The Soil of a Man
Lent begins today. For this stretch of time, I'd like to tell you a story. I'll offer it in parts, a little each week. I'd love to have you read along...
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A boy remembers the day a man nearly killed him, particularly if that man was his uncle. My day was July 17th, 1952, and Uncle Calvin was the man. Uncle Calvin wasn't angry or drunk or suffering from what Aunt Glenda called a "hiccup into ass-crazy." He was actually trying to do good.
Uncle Calvin took my three cousins and me fishing at Bisby Pond outside town. The fish weren't biting, but the sun certainly was. Before long, we'd all peeled down to our skivvies, and everyone was splashing in the cool water. Everyone except me. I sat on the bank, burying my toes in the grass and fiddling with a stray twig. It was the family scandal that I was nine years old and still couldn't swim. I was terrified of the water. No reason I know to explain why, I just was.
"Come on in," said Uncle Calvin lazily. "Nothing in here but a good time."
"Nah, I don't feel like it. " I traced dirt back and forth with my stick, as if I were busy doing something that couldn't be interrupted. Everyone knew the truth, but it was easier to pretend that I refused the water only because I had something better to do.
Uncle Calvin stood out of the pond and looked directly at me. "Thad, don't you think it's time you beat this thing?"
I did think it was time. I'd thought it was time ever since I was five and realized I was the only kid I knew who wasn't begging his mom to take him to the pool. I begged not to go. I'd accepted the fact that I was the strange kid. I was the one afraid of a thing some babies and most pups do naturally. Lots of folks encouraged me to learn to swim. Lots of folks. Why does some people's encouragement leave you lonelier than you were before? I think my cousins half hoped I'd never swim; if I did, they'd have to come up with a whole new string of jokes. My grandma simply denied the evidence. "Can't be, just not right, " she said whenever the topic came up.
The past two summers, every Tuesday and Saturday, my dad took me to the city pool. He'd hold me in the water, twirling me round, making waves. He'd show me the strokes again and again. If fear overwhelmed me, he'd hold me tight until my panic calmed. Whenever kids would point and snicker, he'd say, "You're not learning to swim for them, Thad. You do it for you."
One time this happened, dad set me on the side and, after making sure the boys were still watching, he went under and flipped at just the right angle so that his butt peeked above the water on the turn. Only, his butt was bare. A wide, white moon for the entire world to see. A few mothers went wide-eyed (appalled or intrigued, I couldn't say), and we were escorted out of the pool -- but that slow walk side by side, past those speechless boys and out the front entrance, was the happiest and the safest I've ever felt.
[to be continued...]
_____
A boy remembers the day a man nearly killed him, particularly if that man was his uncle. My day was July 17th, 1952, and Uncle Calvin was the man. Uncle Calvin wasn't angry or drunk or suffering from what Aunt Glenda called a "hiccup into ass-crazy." He was actually trying to do good.
Uncle Calvin took my three cousins and me fishing at Bisby Pond outside town. The fish weren't biting, but the sun certainly was. Before long, we'd all peeled down to our skivvies, and everyone was splashing in the cool water. Everyone except me. I sat on the bank, burying my toes in the grass and fiddling with a stray twig. It was the family scandal that I was nine years old and still couldn't swim. I was terrified of the water. No reason I know to explain why, I just was.
"Come on in," said Uncle Calvin lazily. "Nothing in here but a good time."
"Nah, I don't feel like it. " I traced dirt back and forth with my stick, as if I were busy doing something that couldn't be interrupted. Everyone knew the truth, but it was easier to pretend that I refused the water only because I had something better to do.
Uncle Calvin stood out of the pond and looked directly at me. "Thad, don't you think it's time you beat this thing?"
I did think it was time. I'd thought it was time ever since I was five and realized I was the only kid I knew who wasn't begging his mom to take him to the pool. I begged not to go. I'd accepted the fact that I was the strange kid. I was the one afraid of a thing some babies and most pups do naturally. Lots of folks encouraged me to learn to swim. Lots of folks. Why does some people's encouragement leave you lonelier than you were before? I think my cousins half hoped I'd never swim; if I did, they'd have to come up with a whole new string of jokes. My grandma simply denied the evidence. "Can't be, just not right, " she said whenever the topic came up.
The past two summers, every Tuesday and Saturday, my dad took me to the city pool. He'd hold me in the water, twirling me round, making waves. He'd show me the strokes again and again. If fear overwhelmed me, he'd hold me tight until my panic calmed. Whenever kids would point and snicker, he'd say, "You're not learning to swim for them, Thad. You do it for you."
One time this happened, dad set me on the side and, after making sure the boys were still watching, he went under and flipped at just the right angle so that his butt peeked above the water on the turn. Only, his butt was bare. A wide, white moon for the entire world to see. A few mothers went wide-eyed (appalled or intrigued, I couldn't say), and we were escorted out of the pool -- but that slow walk side by side, past those speechless boys and out the front entrance, was the happiest and the safest I've ever felt.
[to be continued...]
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