by Mike Morris
I squashed it! Oh man! Weight! The concept of weight! Man, how could I be so stupid? What should have been obvious came crashing down on me like some catastrophic explosion of painful enlightened intelligence! I was a total idiot; I was beyond a total idiot. I was a total idiot stamped all over with total evil. What kind of total scum crushes baby chicks with big bumpy chicken-shaped boulders?
How was I going to get out of this? I quickly picked up the rock and carried it back to where I had gotten it. I returned to the baby chicks – one squashed, one looking confused. I again racked my brain for a solution. Again, genius appeared. If I just go to bed, everything will be okay in the morning. I set off for bed.
When I woke up the next morning I went directly to the baby chicks, hoping to find both of them alive and well. But, what I found was pretty horrible. I didn’t see any baby chicks. What I saw was a vibrating mound of ants. Both chicks were dead underneath the mound of ants. The day after Easter and my Easter gift was dead – victims of rock squashing and ant suffocation.
When I came into the house, my mom asked me how my baby chicks were doing. She seemed pretty excited for me.
I broke the news. “Well, Mom ... I put a rock on ‘em ... and it squashed ‘em ... and the ants came and killed ‘em.”
My mom stared at me in horror.
I bravely continued, “They ... they’re dead.”
Her eyes fearfully asked, “My God, what demon have I brought into this world?”
I didn’t have an answer for that look.
“Well, you need to go tell your grandmother ... right now.”
Tell my grandmother? How could I tell my grandmother?
So, I walked up to Mama’s house. She was in the kitchen cooking something, her laughing eyes twinkling as always. “Hey, Doodle. How those baby chicks doin’?”
I just staggered ahead and came out with the truth. “I thought they were goin’ to get cold ... so I put a rock on ‘em ... and squashed ‘em ... and the ants came ... and ... now they’re dead.”
Her very kind but sad smile said a lot to me, including, “I understand.” I think that smile of understanding saved my life. If she hadn’t understood, I think I would have hated myself forever.
6
True Colors
While snapping peas or shucking corn, or peeling apples, Mama and Ma loved to tell stories and laugh. I became their confidant – a member of the club. They confided in me. One day, in an unusually serious tone, Ma said, “Doodle! We are Creek Indian. You should be proud of it … but, keep it to yourself!” Although I have forgotten the stories, I understood that we were Muskogee – Creek Indian, and that being a Muskogee was something to be proud about and a secret to be kept deep inside.
Unknown to me at that time was what had taken place many decades before. With help from the Cherokee nation, the eventual president of the United States, Andrew Jackson, forced the Upper Town Creeks, or Red Sticks, out of their Alabama homes down into Florida, where they joined forces with escaped slaves and other southern tribes to strengthen the Seminole Nation. The great Seminole chief, Osceola, was a Muskogee from Alabama. Eventually, the rest of the Muskogean Nation, along with the Cherokees, were forced by President Jackson to relocate into the Indian Territory of Oklahoma. “Oklahoma,” a Choctaw word meaning “Red Human.”
Full Bloods or Mixed Bloods having White ancestry or African ancestry could remain in Alabama as long as they kept their Creek blood a secret. It was in this Alabama that my great grandmother had lived. The census bureau magically transformed Ma and these remaining Creek Indians or mixed-blood Creek Indians from Indian to White or from Indian to Black. Thusly, I grew up with a swelling secret, handed down over generations, which kept me feeling that deep inside, I was different – a true mutineer. I didn’t know what a Creek Indian was; I just knew all the things it wasn’t, which was pretty much everything.
7
Frogs
Like Ma and Mama, my cousin Jedell was a great story teller. Some people might just say, a great liar. He was always bragging about his pet frog, Mary. It was “Mary this” and “Mary that” all the time. Most nights, the younger cousins gathered around to listen to Jedell’s adventures with Mary. On those hot, humid nights, thick with the sounds of crickets, he recounted how she had saved his life against robbers, monsters, and an assortment of evil villains. We were all anxious to meet her, but Jedell explained her shyness and mistrust of humans kept her at a cautious distance. However, Jedell made it clear that she was always watching us. So, while being on our best behavior to impress Mary, we listened intently to Jedell spin his yarns about the night, frogs, and exotic princes and princesses living in far-off places hidden within the pig farm behind our houses and secreted unseen inside the surrounding woods.
