Buy the book Growing Up Itchy

Time passed, and life at the Christian House bustled on, in a full and wholesome way that Greyson never experienced in all his years. It was like living with a family of twenty people. As members of large families can attest, that sort of life offers plenty of unique diversions, conflicts, joys, and trials. For Grey’s younger siblings, it was undoubtedly a happy time, and it would have been for Grey as well, except for the separation of Mom and Dad.

Grey’s twelfth birthday was a halfhearted affair, non-memorable in every way. Correctly or incorrectly, Grey pinned the blame squarely onto his absent dad. Mr. and Mrs. Svensonn were gracious hosts – they held a simple party for Grey with all of their family in attendance. Grey was no longer shy among the massive group that gathered each night for dinner. No longer strangers, good friends surrounded him, and it was a peculiar feeling. It was something rare, something to be treasured.

Mr. Svensonn continually encouraged Grey in his woodworking endeavors, and one day he came home with a new electric carving tool. It spun a sharp bit, whirring in the hand as it ate up wood like a impatient beaver. Grey could hardly be bothered to go upstairs to eat after that. With the carver motor buzzing, Grey would spend hours carefully whittling away wood. His squirrel, which had been slowly carved by Grey’s pocketknife, watched from the shelf as noise and sawdust filled the room. The sun cut through the airborne particles with beams of light, filling the small basement workshop with joy. Sometimes Hannah would sit on the bench and keep him company while he worked, and they spent many happy hours there, smelling the fine shavings and making up stories about the feet that sometimes passed by the low window to the street.

“Hey – It’s dinner time!”

The voice cut through the whirring and Grey jumped.

”Already?”

The hand of Mr. Svensonn rested on his shoulder.

“I guess you didn’t hear the dinner chime.” Mr. Svensonn said. “We’re having tacos!”

Grey hardly cared about dinner when he was carving, it was easy to lose track of time in that wonderful workshop.

The leaves eventually fell. Jack Frost spread tiny white crystals over the little town like seeds over a field, and the game of crawdad-collecting in the creek became too cold to bear. Fingers simply would not work well when wet and cold.

Christmas was creeping up on them like a thin sheet of ice over a pond. Children cannot help but get excited about Christmas. In such a large family, the excitement was infectious – overtaking Grey despite the concern he felt about Mom and Dad. Even the most introverted child could not withstand grand festivities. Mr. Svensonn put up a big Christmas tree in the foyer, a nine foot fir. All the children were pressed into happy labor making decorations.

Grey was excited about the tree. It reminded him of those back on the mountain. He reached out to touch the prickly needles, and was greeted by the familiar Douglas Fir smell. Not quite like pine, firs had shorter and softer needles. The bark was smooth to the touch. A nine foot tree is quite young; the bark did not have enough years to grow rough and calloused.

He looked around, no one was watching. He stuck his head and shoulders deep into the fir and breathed in the familiar scent. It was easy to remember the times he had spent soaring high in the branches of the fir trees back on the mountain, swinging to and fro as wind pushed the tree like a gentle hand rocks a cradle. He could picture two or three that he and Ash used to climb almost daily. Every detail of these good times came back to him. Youngsters know their surroundings like no one else – they pay attention to the world in a close-up way that no adult can. Grownups have no time for such trivialities.

Grey was pleased to find that he remembered his favorite trees so well, but their permanent absence made him a bit sad.

He always enjoyed the decorating process, and it was even more enjoyable when shared with friends. Long tables were set and loaded down with supplies: glue, colored construction paper, popcorn, and other small things that could be strung onto a tree. They made paper chains, zig-zag ribbons, and little colored stars, each child armed with a pair of scissors and joyous determination. Grey was the fastest and most efficient paper-chain maker in the group, and he took pride in being able to beat Hannah at making the long colored strands. They could not help but compete at most things, and this event was perfect. Ash and the younger boys goofed off too much to be fast at anything, except for maybe spreading glue and glitter around the room amid raucous bouts of laughter.

Grey had the necessary steps memorized down to a cleanly-repeatable pattern: Fold, turn the paper, cut, bend, glue. He found that if he did it the exact same way every time, he could outpace Hannah. They each worked at their own chains, which would eventually be joined into even longer chains. They coordinated color choices carefully for this reason. Efficiency had never excited him like this before, it felt good to excel at something.

