the frothy river like egg whites in Aunt Lois’s lemon pie. I shut my eyes to say a prayer for Mr. Crutchley’s soul.

  Credit 32.4

  And to think a little about lemon pie.

  “Stan!” My eyes immediately open and I see Stinky Pete pointing toward the river. Mr. Crutchley’s head is above water and seems to be gaining speed as he barrels toward me. I’m hypnotized by his bouncing head, the foamy water, the icy spray hitting my face. And I’m stuck to the shore.

  Mr. Crutchley gets closer.

  And closer.

  “Stan!” Stinky Pete hollers again, running toward me. He will be too late with his branch, but I might just be able to grab Mr. Crutchley.

  I can almost hear his sputters. I imagine the fear in his eyes, the chill running through his veins.

  And I can’t move. Except to jump up and down a little, bouncing with each bob of Mr. Crutchley’s head.

  I know I need to grab a branch. Or put out an arm or a leg. Or yell some encouraging words. But I’m not just watching a man fighting for his life; I’m watching my possible future heading toward me. A future that probably includes a uniform and proper manners.

  Just as these thoughts float through my head like a fog, a poisonous snake drops from the tree above me. Right directly onto my left shoulder. I stand stock-still, waiting for it to sink its fangs into my skin.

  Credit 32.5

  I might have squealed a little bit.

  Sometimes these things can’t be helped.

  I fling the snake from my shoulder with all my might—a blur of white heading straight for Mr. Crutchley. As Stinky Pete runs toward me, closer and closer, Mr. Crutchley reaches for the snake.

  It is a really long, dirty gray snake. And it perhaps slightly resembles a rope.

  “Stan! Way to go!” Stinky Pete yells. I see Mr. Crutchley firmly attached to the rope, his face a stream of water and his hair oily streaks plastered to his head. “So glad you saw that old rope!”

  I look up in the tree as Stinky Pete struggles to get Mr. Crutchley to shore. Above me, attached to the hemlock, is a rusty old pulley with a knot of rope attached. Someone, at some time, had used this to move their belongings from one side of the river to the other.

  However, as far as I’m concerned, I saved Mr. Crutchley’s life with quick thinking and a poisonous snake.

  Mr. Crutchley sputters up from the river like a drowned rat, glaring at me as he tries to wipe the water off his face with his wet sleeve. He is breathless and hunched over, and Stinky Pete pounds on him to help him breathe.

  “You!” Mr. Crutchley looks at me from his bent-over position, points a finger, and says again accusingly, “You!”

  “Ya know, Stan,” Stinky Pete says seriously, “when we get to camp, we’ll have to tell your mama the truth.”

  I know, I know. I always tell the truth.

  Even if I have to make it up.

  When we get to camp, Stinky Pete indeed feels the need to tell Mama the truth. Which is so much better than the real truth that I let him have at it as I just sit and listen.

  “And next thing I knew,” Stinky Pete says, hot tea in his hand, feet on the table (and Mr. Crutchley safely in the bunkhouse, changing out of his wet clothes), “old Crutchley is up to his neck in the river.” He takes a sip of tea and shakes his head. “Someone should probably be in charge of keeping track of that guy.” Uncle Henry, Geri, Aunt Lois, Granny, and Mama are hanging on his every word.

  I am biting my nails, because I know how this story ends.

  “So,” Stinky Pete continues, “I grab a branch, hoping I can reach Crutchley before he is swept away and we don’t find him until we reach Manistique. But before I can even get the branch primed and ready, what do I see? Stan! With an old pulley rope, flinging it out to Archie. Such quick thinking!” he says with a grin.

  I return the smile because I am loving this version of my story.

  “Is this true?” Geri asks, her mouth hanging open. “Are you talking about Stan?”

  “The one and only,” Stinky Pete says, leaning over to slap me on the back.

  But before I can even enjoy the glory of my brave deed, the door to the cook shanty slams open and Mr. Crutchley thrashes into the room.

