Buy the book Growing Up Itchy

Something rumbled. Grey cocked his head. Was someone coming to visit? The noise was low, filling the house like the distant roar of a large truck driving up the mountain.

Somehow, different. Maybe bigger.

Mom was working in the kitchen. She paused, and after a moment turned to look at the children.

“Shhh… listen!” She ordered.

They listened. That rumble was still there, low and ominous. It was not quite like a truck. The dishes in the cupboard rattled, and the windows shook. The children looked at each other, puzzled.

Mom opened the door and stood outside, looking down into the valley. Grey followed her out. They listened until the rumbling faded away, turning this way and that to try to hear where the noise came from.

Mom waited a bit longer, then she shrugged and went back inside to attend to the kids. Today was Sunday, and getting ready for church was a chore that could not be put off for too long.

The mysterious rumble subsided, and Grey and Ash bickered and grumbled as they were forced into nice clothes, and were eventually hauled off to church.

“Did you feel the volcano this morning?” someone asked Dad when they arrived.

They had no way of getting news, as the truck did not have a working radio. There was no electricity at the house, which meant no radio or television.

It was time for the service to start, and the conversations about the volcano died down as each family found their seats.

Grey sat still, biding the time until he could eat the potluck lunch and play with his friends. The congregation shared a pot-luck dinner together most Sundays, and he looked forward to it.

Church over and meal done, they drove home.

It started snowing. It was May.

The stuff falling from the sky was not quite like any snow they had seen before – it was more like ashes from the stove.

It must be ashes from the volcano! Grey spent the remainder of the day watched the ashes fall, a thin hazy layer collecting over everything. Things seemed strangely quiet, and the air smelled different, somehow. As the sun began to set, the air grew still and Grey had an eerie feeling, looking out onto all of that strange ash.

Mt. St. Helens blew its top only two-hundred miles to the south.

“Dad, do you think our mountain could blow?” Grey asked, as they were getting ready for bed that evening.

“No, volcanoes are very rare. Our mountain is probably too small.”

Grey snuggled under his blankets, trying not to think about volcanoes. This was surely one Sunday he’d never forget, and he was thankful that most were much more routine.

Usually the family would pile into the old Jeep and head down to church. The Church, Mom said, emphasizing the capital C, was a gathering of people. It was not a building or a place. You could have church anywhere.

Sunday was the day when Mom wanted the boys to be cleaner than normal. This meant that they must take baths on Saturday night, whether they needed them or not. They usually did of course, and the water quickly dirtied and had to be changed after each child bathed. That meant a whole lot more water hauling for Grey – more cramped hands, more tipped-over wheelbarrow disasters. Baths are terrible on so many levels, Grey thought.

The wood folding chair was hard underneath Grey, who was at that moment sitting in church – as clean as he ever cared to be. The bath was over, thankfully. He didn’t care to re-live it, but he would have to haul a load of water when they got home. A groan almost escaped his lips at the thought.

He clamped down on the groan, which morphed into a threatening yawn, head feeling like it would explode. Concentrating on holding in the yawn was a task that used up just about all of his willpower. Good Lord, help me not to fall asleep!

Dust motes drifted lazily across beams of morning sunlight, occasionally swirling when they intersected some random current of air. The church met every week in a building called the “Grange.” Grey didn’t know what that word meant, but it had something to do with farming. The word reminded him of “grain” and “range”, and he amused himself trying to put together other words. West and east. “Weast.” Night and day. “Nay.” Or perhaps “dight?” Well, sometimes it didn’t work.

His eyes wanted to shut, and suddenly tried to do just that. The congregation blurred and began to slide sideways. He gave his head a tiny shake and made himself focus, forcing his eyes wide and looking around to stay awake.

His few friends were all there. He knew everyone in the Grange – families and their children from the surrounding mountains and valleys. Rows of washed-up kids, legs dangling from folding chairs, moms and dads holding smaller children.

Grey and Asher had spent hours playing with most of them at some point, they typically roamed the countryside together while parents talked and caught up on the local gossip. Their friends would sometimes take them to see ancient log cabins; jumbled piles of logs rotting in the mountain turf, and they would explore these ruins looking for gold, diamonds, and other precious metals. They only found thorns and rhubarb. Each kid would eat his fill of the tart plants, and return to the house with handfuls of the crunchy stalks so that the moms could (hopefully) make rhubarb pie.

Sometimes they would find an old car. Trees grew up through the engine compartment, completely disregarding the technical marvel that was someone’s fondest dream back when it first rolled off the showroom floor. Jumbles of foliage exploded up through these derelicts, shrugging off old oil, gasoline, metal, and rubber with lush disdain. The pinnacle of human transportation was reduced to nothing before the never-ending advance of the wilderness. The children loved hacking their way through the tangle to play in these ancient, unseen marvels, and were always a little sad to leave at the end of a long, fun day. They would go home, but the automobiles stayed and rusted, continuing their unstoppable return to the earth.

Grey’s memories provided some much-needed distraction from the warm, sleepy church service, but if he wasn’t careful, reminiscing of good times playing outdoors would seamlessly turn into actual dreaming. He did another quick scan of the room. He and his friends would sometimes try to catch each others attention during the service, and if successful, try to make each other laugh.

