Trailer Trash

A Semi-Autobiography by Michael Braae

When school let out for the summer of 1968, we moved our trailer to two tiny lots Dad had purchased in an isolated wilderness area called “Ponderosa Estates,” probably named for the big “pond” in the center of the “development.” To call these lots “estates” was far beyond wishful thinking, and the
pond was more like a swamp, but I was totally unaware of the contradictory implications at the time. It was a vast improvement over anything we’d ever known before and at least we’d have our own yard to play in for the first time in our lives. 

And so it was, with a great amount of Dad’s impatience and yelling, we leveled our old trailer with the customary cinder blocks and wedges of wood called shims. While lying on his back and appearing to adjust a particular stack of concrete blocks, my dad would bark complicated commands at my brother and me. We then were expected to understand instantly and dash at lightning speed to the proper area and make precise adjustments that only our father understood clearly in his mind. And because he never took the time to explain the purpose for any of his instructions, Vernon and I were naturally ill-equipped to adequately assist our father in such circumstances. And no matter how hard we tried to fulfill his requests, we knew that we would fail to perform satisfactorily, on account of how he would expect us to know how to do things that we were totally untrained in. We dreaded these moments and always tried to avoid our dad if he started to work on something. We would vanish like ghosts, we learned to blend in with shrubbery and other objects, but when detected we did our best to help out. Dad was calm and rational unless you screwed up and did something wrong . . . which was inevitable . . .  and then he seemed to lose his patience quickly. 

While examining the position of a particular pillar of cinder blocks under the trailer, Dad says to me, “Michael John . . . ?” And, eager to please my daddy I say, “Yeah dad . . . ?” 

“Go git me a plumb bob,” he says, as if every eight-year-old is a graduate of the Army Corps of Engineers instead of the 3rd grade. 

“Okay Daddy,” I say as I scramble out from under the trailer with absolutely no idea what the heck a plumb bob is. But from the sounds of it, I figure he probably keep it in the ‘frigerator and I’ll be able to spot it right off. After waiting patiently for about 30 seconds, I hear Dad call my name with an obvious edge in his tone. 

“Michael John!” he snaps angrily.

“Yeah Daddy?” I reply sheepishly.

“What’s takin’ you so long?” he yells, as his blood begins to percolate. 

“I can’t find it!” I holler as I rummage through the vegetable bins one more time. I could just picture Dad lying on his back in the dirt under the trailer, getting angrier by the moment when he says, “Well what the heck are you doing in the house . . . the tools are in the truck!” 

Quickly then, I run to the truck. And by a process of elimination, I locate the plumb bob. I know it’s a plumb bob because none of the other tools appear to be plumb bobs. I run around the trailer as fast as I can with the plumb bob. I throw myself down on my belly and scramble through the dirt to where my father lies waiting. I can see the anger on his face tum to revulsion and disgust, but I try to force a smile as I hand him what I later learn is not a plumb bob, but a pipe wrench. Once we got our trailer leveled, Dad figured we’d better build us a shed. It rains a lot in Bonney Lake, Washington, so a shed would protect all our shovels and rakes from the weather. But also, it would make it more difficult for one of our shifty-eyed neighbors to come tippy-toeing over in the middle of the night and stealing all our shovels and rakes. Once it was built, my dad kept that shed locked up tight and was able to mentally keep inventory of its contents in a fraction of a second. And if ever there was a tool gone or missing or simply out of place, there could only be one explanation for its disappearance in my father’s mind . . . no, not the neighbors . . . the blame would fall squarely on the narrow shoulders of me and my brother, Vernon. Vernon and I were blamed with tool loss or misplacement with such regularity that my father’s friends and acquaintances would blame or suspect us of losing or misplacing their tools also, even though they almost always eventually found their tools. But, for some reason, Vernon and I were always being blamed for things we did not do. 

