Buy the book Growing Up Itchy

The evening cooled, chickadees and grasshoppers finished singing for the day. The last doves mourned the falling of the sun, their low, solemn voices echoing down the mountain slope. The air took on a touch of autumn, a hint of cold to come. The breeze from over the border blew Grey’s blonde hair into a new mess. Two straight miles of mountainside and a full head of hair were not enough to remove the Canadian chill from the wind.

He stood outside at the woodpile, scanning the rows of pine logs, seeking one that would split well. Grey was a scrawny boy – eleven years of time began to stretch him out like pulled taffy. Each year he could split more wood, carry more water, and work harder in general. Dad made sure of that. Still, he had his limits. He pulled a log down from the pile and eyed it critically, looking for knots. He could not yet split just any log. The ones with zero knots were rare, but he could split logs with any number of smaller knots. He would leave anything with a big knot in the pile. Dad would split those himself.

They burned pine up on the mountain. Ponderosa Pine trees grew just about everywhere in large forests, their dark green uniformity broken by the occasional patch of Douglas Fir. Aspens grew in the hollows and anywhere water was, but the pines dominated. Everyone on the mountain burned wood to cook and heat their houses, and countless years of wood burning had not made a noticeable dent in the local forests.

Dad used a chainsaw to cut the logs for the woodpile, and Grey used the ax to split them. Their ax was the same double-bit ax that they used to butcher chickens. No one ever sharpened it, but it still seemed to work.

Tonight was the first of the season that they would need a fire for heat, so Dad had him chop a few more than usual.

He split a few pieces, enjoying the crack of the pine as it fell apart, and the clean smell of the sapwood as it touched air for the first time. He stacked four big armfuls next to the stump at the front door. Glad to be done, he went back inside to pick out a splinter from his arm.

He pulled out his pocket knife. With careful motions, he eased the tip of the tiny blade underneath the protruding ends of the splinter, pinched down with his thumb and gently pulled it out. It was just about impossible to get through a whole day without at least one splinter.

His stomach growled. “How long until dinner?” he asked Mom.

She was in the kitchen, cooking at the wood-powered cook-stove. “It’ll be about 30 minutes,” she said.

Grey figured he would use that time to work on his dagger. He went back out to sit on the stump and pulled out his pocket knife again.

Dad had given him the knife last year, on his tenth birthday. It had antler-bone grips, and two slim blades that folded smartly into a sleek rounded handle. It was an “Old Timer” folder, and was his very first knife. It was never as sharp as when it was new, but he didn’t mind much. It still worked.

Grey loved to pass the time carving A bored boy could make just about anything with a knife, if he were patient. He had tried to get his school friends involved in his carving hobby, but it seemed that few of them could sit still long enough – it was a solo past-time. With that Old Timer he could drill holes, carve words, and even make little people and animals. He could also make miniature bits of lumber by using the knife to split bits of wood. He glued these tiny boards together to make houses and other buildings. He planned to submit these works of art at the next county fair; he got a blue ribbon for his effort last year.

He sat on the stump with a shoe-box in hand and looked over his little collection of unfinished carvings. He had a little squirrel and a sailboat in progress, but he didn’t feel like working on either of them. He only had half an hour until dinnertime. He picked up a long, thin piece of pine – it was to be a dagger, and he had a good start on it already. The stick turned in his hands as he inspected it, thinking about where to continue. The handle was roughed out; the rounded pommel and grip beginning to take form. He decided he could work on the grip.

He carefully sliced away yellow shavings, bringing out the definition in the grip by adding a spiral groove – like wrapped leather. He rounded the pommel a bit more, thinking that it should be more spherical.

The hand-guard on this dagger was a little tricky – he wanted it to jut out as far as possible. The stick was thin, so that limited his options. He settled on slight triangular protrusions on either side. It would not offer a lot of hand protection, but this was shaping up to be an assassin’s dagger. Assassins didn’t risk their lives or waste their time getting into direct confrontations, so the story books said.

