Squamba

Photo credit: Steve.M http://flic.kr/p/7tJJif

Family stories are things to be stockpiled and brandished like weapons. They’re essential self-defense in those incendiary moments when children are scream-cry-fighting, it’s the end of the day, and you’re at the crackly, threadbare selvage of your wit’s end. A good tale offers distraction, plain and simple, a sparkling silver rattle for the elementary-school set.

“Hey!” you yell over the clamor.

They think you’re about to fuss and threaten. Instead, you bait and switch.

“Did I ever tell you about the time that…” This is the easy part, the attention-getter. Next, you need a hook with meat on it. A story of when you got in big trouble (stole King Dongs from a classmate’s lunchbox). Or some dirt on a favorite uncle (swim trunks came off at the pool).  Whatever it is, to maintain the cease-fire, the hook better be good.  Really good. Kids will kill a query faster than an agent at William Morris Endeavor.

“Did I ever tell you about the time that…that…Squamba invaded our neighborhood?” I said last Wednesday.

There, I did it. I threw down an ace in the first week of summer break.

“Squamba?”

“Yes, Squamba. She appeared one winter day at dusk. The light in the sky was salmon-orange. We saw her long shadow and then, there she was.”

“What was she?”

“No one knew at first. It was a snow day, and all the kids in the neighborhood had been outside since morning, roaming around. There weren’t any parents out. They were all at work or inside making dinner.”

“What was Squamba?”

(Stretching it out.) “Sam Thompson discovered her. He was throwing snowballs at the corner of Fleming and Woodfill. He turned to ping Jimmy O’Connell and that’s when he saw her.”

“Was she a person?”

“Yes and no. Part person, part ice creature.”

“Huh?”

“You know how mermaids are half-women, half-fish? And you’ve seen paintings of half-men, half-horses called Centaurs, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, Squamba was half-mom, half-snowman.”

“Whoa. How?”

“Well, this kid down the street, Donny Keene, made a snow sculpture of his mother in his front yard. It looked just like her.”

(Deflated.) “Oh.”

“But that’s not all. Donny sculpted her life-size. She was naked. Sitting on an ice-toilet. It was so realistic, the whole neighborhood came to see it.”

(Interest recovered). “Her butt and everything?”

“Yes, everything. Donny called the sculpture ‘Squamba.’ Turns out, that’s what he called his mom all the time, we just didn’t know until then.”

“Why did he make it?”

“Not sure. He was thirteen and I think he was mad at her. He wanted to go sledding with his friends that day. But his mom said he had to stay home and babysit his brother while she was at work.”

At this point in the story, my brain bifurcated. One lobe regaled the children with the classic version of Squamba, as told by my siblings and me for decades. How word of her spread like wildfire through our neighborhood as kids ran home and reported to their parents that a naked Ms. Keene was sitting on the pot in her front yard. Moms and Dads donned snowboots and lined up with their kids to have pictures taken with Squamba, like a boardwalk attraction. There were the classic thumbs-up shots, bunny ears, sit-in-the-laps, and mock-flushes (Donny spared no anatomical or mechanical detail).

As always, the story got a rip-roaring reception. My kids were content, and no longer quarreling.

But the other lobe of my brain realized something. While Ms. Keene’s adolescent son was sculpting her grunting face out of freshly fallen snow, she was sitting at a desk somewhere. There may have been a Tab next to her stapler, or a Fresca. She was typing, or filing, or attending a meeting, wondering, in the back of her mind, if there was enough bologna in the deli drawer of her home fridge for her kids to forage lunch. Were they watching TV all day, or playing outside, like she told them?  This version of the story was rated M—for Mature Audiences Only, released in a limited edition for those who are pilloried for being pulled in multiple, opposing directions. I could see Ms. Keene on the movie screen of my mind, rounding the bend of our street after battling icy, rush-hour traffic. Then pulling into her driveway, her high beams sweeping across her frozen, pendulous breasts.

“That was awesome!” my kids yelped. They eyed the sandwiches I’d assembled during the story.

“Thanks,” i said, handing them their plates.

“No, we mean Squamba. We could make one of you.”

The two former combatants sat down at the table. They discussed how they’d customize the sculpture to reflect my physique and our toilet model (big hair, dual flush button).  Was this the peace I’d unleashed?

I trolled the pantry for caffeine and decided never to tell them about Grandpa Will and the knife throwing contest—no matter how big the fight. What’s the expression, “Freedom isn’t free?” Neither is harmony. Nor bologna.