Betsy Devine: Funny ha-ha and/or funny peculiar

I’m remembering some of my crazy kid thought processes this morning, thanks to a funny blog story by Lisa Williams about a dead rabbit.

I grew up in the era of long, slow, neighborhood-and-family
summers. My pals and I had a “clubhouse” on some scrub land,
and one day somebody arrived with a still-warm dead squirrel. We all
petted its soft fur, admiring its many tiny perfections. Tears in our
eyes, we held a solemn funeral. One of our group treasures–a handsome
cardboard cigar
box–was sacrificed for a coffin. Freeze frame on our sad and
thoughtful faces then.

Now cut to the same group, same clubhouse, a few evenings later,
digging up the same squirrel, with dialog like, “Yeah, good. It
stinks.” “Oh boy, it really, really stinks!” “This is going to be
perfect for Eddie’s father.”* We gleefully carried the now sodden and
smelly cigar box to Eddie’s house, put it on the front doorstep, rang
the bell, and raced home to the safety of our own houses.  We ran
fast because Eddie’s father was a big mean guy and we sure didn’t want
him to run after us and catch us.

We got
home to find our mother on the phone with Eddie’s father–one of
the scariest moments of my life.  Going over a cliff in a Ford
convertible when I was in college was nothing compared to hearing my
mother say, “Oh, hello, Mr. Ozkelewski.”**  In the Ford, I just figured I
was about to die. That night of the squirrel, I’m not sure what I expected.

The conversation continued–we could hear only one side of it.
“Oh my, Mr. Ozkelewski–really? How awful.” [Our mother turned to scowl
at us four kids, now standing huddled together and looking terrified.] “Of
course, you must be very upset. I’m glad you called me.” [Our mother
was glad? She didn’t look glad–she was really glaring at us.] “But it
must have been some other children who did it. My kids have all
been home tonight, ever since dinner.”

Once she got off the phone, she gave us a huge scolding and I hope I
looked suitably sorry for what we’d done. But hearing my mother lie to
save my skin–and I don’t think I’d ever heard her lie before–was one
of the happiest moments of my childhood.

---

* Eddie’s father had threatened to chase us out of our clubhouse if we didn’t let four-year-old Eddie into
our gang. We were a tough bunch of seven- to ten-year-olds and we had
no wish to become Eddie’s baby-sitters.)
** Or whatever his last name was. At this point, I’m not even sure the kid’s name was Eddie.