Go Carts and Tooth Fairies

What does one have to do with the other?

Just a little meme I found online and tampered with adding, “Don’t”. Could have done something way cooler with AI but resisted the urge :D :D

Hello Substack! I’ve not posted since sometime after Christmas (except for that little political satire about governmental regulation) though I have gathered several new subscribers - thank you! I guess you decided to take a chance on me from my continued Notes commentary I was able to maintain through this dry spell. I realize new-to-me folks may not know what to expect from my posts…that’s okay, neither do I. This is a memoirish piece that might be somewhat funny, and I have attempted to recapture the thoughts and feelings I had at seven years old as I wrestled with believing in things like tooth fairies and making trying to make good decisions. Admittedly, I did not have the vocabulary or facility with words to describe things this way in my little kid diary, but as my writer’s mind re-enters that weird land of decades past (over half of a century!!), I find a deep awareness that I had just these thoughts and felt just these things. It’s so funny how the themes we first struggle with as children re-assert themselves throughout our lives – it is as though we are gameshow contestants searching for answers amid the applause and boos of angels, demons and our alter egos (no, I am not a believer in the traditional super naturals that are said to populate the contemporary Megaverse). Hope you enjoy and sorry it went a bit long!

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Go Carts and Tooth Fairies

Oh, I wanted that go-cart. I wanted it so badly, I dreamed about it every night after Pawpaw (not the fancy Pah-Pah pronunciation - more like a dog appendage) showed me pictures in the Sears catalog. It was the summer of my seventh year, and my birthday was coming up right in synch with school starting which put a damper on my joy each fall that no bribe or celebration could dispel.

I sat on his lap as he thumbed through slick colorful pages that featured so many choices. It was good sitting on Pawpaw’s lap, inhaling the faint smell of tobacco and Aqua Velva aftershave that he sometimes drank when there were no other alcohol options available. I could feel the clean stiffness of his work clothes that Mam dried on the clothesline and those soothing vibrations like a kitten’s purr when he spoke. If it weren’t for the tantalizing photos in the catalog and the pressure to decide, I might have drifted off to sleep on that lap I knew so well.

“Which one do you like best, Tate?” The first time he asked me a few weeks ago, I couldn’t even answer. I just smiled till my face hurt and pointed to every single one. Pawpaw smiled too, oo’ing and ah’ing while turning pages slowly back and forth, back and forth. After several repetitions of this ritual, I finally settled on a fire engine red two-seater with fat black shiny tires. The kid in the picture had a shit-eating grin with one hand on the steering wheel and the other lying confidently across the back of the seat. I could feel the pull of that empty seat beside him beckoning me to fill it. Skip! Bill! Imaginary friends and real dogs needing a lift or a joy ride.

“That’s a good choice, you can ride with a buddy in it. But you really liked that other one too. Are you sure about this one?’

Pawpaw’s seemingly innocuous question sent me into a quandary, a black hole of indecision- a quality that I would carry with me my whole life: decidaphobia. Doubt drew its thunderhead across my sunny day bringing a fearsome realization that some choices were final and maybe not always something that ended happily ever after. I fumbled the pages with my awkward, always sticky, mostly dirty 7-year-old fingers and studied the one-seater white go cart again. It was a giant shiny bullet. Staring into the distance of a make-believe road to anywhere, a small, demure, little blonde girl sat. She would be a good driver, safe, dependable…but she didn’t have friends to share the road with and no prospects to make one by giving someone a ride in an extra seat. I liked the little girl and her cart was swell…but I felt sorry for her and feeling sorry was feeling sad – in my house, it was okay to feel sorry for others, but never okay to feel sorry for yourself. I studied her eyes and thought I detected a loneliness and self-pity that I could not abide, yet there she was intrepid and aloof in her aloneness – just like I felt in all the summers before Skip and the gang entered my garden. I had no idea about the invisible power savvy advertisers could exert, subliminally or otherwise upon a gullible public, just a child’s mind that had already fallen under the spell of the smorgasbord of slick, brightly colored pages, special and full of promise. There were other go carts in the catalog, but my process of elimination had dismissed them for reasons like not shiny enough, wrong color, weird looking kid or too many grown-ups hovering around the cart. It was a war of either/or and the winner would determine the quality of my summer days and decide whether I would be in the driver’s seat or left standing while someone else took the wheel and drove off into the sunset of infinite possibilities.