Hannah smiled, and looked over at Grey’s pile of completed chain.

“What color should we do next?” she asked. She was enjoying this as well. She watched as Grey’s hands worked; she was determined to go even faster than him.

“We can finish this red piece, then maybe work on making the green one longer.”

Hannah nodded, agreeable.

“Should I wait for you to catch up?” Grey asked with a smirk.

Hannah punched his shoulder.

Eventually, he may have gone a touch too far with his teasing. He was not a cruel child by any stretch of the imagination, but this experience of being the best at something was just too fun. It was new and novel; and he bragged as boys tend to do.

It wasn’t long before Hannah’s jovial mood cooled and her jaw clenched. She worked even faster, but more quietly. Grey did not yet realize that no one cares to be bested. Figuring he said too much, he silently vowed to speak less.

Fine. Fold, turn, cut, bend, glue.

Bedtime came, and they all helped to scrape up enormous piles of paper bits. When the adults deemed the room clean enough, the evening ended and Mom took the younger children upstairs. Grey followed, wishing they didn’t have to go to bed. It had been such a fun evening, overall, even though Hannah and he ended up on fighting terms.

He tiptoed in bare feet up the large staircase in the entryway, the smooth rail curved nicely under his hand. He momentarily considered the work that went into making it. Ash followed him up, muttering. He didn’t want to go to bed.

At the top of the stairs, the brothers paused. The younger kids were tucked in and quieting down, but Mom was in the hallway, on the phone. There was one telephone on each floor, and the curly cord that attached the handset to the wall limited conversations to a small area. There were no cordless phones in those days.

Mom was leaning against the wall, her head turned away from the boys. Her posture was unnatural, as if she was too intent on the conversation to think about standing in a comfortable position.

Grey listened. An important discussion was happening here, and it wasn’t all good, by the sound of it. Mom’s voice was low, to keep others from hearing what she said, and Grey correctly guessed she was speaking to Dad. Her voice held an unpleasant edge, and he knew they should not be standing there in the hallway, listening in. But it was bedtime, and they had to pass to get to their room.

Motioning for Asher to follow, Grey tiptoed up to Mom, looking at her with a cautious glance.

“Goodnight boys,” Mom whispered to them, one hand covering the receiver.

With a smile, she patted their blonde heads as they passed into their room.

As Grey lay in bed, he strained to hear the low voice in the hall. He could not make out any words, but the tone made him feel queasy. It was uncertainty. He hated moments like this. There were too many of them over the last few years.

“What’s Mom saying?” Ash whispered.

“I don’t know, I can’t hear.”

Asher grunted in acknowledgment. Even though he was only nine, he was not oblivious to the tension. Grey heard him tossing and turning in the bunk above.

“She’s talking to Dad,” Grey whispered, anger rising.

Grey knew the Bible said that he was supposed forgive everyone all the time, but he knew that Dad and Mom were fighting, and that Dad was probably being mean to Mom. Forgiveness was the farthest thing from his mind – his feelings weren’t a light switch that he could just flip on and off. He could sometimes forget the whole mess when the day was going well – when they played or when he made boats down in the workshop. Listening to Mom’s voice now, and being unable to help, rattled him.

“I hope we never see him again.”

“Me too,” Ash whispered back.

There was nothing more to say, so each brother lay grim and silent in their bunk, shifting around as they tried to go to sleep. It was quite some time after Mom’s phone call ended before they drifted off, unsettled and restless.

The next morning, the brothers were quiet at breakfast. Their red, sandy eyes told a tale of lost sleep, but they were not too tired to notice that Mom had the same eyes.

Feeding so many children every day was an extremely loud affair, and only very perceptive adults would notice a few missing voices among them. Mr. and Mrs. Svensonn seemed to know what was happening, and they exchanged glances with Mom. She must have spoken with them earlier. They were kind people, and Grey appreciated them greatly even though a boy of twelve would never outwardly express such emotions.

Grey sat like a rotted stump, poking at his scrambled eggs. They were cold now, a quivering yellow mass that defied consumption. He pushed his plate back and went to start school. I might as well get it over with.

