This is the most embarrassing story of my life.
That is not said to be dramatic. It is issued as a statement of fact. It can be measured and given proof by acknowledging that I was so fearful this story would come to light that days before Steve was to meet my family, I fretted and worried about no other issue. The fear that my sister, Sheila, would tell this story kept me awake more than one night. I worried about this before the family's arrival, during their visit, and at each subsequent visit there after where Sis would be within story telling distance of Steve.
This is the most embarrassing story of my life.
One of the purposes of this blog is to give light to my fears and exercise the demons. Blogging this story is part of that process, though to commit to full disclosure, I am of the mind that the story causes much more damage in the dark and solitude of my mind than it will in the light of divulgation.
This is a memory, not a yarn spun by family so often that it has become an assumed or even presumed memory. No, this story plays in my head as if captured on super 8 with my eyes as the lens. I do not play this memory and see me in the field behind the weather beaten gray wooden wagon hiding from other children playing tag. I see the gray wood, the wheels with the rusted bands of steel, my hand meeting the baked gray texture as I steady myself too crouch down out of sight of my family.
I could not have been much more than five. My dad, without mom, had driven us kids to visit someone a good distance from home. I have no idea where it was or who we were visiting, but I know I was never on that property again, so I have to believe it was not family but an acquaintance of dad's. Also giving credence to this is that I was not comfortable with talking to the owner of the home we were visiting. As with all country people, had we been on family soil, I would have treated the house as my own.
It was one of those hot Midwestern-Near Atlantic Indian summer days late in the year when the wasps were gone, the grasshoppers had mated, no longer hungry and thus not really a bother, and the dogs, though the day was hot, were off the porch and chasing us around. There were many children playing in the yard, running and yelling and just having fun. Ronnie was there, Sheila too, and one or two of my cousins from the farm near The Club House where we lived. I know this, because the car ride on the way home was filled to capacity... thus causing even more embarrassment at the time.
A point of clarity for you city dwellers, when a country boy uses the word yard, he is not referring to the 6 foot by 10 foot grassy space one uses a weed eater to keep trim. No, this yard required a tractor to cut the grass and though there was an old six seater wagon abandoned in this yard, it was so far away from the house that a fleet of cars, trucks, motorcycles, and tractors could fill the space between so that the next three-county Freemason's meeting could be held here and there'd be room to park to spare.
As we were running and playing tag, I noticed the urges. I knew what those urges were. I knew what needed to be done. But, I wasn't in a familiar place, I was having fun, and I ask you, what five year old boy thinks past the immediate enjoyment of fun? There is not an understanding of causality and effect related to inaction for a very young boy playing outside on a great day. Unfortunately for me, the fact that I was enjoying myself did nothing to stop the naural process itself. My body did not care that I was having fun. It only cared that there was something that needed to be attended to and either I willingly participated, or I could suffer the outcome of unwilling participation. I had to poo.
As my five year colon prepared for the final push I was near the wagon. Knowing what was coming, and knowing that the time was nigh, I rounded the corner, squatted behind the wagon and let go. Though instantly relived, that what I produced was not a Type One on the Bristol Stool Scale. Oh, no, it was more along the lines of Type 6. [Google is your friend]
Though the act was finished, the job wasn't over. I was faced with the need to 'finish up'. Of course there was no TP, or large leaves for that matter. I grabbed the only thing I could, used it the best way I could, and pulled up my shorts just before Ronnie came round, and asked me what I was doing.
"Nothing"
And I joined in the play, again.
As the visit ended and my caper forgotten, we all pile in the car for the ride home. The long ride home. The long ride home on a hot day. The long ride home on a hot day in a crowded car. My mistake may have been sitting in the middle of the back seat. This position afforded me the chance to scoot forward, stick my head between the front seats, and ask dad questions. This left my little butt tilted up and opened to the air. It was Sheila who first gave notice.
"What smells so bad?"
Cousin: "Oh Yuck"
Brother: "Its Kirk"
Dad: "Oh, hell son, did you shit your pants?"
"No! I didn't poop in my pants!" Scooting back in the seat to regroup and get attention away from my ass.
Brother: "No he pooped in their yard"
Dad: "WHAT? You shit in their yard?"
"I didn't mean to, I just had to go really bad, and, and, and so I went."
Dad: "You didn't wipe?"
"I wiped!"
Laughter and coughing
Dad: "With what?"
"A corncob"
More laughter
Dad: "You Wipe Your Butt With A Corncob?"
Someone: "Kirk's a corncob butt"
Dad: "Kirk's a Dirty Butt."
For months they called me Dirty Butt. I have to think my mother put a stop to it. That was the only way pain inflicted by a sibling (or a parent) was stopped in our house. Thank goodness it passed. But the shame and the embarrassment and the horror can still be felt in twinges today, but I haven't heard my family mention it in years. This story will be a good test to see if Sis is readying my blog. If so, I would not be surprised to see my Christmas card addressed to, Dirty Butt Willett.
