i am ...

i am seven and grandpa has taken me to a weekend hockey tournament. he has gone to the bathroom in the diner we are at, leaving me at the table to wait for the food.

i don't want anyone else to eat our food on us so you keep watch, he says. i
smile back.

the food arrives while he is away, but i am hungry so i eat.

growing up on the farm meant large, fast meals but fast in that we consumed all of it faster than the food could be passed around the table.

keep passing food around until everyone has some on their plate, dad would
say.

a statement which we would immediately ignore. we wouldn't ignore it on purpose, it was only because the food we were spooning onto our plate was more interesting than listening to something we'd heard everyday at every meal. we were more interested in eating, which, had it been explained to mom in that way, might have made it easier for dad to get us to pass food around first. we were really complementing mom, not ignoring dad.

grandpa returns from the bathroom and finds the table occupied by empty plates and a grandson. the server arrives at the same time with the bill. she is about twenty, brown hair in a ponytail and chews gum. the whole time i am sitting quietly watching them both.

did the food already come to the table?
yes
where's my burger then
he ate it

grandpa looks down at me. i look up at him, smiling and he starts laughing.

well, better order me another one then

steve

my manager's name is steve. you remember steve, don't you? he's the one who was in tears over my keg stacking during the jazz fest.

well, quite often he gets rammy. he'll go running around the pub, making himself more worked up than he was before feeding his ulcer with a cup of coffee every few minutes. i keep telling him he should lay off the caffeine lest it stunt his growth. he keeps telling me that at 27 five foot five is as tall as he gets. then i'll make a joke about being a leprechaun, he'll call me a yank and then run circles round the pub.

a wise man once told me that a wise man once told him that he never repeats a step he's taken. he takes his time and makes sure to bring with him the tools he needs. i don't think that was meant to be a metaphor or anything, but i still like to think about it sometimes and how it, you know, like, makes thoughts think.

while my thoughts were thinking about whether i was to share this bit of knowledge with him they all generally decided that it is better not to share advice that was not asked for. this, also, came from a wise man i know. at least, that is what they would have concluded had steve not interrupted my day dream by asking why the sink was over flowing and the pint i was pulling had filled the floor. he handed me a coffee and a bit of paper that said getyourheadinthegame. i smiled and failed. i tried again and failed again.

steve was looking at me.

i pictured steve in a green suit with a little green hat and a little bowl of lucky charms and smiled. he shook his head, took a bite of the charms and walked away.

fear and clothing

We sat quietly in the cab of the truck for a while.

The truck was big and red and loud. He loved take it round the house in the winter to see how much snow it would go through. I would sit high up in the seat, hands perched on the dash to get the best view. My little head moving like a child in the front row at the cinema, quickly from side to side to take everything in: the snow rushing over the hood, past the doors, swirling away behind us. We cheered as the snow drifts coward away. I was on top of the world.

Not today. Today i was small. Today i sunk deep into the seat and never wanted to be seen again. With my hands were tightly at my side stared at the cab floor because i hadn't disappointed it, at least not yet.

He had brought a change of clothes with him, but he wasn't worried about the truck. He was doing his best to help the situation. He was thirty two and his only son and oldest child had just pooped his pants.

you couldn't have gone to the bathroom, could you?

He wasn't angry, he was confused. i shrugged my shoulders but my eyes didn't leave the floor for fear it would disappear. i didn't want to explain myself, it wouldn't've made sense anyway.It was easier for me to do what i did than to have the other boys make fun of me. They were always in the bathroom laughing at the toilet if something was "left behind". So instead of subjecting myself to that humiliation I did the only thing that made sense to me and I kept it to myself.

The truck roared to life and we started for home.

Well, will we try again tomorrow? he offered as we drove down the road.
I looked up at him with raised eyebrows. I'll have to i thought i'll be behind in the field work.

I can't wait until my son poops his pants at school. I only hope I've got a big red truck so I can bring him home.

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.]

* * *

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.