Buy the book Growing Up Itchy

Kids have a sort of natural amnesia, like blank pages in their book of memory. These missing pages should not be grieved over, for their absence is a kindness; allowing them a greater chance of future happiness. If it were not for his own blank pages, Grey would have unwillingly remembered his final week at the Christian House; including the day they left.

Mr. Svensonn and the boys helped Dad load the truck. Their belongings were fewer now, having been carefully whittled down, and it didn’t take very long. Dad drove the first load away, and was back five hours later for the rest of their stuff.

The February air was full of crystals, snow that was too cold to stick together. The wind drove the icy mist in through the big front door when it opened and shut for the last time. Grey looked out across the landscape beyond the town, and wished he was an Eskimo, huddled down in a white igloo, out there in the snow. He would like to stay in one place and sleep out the winter.

They were all packed in a silent row in the cab of the old truck as it ground down the road that led them away. The old engine’s rusty growl did not quite cover the sullen silence, but it was broken unceremoniously by the sharp fussing of Mal, as he squirmed on Mom’s lap. He was too young and selfish – in an innocent toddler way – to respect the severity of the moment.

Seated in the middle, with Asher on one side and Dad on the other, Grey shrunk down into his own space as best he could. Bethany sat on his lap; there was no seat for her. With his little sister in his care, Grey was not able to look back as the old hotel fell away behind them. He did not know it at the time, but he would never see the Svensonn family again.

Dad had plenty of harsh words for the boys that day. Grey and Ash grumbled, drug their feet, and glared. Mom snapped at them too. The whole family was out of sorts, but that page was blanked out from Grey’s memory, along with a few others from that transitional time.

***

Their new house sat on a small dirt lot, clustered in tight with other houses among a scattering of spindly pines. It smelled of paint, and Grey could see that someone had recently patched up the walls and painted spots here and there. A few pieces of furniture were there; a piano, and mom’s old treadle sewing machine were things he remembered from the mountain. Grey didn’t know where their piano had been; they did not have it with them at the Christian House.

He glared. It was easy to be angry, as a defense against the loss . “I’m going out to look at the yard,” he said.

The new house was on an Indian reservation. In those days, Native Americans were commonly called Indians; and no one thought anything of it. The ancient mistake of the famous explorer had stuck, and that was that.

Grey looked at the row of houses. Dad had called them “HUD” houses earlier. Grey didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he understood that they were free (or mostly free) from the government. How can we live here if we’re not Indians? The whole place was a reservation, and it seemed like they shouldn’t be allowed to live there.

Was that a cliff? He wandered away from the house towards the woods, where he could see the a drop-off of some sort. Being only twelve, it didn’t take him long to forget about government housing.

He stayed alert as he want, treading softly among the floor of dead pine needles, circumventing the occasional patch of icy snow. Best not to go too far – it was tough to tell where their “yard” ended and other yards began. This place was just a bunch of plain houses squatting among the trees.

Grey did not want to meet anyone.

He heard voices, and spotted some small Indian children played a few houses down. They stopped their game, staring. Grey didn’t care for strangers’ eyes. It felt odd, knowing that people were watching him like he was an intruder. He did not want to intrude on anyone.

It’s getting too cold for this , he thought. He went back inside, and Mom put him to work, unpacking.

Grey soon discovered that he would not be making any friends here. Anytime he went out, the residents of that small town shot hard stares at him – like arrows. The glares of other boys his age were especially grim. The entire town seemed particularly unfriendly, and each look cast in his direction solidified the idea.

What is with these people? He had not met a lot of folks in his time, but this place was full of the unfriendliest people he had ever known. Sure, here and there he had come across a mean kid or two, but this was ridiculous. It was unsettling and he never grew accustomed to it.

No matter. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was sticking to himself – minding his own business. He wouldn’t bother anyone else, and assumed they wouldn’t bother him either. He was perfectly fine without their company.

The church was built from logs. Not rough, rotted logs one would see in history books, but clean, uniform pine logs that were stained a deep chestnut brown. The church was different from the rest of the buildings in that Indian town; it was tidy and buttoned-up, as if it were built by a caring craftsman.

“It’s obvious this one building wasn’t built by the government,” Dad commented.

The pastor of that little church lived nearby, and had a family of four children. Against his own will, Grey was relieved to see that they had kids his age; normal kids without hard stares.

They were potential friends, but could not replace Hannah or even Michael, from back when they lived on the mountain. He wondered how they were doing.

Spring finally came and passed, and summer arrived in an explosion of heat and buzzing grasshoppers. Grey and Asher began to make friends with the pastor’s children, and they spent the hot days playing in the woods, just like they used to do back on the mountain. They discovered the rushing stream down at the bottom of a canyon, and this exponentially increased their fun. It wasn’t deep enough for anyone to swim in, but creek-stomping was always one of their favorite pastimes.

Green pines loomed overhead, and sunlight flickered down onto Grey’s blonde head. He stood in the cold water, hunched over, poking around with his feet, staring down into the flow. The creek here was only about three feet deep, and crystal clear; but he couldn’t really see what he was looking for because of the white rushing foam. The water boiled like a pot of macaroni.

There. Something soft. Gulping a breath of air, he clamped his mouth shut and knelt down in the water, plunging his head down into the bubbly flow.