Now that we had a yard, Dad decided it was time to replace our faithful dog, Pal. Pal had mysteriously disappeared from the back of the old flat-bed truck one night when Dad took a turn in the road at a higher rate of speed than Pal’s little doggie paws would allow him to hang onto the flat-bed’s slippery surface. We never even got to say goodbye to our beloved guardian German Shepherd. One minute he was there, the next was gone. For years I would picture poor old Pal tumbling off into the blackness with a frightened bewildered look on his face, probably wishing Dad would slow down on the curves. 

Several years had passed since that cold, rainy night when one day Dad showed up with a full-grown Samoyed Husky with long, thick white fur. Somebody (it could have been us) named that dog “Whitey.” Whitey seemed very happy to arrive at our place and was obviously excited to see us. There was a lot of face licking going on when Whitey was released from the cab of the truck. That dog was a bundle of energy. He might have easily pulled a sled across the frozen arctic all by himself, such was his enthusiasm. 

After wiping Whitey’s saliva from our faces, we led our new friend to the back yard to show him the place where he would lay his fluffy white head at night. We drove a steel stake into the ground and attached a chain to it, and then clipped the other end to Whitey’s collar so that he wouldn’t run off, ‘cause that dog was definitely ready to run! 

Apparently, Whitey did not like being on a chain. In fact, it soon became clear that Whitey hated being chained up, and the happy puppy who licked our faces just the day before was ready to tear our throats out after only one day on the chain! I could hardly comprehend the radical transformation of the vicious monster we now held captive in our back yard. Dad told us to feed him, but we could not get near his dish. He had his chain stretched tight with his claws digging into the earth, every muscle in his body flexed like rigid steel cords. His growl had become that of a wild animal and not of a domesticated 

pet. I don’t know about my brother, but I felt like we had been gypped and now we were stuck with a dog we couldn’t even play with. 

My father was changing the oil in his truck when I crawled under next to him and said, “Dad, I think there’s something wrong with that dog you gave us.” 

My dad looked at me as if I’d completely lost my mind. Everyone who knew my father was familiar with his highly exalted estimation of himself, for my father did not lie or steal and he despised all those who did. His integrity was never questioned. It was widely known that my dad would never make a wrong decision that might cast doubt upon his flawless reputation. He was at that very moment performing a service that would extend the life of the engine in his truck, far beyond that of anyone else we would ever know, thus proving once again that my father was a man to be admired and respected among his peers. So, what if his peers all lived in cheap, flimsy trailer houses that were parked on worthless property? My father demanded respect and refused to associate with, or even speak to those who did not measure up to his high standards. Exactly where he obtained these high standards was never revealed to us, or anyone else for that matter. But my dad did not make mistakes, and even if he did . . .  somebody else was eventually found to blame for it. 

”What do you mean something’s wrong with that dog?” he snapped indignantly. 

“That there’s a perfectly good dog, come from high breeding . . . and he was just fine when I gave him to you just yesterday!” 

“I know,” I said, looking very perplexed, “but today he is trying to bite us!” 

“Oh baloney!” Dad says as he replaced the engine’s oil drain plug. “Go put him on a leash and take him for a walk. He just needs some exercise. He’ll be fine.” 

“Okay dad,” is what I said. But what I thought was . . . there ain’t no way I’m ever gonna get a leash on that angry beast. As we were speaking, that dog was trying to pull the stake out of the ground and attack Vernon and Randy! 

When I relayed Dad’s instructions to put Whitey on a leash, my little stepbrother Randy threw down the stick he was using for protection and took off running. Vernon looked longingly after Randy as though he too wanted to run, but because he was the oldest, he felt obligated to resist the urge, though I would not have faulted him if he had run off. For certainly I had no intentions of approaching Whitey with a leash or anything less than a baseball bat. But thankfully we were all spared the terrible results of such a foolish endeavor when Dad rounded the corner of the trailer and said, “What in the world have ya’s done to that dog?! Stop teasin’ him or you’re gonna git bit! Put down those sticks and git back!” 

