The Native Iowan

It was one of those days. It had been soooo gooood. So good that you knew. There was no doubt about it. Ma would make you take a bath. You could see yourself walking up the gravel driveway. You’d be extra-special careful to stay in the lilac bushes’ shadows. Extra-special careful to not let the gravel make any noise. You’d make a dash to the back door. Slip in without a sound. And hear “Where you been? Mister!”

Not that you dislike baths. They’re okay. Fine for Saturdays. Baths can even be fun. But not today. Not when you smell just right. Not when you’d had sooo much fun. Had sooo many adventures. Not when your feet are just right. Your ankles dirty enough to look like socks. Your soles dirty, brown and tough.

A bath will ruin your feet. Ma will fill the big ol’ tub up with hot, hot water. She will make you scrape your soles with an old butter knife. Slipping over the river banks in soft feet don’t work. Shoes don’t work either. Tough, horney soled feet is what works. Already June and your feet just in shape. A bath will spoil it all. Ruin it.

She will insist on scrubbing you with a rough wash cloth. Your skin will burn under Granny’s lye soap. She will make you wash your hair. Right when it’s all oily and combs just right. It’ll come out soft and fluffy. She will make you scrub your fingernails with that little brush. Tomrrow your hands will look like a girl’s.  Clean, shiny and pink. But worse… worse of all, the bath will make you smell clean. Just when you’re smelling good. A Bath!

A bath will make you smell like Granny’s soap and Ma’s linen. Not the river. Not like dried sweat or hooked catfish and half-dead crawdads. Not like hot sun and adventures. Not like a June day filled with magic.

Ma’s linen smells fine.  Granny’s soap burns. But today’s adventures. The river. That monster catfish. You can still smell them. They still smell sweet. A bath will wash it all away. Turn it to scum on the water. And you’ll forget.

By tomorrow morning. You’ll have forgotten. You’ll wake up. Yawn. Take a deep breath. Smell Granny’s soap. Ma’s linen. And remember. The bath. Washing your hair. Helping Ma. Changing the sheets. Fluffing the pillows. Crawling into a nice, cool bed. The cool, June breeze. You’ll remember falling asleep thinking “What a magic day it had been”.

You will not smell yesterday. Yesterday’s adventures. Yesterday’s magic. All that magic. The silvery, gray catfish. Fighting against your Zebco. Against you and your Zebco. The shiny, splashing battle. You will forget slipping on that big rock. Sliding, both feet into the river. Wet to the waist. Ankle deep in river sludge. Staying balanced. Keeping the catfish hooked. Noticing the blood. The broken bottle. The cut foot only after the fish was landed.

Ma will see the cut. She will raise hell. Go on about how bad the river is. How dangerous it is. Use the cut as evidence. Proof. May even threaten to call the Doctor. Stitches! A tetanus shot! Those hated stitches. Stitches mean no river for a week, or more. And iodine! Keeping it clean. More baths!

What can you do? Hope she’s not home! Or in the back garden? Gotta be careful. Walk up the gravel driveway real quiet like. Be extra-special careful. Extra-special careful!  Stay near the lilac bushes’ shadows. Make a dash for the back door. Slip in without a sound. Cat-like quiet. Then hear “where you been? Mister!”.