WHAT’S SO DOGGONE FUNNY? (Part Two)

 

The fort was located at 9795 Garden Drive, in Hanford, California. It was a nice stretch of land with two separate dwelling places, a huge pig pen and a non-functioning well, (hence the need for a neighborhood outhouse). Water was “fetched” in four metal milk cans, and rationed out like some post-apocalyptic movie scene. (Do not ask where the water came from.)

The larger dwelling belonged to P.T. Price and his wife O.C. Smith-Price. (Together, they had three children, Raymond, Shirley, and Evelyn.) O.C. Smith-Price was the birth mother of Booker T. Smith, my less-than-illustrious stepfather. When I met O.C., she was already bedridden and as cantankerous and mean as an old female pit bulldog protecting her litter. Speaking of her litter, to her they must have been above menial tasks because O.C. would always call me when she needed something basal or downright filthy done.

The Price home was a real house, made of contemporary wood, plaster, and metallic materials. Our “house”, (and I use the term loosely), was an “EXPEDITIONARY RIGID WALL RAPIDLY DEPLOYABLE STRUCTURE”, left behind or installed by the military. There was a pre-fabricated kitchen area with a kerosene stove, ice box, (real ice, not a refrigerator), a useless kitchen sink, and a flimsy straw trashcan. A round metal tub rounded out the kitchen/living room area. The tub was used for bathing, washing clothes, and storing dirty water for flushing the in-door toilet at night. My sister, Linda, and I were the household washing machine. They called it “tromping the clothes”, similar to old wine-making techniques, only with soap and dirty clothes. Oh, did I mention that the place was haunted? I assume that military men and women died in this unit, back in the war. Which war? I could not say, but the evidence of other-worldly beings plagued me for years while I lived there. A female child beckoned to me daily whenever I was alone in the “house”. I never turned my back when leaving the “house”; I wanted to see it coming if I was attacked. (Your belief is not required here.)

One beautiful, sunshiny day I was summoned to the bed chamber of O.C. Smith-Price. Being a dutiful step-grandson I complied. When I arrived at the bed chamber, I was commanded to remove and empty the chamber pot, which smelled up the entire room. I asked Miss O.C. “Why can’t one of your own children empty the pee pot”. Her reply was, “Because I want you to do it!” My retort? “You old BOBO!” (Something I made up on the spot.) “Get under the bed,” she said. “And stay there until my son gets home!” (Meaning Booker T.) So under the bed, I went and stayed the whole sunshiny day.

If you have never spent the whole day under an invalid’s bed, let me tell you there is not much in the way of entertainment provided under there. No toys, no bugs to chase, not even a dust ball to blow around. However, there was one lonely little un-popped, popcorn kernel. I rolled it around until that got boring; then started exploring its fit in my nostrils and ears, “in and out, in and out, in… (Oops! No “out”?) The kernel was lodged in my ear, never to be seen again, (by me that is). When my mother and stepfather returned home, I was read the riot act by “him” for what I said to his mother, (O.C., keep up!). I could only hear half of what was being said and pointed my good ear in “his” direction. My mother was more concerned with my recent hearing loss than the “BOBO Incident”, and asked what was wrong with me. “I put a piece of popcorn in my ear”, I replied. After several parental attempts at removing the popcorn kernel, it was off to the hospital again. I fought as long and as hard as I could with the medical personnel, who were trying desperately to hold me down and get the popcorn kernel out of my ear, until they finally decided to gas me again, like before! Good old ether, worked every time. KIDS! DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME! POPCORN SHOULD BE EATEN, NOT INSERTED!