After dinner, the mood inside the house was tense. Mom and Dad were out of sorts again. The tension in the air was a bit thick, so Grey decided to go back out; he could work on his squirrel. It was half done, lacking some detail around the head. He was a little concerned with the crack that appeared to be forming – it was going to be a problem and he’d have to be careful with it. He knew that it wouldn’t turn out as nice as it could have, but he was too far along to abandon it now. He carefully worked on cutting detail into the rodent’s little head until the light faded.

The next day dawned, and he daydreamed his way through school, thinking about his dagger carving. As with most of his projects, he thought about them often – and worked on them as much as possible until they were complete, obsessing over the details. Making things was just about his favorite past-time.

He returned home and pulled his shoe-box from under his bed. It greeted him with a quiet, friendly sound. Only small bits of wood can make that unique noise; bumping into each other with musical tones.

Opening the lid, he pushed aside the various half-carved things that competed for space with his set of wood-handled chisels. He scattered the items in the box until the sleek, hard feel of his pocketknife greeted him. He pulled out the Old Timer. It stayed in that box when he wasn’t using it. He might lose it if he took it with him to school. He had lost things at school before, and this knife was one of his most precious possessions.

He slid the box back underneath the bed and knelt down to look. His dagger wouldn’t fit in the box, it was too long. He kept it on the floor next to the box.

He worked on the dagger again that evening. It was really coming along nicely. The blade was about as sharp as he could make it without sandpaper, which he did not have. It was tapered with a long groove in it, and double-edged. It was fine work – maybe he’d submit it to the county fair.

***

As he sat in the doctor’s chair, getting twelve stitches under his eye, he thought about how sharp he made his dagger, with no small amount of pride.

The stitches were going in near the same spot as when Caleb almost bit his eye out a few years back. Grey hated the feeling of the thread tugging through his numb skin, but he knew what to expect this time.

After he completed the dagger, he kept it safely under his bed with his carving box and other treasures. It turned out the hiding place wasn’t that safe.

A few days later, Grey looked up to see his little brother Malachai standing at the top of the stairs. Even to Grey, who was not used to thinking like a parent, the scene had a dangerous hue. Malachai was still a toddler who didn’t walk too well. He could easily fall down the stairs, Grey thought.

But even more dangerous than the stairs was the fact that his new assassin’s dagger was held tight in Mal’s little fist.

“Mal, gimme that!” Grey said, leaping up the stairs.

Malachai was a hard-headed boy who valued his freedom above all else – being born on the mountain will do that to a child. He grunted and held onto it even tighter, no big kid was going to take anything away from him!

“Mal, let me have it. It’s sharp!”

Grey reached out to take it from his little brother, but Mal wanted the new assassin’s dagger for himself. He couldn’t talk, but he yelled angrily at Grey. Grey grabbed it out of his baby hands.

Then he fell down the stairs with it.

When he hit the floor at the bottom, he stood up, staggering. His face felt tight and he screamed.

“I can’t see!”

Mom was there instantly, and she gasped as she took one look at Grey. He stood up, shaky; blood streaming down his cheek. The wooden knife hung down from Grey’s face; embedded deep.

As carefully and as fast as she could, Mom pulled the knife from Grey’s face, and threw the kids into the car.

Thirty miles from home, in the bright light of the emergency room, Doctor Fergus clucked his tongue as he pulled the black thread through the tender skin underneath Grey’s eye.

“You’re a lucky boy,” Fergus said. “The knife went into your cheek, bounced off your cheekbone, came back out and went over your eye, and back in underneath your eyebrow!”

Grey had quite a story to tell his friends after that.

***

A good while passed before Grey took up his carving again. But eventually he did.

Grey sat on the front step to finish his squirrel. The squirrel had a round belly. It perched on a miniature stump, arms outstretched, as if reaching for a nut. Dad was away somewhere, and Mom was working in the kitchen. With a single glance at her face, Grey had known something was wrong. A heavy lump seemed to form in his chest. The scar below his eye, mostly healed by now, throbbed.