Asher joined him. Mom came in after a few minutes. She pulled up a chair, an old sturdy wooden chair that had been, in all likelihood, handmade by Mr. Svensonn when he was a young man. The boys looked up at her.

“Boys, Dad’s coming here to get us, and we’ll be moving away with him soon.”

The brothers flinched. They sat still for a moment. Grey felt the blood rush through his ears, as the familiar jittery feeling ran through him.

“Before Christmas?” he asked.

“He said so, but I doubt it,” Mom said. “I’m guessing it will be in January. You know how he is.”

Grey didn’t know what she meant by that, but it didn’t matter. He was glad – on some level, that Dad was coming back, but he did not want to move away from this place. Not now.

Ash grumped, shoving his school book away from him across the table. His pencil rolled onto the floor, but he made no move to retrieve it. Being younger than Grey, his feelings ran closer to the surface, and he often echoed everyone else’s emotions with surprising accuracy. He glared down at the pencil.

Mom sat for a moment and looked at them in turn. With a helpless sigh, she stood and left to take care of the younger children. She paused in the open doorway and looked back.

“Finish your school, then you can go out and play.”

That was that.

Grey looked down at Asher’s pencil, lying on the floor. Neither of them made a move to pick it up, and it rested, abandoned. Ash put his face down onto the desk with a thump, and stayed there.

Confused thoughts swirled through Grey’s mind like a tornado, and his head throbbed. The idea of leaving now of all times… I like this place! He enjoyed the creek that meandered out back, he loved playing with their new friends. It dawned on him that just maybe, he liked the simple fact that he didn’t have to bother with Dad.

He rested his head in his hands and pondered that for a while. Thinking back over their time at the Christian House, he realized that their lives were better – happier – when Dad lived elsewhere. Mom seemed more at ease. The boys could play without worrying about stepping over some line and getting into trouble – Dad was considerably more strict than Mom. Some days Grey almost forgot that Dad existed as his life settled in this new place. But all that would change now.

Ash eventually picked up his pencil. They spent the next few hours in a a bit of a haze, working at their studies, doing the bare minimum. On any normal day, Mom would not let them slide by without putting forth their best efforts, but today she seemed to be a bit less concerned about the details.

After lunch, the boys dragged their feet getting back to their books, and it wasn’t long before Mom appeared in the doorway.

“Go out and play,” she said with a half-smile. That’s enough school for today.”

They pulled on their warm clothes and went outside. Snow pants, boots, hats, mittens and scarves were all needed on this day. The December air was cold, but the ground was clear. It had only snowed once that year, but it had melted and they had a rare chance to ride bikes once more before winter came in earnest.

The Svensonn children watched jealously as Grey and Asher went outside. They knew the plan was to go out to the long hill and set up bike ramps. They’d just have to be late today. When homeschooling, you could set any schedule you liked, and there was an unwritten agreement where both families tried to finish school time together. It was not always possible.

Grey and Asher found a suitable ramp board and slowly rode the bikes away from the old hotel. Grey awkwardly carried the board under his arm. The day was quiet, the little town seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of snow. The sky was like a rough slate stone, and the wind blew hard. There were few trees or hills to slow it down.

Grey and Ash planned to set up bike ramps using whatever big stones they’d find beside the road. The trick would be to locate a rock that was mostly flat, so that they could keep the ramp from wobbling side-to-side. If the board slipped to the right or left while you were rolling over it, you’d crash for sure. Grey had layers upon layers of white scars on his knees, and many of them were from jumping – make that crashing – bicycles.

It was hard to ride carrying a long board, and Grey’s fingers burned when he and Ash arrived at the big hill. He dropped the board with a clatter, and rubbed his hands. They were getting cold. He warmed them under his jacket for a moment.

“We need a good rock,” Ash said.

They dumped the bikes on the side of the road and wandered around, heads down. Grey was thankful for the lack of snow, the brown scrub that grew everywhere hid stones well enough without it. Ash hunched over, prying at the edge of a potential candidate, but his cold fingers could not get a good grip; the stone remained frozen to the ground. Grey scanned the landscape. Nothing larger than a baseball could be seen.

