hopscotch & loyalty

*We played hopscotch in the back corner of the drive with chalk scraped into crooked lines and numbers distributed as best we could remember them from grade school math class. My cousin, holding the sunnier disposition, commenced to hopping. I sat with palms to asphalt, leveling on eye to the ground to scrutinize our work . The curve of the 3 was slightly askew. The strand than ran across the first box was off, giving that chunk the look of a half-full aquarium. Smiling, she waved me on from the far end of the grid, and I decided against hosing the mess down and beginning again. As I started to jump, careful not to kiss a toe to the flimsy edges, I noticed my cousin distracted by something. Rather than cheer for my superior skipping abilities, she looked past me. I finished my run with my signature curtsy, a dramatic right foot pointed and swayed elegantly behind the left, arm circling down from my imaginary hat brim to my imaginary audience.

Not so much as clap or roll of the eyes.

I turned around and found her point of view: an awkward, middle-aged man walking cautiously towards us. As he walked closer a sick sense turned in my belly. Jelly beans and chocolate milk swirled with alarm and the nagging feeling that I’d been warned about this very predicament before. My cousin, so trusting she’d offer a hand to a rabid dog, skipped in circles as the mystery visitor crept closer. After much brain- racking and fidgeting of fingers, I remembered the advice I’d received from my mother. Turn that dadgum Dateline off…They’re showing pictures of dead folks! Don’t lay belly flat on a skateboard and send yourself flyin’ down that hill! Look before you cross the road! Put on some modesty shorts under that dress if you insist of climbing trees! Say Thank You! Never talk to strangers!

    The last bit seemed to fit, and the added knowledge Stone Phillips had so graciously shocked me with through late-night, sneaky viewings of Dateline only served as confirmation. Little girls talking to strange pedestrians was surely a recipe for abduction.

Consumed by this maternal warning, I glanced sadly at my naive cousin as she tried to explain to the man, who spoke in jumbled foreign-talk, how the fine art of hopscotch hopping could be perfected. Poor girl, her mother must not have told her.

I tip-toed up the stairs to the safety of the backdoor. I was thrilled to be away from harm, and shuffled past the kitchen full of adult relatives to the living room. I stopped briefly to flash a victorious smile in my mother’s direction, as if to say, “You should be SO proud of my self-preservation skills. Mama done learned me right!”.

The living room was quiet, filled with half-played games of Barbie, and the sadness set in. I would miss my cousin, my best friend, the only girl in all of Tennessee who understood the musical brilliance of the Hanson brothers. In my interview with Stone Phillips I would explain the injustice of it all, how one girl was told the keys to basic safety and the other hopscotched into oblivion. I shed a tear and set out to see this last game of Malibu Barbie Tans At The Beach And Meets A Super Cute Surfer Boy through.

After minutes of focused arm twisting, convertible seatbelt buckling, and searching for the doll’s missing private parts, I moseyed into the kitchen to ask for a snack. Surprised to see me all alone without the bubbly presence of my best friend, the adults questioned as to her whereabouts. Remembering the enormous victory I’d just experienced I enthusiastically told them of my narrow escape from danger in the backyard, and that I may or may not have left my younger cousin with the creepy Kid Snatcher. Aunts, uncles, grandparents and dog rushed to her rescue and were relieved to find her ever the sunny sprite, still hopping across the chalky grid.

Y'all have fun! I'll just be over here... saving myself.

Years later, I found myself sitting in a sports bar, sipping fruity beverage with a friend from work…and her date. She was unsure of him and begged for my uncomfortable accompaniment. I obliged, half wanting to be a decent friend, half wanting my bar tab paid. As we settled into the vinyl booth, he introduced himself by nickname. He spent twelve-and-a-half minutes explaining the root of said nickname and its far-fetched correlation to the name his mother bestowed upon him. Speaking of mothers, he loved his. Twenty minutes and three stiff drinks later, the bar was given a detailed account of how a seemingly grown man can steadfastly cling to his mama’s hip. More excruciating stories followed from a one-by-one account of his vast comic book collection to his insistence that many, many bachelor’s degrees take eight years to complete. As the waitress approached our table, I pleaded with my eyes that she join us, or at the very least pull the fire alarm. “Scotch, extra ice!,” the suitor announced, and the feeling that I’d had one too many sugar-coated drinks was met with the feeling that I must escape this madman at all costs. I excused myself to the ladies’ room, glancing back to see my sweet friend happy and captivated by the boy’s dullest drivel.