He scrabbled around with his hands, feeling for the secret deposit of clay he knew would be there. He felt something soft under the edge of a large stone, and pinched off a piece with his fingernails. Resurfacing, he examined his find – it was light gray in color, and gritty with sand; he knew it would be quality stuff if the lump was big. He waved his arms to capture his brother’s attention. Ash was rolling over stones further downstream, intent on the same task. The persistent rush of the water made distant conversation just about impossible, and Grey wasn’t a loud child. He hated yelling even more than he hated talking.

Ash eventually glanced up from his underwater search and nodded. He began to carefully walk upstream to help.

Grey was about to plunge his head under for a second sample of clay when he heard faint shouts cutting through the water’s roar. There was a group of Indian kids playing upstream – their playful voices occasionally carried down to his ears despite the water noise – but these shouts were different. Danger! Grey snapped his head up. Coming down the stream was a small bobbing head – long black hair swirling uncontrollably around a terrified face. A little kid! In between gulps and coughs, she was screaming, crying. Her arms flailed helplessly. The roaring current was too much for her, and the river had its way; it was completely in charge. It tumbled her down, bounced her off large rocks, dunked her under again and again. Grey instinctively knew she had made a grave miscalculation. Older children such as himself could stand far out in the stream, they had the necessary body weight to keep their feet pressed into the rocks below. But this girl was too small. Too lightweight, too helpless. Like driftwood.

More motion caught his eye. Her playmates were stumbling after her, frantic in their haste downstream. They were running as best as they could manage, but a field of rocks lay scattered, large and small. It was a place where no one could move quickly on foot. Speed was impossible, but breaking a leg or an ankle was easy.

Grey’s heart pounded as the girl’s raw fear gripped him. He began to stumble further out into the stream, trying to guess her trajectory. Maybe I could reach her if I get out far enough!

If the water took her past his position, she would be on her own, at the mercy of the torrent and her own limited swimming abilities.

Grey stumbled as fast as he dared, out into the center of the stream, keeping one eye on the girl’s dire progress. Feet scrambling for hidden footholds, the swift current pulled at him while obscuring his path. White bubbles swarmed everywhere, and he had to navigate mostly by feel. Tripping, he fell sideways and banged his knee hard against a stone. It took him a moment to scramble around, thrashing about with his arms in an attempt to catch his balance and stand back up. He had not quite regained his footing when the girl passed by him – that was as close as she would come, there would be no better chance. Now! Grey threw himself out towards her and grabbed at her, reaching for her arm, but he slipped and missed. Scrabbling, he clamped his hand around her ankle.

Her sudden weight yanked him around and he went under, he had not quite recovered his balance before he made his final leap. He thrashed, spinning his body to face downstream, and thrust out his legs to brace himself against the flow. His other hand joined the first in a double grip around the girls ankle. He had her now.

As soon as he could stand, he pulled her upright. Every moment that her face was underwater was one of pure panic. She clung tight to him, coughing and gasping. She was surprisingly heavy, and her cries were loud in his ear as he carefully picked a path back to the shore. It was difficult to move with such an ungainly, clinging weight. Hands reached out to them when he neared the bank, and he passed off the sobbing girl to her playmates.

“Mom! A little girl almost went downstream – she was too young to swim!” Grey panted, when they reached the house, lugging armloads of river clay.

Mom was busy sewing. Beth was playing dolls in the bedroom, and Mal was loudly bashing trucks against the piano leg. Mom was taking a precious opportunity to get some mending done. Her feet clacked back and forth on the pedal, and the flywheel spun. Grey loved the sewing machine.

“Is she OK?” Mom said, not stopping to pause.

“Yeah, I pulled her out,” Grey said. “She was getting banged up bad on the rocks.”

The sewing machine whirred, and clacked to a stop. With a CHUNK, Mom flicked a shiny metal lever and pulled the hem away from the needle. She snipped off the threads.

“Who was it?” Mom asked.

“I don’t know for sure,” Grey said. “One of the neighbor kids. Some girl… They called her Little Something. Little Fawn? I’ve seen her before.”

“Well, I’m glad she’s all right. You boys be careful down there, and don’t go too far out into the rapids.”

She looked up from her sewing, as if seeing the boys for the first time.

“Get out! You’re still wet!”

As the year rolled on, they threw themselves down the canyon path with regularity to immerse in the chilly stream. They heaved up rocks from the bottom to collect clean clay in clumpy armloads. Mom welcomed this, she incorporated clay projects it into their school curriculum. In retrospect, Grey figured he should have never brought any of it back to show her, because lugging it up the steep ravine was a real chore. He did enjoy Mom’s appreciation however, and her smiles made the effort worthwhile. Plus, working with clay during school was fun.

As far as Grey knew, the little girl did not return to the creek to play, and he did not really know exactly who it was. Kids tend to look different when standing dry and upright, as opposed to wet and bobbing downstream.

She might have been the same little girl who threw rocks at him later that summer. He couldn’t know for sure. He and Ash avoided the Indian children as much as possible, playing mostly in the house, the creek, or the woods. There was no way to avoid the neighbors all the time, as much as they tried.

Grey ignored the thrown rocks, which thankfully fell short. For the thousandth time, Grey wished he could move back to the Christian House where he was surrounded by friends.