Now I suppose it would appear as though we had been teasing that dog with those sticks, but in reality we were hoping that they would create even a momentary diversion that would allow us just a small head start when Whitey finally pulled the stake out of the ground and came after us. But it was useless trying to explain this to Dad. He would not have listened to us. 

So, when Dad stomped over toward the dog, he actually stopped snarling and snapping for a moment, and even wagged his tail once or twice. But when Dad reached out to take a hold of Whitey’s collar that dog latched onto his hand like it was a T-bone steak. I tried to tell him, “Don’t!” but it was too late. Dad let out a yelp and his face contorted in total surprise. He was shocked that this lowly animal would have the nerve to bite him! My dad was unable to comprehend how even animals in the wild could fail to perceive and submit to his recently elevated status as property owner in the exclusive sub-division “Ponderosa Estates.” The actions of this dog amounted to treason in the mind of my father. But my brother and I began to suspect that Dad may have made a slight error in judgment. 

It wasn’t until Whitey let go of Dad’s hand and started in on his leg that Dad began to realize that this dog was not fooling around. Fortunately, Dad had unlocked the shed that morning and I was able to dash inside and find a suitable dog whacking devise. After clubbing Whitey repeatedly with the shovel, he finally let go and Dad hobbled over to the end of the trailer. He leaned there for several seconds before thanking me. Whitey resumed his stance at the end of his chain, snarling and drooling in rage. Dad drew an arm across his brow to remove some imaginary sweat. He looked at Whitey and then he said, “Boys…there’s something wrong with that dog!” We all shook our heads in agreement. Once again, Dad was right. 

I come from a long line of alcoholics and whenever there was a family get-together, you could be sure of one thing . . . the drinks would flow! There are rumors of certain calamities brought about by my ancestors that are directly linked to the consumption of alcoholic beverages. Our genealogy becomes somewhat obscure after only a few generations as a result, but one of the most famous of these tales is that of my great, great Grampa Braae who, in his excitement at seeing the shores of America from the decks of a merchant steamer, celebrated his arrival with another shot of whiskey and then fell (or was possibly pushed) overboard and had to be rescued. Upon reaching Ellis Island, great, great Grampa Braae, when asked to spell his name said, “Braae ...hic!…B… R… A…hic!…A… E,” thereby giving our fine name an extra vowel. 

When I say that all of my family were alcoholics, I have to make an exception for my father. Dad seldom  drank alcohol and was as proud of that as he was of his sixth-grade education. He and his brothers and sisters attended a one-room schoolhouse in northern Montana, up around Flathead Lake—a tiny town called Ronan. But as I grew older I began to suspect that the education he and his siblings received was somewhat lacking in its fundamental depth and scope. I noticed how all my aunts and uncles mispronounced certain words with alarming consistency. I can recall numerous instances in which I inwardly prayed that nobody would bring up certain subjects, like bedroom furnishings, which might somehow lead to discussions dealing with the intricacies associated with common sleeping equipment my relatives call “mafftresses.” 

One particularly famous family horror story involved my beloved Aunt Luckie, who was on a shopping excursion aimed at investigating, and perhaps even the purchasing of a newly developed, scientifically advanced, “inner-spring mattress.” I am eternally grateful that I was not in attendance when Aunt Luckie asked the salesman . . . rather, insisted on a complete demonstration of “those new intercourse mafftresses.” I am equally grateful that I was not in attendance when Aunt Luckie decided not to purchase the scientifically advanced intercourse mafftresses and received some perfectly good used mafftresses from the big dumpster out behind the store. 

For the first time in my life, we lived somewhere other than a trailer park. The two small lots were undeveloped and covered with thick brush and trees. Clearing the land ourselves gave us a sense of satisfaction and permanence—something we’d never known before. The only thing left when we finished was a single, old fir tree that towered into the sky. Its branches were much thicker than either of my arms and its girth as wide as I was tall. I’d spend many years beneath its protective boughs through the days to come. And even now I feel an ache in my heart when I look back to the time when I played on its branches and was protected from the elements beneath its majestic expanse. My brothers and I made many roads around that old tree with miniature cars. We built our future estates in its shadow. We gave the old tree laughter sometimes; other times we watered it with our tears. We grew up and moved away, but that tree still stands in the back yard at my father’s house. 

