Torrey
07-28-2011, 10:48 PM
Unintended Gifts
When I was young, we would go camping in the San Bernardino Mountains every holiday weekend. My father & “uncle” got into dirt bikes early in my life. High up in the granite mountains, they blazed trails all over the property of a family friend. High peaks, nearing 12,000 feet, surrounded the meadow we called home on these weekends.
Mom rarely made camping trips with us. She ventured out of her wine-jug fog about once a year, and on those weekends, I could invite a friend. My best friend, Chris, the youngest of seven kids, loved to come along. Most of the time, we whiled away these leisurely weekends in a nearby creek, watching out for rattlesnakes. We camped in their universe. Dad and Uncle Bob carried pistols all the time, and I learned early on how to gut and skin one of those nasty critters. As much as we both wanted, we never got to taste a cooked rattlesnake.
One Labor Day weekend, with Mom and Chris along, Dad and Uncle Bob brought the bikes. The road up the mountain serpentined along craggly precipices and vertigo-inspiring drops. A little village, once rumored to have been overrun by Hell’s Angels, sat as the last outpost of civilization before entering the wilderness. I was always allowed to pick out a comic book when we stopped.
Mom hated the dirt bikes almost as much as Chris and I hated the snakes. In later years, I would lay over a rock dangling a chrome shell casing in front of a snake burrow while Dad waited patiently for a critter to show his or her head. If only the old man had known how to properly dress out a snake skin, I would have grown up with enough usable skins for a nice pair of boots. Instead he salted them, rolled ‘em up, and left them to dry in plastic baggies.
Somehow, Dad convinced Mom to ride along one day. I recall another family had joined us, and they were “morally opposed” to guns, so we were at the mercy of the snakes. As Mom hopped on the back of her life, impending doom loomed in her eyes.
Sure enough, less than an hour later, we packed up the camp, and took her to the hospital. At some bump in the road, she flew off the back of the bike and seriously tweaked her back.
In short time, she came home from the hospital to recuperate. Dad had acquired a hospital bed (pretty sure it was rented) and one of those adjustable, hospital tables designed so the base slid under the bed. She remained in this state for a long time, during which my aunt began to ship full-strength codeine from Canada, hidden under candy bars. This, combined with her love of jug wine quickly evolved into an addiction.
The family who had joined us on that trip had a daughter my age. Caroline, an annoying, needy little thing, was a bit of a control freak. As mom’s back improved, they visited a few times.
On one of these visits, the hospital bed had disappeared, but the table remained. It had the stability of a gurney, and, kids left to be kids, our imaginations got the best of us. Caroline knew things, and possessed a curiosity, anatomically speaking, with which I was wholly unfamiliar.
The how and why of the “playing doctor” remains a bit of a mystery to me. It is crystal clear, though, that fully undressed, we examined one another. I owned one of those plastic doctor sets, replete with stethoscope and other implements of destruction. She convinced me to let her play the doctor, and with this in mind, I climbed onto the table, wearing her panties (and nothing else). I could not believe how much better her underwear felt than my traditional tighty-whities.
With a towel for a sheet, she played her role well until our giggling attracted the attention of the adults. Soon, we were surrounded by four very shocked adults. Caroline’s parents whisked her away, fully imbibed with the Canadian whiskey they’d been downing. I, on the other hand, was left behind to the scorn and accusations of both parents.
Somehow, I managed to keep the panties. They resided between my mattress and box spring for a few years. From time to time, I would sneak them out and wear them while sleeping.
Later, on a sleepover, I returned the unintended gift to Caroline, which she promptly exchanged for a new pair. Subsequent visits would involve arguments over what show to watch on the TV in my house. I never fully understood why she wanted me to watch Sonny & Cher.
At the age of eleven, I was invited to her house for a weekend sleepover. Odd that her mother had no problem with us sleeping in the same bed. In any case, for two nights, she “made” me sleep in one of her nighties. We were never caught, but it was also the last sleepover.
