Something didn't feel right

Penned June 23, 2021

Prompt: Something didn't feel right

~*~ 

Five years old. 1964. 

"I HATE YOU!!!" 

Pound! Bang! 

"I HATE YOU! HATE YOU!! HATE YOU!!!" 

Crack! Crash! 

Pieces of red plastic scatter the floor --remains of the the small, red, once-rectangular, toy gum machine. 

"I DON'T WANT YOU ANYMORE..."  

Exhausted. Crying. 

Upset that the toy is destroyed. It will no longer dispense the two-pack Chiclets. 

Momma looks on from the kitchen, standing in the doorway, dressed in a patterned dress, wearing an apron, looking befuddled like she doesn't know what to do. The apron is a half-apron, tied at her waist. White, edged with small, embroidered flowers and a crochet-laced trim. 

I sit cross-legged, curly headed, and bucktoothed on the dining room hardwood floor. Probably barefoot, wearing cut-off jeans for shorts and a tee shirt. 

I don't recall why I was so upset with that toy. But I killed it with a fury. 

Maybe I just wanted attention; I threw tantrums on a regular basis. Mom talked with Dr. Davis, one of our family doctors, about my tantrums. He advised to allow them and to not respond. Apparently it worked; eventually I quit kicking and screaming and killing inanimates. Maybe I just decided nobody cared, so why bother.

Six years old. 1965.

David, my new 6-year old neighbor, and I meet for the first time. I don't know where his 7-year old brother is right now. David and I stand face to face. Me, a tomboy with neck-length curly hair and buck teeth, wearing cut-off jeans and a tee shirt, barefoot. David, short straight hair and straight teeth.

I'm not happy with my new neighbor. He seems like a sissy. I lift my hand, palm toward his face, place my fingers on his forehead, and pull down ha-a-ard scratching his face with my fingernails; it draws some blood. He screams and cries. 

Yeah, he's a sissy. 

Our moms jump up and run right over; they'd been sitting in lawn chairs getting to know each other.  The scream ended the visit. 

I don't recall getting punished or ever apologizing to David. But maybe I was and maybe I did. We played together on a regular basis for the next six years.  I'd play at his house and drink city water. I swam in his pool, along with the rest of the neighborhood kids, as the neighborhood grew. 

Maybe I wanted to prove this was my turf. I'd lived here at least three years already. Maybe I was jealous because his family built a brand new house right beside ours. I'd played in the big sand pile that was used to make concrete when the builders were building it. 

Our house was built in 1930, not 1965. Nothing modern about ours. We drank well water. David had city water. David had a driveway and 2-car garage. We didn't have a driveway. We had a tiny ramp for a maybe-future driveway at the new curb that had been built when the dirt road had been paved. Mom and Dad parked our cars parallel with the new curb. The new curb that ended right at the end of our yard. It didn't go down the road until some decades later when the Abernethy's old house was torn down and new houses were built. 

I deemed David's family higher class than us. 

David's family had a little Yorkie that his mom carried in her arms or walked on a leash. We had a hound dog named Dan who was rarely, if ever, on a leash. Dan used to go hunting with Daddy.