Every day, Vernon and I were required to pick up sticks and rocks on our little piece of property in order to prepare the ground for the eventual planting of grass seed. But it seemed like each day there were more sticks and rocks than the day before! Somehow, sticks and rocks grew and multiplied while we slept. I began to suspect our neighbors of throwing their sticks and rocks into our yard during the night. My father also grew suspicious and confronted Vernon and me early one morning. We had just sat down to breakfast when he paused, knife ready to spread mayonnaise on his pancakes (they didn’t have syrup up in Montana when he was a kid) and he said, “I thought I told you boys to pick up sticks and rocks.” 

Me and Vernon looked at each other—then at our father—contemplating a response. Winning any type of verbal exchange with him was very unlikely. So, we looked at each other again, silently trying to decide with almost imperceptible eye signals which one of us would attempt the impossible and convince my dad that we had actually been doing what he told us to do. But we knew he wouldn’t believe us. We could tell by the way he was examining our faces, looking for any sign of guilt or weakness, ready to pounce, expecting our denial. 

With his chin nearly touching his chest, he glared over the top of his bifocals. Finally, he fastened his gaze upon me simply because I made the mistake of breaking eye contact with my brother and glanced his way. I had to say something; the silence was unbearable. I took a quick look in Vernon’s direction, hoping to be rescued. But then I blurted out in a high-pitched whine, “We did pick up all the sticks and rocks Dad!” But I knew there were sticks and rocks strewn all over the yard at that very moment, as if we did nothing but hide out there and drink cold refreshments all day. I could see it coming while he was still trying to swallow a mouthful of pancake and mayonnaise. 

“There’s one thing I hate,” he says as we shrank under the approaching press of condemnation, “and that’s a liar and a thief!” Jeez, I thought, that’s two things Dad, but what I said was “We didn’t steal nothin’ Daddy!” 

“I know you didn’t steal nothin’!” he snapped. “But you lied to me! You ain’t been pickin’ up them sticks and rocks like I told ya’s!” 

I thought Dad might be fixin’ to give us a whippin’ and apparently Vernon was thinkin’ the same thing ‘cause he pipes up all of a sudden and says, “Daddy, it must be the neighbors who are throwin’ all of their sticks and rocks over here!“Vernon should have been a lawyer, but Dad wasn’t totally convinced. 

“Well, you two better git your butts out there and throw ’em back where they came from!” he said. 

“Okay Dad,” we both said in unison, thankful to be spared the belt. 

After breakfast, me and Vernon got caught by the neighbor throwing sticks and rocks over into his yard. 

Every moment in the presence of Eva was filled with an oppressive sense of dread. She wasn’t just mean spirited; she was also mean looking. Her fleshy jowls hung on her face underneath beady, penetrating eyes that never smiled. Her short, squat frame was cursed with wide, flabby hips that jostled back and forth in a disgusting motion when she walked. Her hair was dyed an eerie color maroon that appeared nowhere in nature. It seemed to blend into thin, stringy rivulets down the sides of her grotesquely shaped head. She could turn a genuinely friendly looking smile into a frightening sneer in a fraction of an instant and lash out with her venomous tongue faster than you could begin to comprehend the reason why. 

We lived in constant fear of this woman. Why our father married her, we’ll never know. She made our lives a living hell. She was the epitome of the evil stepmother. She hated my brother and me and seemed eager to be left alone with us. She kept her hatred a secret from Dad and pretended to be nice when he was around. But as soon as he was gone, we became her slaves. She beat us and called us names until she heard the sound of his pickup turning in the driveway. 