That is not said to be dramatic. It is issued as a statement of fact. It can be measured and given proof by acknowledging that I was so fearful this story would come to light that days before Steve was to meet my family, I fretted and worried about no other issue. The fear that my sister, Sheila, would tell this story kept me awake more than one night. I worried about this before the family's arrival, during their visit, and at each subsequent visit there after where Sis would be within story telling distance of Steve.
This is the most embarrassing story of my life.
One of the purposes of this blog is to give light to my fears and exercise the demons. Blogging this story is part of that process, though to commit to full disclosure, I am of the mind that the story causes much more damage in the dark and solitude of my mind than it will in the light of divulgation.
This is a memory, not a yarn spun by family so often that it has become an assumed or even presumed memory. No, this story plays in my head as if captured on super 8 with my eyes as the lens. I do not play this memory and see me in the field behind the weather beaten gray wooden wagon hiding from other children playing tag. I see the gray wood, the wheels with the rusted bands of steel, my hand meeting the baked gray texture as I steady myself too crouch down out of sight of my family.
I could not have been much more than five. My dad, without mom, had driven us kids to visit someone a good distance from home. I have no idea where it was or who we were visiting, but I know I was never on that property again, so I have to believe it was not family but an acquaintance of dad's. Also giving credence to this is that I was not comfortable with talking to the owner of the home we were visiting. As with all country people, had we been on family soil, I would have treated the house as my own.
It was one of those hot Midwestern-Near Atlantic Indian summer days late in the year when the wasps were gone, the grasshoppers had mated, no longer hungry and thus not really a bother, and the dogs, though the day was hot, were off the porch and chasing us around. There were many children playing in the yard, running and yelling and just having fun. Ronnie was there, Sheila too, and one or two of my cousins from the farm near The Club House where we lived. I know this, because the car ride on the way home was filled to capacity... thus causing even more embarrassment at the time.
A point of clarity for you city dwellers, when a country boy uses the word yard, he is not referring to the 6 foot by 10 foot grassy space one uses a weed eater to keep trim. No, this yard required a tractor to cut the grass and though there was an old six seater wagon abandoned in this yard, it was so far away from the house that a fleet of cars, trucks, motorcycles, and tractors could fill the space between so that the next three-county Freemason's meeting could be held here and there'd be room to park to spare.
As we were running and playing tag, I noticed the urges. I knew what those urges were. I knew what needed to be done. But, I wasn't in a familiar place, I was having fun, and I ask you, what five year old boy thinks past the immediate enjoyment of fun? There is not an understanding of causality and effect related to inaction for a very young boy playing outside on a great day. Unfortunately for me, the fact that I was enjoying myself did nothing to stop the naural process itself. My body did not care that I was having fun. It only cared that there was something that needed to be attended to and either I willingly participated, or I could suffer the outcome of unwilling participation. I had to poo.
As my five year colon prepared for the final push I was near the wagon. Knowing what was coming, and knowing that the time was nigh, I rounded the corner, squatted behind the wagon and let go. Though instantly relived, that what I produced was not a Type One on the Bristol Stool Scale. Oh, no, it was more along the lines of Type 6. [Google is your friend]Though the act was finished, the job wasn't over. I was faced with the need to 'finish up'. Of course there was no TP, or large leaves for that matter. I grabbed the only thing I could, used it the best way I could, and pulled up my shorts just before Ronnie came round, and asked me what I was doing.
"Nothing"
And I joined in the play, again.
As the visit ended and my caper forgotten, we all pile in the car for the ride home. The long ride home. The long ride home on a hot day. The long ride home on a hot day in a crowded car. My mistake may have been sitting in the middle of the back seat. This position afforded me the chance to scoot forward, stick my head between the front seats, and ask dad questions. This left my little butt tilted up and opened to the air. It was Sheila who first gave notice.
"What smells so bad?"
Cousin: "Oh Yuck"
Brother: "Its Kirk"
Dad: "Oh, hell son, did you shit your pants?"
"No! I didn't poop in my pants!" Scooting back in the seat to regroup and get attention away from my ass.
Brother: "No he pooped in their yard"
Dad: "WHAT? You shit in their yard?"
"I didn't mean to, I just had to go really bad, and, and, and so I went."
Dad: "You didn't wipe?"
"I wiped!"
Laughter and coughing
Dad: "With what?"
"A corncob"
More laughter
Dad: "You Wipe Your Butt With A Corncob?"
Someone: "Kirk's a corncob butt"
Dad: "Kirk's a Dirty Butt."
For months they called me Dirty Butt. I have to think my mother put a stop to it. That was the only way pain inflicted by a sibling (or a parent) was stopped in our house. Thank goodness it passed. But the shame and the embarrassment and the horror can still be felt in twinges today, but I haven't heard my family mention it in years. This story will be a good test to see if Sis is readying my blog. If so, I would not be surprised to see my Christmas card addressed to, Dirty Butt Willett.
I can't believe I just googled that.....
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