There are so many great things we could talk about this week. We could talk about the rotting dead whale under the ferry terminal at Coleman Dock.
We could talk about the dead hunk of tunnel boring machinery, under the viaduct near Jackson Street, that’s sucking Jackson and King streets down into the depths. There’s something pleasantly Biblical about the juxtaposition of a dead rotting whale and the tunnel borer.
We could talk about how Seattle Tunnel Partners may have declared bankruptcy by now, as it’s threatening to do as I write this.
But there’s that whole “What-does-the-future-hold?” problem rearing its ugly head again. I’d like to talk about how the Seahawks will win the Super Bowl, too, but it’s so hard to get into specifics at this time.
I am much better talking about the past.
In view of that, I’ve decided this week I will talk about my childhood. Specifically, how we kids had fun in my day. We didn’t have smartphones and video games, so we ate bugs.
OK, not all the time. In fact I only remember eating bugs the one day. We were living in a house that had a crawlspace big enough for a toddler but not an adult, and I crawled under the house into that dark, dirty space and found beetles and grubs and spiders and worms galore, and it all smelled of glorious dark humus and I had to sample every taste. Soil, beetles, grubs: all of it.
Never eat an earthworm.
If you do, you’ll remember the taste your whole life and regret it.
Also, spiders tickle. I didn’t like that either.
But that’s not where I’m going with this. I want to talk about the kind of parents — my parents — that would let a kid who can’t walk or speak crawl under a house where he could eat bugs and such.
Is that right?
Or how about this: A little bit later, when I could walk but I was still not speaking, while my father was off at work, my crazy mother let me walk away from the house and out of sight with no guidance except “Don’t cross that big street over there,” to which I indicated agreement by nodding my head vigorously up and down.
I found out about a year after she started letting me do this sort of thing that she had no idea that when I spent four hours away from the house and out of sight, I wasn’t just on the other side of the next house over. I was up to five blocks away, in just about every direction this side of the big street. I had a route I followed. I had one lady on my route who always gave me fresh apple pie.
Because I was freakin’ cute. I worked that.
That’s right, I learned to beg for my food when I was 2-years-and-2-months old, by showing off my adorable face to matronly women, all because my own horrible mother didn’t bother to give me any cookies and didn’t care where I found alternate sustenance.
If she even knew I was getting pie, she probably would have demanded her cut.
It couldn’t happen today, as Child Protection Services in every state are taking children away from their parents for far less.
I can see how my crazy mother was out of line letting a 2-year old have his own run of the neighborhood, but we now are hearing of 8-, 9- and 10-year olds being removed from their parents because they were allowed to walk unaccompanied to school or to a local park.
Really?
How much fear do we need to institutionalize in this society?
Do we all have to live like Nancy Grace (you know, the fiery, scaremongering, finger-wagging legal talkshow host)?
Does the fact of being terrified have to be the basis of law itself?
I know life can seem scary these days, what with whales underfoot everywhere you go.
People: Relax.