It seemed to take forever before Dad finally began to understand why Vernon and I were always so happy to see him when he got home. We’d cling to his tall, lanky frame until he was forced to shoo us away so that he could take off his boots and relax in his favorite chair. It was the longest five years of my life. But it’s funny how things change when you grow up. 

I don’t mean to brag, but I was a fairly handsome fella when I was a kid. I never had any trouble finding a girlfriend; usually, it was more like the other way around. And I always ended up in trouble with them because I was so shy, and I had a hard time saying “No.” And the next thing ya know, I’ve got more than one man, or boy, can handle. And then, of course, they’d find out about each other, and for some strange reason, they’d all get mad at me!

My first serious girlfriend was an older woman. I think she was eleven when I was nine. Her parents bought a large lot across the street and within a few short weeks, there’s a house over there with people living in it! Dad went and introduced himself one day and we could sense his disappointment when he returned. He told us that our new neighbors were “a bunch of Jehovah’s Witnesses.” I could tell by the way that he said it that being a Jehovah’s Witness was not a good thing. I asked Dad if he wanted me to stay up and guard the shed that night. He said that it probably wouldn’t be necessary but that we shouldn’t associate with them folks. 

That sounded good in theory, but their daughter, Debbie, was determined to spread the faith, and she must have figured that I would become her first disciple. Having been reared in a strictly pagan environment though, I proved to be a very difficult challenge for her. Talk of eliminating birthdays and Christmas was an extremely alarming thought to me since it was pretty much the only time anything good happened in my life. Secretly, I hoped Dad held up to his convictions or, better yet, that he steered clear of them Jehovah’s Witnesses altogether . . . lest he be converted and no more presents for us! I was somewhat relieved to learn that only 144,000 were going to get into heaven, according to their interpretation of the Bible. I figured that, judging from the great amount of persistence and zeal they display, out knocking on doors every weekend, surely they’d find 144,000 others before they got a hold of Dad. That stubborn streak of his might finally pay off for my brother and me. 

But Debbie really just wanted to kiss and hold my hand a lot, more than anything else. She turned out to be very kind and affectionate, as well as territorial and protective. Her self-confidence was such that she even commanded the respect of our mean ole stepmother Eva. Our miserable lives actually improved slightly after Debbie began making daily visits and scrutinizing Eva’s mothering practices. I could hardly believe my ears when, having known her for less than a week, Debbie was giving Eva specific instructions on how to properly care for her boyfriend. 

“Stop feeding him Cream-O-Wheat!” she said. “He doesn’t like it!” 

I’d never seen anybody speak to Eva like that and I felt certain that I’d suffer reprisal for Debbie’s intrusion into our routine. But to my surprise, Eva listened. And without a single word of explanation the next day we had oatmeal for breakfast. People always complimented my father on how well- mannered his two boys were. We were always quiet and obedient when circumstances required. But what people didn’t know is that we were good kids because our Dad wouldn’t hesitate to knock out a tooth or two if we misbehaved or embarrassed him in public. Although Dad had a strict set of ethics that he lived by most of the time, he never did outline his moral values for us or disclose their place of origin. He wasn’t a religious man as far as anyone could tell. We never went to church and the only time Dad spoke of God was when he used the Lord’s name in vain. After a while, it became apparent that Dad expected us to absorb his moral code through osmosis or association or something. I tried to figure it out but without much success. 

Fortunately, the television had been invented and in the early days of its infancy, the majority of shows were family oriented and consistently taught and adhered to a code of ethics. Exactly where the television producers obtained their moral code was never disclosed either. But after watching shows like “My Three Sons,” “Leave It to Beaver,” and “Lassie,” I began to realize that my father and Eva possessed rather poor parenting skills, and in fact, our family was beyond abnormal. 

You couldn’t help but notice how television parents were always so full of love and understanding for their children. Sometimes they made a kid go to his room, but they never used a belt on them like my dad did to us. TV parents would always go and talk to the kid too . . . even when they did something really bad. 

