Hi, Diary. Henhouse Helen Kell's cat, or is it Bobby's? Well, anyway, she just had her hundredth litter of kittens. Every time I see her, she's either going to have kittens or just had a bunch.
But that's not what I want to write about. What I really want to write about is:
But that's not what I want to write about. What I really want to write about is:
ME AND MY BIG MOUTH
By
G. B. Hoffman
By
G. B. Hoffman
I just had to go and do it. I must've been temporarily insane. That's what Judge Conway, Moira's father, would've said. What did I do? Well, I'm getting to that.
"Where you going?" asked Dork.
My hand was on the front door's handle as I announced, "I'm going to the perfect swimming hole that only the Petersons and I know about."
"Oh yeah? I don't believe you," said Dork.
"Why?"
"Where's your swimming suit?"
"Don't need one. I'm going skinny dipping."
Dork's real name is William Alfred Hoffman. The initials spell out WAH, which is the sound of a baby crying. If you ask me, he was named perfectly.
"Sounds like fun. Skip (his buddy, Walter "Skip" Wefel) and I might want to go there. Where is it?"
I toyed with Dork. "Where is what?"
"Your swimming hole."
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
Doc III, my oldest brother, appeared. His nose was a quarter inch away from my nose. "Yeah," he demanded, "where is it?"
"Where is what?'
"Your swimming hole, Piss Pants."
"Sticks and stones may hurt my bones, but words will never hurt me."
"Oh, yeah. I just might bust your skull if you don't tell us where that swimming hole is."
Us? Somehow, he and Dork had joined forces without their making any kind of agreement that I could hear.
"Yeah," said Dork, encouraging Doc III and getting me into hot water. Or was it boiling oil?
Doc III's hand snatched the back of my neck.
"Even if I wanted to tell you, I can't," I screamed. "It's a secret. I took a blood oath."
"Blood oath, eh? Siddown."
"Where?"
"Here. On the floor. Where d'ya think?"
''Why should I?"
"Cause I said so."
"I don't wanna sit on the floor. I'd rather sit on a chair or a couch."
"Do you think I care?" He grabbed my shoulders and squeezed. That really hurt, but I managed to wriggle free. "You're gonna have to help me get the secret outta him," Doc III, pinning my arms, told Dork.
"Gladly." Dork gripped my legs. The pair lifted me and sat me on the floor. Hard. "Keep 'im there," said Doc III, taking off for who knows where.
Dork pushed down on my shoulders. I tried to get up but couldn't. In time, I became exhausted from all my trying and so I stopped.
Doc III returned with Mother's new Fuller Brush broom and some rope. "Put your hands in front of your legs."
I obeyed. Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman is no dummy. Of that, I am certain.
"Now, make believe you're praying."
"Like this?" I put my hands together in front of my shins, but I wasn't praying. I was trying to figure out how to get out of this mess.
"Yeah, like that." Doc III didn't give me time to figure out anything. Instead, he wrapped the rope around my wrists many times and tied the ends with a bunch of granny and square knots. "See if you can get out."
I tried. But failed. Doc III grinned. So, too, did Dork. Naturally. That's Dork. Next, Doc III stuck the broom handle in the small space under my knees but over the bend of my arms above the elbows. I couldn't move my arms or hands at all.
"Try to get out of that," ordered Doc III.
Wiggling, jiggling, and wriggling, I could not free myself. I moved my butt close to the wall with the broom handle hitting it. I moved sideways a little at a time and pushed the handle all the way in. I soon learned that was a stupid move. So, I wiggled to the opposite wall and pushed the bristle part back in.
Both brothers laughed. "Now, tell us where that swimming hole is, or else," ordered Doc III.
"Or else what?" I pleaded.
"Or else you'll be sitting here for the rest of your life."
Dork sneered. "Are you, or are you not, going to tell us where that swimming hole is?"
At that very moment, I thought of all the GIs who died in the Pacific Theater. That's what it was called. Kind of dumb, if you ask me. It wasn't a movie theater. It was war, plain and simple. Our soldiers were Jap prisoners of war (POWs). They wouldn't tell the Yellow Bellies a thing even while the POWs were beaten and battered and murdered. Those Slant Eyes wouldn't even give our POWs water to drink. Not a teaspoon. Nor a single drop. Some POWs were so thirsty they drank pee. Many died. I owed it to them. I would not—I could not—reveal the secret. "I can't."
