Guilty Nudes

We lived in a modest home on the corner of Summit and Norton Road in Springfield. Our house was primly perched on the leveled top of a small hill with a view out the front window of a pasture full of grazing cattle. And there began my sexual education. Being a child of 5 or 6 I can assure you that sex wasn't even remotely in my vocabularly or understanding but it was sharply slapped to the front of my head one day in church by my mother's loving hand. I had been given pen and paper to occupy myself during the service and scribbled around eventually producing a picture of one of the 'cows' that I saw frequently grazing across the street. Upon proudly presenting my rendition to my mother she grabbed my arm, a look of forboding on her face, and dragged me out of the sanctuary and into the ladies bathroom. My mother never said a word, only emitting various sounds of disgust and loud snorts as she whailed away at my bare nether parts. She then tore my drawing into tiny pieces and made me flush them down the toilet. It was obvious to me that I had drawn something terribly wrong but it was years before I figured it out and the residue of guilt stained my feelings for many years. It's still beyond me why my mother thought the drawing of a bull was bad thing.

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Same house. The street in front was little traveled so we kids were free to ride our bikes, playing chase or wear vegetable cans smashed around each shoe which gave off satisfying clanking sounds with each step. At the bottom of the hill was a double wide culvert under which a miniscule stream trickled. After a rain the stream would grow and pool under the culvert providing hours of splashing, cool fun. My brother and I raced that day wanting to be the first to arrive at the culvert pool. Before I got to the concrete edge of the culvert my brother popped up crowing and waving a magazine high above his head. I demanded to see at which time he dropped the magazine in the water and raced off. I rescued the sinking book and sat down under the culvert to read my new treasure. To this day I can see the image of a naked woman leaning forward, her breasts large, seeming to almost plump themselves off the page. And the caption read "her cups runneth over". I not only threw the magazine in the pool, I stayed to make sure it sank all the way to the bottom. My brother never mentioned the incident to me and I never felt the need to bring it up either. I did find it strange that the good Lord would be making a comment under such a picture.

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For some reason I still haven't figured out, I started first grade at the intrepid age of five. It was immediately obvious to both my teacher, Mrs. Beacham, and myself that we shared a problem that never seemed to improve. Although I found school interesting in general I frequently felt the need to chat with my near neighbors. I made many friends this way but one of them was not Mrs. Beacham. There was no such thing as PMS then in 1953 but I feel pretty sure that is what Mrs. Beacham was experiencing as she marched me to the storage closet. On the way she announced that I would be sharing space with spiders and snakes that lived there, quietly, in the dark. I found myself a spot against the far wall and sat down, watching Mrs. Beacham's feet disappear from view under the closet door. It seemed a perfect time to daydream since my glance around had confirmed there were no critters there to cause me any harm. After an indeterminate amount of time she reappeared at the door and asked sternly if I thought I could sit quietly at my desk. I thought a bit and then said "no. I don't think so". She slammed the door and it was some time before she came back. It's entirely possible that she intended to leave me there overnight. Although Mrs. Beacham and I couldn't claim a complete cure for my chatting problem I did settle down, mostly, to complete my first year of school. I can still view this experience with humor because I'm sure I enjoyed my time in the storage closet much more than did Mrs. Beacham.