Opening the passenger door to Jimmy’s truck, my father drew back quick and vomited. A blood red painted out where glass still hung. He moved fast across the yard toward Jimmy’s truck. Cops’ll be here soon.” My father didn’t respond. I crouched by the tree and heard her say, “Hurry up. I found a low-hanging branch and practiced the square knot on the limb as if it were a fellow scout’s bleeding arm.Īfter a few minutes, my father stormed out the front door with Deborah, Jimmy’s wife, in tow. Next to The Turd stood a large cherry tree bare of any blossoms. Opening his door he said, “Don’t let me catch you in the yard.” I waited for him to go inside Jimmy’s house before I stepped out of the truck.

In the winter, I’d listen to them talk, squished together up in the cab, and smell their sawdust and car grease smell.Īt Jimmy’s house, my father fishtailed into the driveway and threw the truck into park. In the summer, I’d sit at just the right angle in the back of The Turd so my hair, long like my father’s, slapped against my cheek. Sometimes Jimmy would ride with us to Scout meetings. “Drive, fucker!” he’d yell at a city bus, or left-turning dump truck. But he drove too fast, barely missing red lights, passing cars. For a moment I felt happy as I slipped into the truck next to my father. He threw my brother and me over his shoulders, stuffed us in the broken freezer on the back porch, and snuck us sips of beer. When he came around, my parents laughed and talked loud. “We got to check on Jimmy,” he said in a calmer tone. His long hair hid most of his face but I could still make out his expression, one that made us kids hide in our rooms. Behind me, tires squealed, and I turned to see my father’s beat-up green truck, affectionately nicknamed The Turd. Grass and leaves make good wound compresses, as long as they aren’t poisonous like ivy or oak. Under the maple, I threaded one rope over another twice, made a loop, and pulled. Good for clamping a wound but not the best for carrying things or securing them. Useful for survival, the square knot works as a binding knot. Then I could enter Boy Scouts at ten, instead of eleven. I sat under a Japanese maple and practiced the square knot, the last knot I needed to master before receiving my Arrow of Light badge. Photograph by Mark Steinmetz | The evening Jimmy died my father was late picking me up from a Webelos meeting.

We happy few skidrow