He was focusing on the squirrel in his hands, his obsession with daggers and swords greatly diminished. He hated the splintering crack running up the little squirrel, and wished it wasn’t there. Maybe he’d have to start over again.

“Come here Grey,” Mom said.

The tone of her voice was not a good one. His chest tightened and dread swept over him as she knelt down and prepared to speak.

She told him that they were moving away, and that Dad was not coming with them. They were going to a distant town called Wilbur. Grey had questions, but could not bear to ask them. He knew he wouldn’t like the answers, and he knew Mom wouldn’t like giving them.

The door rattled closed behind him as he went back out to the step. Mindlessly shaving slivers of wood from his squirrel, Grey wondered about the news. Dad was gone a lot. Over the last few months, ever since school started back up, Dad worked more and more, and came home less and less. He had always been gone here or there, back as far as Grey could remember. But now, it was too often. What’s going on?

What really bothered him was Mom – she seemed different now. Mostly sad, but partially angry too. As far as Grey could tell from his limited view, it was Dad’s fault.

He brushed shavings from his legs and realized that evenings at home had changed. It happened so slowly. Kids weren’t usually too observant, but Grey was eleven now. He was never a talkative boy, and that gave him time to notice things. The realization hit him fully, neither Mom or Dad seemed to be friends anymore. He wondered if this was why Dad had a group of new friends. He remembered a time, a few weeks back, when he and Ash went out with Dad and another friend of his – some lady. They went ice skating up in Canada, then to a theater. A boy doesn’t consider social details when he gets to go to an actual movie, but now he wondered about it.

With these thoughts, melancholy settled onto him and he silently vowed to be more helpful, complain less, and work harder.

Why can’t we get back to normal? He didn’t stop to think about what normal really was, or that maybe it hadn’t been “normal” in quite some time. He just hated the out-of-control feeling he was having lately.

***

The fall air was beginning to chill with early signs of winter when Mom gathered the children, and told them to get into the car. A feeling of dread settled onto Grey again; he watched and obeyed. The younger children were quiet. Mom drove down the mountain in silence, red-eyed. Dad followed them, driving the truck. It was filled with things they would need to live in a new place: furniture, clothes, bedding, and other essentials. Grey had his Old Timer in his pocket and his carving box in his lap as he watched the pines fall away behind them.

His brow furrowed. Can I ever forgive Dad for this? He tried to cover up the ache in his chest by thinking about working on his squirrel carving, rattling around in the shoe box. He got so far on it before it began to split. It’s pointless. It may as well be firewood with that crack in it.

When they reached their destination, Dad made him help unload. They put their few things inside the open doorway. Dad said goodbye, and tried to hug the kids, but only the young ones would accept the gesture. Grey and Ash glared, saying nothing. Eventually the awkward moment passed. Dad got in the truck and drove away without another backward glance. Grey figured that he would not see him again for a long time, and he was fine with that. He watched the old jeep drive off.

“Where’s Dad going to go?” Grey said.

“I don’t know. Somewhere in Seattle,” Mom said. She clearly didn’t want to talk about it.

They stood in front of a huge brown building, which loomed over them. It had been a hotel in the old days, Mom told him, but was now owned and operated by a single family. It was named the “Christian House,” and people could come and live there if they needed a place to stay.

Grey figured they were “needy” people now.

The kids followed Mom inside, and stood in the big empty foyer, timidly looking around. Malachai was a toddler and could walk by now, but Mom held him close. The children gaped. The inside of the building was quite stunning. It was paneled in dark wood, worn shiny by generations of occupants. The floors creaked when they stepped, and their voices echoed tiny in the huge room. The entryway was bigger than their entire house back on the mountain. Grey thought it seemed somehow familiar.

There were other children there, watching from behind the banister, and peeking out from distant doorways.

Grey felt himself shrink into his own skin, as he unconsciously tried to become smaller, unnoticeable. The cool indoor air chilled him as strangers eyes probed over him and his family. He itched to be outside, away from these people.

He wanted to go hide in the woods – but there were no forests around here.