Poop: from the archives

On a recent visit to Chicago my brother Justin and I saw our cousins Zach and Annie after almost a decade.  In typical holiday style we did a lot of ham-eating and childhood reminiscing, telling stories from those five or so years when we were all eight years old and left to run wild in the care of our grandmother, Nana.  There were several gems, but one in particular stands out...mainly because it involves poop. 

We were at Nana's, of course, taking a break from making clay pinch pots (or eating clay…or birth control pills…or glow in the dark toys) to patrol our territory in the back yard.  Our fort was under constant threat of invasion from the house behind us.  The ginger kids who lived in the yard were creepy and awkwardly clean, wearing christening gowns and chasing butterflies across their unnaturally manicured lawn.  I'd like to think they were also French. 

It was during routine booby-trap maintenance that Justin (the elder) came up with our most ambitious defense maneuver to date.

We were going to arm the holes with human poop. 

Zach nearly crapped himself on the spot from excitement, while Annie and I offered up half-hearted "ewws" to fulfill our girl roles.  But in our hearts we knew we'd be right there to witness every filthy step of the shit spectacle.  

Though never discussed, it was understood the poop was the responsibility of the eldest, so for the next few hours Justin focused steadfastly on his goal, devouring every piece of roughage he could get his grimy hands on.  The sheer volume his stomach could hold was both awe-inspiring and repulsive.  When the moment finally arrived, he darted up the stairs to the bathroom and set to his business as we clamored behind.  What seemed like hours later, and after a notably absent flush, he opened the door and let us in to view his digestive masterpiece. 

Once we had accepted its enormity, we had to figure out how to move the beast.  Transport was precarious.  Nobody wanted to touch it (would have been gross) so we had to figure out an elaborate cup/bucket transfer system.    Miraculously there was no poo-skin contact, and the fecal weaponry made it to its destination intact.

The gingers were appalled (it was probably the first time they had ever seen poop) but instead of having the desired effect of scaring them away, our plan only lured them closer so they could lecture us on the dangers of poor sanitation.  One was even bold enough to slip through a crack in the fence, effectively invading our side. 

It was on. 

We'd tolerated their polite conversation and their disturbingly freckled faces before, but this time they had crossed the line, quite literally. 

Hatred boiled in our veins.  We knew we needed to take serious action to defend ourselves from the red-headed insurgence.  It was secret-secret weapon time.  Time for arrows.  And not the sissy-kid nerf kind, but real buffalo-hunting, shoot-you-in-the-heart ARROWS.  We had found them the previous day "dumpster diving." They were in mint condition, complete with a functioning bow and razor-sharp arrowheads. It was the perfect moment to unveil their glory. 

After a brief fracas over who got the first shot, Justin took aim at the daintier ginger. Whizz.  Miss.  He passed the bow around, and we each took aim at the red bulls-eyes of the children’s heads as they ran around the yard in terror. We cackled like savages, and our eyes blazed fire as they cowered in true French fashion.  In the confusion, one of them stepped in the poo-hole, letting out a desperate shriek of fear and disgust as they limped off crying.  Either out of pity or archery inexperience we didn't end up actually hitting them with any arrows, but they certainly never bothered us again. 

Success.  Finally we were left alone with our poop, which even Justin admitted had gotten pretty gross at that point.   We ended up burying the poo–baby ceremoniously, and even marked the site like the grave of a beloved pet.

At some point the gingers tattled (of course) and sent over a frantic mother to alert our guardian. But by then we'd moved on to falling into window wells, and her knocks went unnoticed beneath the blaring Celtic music and the hissing of hamburgers on the frying pan.