I Was a Perfect Child

I was a perfect child—no matter what my mother says.  How could I not have been?  I was raised by good godly parents on a sprawling green (when it wasn’t snowing) Canadian farm, before Americans had even invented acid-rain.   A tree-lined river bordered our fields.  The water ran clear when it wasn’t muddy, and you could actually eat the fish without fear of mercury poisoning—that is if you caught anything other than bone-riddled rock bass or sun fish.  Dad and Mom raised obnoxious chickens, pastured Holsteins, and free-range kids.  The air was clean, the dirt was dirty, and life was good.  So tales of my rebellious, pouty-lipped childhood have been most certainly exaggerated.

Mama said that as a toddler, I would never finish a bowl of oatmeal, spaghetti, or whatever.  The last bit needed to grace my curly, auburn locks.  Well, it may have happened once . . . or twice . . . and most likely it was accidental.  After all I was a perfect child. 

The stories of me painting my arm and a tiny wee bit of the floor with white enamel are in all points false.  I painted both arms, and some paint even landed on the walls.  But I was just trying to help lighten Mama’s load.  She had the whole room to do all by herself!

As a pre-teen, the four-inch nails I drove into the old elm tree by the milkhouse in no wise hastened its demise.  It stood tall and knobby—a hundred-year-old sentinel.  My plank board tree house perched as a crown in its grand, tired arms.  What better purpose could it serve in its waning years than to be homestead to my youthful fantasies, inspired poetry, and an almost holy communion of Jell-O tea and soda crackers? 

One story that has gotten a lot of mileage is the time Mama chased me round and round the big kitchen table with Daddy’s leather razor strap.  (I think I was thirty-five at the time.)  She said that I was eventually going to need to stop.  She would catch me, and I would receive the spanking that I supposedly deserved.  If I kept up my aerobic rebellion, it would be a spanking or house arrest, or possibly both.  I opted for the lumps—the sacrificial lamb.  I’m sure I must have been framed by one of my more devilish siblings, because I was indeed perfect.

The pile of hay strewn on the barn floor was a complete misunderstanding.  How else could we jump from the rafters and not get hurt without undoing a few dozen bales?

As a college student, when I made a tearful call home to tell my folks of the trouble I’d gotten myself into, I must admit I didn’t feel too perfect.  My heart was breaking.  I was afraid my parents would be disappointed in me.  When I explained my situation, Dad cried with me.  He said he only wished he could be there to stand alongside and help me through the pain.  I had made a huge mistake, but I was still his perfect child.  The college dean didn’t think so, but I know it was true.