  Credit 33.1

  “Bald-faced liar!” Mr. Crutchley shouts, pointing an accusing finger at me.

  Everyone holds his breath, except for Geri, whose head bounces between Mr. Crutchley and me like she’s watching a game of lawn tennis, and Granny, whose eyes light up like the very dynamite blast that got me into this mess.

  “Stanley Slater, sitting here dry and soaking in compliments like an overzealous sponge, was neither brave nor heroic. In fact, not only did he barely save me, he pushed me into the river to begin with!”

  Mouths hang open. Geri gasps, Granny nods like this information does not surprise her, Mama’s eyes look at me questioningly, and Stinky Pete shakes his head and looks down into his cup of tea.

  “Well, Stan?” Uncle Henry asks sternly. “Do you care to explain?”

  “Um, well…” I hesitate, my heart pounding in my ears.

  “Yes, Stan.” Mr. Crutchley’s voice drips with sarcasm. “Care to explain?”

  “Um.” I think of all the possible stories I could tell: Mr. Crutchley falling into the river because he’s not very good at balancing. Mr. Crutchley trying to push me in the river and falling in instead. Mr. Crutchley jumping in the river because his life is not worth living and then changing his mind and I save him.

  Or I could run away. I could become an outlaw, or a cowboy, or an explorer. My mind reels with possibilities.

  Credit 33.3

  Stinky Pete sits next to me. He has taken out the piece of paper he keeps in his boot and spreads it on the table between his cup of tea and me.

  And I pause. The door to my destiny is nearby. I could run and never come back and never again have to face Mr. Crutchley, who fully deserved to fall in the river. I could run out the door and grow a beard and spit and swear and no one would stop me. I could find my father and learn what it’s like to be a man. But when I look up at Stinky Pete, a guy who is rough-and-tumble, who rarely has a harsh word for anyone, who has watched over me these last few months no matter what I’ve done or said, I think again. I think I might have an inkling about what makes a real man.

  I take a deep breath. “It’s true. It was an accident, but I did knock Mr. Crutchley into the river.” Stinky Pete looks at me with a lopsided smile, his eyes warm.

  “And I’m sorry. I really am sorry,” I say, looking Mr. Crutchley right in the eyes.

  Stinky Pete pats my knee.

  “Well, sorry is not enough,” Mr. Crutchley sputters. “Alice! Send the boy out to me. I am off to find a switch and teach this boy what it means to be sorry.” He flings open the door and I sigh, knowing I’m going to have to take responsibility for my actions.

  “Yeah, son,” Stinky Pete says, “I am so proud of you for being honest and taking responsibility, but sometimes you just have to take your lumps. Part of being a man.”

  I start to scoot my chair from the table, but Mama stops me. “Hold it right there,” she says. “I do believe what you did deserves a serious consequence, but I am still your mama and no man is going to raise a hand to my son, you hear me?”

  “I’m willing to take responsibility for my actions, Mama,” I reply, trying to sound braver than I actually feel.

  “W
ell, there will be repercussions, young man, but I will be doling them out, not someone who’s practically a stranger,” Mama announces. “Plus, you’re eleven. Hardly a man.”

  Why does everyone insist on reminding me?

  Credit 33.4

  Uncle Carl arrives right after breakfast the next day. He’s here to give us a ride to our new diggings, because apparently when Mama mentioned “repercussions,” she meant I was not going on the river drive.

  “We’ll just have to come up with money some other way—a way that doesn’t have the possibility of someone getting hurt or dying,” she said disapprovingly.

  I think I would have preferred Mr. Crutchley’s switch.

  Our crates are packed outside the door of our room. Just my crate and turkey and Mama’s crates. Granny stuffed extra magazines in my turkey in case I need some Scrapbook material.

  Credit 33.6

  I check the room again. Yep, Granny’s things are all unpacked, minus the one stocking I still have on my left foot. When money is tight, apparently socks are not a priority, and surprisingly no one had a spare.

  Or they simply enjoyed the sight of Granny’s stocking on my left foot.

