Chivalry is its own reward
It was December in the mid 1970's, and I was in the 5th grade. I lived on a dead-end gravel road between two hills on the outskirts of a river town in West Virginia.
Just like every other winter morning, all of us kids crunched down the snowy gravel to the bus stop at the end of our road. At one one corner of the mouth of our "holler" was a dilapidated stone building that used to be the general store of the area (30 years ago), and a junkyard. We looked for space to huddle up against the wind, but as it was blowing out of the north that day, our usual spot was useless. The only place to block the biting wind was a rotting, faded blue Airstream trailer on the edge of the junkyard, but it was placed lengthwise against a twenty foot long, six foot deep, open sewer pit that ran alongside the road. The sewage was constantly running, so it never froze.
The only place we could all stand to block the wind was a slim sloping grass strip between the trailer and the sewer pit that wasn't more than two feet wide, so all twelve of us carefully lined up along that frozen strip, backs pressed against the trailer, teeth chattering while we prayed the bus wouldn't be too late. The pit stank but the wind was worse.
Lined up like prisoners in front of a firing squad, I was stuck smack dab in the middle. The girl to the left of me was trying in vain to have a conversation with the girl on my right, and I was getting annoyed at all the head bobbing as they kept craning around me to talk. The girl on the left asked me if she could switch places with me, so I said, "Sure...", and she awkwardly tried to scoot around in front of me. It was too tight and I was afraid she'd slip on the strip of snowy grass we'd all squeezed onto, so I offered the only thing my chivalrously-raised mind could come up with: I suggested I go around the outside of her instead.
Bad idea. It required the finesse and agility of a high-wire act by a trained professional, but unfortunately I was half-frozen and bundled up like Randy from "A Christmas Story".
As I reached around to hold the edge of one of the trailers' window frames, I swung my leg around her and found the grass edge. It felt solid. I had a good hold on the window. As I swung my other leg around to complete the move, the girl under me suddenly saw an opening and scooted toward her friend, knocking my hand off the frame and sending me pinwheeling, grasping empty swirls of snowy air for a long second as I fell backwards, headfirst into the sewer pit.
I could hear the muffled roars of laughter under the freezing, foamy sewage as I struggled to right myself. The water was only about 3-4 feet deep, but it felt like the deep end of Satan's play pool. The sides of the pit ran almost straight up, and no one wanted to touch me to give me a hand up, as I was now covered in their morning effluence.
The laughter trickled off and died.
My orange and green reversible winter coat with the synthetic fur-lined hood now felt like I was carrying a soggy buffalo, and I was just too heavy to climb. I unzipped and shrugged it off and made my way onto the open corrugated end of the sewer pipe. As I struggled up to the snowy bank and bent over double, I coughed and hacked and spit until I felt sane.
Everyone watched in silence as I stood up and wiped my face as best I could. I looked back at them for a moment, and then turned in shame. Huddling myself against the wind, I trudged up the now 400 mile road to my house, every step a crunchy, frostbitten struggle.
My mother answered the door, speechless; her mind trying to reconcile this bedraggled, poopy thing that almost resembled the scrubbed pink son she has kissed off to school barely half an hour ago.
She shook it off and led me around to the side entrance and told me to shuck down to my skivvies, demanding to know what had happened. I spilled my story, and then I was marched upstairs to begin a series of scalding, military-grade showers. After my third emergence from the steamy bathroom (each time met with a rigorous hair, ear and fingernail inspection), I was finally declared feces-free and rewarded with a day of comic books, tv and my favorite lunch - grilled cheese sandwiches and mashed potatoes.
I never saw that green coat again, but for some reason, we were never allowed to roast marshmallows over the burn barrel after that.
Just like every other winter morning, all of us kids crunched down the snowy gravel to the bus stop at the end of our road. At one one corner of the mouth of our "holler" was a dilapidated stone building that used to be the general store of the area (30 years ago), and a junkyard. We looked for space to huddle up against the wind, but as it was blowing out of the north that day, our usual spot was useless. The only place to block the biting wind was a rotting, faded blue Airstream trailer on the edge of the junkyard, but it was placed lengthwise against a twenty foot long, six foot deep, open sewer pit that ran alongside the road. The sewage was constantly running, so it never froze.
The only place we could all stand to block the wind was a slim sloping grass strip between the trailer and the sewer pit that wasn't more than two feet wide, so all twelve of us carefully lined up along that frozen strip, backs pressed against the trailer, teeth chattering while we prayed the bus wouldn't be too late. The pit stank but the wind was worse.
Lined up like prisoners in front of a firing squad, I was stuck smack dab in the middle. The girl to the left of me was trying in vain to have a conversation with the girl on my right, and I was getting annoyed at all the head bobbing as they kept craning around me to talk. The girl on the left asked me if she could switch places with me, so I said, "Sure...", and she awkwardly tried to scoot around in front of me. It was too tight and I was afraid she'd slip on the strip of snowy grass we'd all squeezed onto, so I offered the only thing my chivalrously-raised mind could come up with: I suggested I go around the outside of her instead.
Bad idea. It required the finesse and agility of a high-wire act by a trained professional, but unfortunately I was half-frozen and bundled up like Randy from "A Christmas Story".
As I reached around to hold the edge of one of the trailers' window frames, I swung my leg around her and found the grass edge. It felt solid. I had a good hold on the window. As I swung my other leg around to complete the move, the girl under me suddenly saw an opening and scooted toward her friend, knocking my hand off the frame and sending me pinwheeling, grasping empty swirls of snowy air for a long second as I fell backwards, headfirst into the sewer pit.
I could hear the muffled roars of laughter under the freezing, foamy sewage as I struggled to right myself. The water was only about 3-4 feet deep, but it felt like the deep end of Satan's play pool. The sides of the pit ran almost straight up, and no one wanted to touch me to give me a hand up, as I was now covered in their morning effluence.
The laughter trickled off and died.
My orange and green reversible winter coat with the synthetic fur-lined hood now felt like I was carrying a soggy buffalo, and I was just too heavy to climb. I unzipped and shrugged it off and made my way onto the open corrugated end of the sewer pipe. As I struggled up to the snowy bank and bent over double, I coughed and hacked and spit until I felt sane.
Everyone watched in silence as I stood up and wiped my face as best I could. I looked back at them for a moment, and then turned in shame. Huddling myself against the wind, I trudged up the now 400 mile road to my house, every step a crunchy, frostbitten struggle.
My mother answered the door, speechless; her mind trying to reconcile this bedraggled, poopy thing that almost resembled the scrubbed pink son she has kissed off to school barely half an hour ago.
She shook it off and led me around to the side entrance and told me to shuck down to my skivvies, demanding to know what had happened. I spilled my story, and then I was marched upstairs to begin a series of scalding, military-grade showers. After my third emergence from the steamy bathroom (each time met with a rigorous hair, ear and fingernail inspection), I was finally declared feces-free and rewarded with a day of comic books, tv and my favorite lunch - grilled cheese sandwiches and mashed potatoes.
I never saw that green coat again, but for some reason, we were never allowed to roast marshmallows over the burn barrel after that.