“I wish we had a cinder block,” Grey said.

“There’s one back at the house,” Ash said. “We could strap it to your bike on the rack.”

That was a good plan, but Grey didn’t like the idea of riding all the way back. It occurred to him – they passed an alley along the way – if they could find something there, it would be much faster.

They left the board beside the road and went back to the alley to look for something like a brick. Sure enough, they found one next to a pile of old shipping boxes.

They didn’t have a rope, so Grey rode with care, pedaling around bumps, eyes seeking out the smoothest route back to the hill. The brick rested flat on the luggage rack, held only by gravity. The rack above the rear tire was large enough for a passenger to sit. The bike belonged to the Svensonns. It was a black bike with sweeping lines and white pinstripes, a machine straight out of history. It was probably thirty years old, but it still rode great, thanks to the skilled maintenance of the older Svensonn boys.

Grey would have liked to ride his own mountain bike, but it had a flat tire, and had no cargo rack for hauling bricks.

They arrived at the hill again and quickly set up their jump. The idea was to fly down the big hill, roll over the board, and measure for distance.

“Maybe whoever wins can get the loser’s dessert tonight,” Ash suggested.

Grey didn’t know if the Svennson kids would agree to that, but it seemed like a pretty good idea. He pictured Hannah sliding her plate to him from across the table, and a smile almost escaped him.

The brothers took a few practice runs to get the feel of the ramp. You just had to get to know it a bit before you gave it your fastest speed.

The board still wobbled a little. Grey was fixing it when the Svensonns rode up, Hannah in the lead. They were glad to be done with school. Sitting indoors while Grey and Ash were out playing ate at them, and they felt cheated. Despite getting away from their schoolwork, they were quieter than normal having heard the news that Mom had received earlier. Hannah did not smile, and Grey thought maybe she had been crying. It could have been only the effects of the freezing wind.

“Did you guys start yet?”

“Nope,” Grey said. “We had to go find this brick for the ramp.”

They all took turns at the jump, growing braver and more confident with each run. Hannah had the advantage of being older than her younger brothers, but they were boys. She could never match their utter carelessness for life and limb, and they soon beat her every time.

“Five feet!” Grey announced, as Hannah landed her bike with a hard clatter.

That wasn’t too bad, for a girl, but he did not say it out loud. Ash was passing six feet before he hit the ground now, and he knew Hannah could never beat that. The way Ash was flying off the ramp, Grey figured his own chances of winning this little jumping contest were slim as well. This bike just is too heavy, he lamented to himself.

“It’s getting too c-c-cold!” Hannah said.

The high speed runs, while fun, were taking their toll. The frigid wind was whipping up out of the prairie in earnest now, and their hands stayed numb despite their gloves. Grey could hardly stand the feeling any longer, but didn’t want to be the one to suggest giving up. They rode over the ramp a few more times, but soon everyone was doing more warming that riding, standing with hands held under their arms.

Their bike contests were usually so much fun, but today’s event was turning out to be a flop. “Ash is the winner,” Grey finally said. “Let’s go home and warm up.”

“You’re not getting my dessert,” Hannah said, smiling.

“Hey!” Ash said, “I won!”

“We can’t ALL give our desserts to Ash,” Grey noted, “We might not even have dessert.”

“I think there’s a pie,” Ash said.“I smelled it.”

Grey tossed the brick into the frozen weeds. “We’re all losers really… except Ash. What if we each give him a tiny bit of our pie?”

Hannah drug the long board off the road and pushed it into the icy ditch. “Maybe that’ll work,” She said. “We all give him a piece of ours, then he’d get to eat almost two whole pieces, and we still have most of a piece for ourselves.”

That seemed agreeable to everyone but Ash, so they all rode back to the hotel, thoughts filled with the cinnamon heat of warm apple pie. As they pedaled through the emptying streets, each rode with one hand in their coat pocket, switching it out when the other hand started to feel like ice. Grey was thankful that the old bike still had both of its rubber hand-grips. Ash’s bike had none, he had to hold onto bare metal. He switched his hands quite often.