"Let's go," said Doc III. He and Dork disappeared out the front door. I was all alone. Dad, Mother, Crazy Annie, and little Pete had gone to Johnson & Hills Department Store. Both needed new school clothes plus they were going to go to the Red Goose shoe store to get new shoes.
My fingertips were cold. "Help," I called out, but who could hear me? Nobody. I'll tell only you, Diary, because you can't tell anyone else: I cried as I never cried in my life.
Finally, our mailman, Ed Timm, dropped some letters through the mail slot in the front door.
"Help me," I called out as loud as I could.
Removing his pith helmet with one hand, the other hand shading his eyes, Ed peered through a screen. "Is that you, Carrot Top?"
"Yes"
"What's the matter?"
"I'm tied up and can't move."
Ed opened the door. His face turned bright pink. "My God, who did this?"
"My brothers."
"This is terrible." Ed worked feverishly to untie the knots. "Poor kid. Look at those hands. There's no blood in them, for crying out loud."
That's the moment I heard Dad apply the Oldsmobile's brakes in our driveway. He was first in the house. "What the? What's going on here?"
"Why, I'm helping your son here. He was all tied up, with that broom handle and all."
"Who did this?" Dad looked straight at me.
'"He said his brothers," explained Ed.
My tears came as hard as rain in a Florida hurricane. "James and Bill."
"Why?"
"Because I wouldn't tell them where our swimming hole is."
As Mother opened the door, she cried out, "His hands are white."
"And they're cold," I whimpered.
"Well, since you folks are here," said Ed, sighing, "I'd better get back to delivering the United States mail."
"Thanks, Ed," said Dad. "Jean and I appreciate your concern. And your help."
After Mr. Timm closed the door, I cried even harder. Crazy Annie started crying but little Pete said not a word and entered the parlor.
I didn't go swimming that day.
When the "Terrible Two" returned home, one at a time, Dad sent them to their bedrooms, saying, "You'll get no supper tonight."
I felt vindicated. (Thank you Reader's Digest "Word Power" page). It means justified.
Later, Diary, as I made my way to the bathroom, I discovered my brothers weren't finished. Doc III snarled through clenched teeth, "This is only the beginning, Piss Pants."
"You'd better believe it," whispered Dork, sounding exactly like an alligator hissing in a Johnny Weissmuller "Jungle Jim" movie.
Me and my big mouth.
"Where you going?" asked Dork.
My hand was on the front door's handle as I announced, "I'm going to the perfect swimming hole that only the Petersons and I know about."
"Oh yeah? I don't believe you," said Dork.
"Why?"
"Where's your swimming suit?"
"Don't need one. I'm going skinny dipping."
Dork's real name is William Alfred Hoffman. The initials spell out WAH, which is the sound of a baby crying. If you ask me, he was named perfectly.
"Sounds like fun. Skip (his buddy, Walter "Skip" Wefel) and I might want to go there. Where is it?"
I toyed with Dork. "Where is what?"
"Your swimming hole."
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
Doc III, my oldest brother, appeared. His nose was a quarter inch away from my nose. "Yeah," he demanded, "where is it?"
"Where is what?'
"Your swimming hole, Piss Pants."
"Sticks and stones may hurt my bones, but words will never hurt me."
"Oh, yeah. I just might bust your skull if you don't tell us where that swimming hole is."
Us? Somehow, he and Dork had joined forces without their making any kind of agreement that I could hear.
"Yeah," said Dork, encouraging Doc III and getting me into hot water. Or was it boiling oil?
Doc III's hand snatched the back of my neck.
"Even if I wanted to tell you, I can't," I screamed. "It's a secret. I took a blood oath."
"Blood oath, eh? Siddown."
"Where?"
"Here. On the floor. Where d'ya think?"
''Why should I?"
"Cause I said so."
"I don't wanna sit on the floor. I'd rather sit on a chair or a couch."
"Do you think I care?" He grabbed my shoulders and squeezed. That really hurt, but I managed to wriggle free. "You're gonna have to help me get the secret outta him," Doc III, pinning my arms, told Dork.
"Gladly." Dork gripped my legs. The pair lifted me and sat me on the floor. Hard. "Keep 'im there," said Doc III, taking off for who knows where.