Grey glanced over at his friend Michael and saw that he was making a face at him, head down so that his parents couldn’t see. A sleepy half-snicker slipped out of Grey’s throat, and Dad gave him a hard stare. Grey looked forward, face quickly blanked and tried to focus on what was being said up front. Directly ahead: brown hair, a metal clasp across the back. That was Amy… perhaps Mary? He stared at the back of a head, not really sure who it was. He could see however that she was being perfectly good – girls were much better behaved than boys. No one knew why, but that’s the way it was.

He looked over to his side and Ash was nodding off, head jerking suddenly as sleep overtook him for a second. Bethany was dozing, thank goodness. She was awfully loud when she was awake. Being a little kid had its advantages. At his age, he couldn’t get away with openly sleeping in church like that.

A loud harsh scrape of a folding chair echoed across the big meeting room, and heads turned, spines tingling at the sudden and powerful screech. Grey felt a tiny amount of pity for the poor kid who made that sound – being the target of all those eyes could make someone wither like an earthworm on a cook-stove. He was happy that it wasn’t him. He knew how to deal with the folding chairs during service. Shifting your weight on the chair without the loud, jarring squawk or the rattle of wooden slats was an art that he had mastered. There was no length he wouldn’t go to avoid public embarrassment.

The speaker spoke on, and Grey tried again to listen.

Was that a snore? A new noise perked up his ears. He held still, staring at the preacher but not actually hearing him at all. The finely honed skill of selective hearing kicked in (all boys have this skill) and the room was silent. He listened for a repetition of the sound. Maybe it was the wind… perhaps a breath? It was certainly NOT another volcano. Time stood still as he bent his ears to hear this sound again. He thought maybe it was a snake, hissing.

Mom and Dad looked forward, nodding at regular intervals to the words being spoken at the front. Ash struggled to stay awake beside them, and Bethany dozed.

Grey listened, intent on finding that sound again.

Movement at the back of the room. After a quick glance at Dad, Grey stole a look back towards the door. A man was getting up. He was moving to the door. Something about the way that guy moved… like he was inquisitive. It wasn’t a trip to the outhouse he was after, that guy must have heard the noise. Grey was sure of this.

He barely had time to ponder this development when they all heard it.

“Hissssssssssss… whooOOMPH!”

All heads turned. Even old Nana visibly twitched, along with the other people who normally kept their gentle gazes firmly fixed on the preacher. They were the stalwart few in the congregation who were too old to be distracted by fussing babies, screeching chairs, or sunlight out the window.

In one suddenly-choreographed movement, every man in the congregation stood up. Chairs slid back and Sunday shoes and sandals trampled towards the door. This was turning out to be one of the best church services Grey had ever experienced!

Dad leaped up too, and Grey was right on his heels. All sleepiness vanished, replaced by excitement. Ash was quick on the uptake and snapped into alertness in record time, dreams of delicious poached venison immediately forgotten as he slid off his chair.

Men and boys burst out the front door of the Grange, women and girls close behind. The entire service had been evacuated, leaving only the wide-eyed, staring preacher, and old Nana; eyes once again firmly fixed forward. Nothing could sway her to commit impropriety. She’d being going to church longer than most people had been alive, and she knew how to focus.

The cause of the strange noise was instantly apparent.

Grey saw orange. It was a car – sleek and bright and modern, pretty much unlike Dad’s old Jeep in every way. The rear window was a large expanse of glass, looking every bit like part of a spaceship. A black stripe ran down the side of this wheeled marvel, making it look like it was going fast – even while sitting still.

Even while on fire in a church parking lot.

The beautiful orange paint and black stripes were accentuated by brilliant flames rising majestically from the front of the car. The fire burned skyward, dancing joyfully as if getting involved in a little upbeat Sunday worship of its own.

Men exclaimed, women gasped, and boys heart’s soared as the sleepy Sunday morning exploded into the greatest Sunday in memory. Grey and Ash tried not to whoop as they vaulted over the porch railing, surrounded by a crowd of excited boys. Quiet, ponderous thoughts forgotten, the very atmosphere sparkled with forbidden action and adrenaline.

The orange fire surged ever higher as the ’72 AMC Gremlin exploded. Someone would have to catch a ride home with a friend today. The men doused the fire with buckets of water, but the damage was done, the car would never drive again.

Someone made the suggestion to end the service early and start lunch, and it was almost unanimously agreed upon. The boys discussed the explosion in excited whispers during the meal, facts quickly gaining extra flavor as rumors and theories grew.

“Did you hear? The car was cursed!”

“It’s a Gremlin, after all. My mom told me that’s like a demon.”

“Who names a car after a demon!”

“I bet God cursed the car!”

“No, they just don’t make ’em the same anymore. God doesn’t go around cursing stuff.”

Grey looked around at the congregation, chatting and eating. The waves of voices and clattering of silverware created a din that could be heard well into the next county. He could see old Nana, surrounded by chattering women. She focused on her broccoli, smiling innocently as she ate.

Why did she even own a Gremlin? Grey thought.