When I was young, we would go camping in the San Bernardino Mountains every holiday weekend. My father & “uncle” got into dirt bikes early in my life. High up in the granite mountains, they blazed trails all over the property of a family friend. High peaks, nearing 12,000 feet, surrounded the meadow we called home on these weekends.
Mom rarely made camping trips with us. She ventured out of her wine-jug fog about once a year, and on those weekends, I could invite a friend. My best friend, Chris, the youngest of seven kids, loved to come along. Most of the time, we whiled away these leisurely weekends in a nearby creek, watching out for rattlesnakes. We camped in their universe. Dad and Uncle Bob carried pistols all the time, and I learned early on how to gut and skin one of those nasty critters. As much as we both wanted, we never got to taste a cooked rattlesnake.
One Labor Day weekend, with Mom and Chris along, Dad and Uncle Bob brought the bikes. The road up the mountain serpentined along craggly precipices and vertigo-inspiring drops. A little village, once rumored to have been overrun by Hell’s Angels, sat as the last outpost of civilization before entering the wilderness. I was always allowed to pick out a comic book when we stopped.
Mom hated the dirt bikes almost as much as Chris and I hated the snakes. In later years, I would lay over a rock dangling a chrome shell casing in front of a snake burrow while Dad waited patiently for a critter to show his or her head. If only the old man had known how to properly dress out a snake skin, I would have grown up with enough usable skins for a nice pair of boots. Instead he salted them, rolled ‘em up, and left them to dry in plastic baggies.
Somehow, Dad convinced Mom to ride along one day. I recall another family had joined us, and they were “morally opposed” to guns, so we were at the mercy of the snakes. As Mom hopped on the back of her life, impending doom loomed in her eyes.
Sure enough, less than an hour later, we packed up the camp, and took her to the hospital. At some bump in the road, she flew off the back of the bike and seriously tweaked her back.
In short time, she came home from the hospital to recuperate. Dad had acquired a hospital bed (pretty sure it was rented) and one of those adjustable, hospital tables designed so the base slid under the bed. She remained in this state for a long time, during which my aunt began to ship full-strength codeine from Canada, hidden under candy bars. This, combined with her love of jug wine quickly evolved into an addiction.
The family who had joined us on that trip had a daughter my age. Caroline, an annoying, needy little thing, was a bit of a control freak. As mom’s back improved, they visited a few times.
On one of these visits, the hospital bed had disappeared, but the table remained. It had the stability of a gurney, and, kids left to be kids, our imaginations got the best of us. Caroline knew things, and possessed a curiosity, anatomically speaking, with which I was wholly unfamiliar.
The how and why of the “playing doctor” remains a bit of a mystery to me. It is crystal clear, though, that fully undressed, we examined one another. I owned one of those plastic doctor sets, replete with stethoscope and other implements of destruction. She convinced me to let her play the doctor, and with this in mind, I climbed onto the table, wearing her panties (and nothing else). I could not believe how much better her underwear felt than my traditional tighty-whities.
With a towel for a sheet, she played her role well until our giggling attracted the attention of the adults. Soon, we were surrounded by four very shocked adults. Caroline’s parents whisked her away, fully imbibed with the Canadian whiskey they’d been downing. I, on the other hand, was left behind to the scorn and accusations of both parents.
Somehow, I managed to keep the panties. They resided between my mattress and box spring for a few years. From time to time, I would sneak them out and wear them while sleeping.
Later, on a sleepover, I returned the unintended gift to Caroline, which she promptly exchanged for a new pair. Subsequent visits would involve arguments over what show to watch on the TV in my house. I never fully understood why she wanted me to watch Sonny & Cher.
At the age of eleven, I was invited to her house for a weekend sleepover. Odd that her mother had no problem with us sleeping in the same bed. In any case, for two nights, she “made” me sleep in one of her nighties. We were never caught, but it was also the last sleepover.