Dork pushed down on my shoulders. I tried to get up but couldn't. In time, I became exhausted from all my trying and so I stopped.
Doc III returned with Mother's new Fuller Brush broom and some rope. "Put your hands in front of your legs."
I obeyed. Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman is no dummy. Of that, I am certain.
"Now, make believe you're praying."
"Like this?" I put my hands together in front of my shins, but I wasn't praying. I was trying to figure out how to get out of this mess.
"Yeah, like that." Doc III didn't give me time to figure out anything. Instead, he wrapped the rope around my wrists many times and tied the ends with a bunch of granny and square knots. "See if you can get out."
I tried. But failed. Doc III grinned. So, too, did Dork. Naturally. That's Dork. Next, Doc III stuck the broom handle in the small space under my knees but over the bend of my arms above the elbows. I couldn't move my arms or hands at all.
"Try to get out of that," ordered Doc III.
Wiggling, jiggling, and wriggling, I could not free myself. I moved my butt close to the wall with the broom handle hitting it. I moved sideways a little at a time and pushed the handle all the way in. I soon learned that was a stupid move. So, I wiggled to the opposite wall and pushed the bristle part back in.
Both brothers laughed. "Now, tell us where that swimming hole is, or else," ordered Doc III.
"Or else what?" I pleaded.
"Or else you'll be sitting here for the rest of your life."
Dork sneered. "Are you, or are you not, going to tell us where that swimming hole is?"
At that very moment, I thought of all the GIs who died in the Pacific Theater. That's what it was called. Kind of dumb, if you ask me. It wasn't a movie theater. It was war, plain and simple. Our soldiers were Jap prisoners of war (POWs). They wouldn't tell the Yellow Bellies a thing even while the POWs were beaten and battered and murdered. Those Slant Eyes wouldn't even give our POWs water to drink. Not a teaspoon. Nor a single drop. Some POWs were so thirsty they drank pee. Many died. I owed it to them. I would not—I could not—reveal the secret. "I can't."
"Let's go," said Doc III. He and Dork disappeared out the front door. I was all alone. Dad, Mother, Crazy Annie, and little Pete had gone to Johnson & Hills Department Store. Both needed new school clothes plus they were going to go to the Red Goose shoe store to get new shoes.
My fingertips were cold. "Help," I called out, but who could hear me? Nobody. I'll tell only you, Diary, because you can't tell anyone else: I cried as I never cried in my life.
Finally, our mailman, Ed Timm, dropped some letters through the mail slot in the front door.
"Help me," I called out as loud as I could.
Removing his pith helmet with one hand, the other hand shading his eyes, Ed peered through a screen. "Is that you, Carrot Top?"
"Yes"
"What's the matter?"
"I'm tied up and can't move."
Ed opened the door. His face turned bright pink. "My God, who did this?"
"My brothers."
"This is terrible." Ed worked feverishly to untie the knots. "Poor kid. Look at those hands. There's no blood in them, for crying out loud."
That's the moment I heard Dad apply the Oldsmobile's brakes in our driveway. He was first in the house. "What the? What's going on here?"
"Why, I'm helping your son here. He was all tied up, with that broom handle and all."
"Who did this?" Dad looked straight at me.
'"He said his brothers," explained Ed.
My tears came as hard as rain in a Florida hurricane. "James and Bill."
"Why?"
"Because I wouldn't tell them where our swimming hole is."
As Mother opened the door, she cried out, "His hands are white."
"And they're cold," I whimpered.
"Well, since you folks are here," said Ed, sighing, "I'd better get back to delivering the United States mail."
"Thanks, Ed," said Dad. "Jean and I appreciate your concern. And your help."
After Mr. Timm closed the door, I cried even harder. Crazy Annie started crying but little Pete said not a word and entered the parlor.
I didn't go swimming that day.
When the "Terrible Two" returned home, one at a time, Dad sent them to their bedrooms, saying, "You'll get no supper tonight."
I felt vindicated. (Thank you Reader's Digest "Word Power" page). It means justified.
Later, Diary, as I made my way to the bathroom, I discovered my brothers weren't finished. Doc III snarled through clenched teeth, "This is only the beginning, Piss Pants."
"You'd better believe it," whispered Dork, sounding exactly like an alligator hissing in a Johnny Weissmuller "Jungle Jim" movie.
Me and my big mouth.
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