Adolescent Sanctuary

I was watching some kids walking to school today. They were laughing and goofing around. They reminded me of my youth and how much fun my friends and I had growing up. For some reason, I began thinking about a certain structure that was my part-time residence while growing up…my clubhouse.

It was somewhat barn shaped, painted a shade of green that reminded me of sickness and disease. It had a huge stolen STOP sign nailed to the front, and the floor consisted of ply wood and carpet scraps. Ugly, maybe, but it was our adult-free refuge.

During the summer my brother and I would eat lunch in it. I remember one day he was eating Chicken Noodle soup, and I said something that made him laugh uncontrollably. Noodles and broth came spewing out of his nose which in turn made us laugh even more. It is one of the most disgustingly funny sights I have seen to this day. My only regret is that he wasn’t eating a foot long coney dog with mustard, cheese, and onions on it. Now THAT would have been colorful nasal display.

Our clubhouse was the neighborhood focal point for all things devious. We drilled a hole in the side of the north wall. It was the beginning of “Operation Ghostly Chime.” About 150 feet north of our hide-out sat a trellis in the back yard of a neighbor. Upon this trellis was a big bell, a black, sturdy, thunderous bell. One night after it got dark, we went over and attached fishing line to the clangor and worked it back through the hole in our fortress. We started to yank on the line and shortly thereafter, the bell pealed through the neighborhood. The only thing louder was Old Ed cussing as he watched the bell ring on its own. After we heard him say, “Goddamn, Kids!!” we let loose of the line and scurried over to the safety of an accomplice’s backyard.

Ah, the clubhouse. My first smoke, my first time feeling a woman’s breast (okay a 14 year old girl) and home to weekend “Spin the Bottle” parties…While I still have the memories, the clubhouse is no longer standing.

The clubhouse burned to the ground one day. It was a result of a young Matt-Man secretly smoking while reading my friend’s dad’s porn. My dad was President of the Springfield Writer’s Club, a club which was more or less comprised of octogenarian women who came primarily for the cake. They were meeting in the upstairs of our house that fateful day. I came inside after smoking, and sat and watched TV with a brother and sister in the basement. My brother looked out the window, and shouted “Holy Shit”. There was smoke emanating from my castle. We ran to the structure, my brother axe in hand, and began hosing it down as my brother wielded the axe in order to forge a hole. The bastion of my youth did not survive.

I looked back up at the house to see if anyone was watching and sure enough, a gaggle of over sugared grandmothers was watching in horror. I couldn’t see my dad, but I knew he would find me sooner or later. He did…it could have been worse, but it pays to be the baby of nine. I miss that old shed.

Okay, now I know you may be wondering what the picture of Rachel Ray has to do with this story. The answer is, absolutely nothing. I just had to put it on here because it is so incredibly funny and disturbing. My only wish is that the picture showed the turkey atop her neck and HER head being placed into the hot oven…Now that, would be “Yum-Oh”.

As I told you yesterday, Benny is busy healing the lepers so “Our Moment of Hinn” is on hiatus. I am ending my posts from this point forward with new state mottos for each state in the good old USA. I believe my new mottos accurately depict the culture and attitudes of the states. So, I present to you:

And Now Our Moment of Motto…

Nebraska: “Gateway to Wyoming”

Cheers!!

Don't Forget to buy Your Bagwine Merchandise at: Bagwine Stuff