five and three quarters

[this memory came back to me after i had re-read a post i made over at "slatfatf" two and a half years ago. the post was wishing dad a happy birthday, which is ironic because i am sure dad has never read it. the post is a favourite of a close friend of mine, i hope you enjoy it too. as for this story, it is one that i think about semi-often. not to worry though, i have long gotten over the phobia. it will be told in three installments, at least i think it will ... i haven't finished it yet. please be patient.]

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It was early summer. School was in and we were in the school yard playing with our tractors. There were four of us, the same four who always turned up. We were experts in school yard farming, but then so was every five and three quarter year old kid. We lived for the time in the yard where we would clear the twigs from the "fence lines" and pebbles from the fields. Plowing and planting, plowing and replanting.

However, this day was not be remembered for the tractors, nor the planting, nor stone picking. This day was to be remembered for a scrunched up face, a big truck and small boy who made a poor choice of location. I remember this day because I was five and three quarters and my dad had come to pick me up from school early. I had pooped my pants.