The Great Caterpillar Massacre Part 1 of 2

Who can consciously remember being younger than two?  These early days, like sparks in a campfire, fly up, glow, then drift into oblivion.  It’s simply too long ago.  One is too young to accurately recall events and is only just beginning to grasp language skills, which are said to be the building blocks of memory.  Nonetheless, I remember one day before my second birthday as if it was yesterday.  Actually, I remember it much better than yesterday, which is often subsumed in a blur of activities. 

            However, curious at my memory, I quizzed my mother.  She barely remembered the event but as I queried her, she confirmed my details, stating amazement that she was, in fact, quite pregnant with my sister, who is a mere 102 weeks younger than I am and how could I possibly remember something that happened so long ago?  Mom was in her eighties at the time.

            On the day in question, the sun’s heat radiated across the yard, was absorbed and reflected from the concrete walk, bounced off the white clapboard garage and warmed my smooth skin.  Pictures of my childhood confirm that the sun bounced off a wreath of tow-headed curls.  I mentioned to my mother the overalls I wore.  They were blue, faded.  Yes.  Perhaps they were hand-me-downs from my big brother, Mike.  Was the tricycle blue? 

            “No, red, as I recall,” answered my mother.  Tricycles must be red, chrome shining and reflecting the green of the grass and the white of the sidewalk.  The wheels were black.  It was made for speed, exploring, and freedom or so I believed at two.

            My front yard was my grandparent’s backyard.  After my dad came home from the war, he had built a house for us in my grandparents’ back yard.  The yard in between was both front and back yard depending on which door one looked out of.  A single car garage formed one side of my kingdom.  Inside, an old medicine cabinet hung on the wall.  My Pete and RePete dolls hid inside.  I never figured out why they were there or why mom was so upset when dad opened it and I found them.  She said something about several sets, attachment, I don’t remember.

            Flowers grew around the house and along the far fence.  Grandmother had calla lilies growing in her front yard bordering her shaded porch.  When my sister was born, grew up somewhat, and her red hair was long enough to braid, I allowed her to join me in my explorations.  We would pick jars of snails off Grandma’s thick, green calla lily stalks deep in the heart of the jungle.  She offered to pay us but mom said, “No, we should just do it to help.”  I still miss that nickel but then I did say I was a deplorable chid.  As an adult I now have calla lilies growing in my yard around the corner of my side porch.  My six-year-old grandson called them “ice cream swirls” when they are blooming.  I don’t remember ever thinking of that comparison when I was picking snails at five but when he said it, it seemed right!  They’ll always be ‘swirls’ whenever I see them from now on.

            At two, however, the world revolved around me.  I was independent and walked with a swagger.  My old Dutch aunts used to say, “No one will steal the jam off her bread.”  I was queen of the sidewalk.  It was mine.  No trespassers allowed.   My shadow raced along the one car garage on my right, challenging me for the win. 

            The bell on my bike rasped and tinkled as I warned all interlopers away from my speedway.  I flew, the wind pushing my curls, tickling my neck, cooling the warmth of the sun.  Nothing dared cross my steady circuit, back and forth, down the length of the yard. 

I had just turned my bike and was heading back to Gramma’s when a spiky black and orange “thing” had the audacity to crawl out of whatever hidey-hole it had been using to threaten the glory of my day.  Perhaps it was the smell of the unfurling flowers across the yard.  Perhaps it had more sinister designs on halting my forward motion.  I was never sure afterwards what treachery lurked behind its beady black eyes.  But there it was – crossing my sidewalk, blocking my path, interfering with my blissful afternoon.

            I stopped.

            Mom, her middle round as a turnip, was weeding near the front-door porch.

            “Mother,” I wailed, frustration in my voice.  I was a queen of drama as well as of the sidewalk.

            “What, honey?”  She looked up from the flowerbed where she was kneeling, pulling weeds.  She was queen of the garden.

            “There’s a caterpillar in my way!”  My world had come to a halt and I expected her to fix it.  She was my main source of comfort, security, and general well being. 

            “Wait a minute and he’ll get out of your way.”  Did I detect a note of laughter in her voice?  No, she surely wouldn’t laugh at me.  I was her darling.

            I waited.

To be concluded next week. Sign up now to receive notifications of upcoming publications. Thank you.