  Granny’s bed is still made, and her extra dress is hanging on the wire above the stove.

  I think we’ve seen the last of her for a while, which is the one good thing about leaving.

  Geri leans against the doorway to the kitchen, her arms folded across her chest and a smug look on her face.

  “You know, I’m still going to get you back for all the pranks you pulled. Don’t think I won’t,” I warn her.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Geri replies. She’s a liar until the bitter end, God have mercy on her soul. She helps me cart crates to the wagon, and I climb onto the seat next to Uncle Carl. Granny hands me my turkey and a little bag.

  “It’s your soldiers, Stan. I found them way down underneath my Harper’s Weeklys.”

  I’m so glad to see these guys. I prop one on the bench next to me, the one on his knee, holding his rifle to his shoulder. He can shoot any loups-garous we encounter in the woods. That little find dropped Granny’s Evil Rating to 43.5 percent. And now that it’s apparent she will no longer be living with us, I feel especially generous. I will move her Evil Rating to 40.3 percent. I think the longer I go without seeing that woman, the more I’ll like her.

  Stinky Pete nods from the door of the cook shanty. He raises his cup as a kind of salute, while Mr. Crutchley helps Mama into the wagon.

  “I’ll be in town in a few weeks, Mrs. Slater. Your mother mentioned I should look in on you and Stan,” he says formally.

  “Oh, she did, did she?” Mama says shortly. “Well, if you must, you must.”

  Mr. Crutchley smiles and smooths his hair. That guy can’t take a hint.

  “And I’ll be calling on you as well,” says another, deeper voice. “If that’s all right with you, Mrs. Slater.”

  What’s this? My head swings around just in time to see that sly dog, Stinky Pete, his twinkly eyes peering into my mama’s, well, twinkly eyes. How did he get over to the wagon so fast? I might have to change his name to Sneaky Pete. And what’s with all the twinkly around here?

  Mama’s cheeks are pink. “That would be most enjoyable, Mr. McLachlan,” she replies in a low voice, smiling.

  “Then it would be my pleasure,” Stinky Pete says as he steps away from the wagon. He winks at me, and I do think it might be nice to see him again. He’s not my dad, of course, but he’s not so bad, either. After all, how many people get to say they’re friends with a real, live killer?

  Not that I’ve given up on my dad—since he could be anywhere, I’ll be keeping my eyes peeled for him in St. Ignace.

  “Isn’t it about time to go, Uncle Carl?” I nudge him with my elbow. I want to be away from Granny and Geri and especially Mr. Crutchley as quickly as possible.

  “Hold up!” Granny runs toward the wagon. She’s holding a wad of something red in her left hand. “Time to return my stocking, young man.”

  “But my foot will get cold!” I protest. As Granny thrusts the bundle at me, I realize they are my red socks. The socks I have been missing for weeks. The missing socks that made it necessary for me to wear women’s hosiery and look like a fool. I look at the socks and then at Granny. How did she get my socks? How long has she had my socks?

  “Oh”—Granny nods matter-of-factly—“for quite some time now.” The wheels in my brain tick through the last few months: The short-sheeting of my bed. The salt. The missing socks. The raccoon. Granny?

  She laughs a big, hearty laugh, and everyone else starts laughing, too.

  “Told you there was more to your granny than meets the eye,” Stinky Pete says with a chuckle.

  “She’s always been the worst prankster at the lumber camp,” Uncle Henry agrees. “The shanty boys never suspect her, and they always get fooled.”

  Granny grins. “Okay, then,” she says to Uncle Carl. “Be off with you. And close your mouth, Stanley Slater. What horrible manners! But not to worry, we’ll work on that when I come to live with you in May.” She blows a kiss to Mama. “Have my room ready, dear.”

  She’s evil.

  99.9 percent.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Credit Note.1

  In 1895, words were different, underwear was different, and diseases and their cures were different. So I had to do research. Lots and lots of research. And now I’m going to share those sources with lucky you!

