Buy the book Growing Up Itchy

Winter faded to nothing, and the white aspens around the spring blossomed with pale green leaves. The snow melted away, making the ground damp underneath its mat of last year’s grasses. The yellow buttercups were back, and they sprinkled the landscape with specks of sunshine.

Grey stood next to the creek, scratching at the scar on his face. The stitches were out now, but it was still healing and itched all the time. He was happy to finally be able to rub it without opening the wound.

Before him sat a large, rusty wheelbarrow full of empty milk jugs. Just beyond the wheelbarrow, the small creek bubbled softly; its gentle sound barely audible in the clear mountain air. They were back on the mountain now, away from the nasty smoke-smelling house in town. Grey was happy to be back with the tall pines, the chickens, and the sheep; and the little egg trailer truly seemed like home, despite the smell. It was a bit musty from sitting abandoned all winter.

The creek was the source of their water on the mountain, and it flowed up from a spring, seemingly from nowhere. It ran out onto the ground and on down the mountainside. Long ago someone had placed a pipe into the ground, and clear water flowed from it, day and night; never stopping. There was simply no way to shut it off.

At this moment, he found himself hating the miracle of a fresh, underground spring.

It was Grey’s job to carry all of the water for the family, and doing this was a chore, in every sense of the word. He was physically able to do the task, but it wasn’t fun; it was downright painful at times. His hands hurt as he carried the water jugs to and from the spring. Each jug had a little sharp ridge on the inside of the handle that dug into his hands.

He looked at his hands and grumbled. They were red, stiff, and almost completely numb by the time he finished filling the jugs. The water never quite froze even in the harshest of winters, but it was still very cold; even in the summer. Grey heaved the last full gallon jug into the wheelbarrow. With the long wood handles firmly grasped, he carefully turned the load to head back down the path to the trailer.

The ground was muddy and uneven, but he was getting the hang of driving the wheelbarrow. It was easy to overfill. The more weight it carried, the harder it was to balance. You had to hold it up on its single wheel, keeping it from tipping over, while pushing. It would be a simple task on pavement, but it was tricky on the rough dirt path.

Now Grey looked ahead, staring at the path over the heap of plastic water jugs. He carefully avoided stones and sticks, and was just starting to feel the happiness that comes from knowing the chore would soon be over.

The front wheel dropped.

With a sudden lurch, the wheelbarrow stopped instantly, front tire stuck fast. It began to tip over, and Grey struggled to hold it upright, but he wasn’t big or heavy enough. It was too late. The heap of filled jugs went too far off balance, and Grey simply didn’t have the mass to compensate.

A part of him fumed and another part of him resigned himself to the catastrophe that was happening before his eyes. The handles tried to yank his arms out of their sockets, so he let go with a grunt and stepped back to watch it fall.

The wheelbarrow thudded over, flinging the load down the mountainside. Grey stood helplessly watching the scene unfold like a bad dream, a simple tip-over turning into a major disaster before he could even blink. The water-filled jugs rolled off the path and took off in earnest down the slope, bouncing off each other like an upended basket of rubber bouncy-balls. Slaves to gravity, they flew higher and farther with each bound, until the plastic could not withstand the repeated impacts.

The steep slope carried them away, bursting into trees and rocks with watery explosions.

Grey stood still, up on the path with the fallen wheelbarrow. He didn’t move until the last jug was either broken or simply gone from view.

“Dang it!”

He looked up the path toward the distant egg trailer, hoping someone would come out and help, but no none did. This stinks.

With a sigh, he hauled the wheelbarrow up onto its legs. Examining the ground, he saw that the wheel had sunk into a gopher hole, or mole tunnel of some sort.

It was his job to get those jugs, and he could not shirk his duty; as much as he wanted to. Picking his way carefully, he hiked down, looking for the plastic jugs. Whenever he found two of them, one for each hand; he lugged them back up the slope and deposited them – carefully – into the wheelbarrow. It took forever to gather them all up and move them back uphill. About half had burst. They would no longer be useful for anything. Setting the last two full jugs on top of the load, he straightened up and shook the feeling back into his arms and hands.

He couldn’t see the broken jugs from up here, and figured no one else would be able to either. Forget ’em.

Grey’s mind locked onto the path ahead with magnetic focus as he ever-so-carefully pushed the load again. Not too fast. His internal voice nagged at him like an unwanted third parent.

The load was half as heavy as before, so he easily wheeled the water jugs up to the front door, and took them into the trailer, two-by-two. He stored a few underneath the kitchen sink but the rest he lined up around the trailer’s wheels, ready for Mom whenever she needed them.

They’d have to start collecting more jugs now, or he’d have to get water more often, maybe another time each day! He wasn’t sure which option was worse. More weight, or having to do the chore twice. Grey dreaded canning day for that reason. Mom would boil so much water, and he had to go fetch a load from the spring at least two times, sometimes three. He always dreamed of faucets and running water as he watched Mom pour jug after jug of his hard work into the big boiler.

One other day was just as bad: bath day. They did not take a bath as often as other children would; baths were complicated affairs that no one in the family really wanted to participate in; least of all the boys. Baths were scheduled once per week, on Saturday evening. Whether they needed it or not. To take a bath, one must first have water; and that meant more wheelbarrow work for Grey. Lots more.

Mom would heat up gallons and gallons on the stove top, or sometimes Dad would heat it up over a wood fire outside. They would pour Grey’s water jugs out into the big tub one by one. He hated to see all of that work being wasted on something as awful and as short-lived as a bath. When the water was hot enough, they would pour in even more jugs to cool it down a little.

When rows of jugs sat empty, it was finally bath-time. Their “tub” was an animal feed bucket; round, metal, and large enough for Grey to sit in with his knees up. Mom would help him wash his hair, and his eyes would burn with soap.

Because the effort of bathing the whole family was so burdensome, they would sometimes pile in the truck and drive into town to bathe. A low, squat gas station sat where two county roads crossed – it had coin-operated showers.

Mom helped the boys into a shower and gave them a dime for the slot.

“Wash your hair first!” Mom said, and closed the door.

Grey and Ash undressed. “Ready?” Grey said. Ash nodded.

Grey dropped the dime carefully into the tiny slot, and the shower sputtered to life. The boys both knew that they really had to hurry. The water stopped all on its own, and it never seemed to last as long as it should. Mom’s instructions were wise. They hurriedly washed their hair, afraid the water would stop while they had soap in their eyes. That done, they’d scrub their arms and legs as fast as possible, those were easily inspected, and Mom would definitely be checking when they stepped out. If they had extra time, which they hardly ever did, they remembered to wash behind their ears. Today was not one of those days. Mom might frown, but she’d take care of it later with a washcloth.

When Grey and Ash exited the shower, Mom and Dad looked them over.

“Doesn’t it feel nice to be clean?” Mom said.

Grey shrugged. “I guess.” He never could tell the difference. Getting clean was hard to do, and did feel a bit different, but being dirty was dead simple. It felt just fine.

Sometimes after their gas-station showers, Dad would get them each a candy bar. It was definitely a really special treat, but Grey thought that having a row of full water jugs under the sink was just about as nice.