Superman, how I loved you.

     

strongest heroes

A question was asked about Comic Books recently: Which is/was your favorite comic series?  With all the Marvel Comic movies capturing audiences and making big bucks, that is a good question.

Peter Pan was my hero until I hit age ten.  “Superman” had been a favored television show, which I watched unfailingly.  He almost threw Peter Pan off the throne, until George Reeve’s sudden and questioned death.

Lois Lane

Peter Pan was back in my imagination, until something happened to me at age ten.  I did not know why the change happened (hormones), but Superman was in my head and kicked Peter Pan out.

That might also have something to do with the availability of Comic Books in the Benjamin Franklin 5-and-dime.  Superman was about hand level for me and cost about five cents.  Every first comic in the row had been thumbed to a fare-thee-well, with kid-sized finger prints covering in page.

Although I did not technically get an allowance (on a farm, kids were free labor), my mother did give me a quarter for my own shopping pleasure once a week at the big town fifteen miles from the farm.

At first five cents bought an un-thumbed copy (from the back) of comic book, Superman!!, then it moved up to 10 cents. That left me enough to buy fifteen cents worth of chocolate at the candy counter, which I finished on the way home.

SyFy convention

I successfully hid my stash of Superman comics from my brothers, since they were disrespectful swine who had already destroyed my first five comics.  I had quite a collection hidden away, until I returned from an hour long visit with a neighbor, and found my collection torn and shredded all over the yard.

My brothers waited for sister-explosion, but none came.  What was, was.

This was posted back in 2015, 2019, and 2020.

1958  My siblings: Robert, Don, and me; Mary 2 yr. old, and Bill 4 yrs. old. The boys grew up to be decent adults. My sister was always a marvelous person. 

Revenge of the Easter Egg

For hunting only

It was a brutal competition, with lots of screaming, shoving and pushing. There may have been some scratching and punching as well. There are no memories about who garnered the most eggs; the hunt was not so much about speed—it was about who was most devious. 

Then Easter was gone, baskets were packed away for next year, and deviled eggs were supper. With no holiday to anticipate, a veil of tedium settled over our farm in a pre-summer heat.

In the middle of the night, something woke me, something like a POP!  I rolled over, catching just a hint of chocolate.  Then a new smell came in waves---foul, recognizable, nauseating.

It was the distinctive odor of rotten eggs.  Rolling out of bed and looking under it, I spotted a lone Easter basket with the remains of an exploded egg.  One of my three brothers had placed it there before I went to bed. (My bedroom was that clean...seriously...even under the bed...)

Opened the window…threw the Basket out…and heard the muffled giggles from my brothers’ rooms.  They were waiting for my own explosion. 

Well, they did not get it.  I tiptoed down the stairs and slept on the couch.  The rotten egg smell did not limit itself to my room; it traveled to their room as well.

Justice and revenge would wait for another day.  I was the soul of patience.

Those bastards....

Brothers Prank, #3

adaandanimals.blogspot.com/2006

Another batch of piglets were born, cute little black and white Hampshire oinkers.  Sow rejected all eight of them, every single one.  Not much to do but to hand suckle them with nipples on soda bottles, while they squealed in the large paper box by the washing machine.  

So cute, my five year old sister Mary and I held them, deciding on their names.  Life was good for them, giving us a warm glow within.

The box became sodden just in time for the eight to be moved to their own pen.  The brothers (Yes, them.  The Bastards.) were told to take a strip of heavy fencing and construct a round enclosure, stake it down, attach it to the tree, and make an opening to bring a five gallon buck of watery feed to pour into the make-shift trough.

Just imagine the vertical fence support on the end snipped off...

They took the 10 pm shift and I would take the 3 am shift.

 

At 3 am, my alarm went off and so did I.  Down the stairs, putting on the wellies/rubber boots, mixing the feed with water, I dragged the heavy 10 gallon bucket to the fence.

Hungry piglets squeal louder than one would think.  And they also charged the opening where food would magically appear. What’ll I do?  What’ll do?  They could get out!..OhwhatllIdo?

Managing to open the fence wire while carrying the bucket was no easy feat. Sharp deep cuts striped across my skinny eleven-year old arm, but I carried on dumping the bucket.  

Closing the gate wasn’t easy, but then I could see that the fence wire had been snipped such that the sharp raw ends were left hanging out.

I ran into the house, crying while I heard laughter from upstairs.  Turning on the kitchen light and dripping blood along kitchen linoleum to the sink, I tried not to cry.  But, I wasn't quiet enough.

Mom emerged from her room and gasped at the blood running down my arm.  Mom rarely swore, but she let fly some good words as she cleaned and wrapped my arm. Sending me upstairs, she said she’d “fix it”.

The next morning Dad "fixed it."  He grabbed the two responsible criminals and dragged them out to the pen, showing blood still visible on the sharp edges.  They confessed.  Dad whipped and whaled them, and hard. And then they fixed the opening.

There was a degree of satisfaction to hear justice administered, but a sorrow for I knew the punishment had hurt more than my arm.

The Bastards.

p.s. I still have the deepest scar, on my left arm.