Escape From the Garden (Part 1)

A sort of coming-of-age story

Always thought my grandpa looked a bit like Cagney, the handsome devil.

TW: Some blood, some meanness. I’ve played with this short memoir piece for many years - it originally had many more references to the biblical garden of Eden - only a few remain. It’s always been a playful, but I hope insightful story about fitting in, coming of age and though set ‘back in the day’ seems somewhat relevant to today’s youth (though Outside may not hold the allure to Millennials and Gen Z as it seemed to for X’ers and Boomers).

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Stays with Grandma were the highlight of my summer back then. I didn’t really notice the lack of an indoor toilet or that you had to use a hand pump instead of turning a knob. I didn’t care that the coal stove spewed enough heat to melt your fingernails up close but failed to warm drafty corners. Nor did I feel deprived when we did our laundry using an old ringer washer that billowed steam like monster-movie fog. I suppose I was a bit obtuse; blind to the agony of having only one black and white TV, unaware of the inconvenience of our phone’s party line, and clueless about anyone needing to own more than one vehicle. All I really cared about was the glorious five acres of land Outside that I called my garden - the closest thing to paradise I had ever imagined. I was its sole inhabitant, except for the occasional animal that wandered in and all the imaginary creatures I created in endless games of, “Let’s pretend…”

My garden was adorned with an outhouse, a woodsy hollow (properly pronounced ‘holler’), a creek that only flowed when rains were heavy, a rusty little play set, dilapidated shed, Grandma’s clothesline, and a tire rope swing. Yep, that about sums it up. Except for the fact that when I was Outside in my garden, I was a bigger and better kid who had as many friends as could be conjured, each willing to afford me acceptance and a playful respect that I had never experienced elsewhere.

Lucky for me, Grandma was a big believer in Outside for kids. From the moment I awoke and ate breakfast, I was ushered Outside and expected to play until lunch, barring injury or illness. After lunch, I was once again shown the door and would not see inside again until darkness began to fall. On any summer day, except during thunderstorms, I played at make-believe and created worlds. Sometimes I was an Olympian and my skin-the-cats evoked appreciative roars from a crowd of spectators. Other times I was Perry Mason, arguing my case and ferreting out the bad guy in dramatic courtroom scenes. But most days it was pirates, cowboys, Indians and gangsters that joined me; snake-mean Billy-the-Kid and soft-spoken Jesse James were regulars. From the fragile stick and leaf houses I built to make Dodge City to the wild prairies I roamed herding cattle with the crew from Rawhide, I drew from my internal cast of thousands to create my worlds.

One day in late August, I noticed another human lurking in my garden and spying on me. I knew that kid; I had observed him from afar in his little yard across the holler. He and his noisy siblings ran around always playing with balls: footballs, basketballs, baseballs. In fact, I believed the lot of them to be obsessed with balls and completely lacking in imagination. I had dismissed them from my thoughts, preferring my garden and its cast of thousands - none of which were interested in balls and who like me, had nary a sibling to their name.

“I see you over there,” I said nonchalantly not even looking up.

The interloper gawked and I glared.

Finally, I gave him a look meant to wither and send him running but instead, he asked, “What’s your name?”

I resented the intrusion but answered while continuing to crack my little pile of hickory nuts with Grampa’s ball-peen hammer.

“Mary.” I had no interest in his name, so I didn’t ask.

Happily, he volunteered, “My name’s Skip. What are you eating? My mom told me those are poison.”

The sun was shining on his towhead – we could have been siblings, so alike in coloring and size. But he was freckled, I was not. His eyes were sky-blue, mine earth green. He smelled of parental cigarette smoke, the outdoors, and wet dogs. Pretty sure I did not smell (at least that day), and I wrinkled up my nose at him.

I ate the meat of my hickories, chewing in exaggerated ecstasy while staring a deep challenge into his beady blue eyes. “They are not poisonous to me. This is ambrosia – food of the gods. People like you are told they’re poisonous to keep you away from eating them.”

I ate some more and performed my Cleopatra luxuriating on her boat, enjoying grapes while floating down the Nile.

He looked me up and down. As my memory recalls, we were between eight and ten years old – no more, no less. I enjoyed his inspection, as it was a sort of circling, a deciding of who would be in charge. I was not physically imposing, usually called names like bean pole, ragamuffin, slip of a thing and wraith of a girl. But I had an ease with words, a fine memory for lines from movies, and the ability to mimic facial expressions perfectly. I gave him my award-winning look of intimidation, channeling Cagney.

