Knock, Knock, Ditch It

Why do you suppose many of us as kids were so brave?

Or is the word really stupid? I’ve often said there is a fine line between courage and stupidity, and at first it might be difficult to tell the difference. Entering into a relationship, for example.

Did we have too much time in our youth with not enough work and few responsibilities? It seems summertime was filled with fun, friends, and finding creative things to do.

When I was 14, I spent the summer with my aunt, uncle, and their four kids on Trump Lake in Wisconsin. During the day we’d ski or hang out with the next-door neighbors who had a large summer home for their family with 14 kids. Yes, fourteen. I don’t think they owned a television or condoms.

After it got dark, we’d walk the lake road and try to scare each other with ferocious-animal stories, running into the woods to rouse the fierce beasts, scaring ourselves as much as the others.

Sometimes we’d play knock, knock, ditch it—a game invented to scare and irritate home dwellers who were otherwise relaxed and happy and enjoying their evening brandy. We’d bravely tiptoe up to the door and take turns being the knocker. Then, like antelope scattering at the rush of a lion or a bird flying into a window, we’d dart and hide or crash and slide.

At least one of those was the plan. But night plans without night-vision goggles present unseen challenges—nocturnal creatures with thick fur, sharp claws, and spiked projections.

“Ahhhhh! Help! Scott! Where are you?!” I whisper screamed. “Something’s got me! Help!”

Just then, the homeowner turned on his light and poked a shotgun out his door. “Who’s there?” he coarsely grumbled.

I pictured my peppered ass as I wriggled and ripped to get free.

And I did.

Released now from the barbed-wire fence, I quietly moved my stupid, wounded flesh back where it belonged…and never played knock, knock, ditch it again.

Streaking

It’s so much fun to do things that are on the fringe, like wearing whipped cream, not wearing panties, and streaking. Most of us have stories from our high school or college years that would make our parents (or kids) cringe.

Streaking slid out of vogue soon after the song “The Streak” was released in 1974, yet even recently I’ve thought, What would the neighbors think if I dashed outside naked? Would they turn me in? Would they think I fell off my rocker? Would they even notice? It’s not that I’m as proud as I can be of my anatomy, as Ray Stevens sang. Frankly, I’m quite boyish in my appearance. The act would be for effect.

Naturism is a part of many cultures, even in a few spots in Colorado, where there are vacation spas and pools, such as Mountain Air Ranch and Orvis Hot Springs, where it’s clothing optional.

For years I had a recurring dream. I’d be changing from my gym uniform into street clothes in our junior high girls’ locker room when, all of a sudden, the bell would ring, girls would rush, and I’d end up sprinting to my next class, shall I say, without my books and normal looks. I was mortified and couldn’t find my way back to the locker room, so I’d dart aimlessly, overexposed, amid a gawking student body.

I’ve talked with others who have had almost the same dream. Fears. Or is it a desire to do something we’re not supposed to do?

Back in 1974 or ’75 my cousin Hope was having a slumber party. We girls started talking about streaking, and eventually devised a plan for one of us to streak. Being the odd one of the bunch and three years older than the others, they voted me Most Likely to Streak.

So, I slipped on horizontal-striped socks and a trench coat. Don’t think dirty old man, think, skinny blonde with legs up to her neck.

The plan: My cousin’s friends would accompany me to the designated Release Spot on seldom-traveled Trump Lake Road. When a designated girl would yell “Now!” I’d drop the coat, the girls would catch it, and they’d follow me, in case someone drove around the curve. That way they could cover me quickly.

What I didn’t know was that these clever little defectors had a different plan.

“Now!” someone yelled. I dropped my coat and started running. But their giggling voices were moving farther away. Rather than catching my coat and acting as my entourage, the little traitors ran with my coat in the opposite direction!

When I turned to see them running away from me, I gasped! Oh my gosh! What am I gonna do?!

Realizing I couldn’t catch them and not wanting to sprint in my birthday suit alone on the road, I decided to run for cover. Though I was closer to my aunt and uncle’s home, getting caught in this predicament was more punishment than I could handle, so I decided to run into the neighbors’ summer home.

I opened the side door, flew through the kitchen, and gasped again as I saw poor, sick, little Joe raising a spoon of Corn Flakes toward his mouth. His eyes grew as big as his bowl, he dropped his spoon, and I leaped into their bathroom. “Hi, Joe,” I cautiously peeped from behind the bathroom door.

A while after I heard him push in his chair and walk upstairs, I wrapped myself in a towel and headed back to my aunt and uncle’s—to devise a familial redress.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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