TADPOLES AND THE DEATH OF INNOCENCE

My friend and next door neighbor, Tommy, and I were hurrying home from our short hour or so adventure catching tadpoles down by the river. We had been planning this trip after school for weeks. There was a lot of excited chatter between us as we almost ran home on that warm, sunny late afternoon. Both of us held our glass jars with some murky river water and tadpoles up high to proudly display our prized catch. We were just a little past half way home when we heard the fire siren go off.
"That's not a fire, Timmy," Tommy told me matter-of- factly.
"When it's short and goes several times like that, it's not for a fire. My Dad told me. If it stays on for a long time, then it's for a fire."
Torrington, Wyoming at that time during the mid 1960's was too small to have a full time fire fighting staff. Like many other small towns, they used a volunteer system. All of the fire fighters had other jobs. When there was an emergency, the siren would signal for them. No mater what they were doing or what time of the day or night, they had to hurry to the fire station and respond to what ever emergency situation might occur. The siren could be heard just about everywhere in town.
"Oh," I replied, not really knowing what else it would be signaling for, but feeling that it wasn't good. I was more interested in my jar's content then to be overly concerned about it. Tommy's dad would know, though, since he worked for the National Guard. I held my jar closer to my face, as we continued toward home.
"I think mine is starting to get legs. See!"
We both ran up to our own front doors, anxious to show our parents the great success we had with catching tadpoles. I was too excited to remember the siren from about fifteen minutes ago. I burst into the door to find my entire family waiting for me. The look on their faces told me they did not want to hear about my prize tadpole.
"Where have you been?" my mother yelled.
"Tommy and I were catching tadpoles, just like we said." I'd received this speech enough times to know that I was in big trouble. I could not really understand why they were asking this, but I just acted on instinct.
"You said we could go. I told you this ..."
"Tommy's parents called us," my father interrupted. "They said the siren was for a drowning. What the hell do you think you were doing down at the river anyway, uh?" His tone of voice told me the discussion was now over.
They both approached me, red-faced, eyes opened wide. I had seen this enough to know their anger had gotten to the point that a physical response was emanate. No words I could say would stop it.
"Why am I in trouble?" I thought to myself. "Why are they so mad at me? I asked for permission to go at least a week ago. I even told Mom before I went to school this morning. I'm not late getting home or covered in mud or wet or dirty or anything." My surprise at the impending beating wasn't that it had never happened before, but the other times there was at least a reason I could understand. 'Why' was all I could think when the their hands began to strike.
I have been told that humans have this ability to block out traumatic events. It's assumed that this is a defense mechanism that does not allow them to remember something that could permanently damage their sanity. There are cases of severe childhood abuse or rape or fatal car accidents that the victims can not recall most of the event, even though they were conscious at the time. Maybe this is what happened to me, because I really do not remember much more of what happened next. I do not remember how long the beating lasted, but it was the longest of my life. I don't remember who hit me the most or how many times, but I do remember being curled up in a ball on the living room floor in front of the door I had just entered. I do not remember the exact physical pain, just the pain in my heart. It wasn't the first or last beating I ever got, but it was the worst. I was also sent to my room without dinner.
My parents had plans for latter that night. When I was summoned to go, my eyes were covered with stuff that is commonly refereed to as 'sleep.' I had cried so much and for so long that this 'sleep' had covered my eyes to the point that I could not open my right one. One of the people at the house we went to said that I might have pinkeye. I, also, found out that a four year old girl had drowned that day. She was chasing her toy that had fallen in the irrigation ditch which ran through a small park on the other side of town from us.
For the majority of my life, the question of 'why' remained. Nearly thirty years after this incident, I asked my parents. I told them of what an extremely negative impact this had for me. Their only response was that they were scared. No apology, just they were scared. After time and consideration of other perspectives, could they say anything that would change it? Does 'why' really matter?
How a parent reacts to a given situation involving their children is not always the most logical or thought out. Those of us who are parents know all too well about these things. This event changed my perspective on trusting my parent's or any authority's judgment. It created many trust issues for me. Was this the worst thing that ever happen? Probably not. Many experience worse on a daily basis. Ironically, I met the family of the little girl some fifteen or so years after this event. Her parents had gotten divorced, her mother never remarried, and still lived in the same house. The little girl's bedroom had been left untouched. Turns out her older brother was supposed to be baby-sitting that fatal day, but went to play with his friends. He spent many years in counseling to over come his guilt. Was this an event that tore my family apart? No, not really. It did, however, alienate me from my parents and it was the death of my innocence.