Finally, one evening Jedell made a startling pronouncement: Mary was pregnant! Furthermore, since she had been watching us and really liked us, she promised to present each one of us with our very own baby frog! Wow! That announcement fomented such a thrill in our young hearts. It generated exhilaration! It gave us hope – something to set our sights on – something to look forward to.
From that moment on, every evening at our nightly gathering, all the cousins radiated avid excitement. Huddled together, our longing would be only momentarily quenched when Jedell furnished us with new-fangled details about Mary and her impending brood. He explained the whole process of Mary’s pregnancy as it traveled its course – her morning sickness, her cravings, her fatigue. We all wanted to do something for her, but Jedell assured us that even though she often didn’t feel well, he was the only one she trusted enough to help her through her taxing torment.
When Mary finally gave birth, Jedell’s excitement infected us all. He described all the cute little baby frogs and lay bare all the attributes of each one – good and bad. Each baby frog seemed to have very similar characteristics to one of us – in fact, to the one of us Mary had chosen as the recipient of her most precious gift.
After a building expectation that seemed to last forever, finally, the night arrived. Getting there early, abuzz with anticipation, we crowded together before the appointed time. I can remember the time clearly – 8:00 pm. As we laughed and joked, full of excitement, our eyes constantly searched the edges of the pig farm and surrounding woods for Jedell, Mary, and all the babies to appear. Eight o’clock came, but no Jedell. Eight-fifteen came and went, but no Mary. Eight-thirty arrived – still no sign of Jedell, Mary, or the baby frogs. We began to feel uncomfortable and worried. Could something have happened?
Finally, what became a dreadful moment set in place as Jedell emerged from the darkness, head bowed, shoulders slumped. No one spoke a word as Jedell stepped up to the stage he had occupied so many times before. But, this time he did not sit down; he did not take his perch before us and smile; he remained standing solemnly. We knew something dreadful had occurred.
He slowly raised his head and began to speak. “Sumpin’ bad ‘as ‘appen’.” Jedell’s voice was cracking and he clearly was fighting back tears.
None of us had ever seen Jedell cry, and no one made a sound.
Composing himself, he struggled to continue and coarsely blurted out, “Thar was uh snake!”
All breathing ceased momentarily, eyes glued to Jedell, and our ears reached closer to Jedell’s voice.
Then poor Jedell laid bare his sensitive soul and did something that shattered everyone’s heart. He broke down, falling to one knee, throwing his hand over his face, and wept. The story poured from his guts. “She tried duh fie dit... she tried duh save ‘er babies ... she fawt n’fawt ... I tried duh hep ...”
We remained glued in our positions. Only our very undeveloped and accommodating ears stretched to get closer.
“Dat snake kild ‘er. It kild‘er!”
Like a flood of painful lava, the cruelest, most final fate for Jedell’s beloved frog too soon rose to the surface, splashing our young faces with a burning sting.
“It et Mary! I could‘
un stop it ... I tried, but I jus could‘un.” Fiercely pursued by piercing anguish and dissonant wails, that ghastly news erupted from deep inside my cousin. We crouched, frozen in flaming wonder. Time stood completely still ...
Finally, a small voice squeaked out, “What about the babies?”
Sniffling and wiping his nose with his sleeve, Jedell paused, then arduously blubbered the horrific, “It et dem, too! It et all dem!” Jedell seized his face with both hands and wept.
A couple of my cousins finally moved over to console him, but I just wandered off by myself. I felt badly that I wouldn’t be getting my own baby frog. As badly as I felt though, I felt worse for Jedell. It was clear in a cloudy sort of way that he was suffering much more than any of us.