For example, one time that famous dog superstar, Lassie, woke up her young master in the middle of the night. There was some sort of crisis out there where they lived on a farm forty miles from the middle of nowhere. 

Lassie always jumped through Timmy’s bedroom window, barked that famous bark, followed by that unforgettable whimper. A whimper that we all came to recognize as Lassie’s way of communicating with people, usually in an attempt to warn them of some impending disaster, or possibly the presence of some evil character or rabid beast on the property way out there in the middle of nowhere. But inevitably, Lassie’s owners would sit by without a care in the world while the smartest dog who ever lived sat at their feet trying to tell them that the barn was on fire! Lassie would be whimpering like crazy, clawing at her master’s legs, running to the door barking yet still her idiotic owners, speaking, and moving at an agonizingly slow pace, would act as though their usually normal dog had lost its mind. Maybe she had to go pee really bad, you ding-bats! But no, they would merely look at each other quizzically and say, “I wonder what’s gotten into that dog?” The barn’s on fire, you idiots! Look out the window! Jeez, I knew what she was saying, and she wasn’t even my dog! 

But one time Timmy got in trouble because he took off without telling anybody. Lassie had alerted Timmy with that famous whimper and then they jumped out Timmy’s window in the middle of the night. Timmy took off running down the driveway but soon realized that Lassie was not following. Timmy ran back and knelt down in front of Lassie, like he always did. He took her long doggie face in his hands as he tried to catch his breath, then Timmy uttered those immortal words, “What is it girl?” That’s when Lassie grabbed Timmy gently by the arm and pulled him over toward the family pick-up truck. Lassie jumped in the truck and sat on the passenger side seat while Timmy jumped in behind the steering wheel . . . Lassie looked at Timmy . . . Timmy looked at Lassie . . . Then Timmy said, “I don’t know how to drive Lassie. I’m only ten years old!” 

“Ruff, ruff!” said Lassie, then she carefully grabbed Timmy by the arm and pulled him over to the passenger side. Then Lassie jumped over behind the wheel, started the truck, threw it in gear and took off down the driveway! 

“Look out, Lassie!” hollered Timmy, just before Lassie took out the mailbox at the end of the drive, for it seemed her paws could not grip onto the steering wheel, and she was all over the road. Lassie managed to get the truck back under control, but when they came to sharp curve in the road she drove right through Farmer Jones’ fence! Then, Lassie accidentally mowed down about nine of Farmer Jones’ sheep! Oops! 

“Slow down Lassie!” yelled Timmy. But Lassie kept her foot on the gas until they finally made it to the scene of the accident which had caused Lassie to summon the help of her beloved friend Timmy. 

Lassie was about to speed right past the truck and trailer which had overturned on the highway. The driver of the truck was trying to get free of the wreckage. He was bleeding from a deep wound on his head, but he was alive and conscious. Suddenly Lassie lost her grip on the steering wheel (again) and crashed right into the wrecked semi, sending the injured driver flying! Timmy and Lassie were unhurt. Timmy ran to check on the condition of the man they had just sent cartwheeling off into the ditch. But Lassie was frantic and barking at Timmy. 

“Ruff, ruff!” she said. “Ruff, ruff” 

Timmy then ran to Lassie, knelt down, and while trying to catch his breath he said, “What is it
girl?” Lassie whimpered once then said, “Ruff” and took off toward the spilled cargo which was now strewn all over the highway. 

When Timmy caught up to Lassie, she was tugging on a very large bag of Purina Dog Chow. Lassie dragged the hundred-pound sack of dog food over to the rear of the pickup and then threw it in the back! Then she nudged Timmy and said, “Ruff, ruff!” which means, “Come on and help me, stupid, before this stuff catches on fire!” Only moments earlier the eighteen-wheeler had started burning. And it turns out, it was a good thing Lassie had knocked the truck driver clear of the now-raging inferno. Once Timmy and Lassie finished loading the pickup with hundred-pound sacks of Purina Dog Chow, they headed for home. 

