Just for the record, the real answer was no.

I started Grade 6 with a kid whose favourite dirty word by far was dick. And he sure got to use it a lot, because even now I’m surprised how often that topic came up in a schoolyard full of eleven-year-old boys, and probably still does.

     Then the administration decided to add sex education to our gym classes.

     Then I got the chicken pox, and those damn spots got everywhere.

     “Even on your penis?” he asked.

     “None of your business, Kevin.”

     Though I’ve got to say I’m still pretty impressed that even he had started using the correct anatomical terms.

Inspired by Birds, Bees, Viruses. Original photo by Jenny Walters.

The Sorrowful and Glorious Mysteries

After Auntie Annemarie dressed up like a sozzled Santa in 1966, the mysteries of Christmas were revealed to me. My parents never really “did” kid-centric holidays. And the way that adulthood was served up in the Cayer-Leclair household, I wasn't going to Nancy-Drew that future anytime soon. For me, magical mysteries were found in other people’s homes: baskets filled with shiny green grass and chocolate eggs at Carolyn’s; individually wrapped Twinings teabags at Christine’s; store-bought clothing FROM DETROIT; family trips to warm places.
     So when Dan was born, thirty-one years ago today, I hocus-pocus’d it all back. Especially Easter.

Inspired by Birds, Bees, Viruses. Photo—Birthday Boy—by Laurie.

Birds, Bees, Viruses

Sex education was controversial in my small town. Eventually it was decided that we Grade Sixes would receive a single morning of instruction. 

      I awaited that day with breathless anticipation, expecting answers to questions I couldn’t ask, and some pointers so I could, you know, get on with It. Or at least know what It was. 

      I awoke with flu on the morning of the day. But . . . but, I stammered, unable to explain why I couldn’t stay home. When I returned, my classmates were close-mouthed about what they’d learned. Yet everyone seemed so . . . worldly. My life, I knew, was ruined.

Inspired by A Trip Down Memory Lane. Photo by Body Stock.

The Long Car Ride Home

In the silence after the argument—with miles to go before they reached home—Grace death-gripped the steering wheel and stared at the road, illuminated by the headlights, emerging from the darkness inch by inch. Beside her, Annie had retreated into herself, her head against the window, her eyes shut. Grace cursed her thick tongue and its inability to find the right words. Well into her fifth decade, Grace knew better, but still nuance was alien to her. Should Grace try to explain herself again? Or would that make it worse? She bit her tongue and contemplated the road ahead.

Inspired by all the road trip drabbles. Image by Artic Photo.

Ru

My man came into my life a few years ago.
     I first met him in Burlington. It was a long haul there, but I was told he was a “licker”—so enough said.
     He was dark and handsome. He played hard to get, ignoring me and jesting with his comrades. We did the coquetry dance in the sandbox. And I took him back to my place.
     His first move was shy and frisky. He showed me his cojones, with a trill.
     I’ve made a giant mistake (again) I thought. He’ll go in the morning.

     24 hours later, I relented.

Inspired by the Corpses’s latest writings on road trips. Image from the cover for the single Double Entendre, by Greg Spero.

Hail to the Bus Driver

Hail to the bus driver
Bus driver
Bus driver
Hail to bus driver
Bus driver man . . .

. . . who’d put up with us for all of the 280 miles to Ottawa, chauffeured us around the entire week, and only on the long trip home decided to make us a deal: If we could sing full out for the first hour, then we could sing as much as we wanted for the rest of the trip. Otherwise, we’d have to stay quiet.

Oh, it was sad (so sad)
It was sad (so sad)
It was sad in the end; we thought we’d won.


Inspired by the Last Three Trips. AI image from Meta.

A Trip Down Memory Lane

I recently joined a Facebook page dedicated to my grade school. I did a deep dive until I landed on a group picture, circa 1975, of some of my teachers, including the biggest bully to ever ruin math. So, I typed ill of the dead. This led to some private side conversations among fellow classmates. We shared anecdotes of thrown brushes, physical abuse, hiding under desks, and residual mental blocks over the eight times table.

     “He always smelled like cigarettes!” said Sue.

     Yeah, he did have a particular, Tenderflaked stink: A mix of pedological dereliction, low self-esteem, and warm polyester.

Inspired by Anniversary Trip. Image from Amazon.