the clod

How deep will a spoon dig? We’ve got lots of spoons, she’ll never miss just one if I sneak it out. Me and my spoon, finding a place to play. What if I hit something big or an animal? What if I fall in? Go spoon go! Look at the earth move! Oops, it’s bending. Okay, I can hold it at the bottom and it’ll be a scraper! Look at these colors! I thought it would be deeper. Mom yells the day is over, I’ll dig tomorrow. You should see me throw a rock. I can hit the back of the roof across the street and hide really good before it hits. Some of my best throws are for my own use. Looking back, to see if she saw it, is just looking back. Hitting something really small takes a lot of practice. If I bust a pop bottle in ten throws, it’s very lucky.


One day I tried to hit a person with a dirt clod. This fat girl would be easy to hit, but she’s a good half a front yard away. WHOCK! , right in the eye. Uh-oh, I saw she was crying.....she ran off. I thought she’d get better. I got back to squishing bug cocoons and getting kool-aid face. That night, there was an important pounding at the door. The kind of knock only a parent should answer.


A man in the house changes things, it makes you sit up straighter and pay attention. This man was yelling at my mother. I’d never seen him before. He was half prison escapee, half giant. His chest hairs popped out like prison wire. He snarled like a starved grizzly bear let out of its cage. Mom stepped aside and he came right at me. He stomped across the room, hovering over me like a redwood. I just knew he was going to fist me in the face. "If there's any damage to my daughter’s eye, I'm gonna sue your family for everything they own." Mom walked over, standing beside him and not me. As he yelled, my Adam's apple stretched out like a dry rubber band. As soon as he was gone, mom shot straight out the door to borrow a belt from a neighbor. I prayed a bus would run her over as she came homeward. The whole world seemed to stop as she clacked down the hallway to my room. "TURN OVER!"


Then came the second worst beating of my life. Thirty to forty lashes found every part of my stinging rear. I tried to block it with my hand. "MOVE YOUR HAND!" My first thought was to sheepishly impress her with the latest wall shadows, but that's not what she meant. Our Lord-loved aunt came over the next day. Mom made me pull down my pants to show her the bruises. The girl was okay later. I spent even more time alone.