A two-sided golden doubloon began to rotate slowly in my head, the white bullet, or the red two-seater…how could I make such a monumental decision? But worse yet, if I delayed too long, the capricious grown-ups (despots) that controlled the money purse might change their minds and decide it was better to buy new school clothes or some other such foolishness; these despots were known only to me as Mam, Maw-Maw (pronounced like Pawpaw) and Goddle-ga (my name for my mother – don’t ask me where that came from) and they had pulled the rug out from under me many times in the past. Back then (maybe even now, sometimes) I saw all authority, even God, as despots, though ‘despot’ had not yet been added to my vocabulary. I was also acutely aware of Darwinian principles of survival without ever having read, On the Origin of Species. Come hell or high water, I needed to choose my go-cart before the despots made one of their power plays and crushed my dreams.

Pawpaw smiled patiently at me. His sky-blue eyes were all crinkly around their edges and rested above a severely bitter feature that was his mouth – I often wondered why the good lord forgot to give Pawpaw lips, but he was a handsome man nonetheless if one likes Cagney or Bruce Willis, and who doesn’t? Yet, in spite of his good looks and charisma, he was not one of the despots - just a pawn like me. I knew someone had assigned him the task of helping me make my monumental decision. Each day for several weeks in between sneaking sips of his hidden elixirs (or maybe a snort of Aqua Velva), he would ply his gentle technique to help me choose – everyone knew about my decidaphobia and didn’t like to deal with it. I knew he had been voluntold, but I still appreciated his patience and the way he held back from trying to lead me one way or another. Most grownups think they are very clever at tricking kids into doing what they want and making them think it was their idea – Pawpaw never did this.

“Have you made your choice, then Tate?”

“No!” Pawpaw sighed and excused himself, leaving me to the task of choosing between two models of perfection. I was expected to pull a thing from the land of dreams rendered so beautifully in the magical catalog (were these advertisers some sort of wizards?) and make it real-life.

Pawpaw nearly sprinted to the bathroom where I suspected he would plunge the depths of the toilet’s water tank and retrieve one of his elixirs. This was disgusting and a while back I told him he would get sick drinking anything that had come from the toilet. He laughed and explained that the water in the tank was not polluted by the activity and leavings in the bowl. I remember I shook my head dubiously, which caused him to laugh even more as he drank long and deep. We had an understanding: I knew where most of his elixirs were hidden and didn’t rat him out, in exchange, he often took the blame for my shenanigans. It worked pretty good except for that time when I was littler, and Mam made me search his truck. That incident triggered our pact and prevented future strains on my conscience. From that point on, Mam never involved me in her treasure hunts for Pawpaw’s bottles. It turns out along with knowing about Darwin and despots, I also had a rudimentary understanding of Clinton’s “don’t-ask-don’t-tell’ policy.

While I struggled to overcome my decidaphobia, Pawpaw was busy guzzling his elixir secreted earlier in foul and unhealthful waters and Mam was on a shopping trip to the IGA, her cathedral of sustenance and spiritual connection (I never saw Mam set foot in a real church, though I said the Lord’s name in vain once and she came at me like a feral windmill). The IGA was where Mam and her sisters spent hours gossiping, solving the world’s problems and clogging up the aisles for anyone who was there to get their groceries quickly and go home. Mostly, other shoppers just waited for a break and then pardoned themselves for interrupting. Mam always gave them a reproachful look, and they seemed eager to hurry away. I was glad when Mam quit making me go with her because the only time I liked hearing gossip was when it was about me and my bad behavior. ‘Course there was never any gossip about my good behavior; either I never had any or it just wasn’t worth talking about. Anyway, outside of candy, there was no reason for me to walk the aisles of the IGA with Mam on her special days - she always brought me some surprise treat and that suited me just fine.

