Just sittin' on the porch.

Sittin' on the porch brings to mind a summer's evening and lemonade, a cool breeze and the smell of freshly cut grass.  For most people.  For myself, it brings back the memory of stinging buns.  My second experience of the stinging bun sort, brought on by porch sitting was when I was around six years old.  It was a nice hot summer day, we lived on a beautiful lake surrounded by mountains, and the summer people (as my parents called them, because we lived there all year round) were vacationing in the neighboring lake houses.  I had made friends with a couple girls my own age who's parents owned a cabin just a couple houses away. They had the best dock to swim from and a nice sandy swimming area.  Not like the muck and sea-weedy area right off of our dock.  We were getting ready to go to town.  The big town of Libby, eighteen miles away.  It meant that shopping and maybe dinner at one of the two cafe's in town was in store for us, and it was a big deal. I was all cleaned up and told to sit on the porch and wait, and stay clean, while my parents got ready.  I could see the neighbor girls floating on inner tubes, splashing and having a great time.  They called me over.  I shook my head.  They insisted so I thought, "what's the harm?"  As I stood on the dock feeling jealous my friend Penny, also six, said that if I was really careful I could slide onto her innertube without getting wet, and have a little fun. I did have fun, although the part about staying clean and dry didn't quite work out.   The stinging buns comes from  the application of a wooden spoon applied to a soaking wet bottom.
     You'd think I would have learned this lesson at age five, before we moved to the lake.  My aunt was visiting from Oregon and had sewn me a beautiful white lacy dress.  She was left in charge of me while my mom went grocery shopping, and wanted to dress me up as a surprise while she was gone. She put me into the itchy lacy dress, new white ruffled socks, black Mary Jane shoes, and a red ribbon in my hair.  She told me to sit on the front step and wait for my mom.  There was no lake at that apartment complex, but there was a really huge dirt pile from some construction.  Kids were climbing up and sliding down.  What could be the harm of a few turns sliding down the hill?  You've got it, stinging buns, but not from sliding down the dirt hill.
     I had learned my lesson.  If I was told to sit on the porch and wait I would not move.  No way.  Not  when mom had sewn matching outfits for me and my two year old sister.  I was eight, and I knew better than to move off of that porch. Not even to fetch my sister from the newly oiled and gravelled road.  Not even to prevent her from sitting in the middle of the tar and gravel while she made a tar and gravel castle.  Not even when she rubbed tar into her hair and all over her new outfit. 
I still think it's unfair that I was the one that had stingin' buns after that one!

Grave Robbers

     I had the great fortune to live right on a lake near a small town in Northwest Montana called Troy, from the time I was around four years old, until I was around eight years old.  When I was eight we moved to a big city eighteen miles away that actually had a stoplight but that's a whole different adventure to write about.      My parents purchased a home that was actually a summer home, on a small lake tucked into the mountains named Savage Lake.  We had the open floor plan before it was cool.  Actually, the home was just one very large room, there were no bedrooms.  We had an actual plumbed bathroom, but you had to step outside the door into the carport to access it, as it had been attached after the original cabin had been built.  It was a cold few steps to the bathroom during the middle of winter, that's for sure.  Eventually my parents enclosed the covered porch near the front of the cabin, overlooking the lake, which created a master bedroom for them.  Their contractor of choice was a boozy neighbor named Elmer, who had quite an interesting family that should be the subject of another post. 
     As you can imagine, living on a lake was a terrific place to grow up.  We had swimming and boating in the summer, ice skating, ice fishing and snow mobiling on the frozen lake in the winter. My mom spent many an hour shoveling snow on the lake to create a place for me to skate.  I have many memories of summer BBQ's, and get togethers.  I remember the little known betting sport of turtle racing, wherein hapless turtles were snatched from their logs, had numbers painted on their shells, and were placed fifty yards or so from the water while tipsy adults placed bets on which turtle would reach the water first.  Not exactly a high speed event,  you could use the bathroom and fetch a snack while your turtle was racing, and not miss much of the action. 
     For my sixth birthday I received the gift that I wanted the most.  A bike.  Not just any bike, mind you.  It was a purple banana seat bike with a basket.  Not just a basic utilitarian metal basket, either.  This basket was white wicker, with colorful painted flowers on it.  I was in heaven.  Unfortunately, however, the only level place to ride my bike was out on the highway.  Our property sloped down steeply from the highway, straight down to the lake.  Being the early 70's, though, out to the highway I went, and of course bike helemts were unheard of at that time, and nobody worried about child abductions, so I was turned loose.  Other than some vague warnings about wandering into the woods where there may be a "hermit," I was pretty much free to roam, although I worried alot about hermits and wondered if I would recognize one if I saw one. 
     Directly across the highway from our house was another small lake named Milner Lake.  On one side of the lake there was a beautiful little cemetary nestled into the trees.  I liked to ride my bike to the cemetary and read the headstones, and wonder about the lives of the folks buried there.  Even at six years old I was truly saddened at the couple of baby graves that were tucked amongst the others. 
     One day I noticed a pile of dead flowers and assorted vases that was placed off to the side of the graveyard.  There had been a cemetary clean-up day and these were the discards that were waiting to be disposed of.  I picked out a pretty glass vase, popped it into my white wicker basket with colorful flowers painted on it, and pedalled home.  Mom was thrilled with the vase.  This was the start of my brief career as a grave robber.
     A few days later we were visited by my grandma and my uncle, who is two years older that me. He brought his bike so we could ride on the highway together.  Grandma had admired my mom's new vase, and asked if there were any more like it on the discard pile at the cemetary.  Off we pedalled. We discovered that the discard pile had been removed and were afraid to go home empty handed.  We scratched our heads a little, wondering what to do, when my uncle pointed out that there were many new vases and fresh flowers on the graves.  Yep.  Yes, we did.  Mom and Grandma were thrilled with our haul.  Not just one vase, but several were tucked into our bike baskets, complete with nice fresh fake flowers. 
     At the time, I felt most guilty about telling the fib about these lovely items being on the discard pile, the concept of disrespecting the dead and the families of the dead didn't enter my six year old mind at the time.  Years later, of course, I had to wonder about Mom and Grandma.  Did they really think that all those fresh fake flowers and lovely new vases had been tossed out?  Interestingly enough, my uncle and I still remember this, Grandma has passed on and my mom remembers NOTHING.  Hmmm.
     When I update my resume these days, I prefer not to disclose my brief career as a grave robber.