Hurrying to get inside, they dumped their bikes by the back door. They could put them away later. Grey stomped the bits of ice off his feet, and sat down on the floor to get his boots off. The laces were never easy to undo, because he always had to put them into a double-knot. Cold fingers didn’t work so well at detailed tasks, and soon the other children joined him, warming their hands and fiddling with their laces as they sat on the floor of the hallway.

“When are you moving away?” Hannah asked.

“Mom says after Dad gets here,” Ash said. “But we don’t really know when.”

“I hope you get to stay for Christmas,” Hannah said.

“Me too,” Grey said.

“Maybe even until January,” she added softly.

Ash frowned and kicked his last boot off. It thumped into the wall and bounced down onto the floor.

After dinner, Mrs. Svensonn brought out the apple pie. A hush fell onto the children as they watched her cut it into small slices. It was a big pie, but it had to stretch across many plates. They didn’t have dessert all that often – perhaps once per month, and Ash eagerly waited for it the pie to hit his plate.

Grey looked over at Hannah. “What if we each give him a forkful?”

Ash smirked. “I think it should be more than that. Two bites each.”

Mr. Svensonn raised his eyebrow, inquisitively.

Hannah filled in her father on the details. “Ash won the jumping contest, so we all agreed he’d get to have more dessert. That was his prize.”

Mr. Svensonn leaned back, smiling. “How’d you all figure that would work out?”

He listened as each kid in turn tried to come up with a way to create an extra piece of pie for Ash, without removing anything away from his or her own piece.

By now, the whole table was listening, and none of the parties involved had yet started eating their pie. Ash had a bite on his fork, held ready.

“I see,” Mr. Svensonn said finally, tugging at his beard. “Lucky for you all, I happen to know the pie maker herself.”

Mrs Svensonn looked on, a smile forming across her face. She stood up suddenly.

“I have an idea,” she said, leaving the room.

Asher’s eyes bugged as she re-entered, a whole new pie in her hand.

Everyone got another piece that night, Ash included.

“I think I need to get three pieces, since I did win,” he said through a mouthful.

***

It was still very cold, two weeks later. A hard freeze had settled in; taking hold of the little prairie town like a wolf latches onto its prey. Then it happened – Dad walked through the old hotel door – just in time for Christmas.

He brought gifts, but the day passed under a palpable strain. Mr. and Mrs. Svensonn were kind and polite to Dad in their usual manner, but all of the children felt the awkwardness in the room. No one could quite relax, as if a stranger suddenly showed up to a family-only affair. Grey had a difficult time enjoying his dinner. He was unable to squirm free of the adults’ polite small-talk, which kept including him for some reason.

“How was your day?”

“Did you have fun playing outside?”

“Wasn’t it too cold out there?”

He wasn’t in the mood to chat; all he could think about was how he didn’t want to move away. It was difficult to act happy about other things.

After eating just enough dinner to be excused, he went upstairs to his room to read, glaring as his feet as he climbed the old staircase. I wish Dad never came back, he complained to himself. He could not say such things out loud, of course. He knew he should be happy that Mom and Dad were back together, but the impending move put a good-sized damper on the Christmas festivities.

January arrived in swirl of blowing snow, too cold and too dry to make snowballs or snowmen. The little town of Wilbur hid under the blowing ice, seemingly shrinking down as if to stay warm. Grey sat, looking out at the blizzard, the old plate windows frosting up angrily at the intrusion of his breath. He wanted real snow, like the kind that fell on the mountain. Thick, white, and deep. But it was too windy here in town, and too cold this year. The snow fell, but flew away to pile in gray drifts.

Grey wondered when they were going to leave. He was helpless to change it. It would simply happen and there was nothing to be done. There was no feeling he despised more than helplessness.

Just when things are getting good , he thought. This old hotel was familiar and comforting. Its honest, wood paneled walls, unchanging roomy hallways, and solid, immovable bulk had grown on him. It was full of life, of fun, of people who knew and understood him. Now his family would jump away to who-knows where, some new place filled with strangers. The whole situation felt like running too fast down a steep slope; it was certain to end in danger, but he couldn’t slow down. He tried to imagine a way their next home could be better than this place. Not possible.

Just before February arrived, Dad informed them that the time had come; they were moving out of the Christian House.