As the father of
three boys, I often hear, "Oh, your poor wife..." As a kid, I heard similar
sympathies for my mom. "Four boys! Oh, your poor mother..."
What? Are we
really worse than girls?
Okay, so my oldest
brother had a thing for torching the field at the end of the block when the
grass grew too tall. And while IÕm no stranger to childhood mishaps with heavy
construction equipment, one of my brothers lost control of a "borrowed"
bulldozer and smashed into the Ashcraft Bakery on First Street and Lehigh, then
tried torching the big machine to cover his tracks, not realizing iron is
fireproof.
This is the same
brother that, three times, got a concussion by falling off the back of a moving
ice cream truck as he pulled open the door to the freezer compartment.
Now, my guys play
pretty rough 'n tumble. When the youngest was in diapers and learning to walk,
the oldest often stuck out his leg to trip his baby brother. And there are
still picture perfect hugs between two of the boys, followed by a firm shove to
the ground or nonchalant kick in the backside.
So when our sons
come crying foul, my wife and I remind them that my brothers and I often
attempted homicide on one another.
For instance, my
second oldest brother Tom pushed my immediate older brother, Rick, off the roof
of the log cabin playhouse in our backyard–just to see if he
bounced. Rick decided to test that same law of physics by pushing me out of my
friend's tree house. Rather than bouncing, I landed knee-first on a lawn chair.
Two stitches, thank you.
I'm not sure what
physical law Rick was investigating when he coaxed me into an airtight footlocker
while playing Batman. I was 4-years old and dumb enough to be Batman. The
problem was that my utility belt had been lost along with the key.
A delightful woman
named Ruth helped my mom out a few days a week, including the day of my
imprisonment. In an African-American dialect common for 1960's Texas, she ran
from the house in a panic, yelling, "They done killt li'l David! They killt da
baby!"
That brought the
Bellaire Police and Fire Departments to the scene. The locker was cut open and
a blue-faced child revived on the front lawn at 4811 Saxon Street–a
familiar location for Bellaire first responders.
The first time
they came to our house was when I discovered how to dial "0" on our rotary
phone. The lady was really nice and asked if I needed help. I concocted a tale
about a mean man in the backyard with a shotgun pointed at my dad. She might
have discerned the truth had I not set the receiver down and wandered off.
All
those lights and whaling sirens were really cool screeching to halt in front of
our house.
Honestly,
I know I was punished; I just have no memory of it. Perhaps that's due either
to its severity or a testament to my parents' occasionally miraculous velvet
discipline.
What I do
remember, however, is that cleaning out the storage closet under the back
stairs, I came across a small green footlocker, dented and showing cut marks at
the lock. It was among my brother's things when he died. And like him, I have a
hard time parting with it because, when I see it, I shake my head, smile and I
think, "Four boys! Our poor mother!"
Copyright 2006 by David Falloure