It wasn’t until a few years ago, close to half a century after experiencing this heart-wrenching ordeal, that while telling this story to some of my students, the event took on deeper meaning for me. One of my young students kindly pointed out to me that frogs don’t give birth to baby frogs; they lay eggs which become tadpoles that gradually grow legs, lose their little tails, and become frogs. I soon became aware of a small elf that strongly resembled my cousin Jedell crawling around behind my eyes, pulling out old, rusty nails, and bashing rotten planks loose from my brain. Wow, I was a really stupid kid, and that stupidity had lingered for many decades!
8
Breaches
Responding to demands of the United States Navy, our family headed west. Upon settling in California, I began to frequent an assortment of mental institutions. These various establishments were meant to mold my cerebral matter in a suitable manner. The establishment I showed up at first was kindergarten. Dubiously I entered upon such moot activities as tying my shoes. During naptime, I pretended to be asleep then looked up the teacher’s dress when she walked by. I didn’t even know why.
I decided to escape from school one day because I realized I had to use the bathroom. I guess I hadn’t used the bathroom in a public place before, and I didn’t know the procedure. I didn’t want to go alone, so when I made my getaway, I convinced another kid to flee with me. My mother questioned why I had gotten home so early. I told her I didn’t know how come but they had closed school early. My mom called the school just to double-check her deep belief that I was lying. I blamed my friend and said it was his idea. For some reason, everyone suspected I was the brains behind the operation and he was an innocent associate. Mom gently lectured me on the importance of always being honest. So, from then on, I almost always was.
Sometimes, I would play outside with a cranky, curly-haired boy. It seemed like I was always running around and he was reluctantly trying to stay up. One day I spotted a herd of ugly grasshoppers. With what seemed like total logic at the time, I started harassing them. Again, and again, the cranky boy warned me to stop. However, gripped with a kind of madness, my attacks intensified. At the same moment that the cranky boy tried to physically restrain me, the grasshoppers spit some kind of black, yucky stuff at me. Unfortunately for the cranky boy, he was positioned exactly between me and the grasshoppers. He got slathered! The cranky boy’s curly blond hair, his face, and his clothes were now kind of a blackish grey. He was very sad, and with his yuck-covered head hanging down, he headed home.
Horseflies are pretty big flies. The first time I saw one perched on the end of a very high tree branch, I determined to catch it. I climbed the tree and crawled out onto the branch, reaching for the fly. Apparently, the branch broke, because the next thing I knew I was on the ground, out of breath and feeling woozy. The cranky boy who always seemed to be around, helped me up and walked me to my front door. I told my mother that I thought I had broken my arm. She told me to go upstairs and lie down.
A neighbor happened to be a military doctor. He came over and marched into my room. He began to move my left arm around and assured my mom that if it was broken I would not be able to move it. After he withdrew, I stayed in bed – feeling very clammy and suffering nausea. My mom started to get worried, and when my father arrived home he took me to the hospital where they concluded that my elbow was indeed broken. The hospital doctor whispered, “It looks like he has been moving it.” They put a series of casts on me because I kept destroying one cast after another – a result of rough and unreserved recreation.
That elbow has been my Achilles’ heel. I have spent a lifetime compensating for it, experiencing multiple operations and being told by doctors that it is the worst elbow they have ever seen that actually works.
9
Lost Doodle
Mom once explained to me that I wasn’t stupid, I just didn’t think before I did stuff. Well ... after mulling her explanation over, I think I feel better, although I’m not sure I understand what the difference is. She recently reminded me how notorious I was for getting lost. I maintain a moderately primordial and murky memory of wandering off within moments of arriving at our campsite in Yosemite National Park … even before my parents had a chance to set up our tent … and soon the rangers and just about everybody in the park were searching for me. Two boys found me next to a river where later that week a 5-year-old little girl drowned.
That night a bear burglarized our camp and gobbled all the bacon and beef concealed in our cooler. My father had a tough time calming my sister Arcadia and convincing her to sleep in the tent after that. My mom was pretty content since the bear had not consumed any of us and thusly considered it a successful camping excursion.
