Billy was a good eater. He was over six feet tall by the time he was twelve, worked hard every day and was always hungry. Since Daddy had known real hunger growing up during the depression, he encouraged him to “eat well.” Billy liked to drink his milk from a quart jar to cut down on troublesome refills, and he would hurt a kid over a piece of leftover fried Continue reading
Monogramed Toilet Seat
My mother often said, “If you have kids, you can’t have anything else.” Well, she was wrong. We had a new toilet seat. After installing it, Daddy looked around, stared us down, and threatened. “I’d better not see anybody’s initials on this seat!” Where did that come from? I’d never heard of anybody putting initials on a toilet seat.
I went about my business, that toilet seat and initials, foremost on my mind. I wrote LDS in my “Night Before Christmas” book, LDS in the sand under the big shade tree, scooped up some mud and wrote LDS on the dog house. Still unsatisfied, I heated the ice pick on a stove burner and burned LDS on a green Tupperware tumbler.
Feeling strangely unfulfilled and restless, I couldn’t think of a thing to do. Billy was off somewhere playing with Froggy. Mother and the baby were taking a nap, so if I stayed in the house, I had to be quiet. I slipped in the kitchen to see if there was any Kool Aid miraculously left in the pitcher. No luck. Dejected, I went to the bathroom.
There it was calling to me, pristine in its unblemished beauty. The new toilet seat!!! I sat down, my bare bottom luxuriating in its cool smoothness. I got up, locked the door, and turned the seat up. Making sure no one was looking through the window, I got Mother’s eyebrow pencil out of the medicine cabinet and wrote LDS in tiny letters where no one would ever see it. Terrified, I erased my crime. The finish was dull from pencil smears. My heart pounded! I was caught! I got tissue and buffed it off. Thank goodness the shine was back. Relieved, I sat on the side of the bathtub to catch my breath. A nail fell out of my pocket and clattered to the bottom of the tub. Never has the devil so possessed a soul. Grasping the nail, I scratched BRS, Billy’s initials, on the toilet seat. Horrified, at the enormity of my crime, I tiptoed past the room where Mother and the baby still slept. By this time, Billy and Froggy had gotten back. We were throwing mud balls at each other when I heard a shriek from the house. “BILLY RAY SWAIN!! You come here this minute!” I didn’t need to go in to know what was wrong. I heard “Spat! Spat! Spat!” and in a few minutes he was out, still snuffling.
“Mother whooped me for putting my initials on the toilet seat. I told her I didn’t know how to write but she said, ‘Who else would put your initials on the toilet seat?’ “
How long could it be before she found the Tupperware?