Mam’s other social pleasure was listening in on peoples’ conversations through our phone’s party line. It was funny to watch, Mam all sneaky and holding her hand over the receiver so no one would hear her breathing or background noises. Yet for all these precautions, everyone seemed to pick up on that slight click that meant another person had lifted their receiver. If Mam was talking to somebody, she always waited for the 2^nd click indicating the intruder noticed others were on the line and had politely hung up. But most liked to try their hand at spy craft and Mam was the worst of the bunch; she was a habitual lurker and eavesdropper. People usually would just go on talking, knowing all the while but pretending not to know, that someone (mostly Mam) was listening and gathering intel. Sometimes, one of the ladies would call out a lurker with little comments like, “I could have sworn I heard someone pick up…but SURELY, that person is not sittin’ there listening to us!” Or, “I just cannot fathom what kind of person would eavesdrop on other people’s private conversations, can you, Mary?!” I remember once when Mam was called out, she yelled, “I JUST now picked up the receiver, Ida Jean, and I have no interest whatsoever in your tiresome prattle!” Then, she slammed down the receiver and looked over at me with an impish grin. We both burst out laughing, ate some Milk Duds and started playing 2-handed Solitaire which Mam always won (I think she cheated but I could never catch her at it).

As you can see, contrary to the rose-colored glasses people like to use about the good old days, humans back then weren’t all that polite or honest and loved being all up in each other’s business, just like now. The main difference was they usually had to look each other in the eye and didn’t have the convenient anonymity online busy bodies nowadays enjoy. Even though folks made feeble efforts at keeping their identities secret, the systems in place didn’t let them - everyone knew who said what to who and usually why they said it. It’s kinda like the difference between dropping turds on someone from a high-tech plane or taking a person down all up close and personal – most folks these days don’t have the intestinal fortitude for the latter option – good thing the systems in place let them drop their turds from afar.

Well, while everyone was busy with gossiping and imbibing, I had finally made my choice on which go cart I wanted – the fire engine red two-seater with fat black shiny tires. This would ensure my gaggle of friends remained by my side and that my fun meter would stay pegged the whole summer.

Pawpaw said, “Nice choice, squirt!”

It was a few weeks, but it felt like years until my go cart arrived. I remember getting mad at Pawpaw because he got to test drive it first. The thing sounded like a lawn mower – loud and smokey too. Pawpaw fiddled with something he called a “governor” and told me never to touch it. I took mental note of its location and determined to touch it as soon as possible. He and Mam had an argument discussion about how the governor controlled how fast the go cart would be able to go - Mam wanted it set to its lowest position - Pawpaw said I needed a little bit of juice, or it would be boring. After some name-calling and the bringing up of old grievances, Mam reluctantly agreed with Pawpaw who gave me a sly wink (he hardly ever won a discussion and was rightfully proud of himself). The downside was that now I owed him something to be determined at a later date. Maybe it would be a chore, a lie, or the debt could just sit there and gather interest. He never forgot and neither did I…dang, turns out I also knew something about finance and loan sharking!

Some more insignificant rules of the road were discussed until at last they turned me loose in it. Sitting behind that wheel was one of the best feelings I remember from my childhood – that catalogue could have taken a picture of me and go cart sales would have gone through the roof! I try to imagine myself now with what I saw in pictures of me back then; a skinny, nervous little waif of a girl in dirty, ill-fitting clothes smiling the biggest buck-toothed grin you ever saw. So, maybe sales wouldn’t have gone through the roof. Maybe there would have been some kind of go-fund me collection established so that other such waifs could have a similar moment of unadulterated joy, but most likely, a police report would have been filed since no one would believe a family as poor as ours could afford such a frivolous purchase. Neither Mam nor Pawpaw ever seemed to begrudge me my go cart, and I was too young and self-centered to consider whatever sacrifices they must have made to allow me such a gift.

I have to admit when the time came to drive it, I was a little scared. With only the slightest pressure on the gas pedal, the thing leapt like a wild stallion straight out of one of my dreams, sleek, trembling with pent-up energy and eyes that flashed like lightning in the night.

The first thing I did was run it into the hedge row. In all the excitement of me being in control of that kind of power I had forgotten where the brake was, or maybe I had forgotten that I was the one in control and needed only to use the brake pedal! My go cart began to tear into and “climb” the hedgerow that bordered our property till grandpa sprinted over and killed the engine. He laughed like mad while Mam cursed and yelled at him. She demanded that he adjust the governor to a lower allowable speed amid my protests and tears. Pawpaw and I walked sullenly over to the go cart which now had weeds sticking out all over it like a mangy, red porcupine. He bent over the engine and pretended to fiddle with the governor then flashed me a secret grin and said loudly in his sternest voice, “Now don’t forget the brake is there for a reason, Tater-head!”

