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March 8, 2006
I was a kindergarten hoodlum
I fought the law and the law won...
Even at the age of five, I was a high-strung, moody malcontent. Then, as now, my impulse control was not so great and emotional sophistication was not my strong suit. And so it came to pass, one bright, blustery March afternoon, that I was walking home from school (by myself—it now seems incredible that we ever lived in a world where a 5-year-old could safely walk the 3 blocks between school and home on her own, but there you go) and I was in a towering rage.
What precipitated this rage I cannot remember; all I know for sure was that I felt the world had crossed me, and vengeance would be mine. And since it was early spring, the tulips and crocus in our neighborhood were starting to bloom. One flower bed in particular caught my eye as I stormed down the street—a garden full of the ugliest flowers I had ever seen (which I now know were hyacinths).
These flowers offended me with their perkiness and their stubborn refusal to resemble any flower I’d ever seen before. How dare they not be daisies or daffodils or marigolds??? The temerity!
So I did what any bratty five-year-old would do—I kicked the hyacinths repeatedly with not one shred of respect for other people’s property. And then I continued on my merry way with my world outlook much improved.
Here’s where the story gets weird.
My little rage episode was witnessed by a neighbor of the hyacinth house. This neighbor then took it upon herself to outfit both herself and her young daughter in winter coats, follow me home, and rat me out to my mom. They completely busted me. I was a criminal and I should be punished to the fullest extent of the law.
At the time I was trampling the flowers, I’d thought I was just blowing off a little steam, just lording my mighty human power over a helpless plant. But if a grown-up had actually followed me home to tell on me…crap. This had to be bad. What had I done?
My mother listened to the neighbor with no expression whatsoever on her face, then turned to me and told me to put my boots back on, ‘cause we were going back to the hyacinth house to apologize to the owner.
I broke out in a cold sweat, but there was no getting out of this. Mom walked me back to the house, shook her head at the havoc I’d wreaked in the garden, and made me ring the doorbell.
Here’s where the story gets even weirder.
The middle-aged woman who answered the door looked pale and frail, but I held up my chin and stuttered through the confession I’d rehearsed on the walk over. As soon as I got to the part where I’d jitterbugged on her hyacinths, she burst in to tears—we’re talking full-on hysterics—and started wailing that she’d just had an operation and her marriage had fallen apart and that this was just the last straw, I had taken away the last remnant of happiness in her life.
I don’t remember much after that—my brain has mercifully blocked out the trauma. But I knew I was going to hell for sure. And that’s just what I deserved because I was a vicious, mean-spirited little wretch should be staked in a dungeon and eaten alive by rats.
Or so I came to believe after this woman had a nervous breakdown right before my eyes. My mother later called it “the perfect storm” of small town drama and misplaced angst. I still feel bad about the whole thing, I still cringe every time I think about it, and I wonder what became of the hyacinth house woman. I hope she’s okay. I also hope I don’t go to hell.
But WTF was up with the neighbor stalking me down? Am I the only one who thinks that was wildly inappropriate?
This blog was brought to you by Blondes Have More Felons, Alesia’s first December Vaughn Mystery – there’s nothing like December in Florida!
Posted by Beth at 10:44 PM | Comments (5)
Comments
Whoa, Beth! Breathe, baby, breathe. You were five! Give yourself a break!
I have to admit that my children refer to me as Wolf Mother. If I'd been the next door neighbor, I would have probably popped out of my house like an evil jack-in-the-box and told you to cut it out. I would NOT have stalked a little girl on the way home (talk about asking to be put on some creepy pedophile list!) and ratted her out to her mother.
And the other lady? The one who had a nervous breakdown about her hyacinths? Ummm. Bigger problems than kindergarteners in her flower bed I think. Like way bigger.
Now can I confess about the time when I was six and was so entranced with the incredibly perfect snowpile on the end of neighbor's sidewalk that I spent an hour pretending to be Robert Peary or something and knocked it all back onto her sidewalk. She actually shook her fist at me.
Eileen
Posted by: Eileen ![[TypeKey Profile Page]](http://www.literarychicks.com/nav-commenters.gif)
at March 8, 2006 11:02 PM
Yikes, talk about the Bad Seed. You were, like, one criminal trespass away from one of those scary Juvie boot camps.
Kidding! I'm kidding! I kid, because I love.
What did your mom do when Crazy Lady started to rant? Did she throw herself in front of you, hissing, "Don't look her straight in the eyes," while backing away slowly?
Posted by: Whitney at March 9, 2006 3:56 PM
What is interesting is how many of the Lit Chicks started their lives of crime before age 7. We were destined to end up together. Or, you know, in the Women's Correctional Institute, bonding over license plates.
Posted by: Alesia Holliday at March 9, 2006 4:18 PM
Not me! I was a saint as a child! I didn't start going downhill until, oh, about age fourteen or so.
Posted by: Whitney at March 9, 2006 4:47 PM
Very distinct memory for me: I am five or six and we are driving to my grandmother's house. Some kid tosses a snowball at our car. My Dad slams the car into park and launches out after him. My Dad was no small man and was packing a serious paunch. He actually vaulted a fence. He caught the kid and took him to his house where he ratted him out. I knew then I came from crazy genes.
Posted by: Eileen at March 10, 2006 5:04 PM