Skip didn’t react like one intimidated. Instead, he sat down, snatched some of my hickories and popped them into his mouth. He chewed in delight and without fear, succumbing easily to the temptation of the forbidden fruit in my garden. It was such a gutsy move, not at all like Adam the milksop who just gave in, then blamed Eve. He ate with panache…and I…well I, suddenly liked him for it.

Skip joined my float down the Nile as we took turns cracking shells and eating the food of the gods until he had to go home.

The next day, he reappeared with one of his siblings, Bill. Bill was a younger, carbon copy of Skip that so placidly and seamlessly joined our play, I barely noticed he was not one of my cast of thousands. In a few more days, two more siblings joined us: Marshall and Gary. Marshall came bearing a gift; it was a football and he handed it to me like an offering.

Perhaps it was my infatuation with Skip, perhaps it was just a lark to change things up, but I played football with the four of them and found that I liked it. What’s more, I was good at it. We created new ball games and strategies – Skip and I were always on the same team. We played as though we were waging war, celebrating victories, and bemoaning defeats. A whole day was defined as good or bad by whether our team won or lost and like heathens round a bonfire we screamed, danced, pushed each other and rolled with laughter on the ground.

One day, Skip said, “Now Mary, I got to tell you something. You are my girl, and these boys are my gang. Since you’re a girl, you probably don’t know the rules…since we let you play with us all the time…”

He leaned in conspiratorially, “We don’t usually let girls play with us so I’m going to let you in on the rules.”

“Rules?” I said nonplussed.

“The first rule is nobody in the gang is allowed to cry in front of anyone.” He looked at me curiously and said, “I’ve never seen you cry; do you cry, cause girls usually cry a lot?”

What was I supposed to do, lie? By my answer, I would be judged worthy or unworthy - my garden had only witnessed my tricks of imagination but never out and out lies. I wasn’t a crier but still, what guts this kid had to “let” me play in my own garden! My cast of thousands was angry too, some were doing the parental head shaking and others were giving the far more satisfying flying finger to Skip and company. A cloud passed over the sun and briefly chilled the early morning breeze - I took this to mean my garden had weighed in on the situation as well.

Yet. Belonging was outside the realm of my young experience, and I longed to be accepted by this rag-tag gang of boys. In my best bad-ass pose, voice and delivery, I snarled, “No. I don’t cry. I never cry. I didn’t even cry when my great grandma died.” Part of my answer was true, part false. Maybe the goodness of the true would cancel the badness of the false. My cast of thousands looked on in disapproval as the small cloud thickened and began to release large sporadic drops of rain.

In Skip’s eyes, I saw belief and admiration. Encouraged by my answer, he continued, “The other rule is never, ever, no matter what snitch on the gang. Say after me, ‘Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye - I will never rat out anyone in the gang.’”

I did, and Skip solemnly announced, “She is now one of us. All that’s left is the blood ceremony.” 

Back in the day, there was no AIDs and hepatitis was something someone far, far away might get. I knew about becoming blood brothers from television shows. I feared that my assertion that I never cry was about to be tested and the witnesses would show no mercy. I felt a bit ill, and I felt a lot trapped – to not participate in the ceremony would label me as “other”, and a wimp. My palms sweated and my hands shook as large drops from that relentless cloud transitioned to a whispery sprinkle.

We stood in a circle and Skip pulled out his pocketknife that had a western scene carved on its handle. One by one, he cut a tiny gash in each of the boys’ fingers, then his own. Not one of them winced - it was a grim-faced group with jaws set tight. Marshall had to squeeze and coax his finger until a small red ruby rested on its tip, which made me even more queasy.

At last, it was my turn. Despite the sprinkle of rain, my garden was sticky hot, and gnats swarmed round our little circle buzzing like a freight train.

Skip watched my face as he pierced my finger and I remember the sharp, unpleasant poke and the urge to flinch, but mostly I remember the sick feeling of seeing my blood flowing freely and running down my finger to puddle in my palm.  

Dizziness threatened as I rubbed bloody fingers with each one of my new blood brothers and the sound in my ears escalated from freight train to tornado. Dizziness turned to nausea, and I had visions of barfing all over everyone and ruining the ceremony. As I silently prayed not to embarrass myself, I held back tears and vomit.

After a long moment of silence, I looked around the circle at all the dirty little fingers, smeared with each other’s blood and thought I already saw serious infections setting in.

Everyone took turns patting me on the back and quickly ran for home just as my grandma hailed me from the small stoop, “Mary, get in here, child, can’t you see it’s raining!”

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I hope you enjoyed this - stay tuned for Part 2, the conclusion later this month. Thank you for taking time to read and comment!