“I guess we’ll store all of this dog food in the barn,” said Timmy. Lassie looked at Timmy with her long, sad face and whimpered. 

“Oh yeah,” said Timmy, looking equally forlorn. “I forgot, the barn caught on fire the other day and burned to the ground because nobody would listen to you.” 

Lassie whimpered again, and then she said, “Ruff, ruff!” 

“What did you say girl? Put it in my room under the bed and in my closet?” 

“Ruff, ruff” said Lassie. 

Timmy’s mom and dad (nobody knows their names) were awakened by Farmer Jones the next day. Timmy was awakened by his mom knocking gently on his bedroom door. 

“Don’t come in Mom!” hollered Timmy, as he tried to quickly cover several bags of Purina Dog Chow with his blankets. 

“Timmy, what’s going on in there?” she asked, her brow furrowed with concern. 

“Nothing’s going on in here, Mom!” yelled Timmy as he frantically kicked at a stubborn sack of dog food that was preventing his closet door from closing. 

“Just a minute Mom!” Timmy said breathlessly.

“I hope you’re not doing drugs in there,” said Timmy’s mom, lovingly.

When Timmy finally emerged from his room, he found his mom and dad outside with their neighbor, Farmer Jones. They were all gathered around the family pickup truck which appeared as though it had recently been run in a demolition derby. Every fender and door had been dented, the headlights were broken out and the front bumper was twisted and dragging the ground. Farmer Jones appeared to be examining what looked suspiciously like a large clump of sheep’s wool stuck in the radiator. Timmy approached cautiously, Lassie nudging him from behind. Timmy’s father was furious, as was Farmer Jones. Timmy’s mom offered everyone breakfast and a glass of fresh milk. 

“What do you know about this?” asked Timmy’s father, indicating the battered hulk of their pick-up with the sweep of his arm. 

“I, uhhh . . .” Timmy was speechless. 

“Ruff Ruff” said Lassie, pushing Timmy closer.

“Shut up Lassie!” said Timmy out of the side of his mouth. 

“There was an accident down on the highway last night,” said Timmy’s dad. “The driver of the truck gave a description of a young boy and a dog who ran him over and left him for dead.” 

Timmy’s mouth was dry. Lassie whimpered, then laid down and covered her eyes with her paws. 

“Timmy,” said Timmy’s father, looking very stern and serious. “It was you who ran over that truck driver and Farmer Jones’ sheep, wasn’t it?” 

Timmy was in a pickle… What was he going to say? No, it wasn’t me, it was Lassie? That dumb dog can’t drive worth beans? Nobody would believe him, and he might even end up in an asylum if he told the truth. 

“Yes, sir, it was me,” said Timmy dejectedly, as he dug the toe of his shoe through the dirt, fighting back the tears. 

Timmy’s father (nobody knows his name) stood looking very stern and serious with his arms folded across his chest. He seemed to be mulling over the various types of punishment that might be fitting under these very unusual circumstances. Agonizing moments of indecision ticked by; what would he do? What would become of Lassie and Timmy in this nail-biter of an episode—the tension was nearly unbearable. Timmy started to doze off, and Lassie had to pee really bad. 

Finally, Timmy’s father said, “Timmy, you’ll have to go to your room right now, and there will be no dinner for you and Lassie tonight.” 

Huh? Are you kidding me? No dinner? That’s it? Go to your room with no dinner? Wow! What a lucky kid, I thought. My dad would still be whipping my backside if I’d have pulled such a stunt! Timmy and Lassie probably had their fill of Purina Dog Chow that night anyway! Huh? Now you see, what got me was my parents watched all the same shows that came out in the 50’s that had all of these really nice parents, yet somehow it never occurred to them that they treated me and my brother like crap in comparison. I always wondered, why couldn’t my parents be as kind and caring as Lassie and Timmy’s? 

Hmmm . . . So, I went to school every day wishing that my life could be just like Lassie and Timmy’s.