Rubber Knife

Several years ago I wrote everything I could remember from my childhood, ages two to seven years old (1949 to 1954). I wanted to clarify for myself the influences my childhood had on my later life. It was a liberating feeling.

Occasionally I will share these stories of my childhood in this blog. Hopefully someone will find them interesting. I had an ordinary childhood in many respects, but in a way I think every childhood is unique and revealing about what a person will become.

I may try to publish my stories some day. If you have any comments which would help make my stories better I would greatly appreciate hearing from you.

We were living in Solon, Ohio. I had a little rubber knife that I loved to play with. I would carry it around with me, stuck in my belt like a pirate. Sometimes I would pretend to stab something with it. Often I would just throw it up in the air to see if I could catch it by the handle. I would throw it, and make it spin a few times. My mother didn't seem to care how I played with my knife, as long as I didn't throw it in the house. She would often yell at me, "Stop throwing that knife in the house. If you have to throw that knife around, go outside to do it." I would stop for a while, but then I'd go back to throwing my knife up into the air. After a while I started to hear things like, "If I see you throwing that knife again, I'm going to have to take it away from you." So I stopped throwing the knife around -- where my mother could see me.

A day or two later I was in the dining room throwing the knife in the air when the knife got caught in the ceiling light fixture. Being only about five years old, I couldn't quite reach the light fixture. I could see my knife up there, right next to the light bulb. I stood on a chair and tried to reach it. I was still too short. The thought crossed my mind that I ought to ask my mother to help me. But I just knew what she would say, "I thought I told you not to throw that knife around in the house. And this is what happens when you do. I'm just going to have to take that knife away from you. And you'll have to sit on a chair until you are an old man. And when your father gets home he is really going to punish you." I decided to think about this a little longer.

My mother turned on the lights about a half-hour before my Dad got home. The first thing Dad said when he walked into the house was "What's burning. It smells like a burning tire. There is definitely burning rubber around here. Focha, where is that smell coming from?" I knew it was my rubber knife that was smoking, but I kept very quiet and tried to look like I hadn't heard a word that was said. Dad located the source of the melting rubber, got a chair, and fished out the knife. I could see black smudges still on the light bulb. Dad looked at the knife, he looked at me, but he didn't say anything. This was an ominous sign. I think Dad had to replace the light bulb before the generation of smoke could be stopped.

When we sat down to dinner I was very tense. I knew Dad wasn't going to forget about the rubber knife. I can remember the aluminum glasses we drank from, each of us had our own glass which we identified by the color. I spent a lot of time looking into my glass that night. It seemed as though the room was dark, except for one bright glaring light over the dining room table.

"I want to know, who threw a rubber knife in the light fixture," Dad said with the air of a man who is judge, jury, and executioner. There was a flurry of denials; I kept my fearful silence. "All right," said my Dad in a low and even voice, "I am going to go around the table and ask each one of you in turn, starting with David." That meant I would be last! "David did you do it?"

"No, I didn't do it," said David. The suspense was beginning to mount in me. What should I say? No one had seen me throw the knife in the air. Maybe I could get away with it. Just insist on my innocence. Little did I realize how obvious it must have been to my parents. I was beginning to sweat. What would they do to me if I confessed? Make me go without eating for a week? Take away my few earthly possessions? What would they do to me for lying? I knew I shouldn't lie, but maybe God would understand.

"Richard, did you do it?"

"No, I didn't do it."

My throat was dry. I looked in my glass. It was empty. I had to think. Think! What was I going to say?

"James, did you do it?"

"Not me!"

Finally it was my turn. The room was hushed. I took a deep breath.

"Dougie, did you do it?"

I bowed my head. "Yes, I did it." There, I said it, and I was glad, come what may.

"Well, Dougie told us the truth, and I think that is wonderful. I think this boy deserves a reward. Focha, do you suppose you could get this boy a bowl of ice cream?"

I couldn't believe my ears. I was in a daze. What was happening? I was vaguely aware of other voices around me.

"It had to be him. Everyone else denied doing it."

"I wish it were true that if everyone else denied it then they really didn't do it. But unfortunately that is not always the case."

"But all the rest of us told the truth also. We should also get some ice cream."

Dad laughed. "But only for Dougie was it hard to tell the truth, and for this he should get the reward."

"Then I'm going to do something bad and tell the truth about it and get the reward."

Dad thought about this for a moment, then he turned to me. "Do you suppose you would mind sharing your reward with the rest of us, by letting each of us have a bowl of ice cream." I was feeling magnanimous at this time. Besides, I had three rather upset-looking bigger brothers glaring at me.

"Sure, everybody can have some ice cream."