The bathroom smelled like stale beer and flowers. I hung my weight on my arms, both pressed into the mirror. As lady patrons entered I fetched a lip gloss from my purse and feigned interest in “putting my face on”. One woman liked my sweater. One girl, much too young to be frequenting a bar, explained that she’d had eight drinks by herself. Tolerance of Champions! As they came and went I struggled with life’s hardest decision: To flee or not to flee?  With a generously sized window just two stalls over, escaping seemed the best possible route lest my brain cells shrivel in a sea of under-stimulating conversation. Surely this prolonged nonsense could be fatal. It would be in my best interest to creep away to the safety of the back door.

With a headache and a mouth made up like Tammy Faye, I realized the lesson I had failed to learn all those years ago. The game of friendship demands teamwork and loyalty, more so than common sense or personal safety.

*old post alert!

hope if you hated this post way back when

you hate it a little less today!

About these ads

49 thoughts on “hopscotch & loyalty

    • This comes from three cups of coffee and the self-imposed torture of “Sit your arse down and write a post before Baby wakes up! NOW!”. If the post smells like caffeine and tears, that is probably why :)

      • Oh, Hanson… My university had a fundraiser once where the goal was to collect a whole kilometre of $1 coins (we’re Canadian, in case you can’t tell), arranged side by side in a line, and the ‘incentive’ to donate as quickly as possible to the cause was the eternal playing of MmmBop, again and again in a never ending loop of torture. My ears will never be the same.

      • Haha! My poor taste in music is actually used for torturing folks? Even my toddler throws a fit when I turn that music on, but I am trying to force him into appreciating it :)

  1. another great read lady! sometimes friendship is more important than common sense. i remember back to childhood all those crazy things parents drilled into us went out the window as soon as a friend was in trouble. Then i remember “if so and so jumped off a bridge would you??” yeah i probably would if i could help someone else while doing it…

    • Haha! I am learning that only 1% of the advice I received growing up is legit. The rest sounds good but doesn’t really apply in real life. I’m already trying to brainstorm solid advice to give to Baby, so he doesn’t grow up and realize I was totally full of it :)

  2. I laughed when you saved yourself and left your cousin outside with Mr. Awkward Man. I’m only laughing because I assume she wasn’t kidnapped. I’m glad you didn’t bail on your friend when the opportunity arose later in life. She owes you one, though ;)

    • She was definitely NOT abducted. I did notice that no one in my family ever really asked me to babysit though. I think they’re holding grudges :(
      My friend is STILL with the awkward first-date guy. He has calmed down and stopped calling his mom so much, thank God!

  3. Loved the photos and “the other hopscotched into oblivion”. Also, many thanks for your detailed instructions. Finally got the link thing going, also the blogroll, sort of!

  4. Great story and beautifully written! Enjoyed! Yes, I agree to another comment above. Should be a short story. Inspiring :) Keep writing. By the way, I am super impressed with how much (and well) you are able to write with a baby! It is not easy!!

    • Time is kind of the enemy when it comes to baby-raising while blogging :)
      There are many MANY days I think I should not even try to write anything because I am so busy it may come out sounding like a grocery list :)

  5. Great post! I would have left the cousin to fend for herself also! :) “Musical Brilliance of the Hanson Brothers”…… I can honestly say that is the 1st time I have read that line…. ha ha……

  6. So, what happened with the Scotch-swilling dude? Did your friend keep him or dump him?

    It is so much harder to be a friend through the choices of others. I’ve lost friends because I couldn’t keep my trap shut until I found the words, “I am so glad you are happy,” instead of saying, “How can that obvious loser make you happy???” Your hopscotch story will help underscore the right phrase in my mind next time.

    Thank you. :)

  7. Victoria. Definitely more than 1% of the childhood advice was solid! I totally remember this day when you and Lanie hopscotched, the scary intruder into the yard. Good recapturing of something that really happened.

  8. - makes me wanna grab a piece of chalk and go draw a hopscotch grid on the road behind my house right now. But if I started trying to hop around on that, I’d probably sprain an ankle or break something important. Or just pass out from exhaustion after the third ‘hop’.

    My mothers adivice: Don’t play hopscotch after forty! You’ll die.

  9. Funny thing is, I did lay belly flat on a skateboard and send myself flyin’ down a hill when I was 10 or 11. True story. And then I did it again. And again. Why, you ask? Umm…well…it felt good. All tingly in certain areas. Mark, welcome to puberty!

  10. Do you own the photo of the girls playing hopscotch? I write a blog (http://twignl.wordpress.com/) and I’m writing about children’s games this month and I’m looking for a great photo of kids playing games. I’d like to use your photo if you don’t mind. I will credit you and provide a link to your blog. Thanks, Suzanne

    • Hi, Suzanne! I don’t own the rights to that photo. I found it through a Google search and it was featured on three different and unrelated websites. None of the websites listed its origin. Thanks for checking, though! Would love to read your post when it’s published!

  11. Pingback: Right Turn To Sunnyside « the ramblings

Ramble on, little rambler...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s