I got back behind the seat, pressed the brake, and revved the engine. Slowly, I released the brake, and my go cart jumped like the stallion it was and seemed to be chomping at the bit. I had to show Mam and Pawpaw I was up to the task of driving safely so cautiously, I hit the break again. I started and stopped all over the yard, looking up occasionally to see pleased expressions on Mam and Pawpaw. I gave them a toothy thumbs up and noticed that my yard was full of kids, some I hadn't even seen before.

“Now you kids stand back till Tate gets used to driving or she might climb you like she tried to do that hedge row!” Pawpaw and Mam laughed so hard, but the kids stepped back. All except Skip. He walked right up knowing he would get the first ride.

Soon, we were careening around the yard and driveway, wind in our face and the occasional fly in our mouth. The crowd of kids dissipated as they realized Skip had claimed permanent possession of the passenger seat.

The day was sunny, and the yard stretched out before me full of promise, new and unknown instead of looking like the little five acres I had played in every summer. I respected the boundaries Pawpaw had given me: keep your eyes on the road, no climbing the hedgerow again, no going onto the big road, no driving down the rather steep hollow (correctly called the holler), and no putting the pedal to the medal till I was a more seasoned driver.

There were no seatbelts, heck, there weren’t even any seatbelts in our car, or if there were, they had tucked down and disappeared into the cushions from lack of use. Skip clung to the little side bar that stuck up next to his seat and I intently clutched the steering wheel.

“You’re a really good driver, Tate.”

I was humming a little driving tune of my own making that no one but me could hear over the engine noise.

“This go cart is so cool, I wish I had one.”

I swerved to miss an imaginary obstacle, and Skip had to grab his little bar tighter to keep from rolling out – he laughed, and I smiled without taking my eyes off the road.

“Thanks for letting me be the first one to ride in it.”

I didn’t even nod let alone say you’re welcome – some things were just understood.

“All those other kids were just here ‘cause you have a go cart now – not like your real friends who’ve been with you all along. “

I was getting tired of his beating around the bush and decided not to offer to let him drive and see if he would figure out a way to flat out ask me.

“I bet I could drive this too if you showed me how.”

Well, I guess that was his ask…feeble, so I ignored it.

“Awww, come on, Tate! Aren’t you tired of driving. You need a break!”

I wasn’t saying much because I was too busy being a good, responsible driver and remembering about the brake pedal. But I knew it was only a matter of time till Skip hopped into the driver’s seat. The problem was once Skip got hold of something, it was hard to make him let loose – whether it was a ball, a bike, or even some idea he concocted that made no sense and no one believed but him.

I noticed that my display of good driving had caused Mam and Pawpaw to lose interest and head into the house where Pawpaw’s elixirs and Mam’s party line awaited. It always felt like you could finally release your breath when the grownups turned their attention elsewhere – like the eye of Mordor, they were not altogether good or nice (though I loved them with all my little kid heart). Criminy sakes, what kid doesn’t crave respite from the Eye of Mordor?!

Life was good. The sun was shining, and the birds were singing. My dogs were barking and trying to chase the cart, but half scared of its noisy smokiness which kept them from getting under the wheels. Yet, somewhere around my umpteenth time driving around the back of the house, I started to feel an uncanny pull toward Mam’s clothesline. It was full of freshly washed sheets and towels basking in the sun like lazy ghosts after a wild night of high jinks and horror. Magical voices entered my ears, and it seemed Ulysses’ sirens had joined forces with the ghost sheets to weave an enchantment over my yard.

“Drive into our summer sweetness, Tate, feel the cool dampness of our hands as we caress your sweaty little face – you need this after overcoming your decidaphobia. This is your brand-new go cart – you deserve some refreshment…and we are bored of just hanging here. Make us part of your fun!”

I had no will to resist the ghost sirens and turned my wheel toward their gaily fluttering banners though a niggling thought entered my mind. Was that tinkly, cruel laughter? A premonition not soon enough to help appeared in the form of a round, brick, knee-high well base covered with semi-rotten wooden planks. The ghost sirens covered my face bringing the pleasant smell of Mam's detergent.