  LANGUAGE

  Back in the 1880s, you wouldn’t say something was “awesome.” No, you’d say it was a “corker.” If you got in trouble, you were “in the soup.” If you cheated someone, you “skunked” her. If things went all “higgledy-piggledy,” it wasn’t necessarily a good thing. And if you spent the winter at a lumber camp, there were plenty of confusing terms you needed to learn. How do I know? Well, I used some of these resources.

  A short list of slang words used in the nineteenth century, much to the chagrin of language snobs:

  Nordquist, Richard, “The Triumph of Slang: Bosh, Humbug, and the Survival of 19th-Century Barbarisms,” About.com Grammar & Composition, grammar.about.com/od/words/a/The-Triumph-Of-Slang.htm

  As with any occupation, lumberjacks employed their own lingo, which varied from camp to camp. This is one list of terms, with a recording of the song “The Old Piney Woods.”

  “Lumber Jack & Pioneer Terms,” Curtisville History & Pioneer Genealogies, curtisvillehistory.com/html/lumber_jack___pioneer_terms.html (last modified April 4, 2011)

  A fun site where, among other things, you can plug in dates and see when certain American slang words began to be commonly used. Note that there’s an option to search CLEAN or FULL. I highly recommend CLEAN.

  “Historical Dictionary of American Slang,” AlphaDictionary.com, alphadictionary.com/slang

  Glossary of logging terms from the South Central Library System, and photographs and glossary from Wisconsin’s past:

  www.scls.lib.wi.us/mcm/rosholt/photos-from-wi-past/photoswi/images/00000013.pdf

  LIFE IN THE LATE 1800S

  McCutcheon, Marc. The Writer’s Guide to Everyday Life in the 1800s. Cincinnati: Writer’s Digest Books, 1993.

  Schlereth, Thomas J. Victorian America: Transformations in Everyday Life, 1876–1915. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1991.

  NAMES

  A list of some eighteenth- and nineteenth-century American nicknames from the Connecticut state library:

  ctstatelibrary.org/node/2329

  Victorian-era names:

  freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~poindexterfamily/OldNames.html

  MEDICAL INFORMATION

  This information from the Trail End State Historic Site in Sheridan, Wyoming, makes you wonder how anyone survived childhood in the late 1880s and early 1900s:

  trailend.co/the-dangers-of-childhood.html

  Let’s just say medicine has come a long way since the nineteenth century: />
  rootsweb.ancestry.com/~memigrat/diseases.html

  Tomes, Nancy, PhD. “Public Health Then and Now: The Making of a Germ Panic, Then and Now.” American Journal of Public Health.

  ajph.aphapublications.org/doi/pdf/10.2105/AJPH.90.2.191

  WOMEN’S RIGHTS

  Geri’s interest in women’s rights led to research on suffrage:

  Eleanor Roosevelt: Battle for Suffrage (WGBH American Experience, PBS) pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/features/general-article/eleanor-suffrage/

  “Women’s Roles in the Late 19th Century,” Conner Prairie Interactive History Park, connerprairie.org/Learn-And-Do/Indiana-History/America-1860-1900/Lives-Of-Women.aspx

  DAY-TO-DAY NEWS AND EVENTS

  “1890s Family,” Federal Reserve Bank of Boston, New England Economic Adventure, economicadventure.org/pdfs/ml1890.pdf

  LIFE IN A LUMBER CAMP

  Karamanski, Theodore J. Deep Woods Frontier: A History of Logging in Northern Michigan. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1989.

  “Manistique Is Setting for Last Big Drive,” Wisconsin Rapids Daily Tribune, July 25, 1929, genealogytrails.com/mich/schoolcraft/logdrive.html

  “The Wisconsin Logging Book, 1839–1939,” McMillan Library, mcmillanlibrary.org/rosholt/wi-logging-book/wilogging/index.pdf

  “Wisconsin Lumberjack Story,” Library of Congress: American Memories, American Life Histories: Manuscripts from the Federal Writers’ Project, 1936–1940