It did get worse, though. After leaving Yosemite for home, we stopped to feed bread to some deer. It turns out that the Department of Fish and Wildlife says that artificially feeding deer has negative repercussions. Apparently, deer lose their natural wildness and become dependent upon humans to feed them. The Department of Fish and Wildlife specifically says you should never feed bread to deer. Well, we didn’t know any of that.
As we ran out of bread, I witnessed the blond, cranky, curly-haired boy begin to climb into the backseat of our car. He was the same kid who had gotten covered in yucky grasshopper spit. It was apparent that besides not liking to play with grasshoppers, he didn’t really enjoy feeding deer. At the same moment that he was climbing into the car, Arcadia, a very precise young lady, began to vigorously shake the empty bread bag to make sure every last crumb was accounted for. Unfortunately, this spooked a very large deer with very large antlers who apparently had not lost any of its wildness. Maybe bread makes deer go crazy. Maybe the deer was in a panic that we were leaving and suspected it had lost its wildness and would starve to death if we left. At any rate, as the blond, cranky, curly-haired boy was attempting to climb into the car, the deer charged his backside and lifted him up by the butt, launching him face first into the car. I don’t know why that cranky boy got so upset, because I thought it was about the coolest thing I had ever seen and kind of envied him for the experience.
10
Brother Leo and Little Boy Stupid
I am confident that our welfare played no part in the Navy’s determination to relocate our family to the other side of the country. However, leaving a bunch of unpleasant stuff, like a broken elbow, yucky grasshopper spit, disreputable bears, wild deer, and my own dishonesty on the West Coast, I made a clean start in the East. Among the gear that I brought with me, I discovered my honest older brother, Leo.
It turned out that he was the blond, cranky, curly-haired boy who was launched into the back seat of our car by the bread-eating deer. He was the same guy who got covered in yucky grasshopper spit and had helped me get home after I broke my arm. I didn’t realize he was my brother until we began sharing a room in our new house on the East Coast. I don’t even think I knew what a brother was! Since both of us were down with the measles, we had time to get acquainted. He seemed grouchy at first, but once he got to feeling better, I realized he was okay.
Leo taught me how to play. Using an assortment of toys and our imaginations, we created these boundless cradles of humanity. Leo was some sort of genius, and I – the ill-infor
med one – made the perfect foil. However, I learned a lot, not only about how an ideal society was supposed to be, but based on the way Leo treated me, I also learned affability, gallantry, and kindness. If I suspected he needed help defending himself against thugs, thither I approached, ready to thrash – a menacing, diminutive maniac most miscreants didn’t want to meet. I was Leo’s scrappy, wee, little, attack dog.
As amiable as Leo was, he was also tough. He didn’t always need me biting, kicking, and wreaking havoc on his adversaries. When pushed, Leo could inflict his own bit of welts and wounds.
An exceptionally bright 4th grader, Leo took his duty delivering the Navy Times seriously. However, in those days, 6th graders were the top dogs in elementary school. Tracking a hard working 4th grade paperboy was easy game. After all, he always traveled the same trail. They began to shadow his daily journey, crumpling the papers he had so diligently delivered, littering his path with debris. Leo asked them to stop. But the rabid 6th graders had apparently lost their minds and refused to heed his warning. Quickly reaching the conclusion that dialogue wasn’t working, Leo loaded up and unleashed a good old knuckle sandwich upon each of his hounders. Barks turned to yelps, and yelps mutated full-tilt into whines.
My Mom recalled a time when Leo came home crying, covered with mud from head to toe, book bag dripping. Mom, armed with insult and indignity, went looking for the 6th grade evildoers. Her outrage was soon softened when she found the culprits just as wet and muddy as Leo. Apparently, after the 6th graders had thrown him into the mud puddle, 4th grader Leo returned the disfavor.
Taking advantage of the learning opportunities on the East Coast, I advanced my education by attending first and most of the second grade at Little Creek Elementary School in Norfolk, Virginia. A musical prodigy, I hummed and drummed incessantly. However, word got out that I was overly sensitive and an underachiever. Whenever an individual student or even the whole class was scolded, it was reported that I always took it to heart and ardently, although often times erroneously, believed that I had been the one admonished.