Just as the front bumper hit the well, the steering wheel found my mouth full of blood. Worse yet, Skip had catapulted wrapped up in one of the ghost sheets and lay small and still atop the rotten planks.

Hard as it is to believe with today’s curated homes, playgrounds and classrooms, back in the day everyone had a death trap or two in their yard. These magnificent wonders were often the focus of imagination and even feats of courage. If a kid was missing a death trap somewhere in their environs, they seemed coddled and not worthy of friendship - but as for this well, I had a fear of drowning, so I had always steered clear of it until this moment when the ghost sirens had their way with me.

Sometimes, time really can stand still. Though I closed my eyes, I could see through my lids the little white bundle that contained my best friend. The ghost sirens were silent, but I felt their anticipation and pleasure; after all, ghosts liked to see their numbers swell with each new death and sirens loved lure the unsuspecting to a watery demise.

To my utter relief but then further consternation, the bundle began to squirm like a worm trapped in its cocoon; the rotten planks creaked and cracked with each movement.

“God damn it, Tate! I take back everything I said about you being a good driver!”

Skip wriggled loose from the ghost siren but all I could see was the next scene in my horrific premonition as he plunged through rotting planks and plopped into the dark water below. I tried to get out of my go cart, but something held me fast- whether it was lack of physical or mental strength I do not know, but Skip managed to shed his cocoon and stride over to me with his mouth agape.

My happiness over his survival was diminished by a realization that blood was everywhere, my lips were numb, and unfamiliar gaps had appeared where teeth used to be. Also, I had never seen such a look on Skip’s face as he ran for the house screaming for Mam and Pawpaw.

The front of the go cart was amazingly unscathed but most of the aftermath from my scrape with the ghost sirens is fuzzy now. I think I was grounded from the go cart for about a week, and everyone was relieved to realize that the missing teeth were only baby teeth. There were no stitches or even a doctor visit – one had to be at death’s door to go to a doctor in my family, but after a copious amount of blood was wiped away, mostly what I had was a few missing teeth and a fat lip which made me look belligerent and kind of intimidating.

With Skip’s help and after hours of searching the scene of the accident, I was able to retrieve only one tooth and felt pretty disappointed about how this would impact my leavings from the tooth fairy.

Postscript: For the last couple of years before the time of this incident, I had harbored serious doubts about Santa Claus, I was pretty sure the Easter Bunny was a bunch of malarky…but somehow, the tooth fairy’s magic and mystique had escaped my growing skepticism. Maybe it was because I played with make believe fairy creatures that sometimes felt more real than the people who surrounded me, maybe it was because Pawpaw did such a fine job sneaking around (I know now it had to have been him instead of Mam because I remember smelling that hint of alcohol and cigarettes when I awoke to a new dollar bill each time and my tooth was gone). I often wondered what the tooth fairy did with all those teeth but figured she was pretty much like a magpie and just enjoyed collecting and hoarding.

At the beginning of the summer of my seventh year, I believed in my go cart and the tooth fairy, but by the end of it, I believed in neither. I still loved my fire engine red two-seater with fat black shiny tires, but it was nothing more than a cool new toy. It would not save me from loneliness, insecurity or falling into that summer ennui and dread that always came at the end of August. Probably if I hadn’t built it up so much in my mind, I wouldn’t have agonized so long over my monumental decision. I’m thinking this early experience helped me not to later fall prey to the bullshit of marketers who want you to believe that this or that purchase will solve all your needs and problems. The tooth fairy gave herself away by leaving me $5 for only one tooth…fairies though cute and playful are not especially compassionate - I knew this from getting to know them well in my make believe. On the same note, neither is a magpie likely to give you something for nothing. I’m thinking this disillusionment about the tooth fairy made me more careful about what I choose to believe in and to never trust someone, even including a preacher or church, that feels like it has magpie tendencies.

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If you like this kind of thing and want to read more about things alluded to in this story, try these links:

Skip and the gang:

Escape from the Garden, Part One

Escape From the Garden, Part Two

Pawpaw and the hunt for his bottles:

Cherry Breath Mints

If you don’t believe time can stand still:

The Witch that Taught Me to Still Time, Part One

The Witch that Taught Me to Still time, Part Two

Thanks as always for reading!