The Mush Pot

 1/12/06

Time passes.  Ideas come and go and I am now in need of a boundary.  Somehow 100 seemed right.  So, I'm attempting to write about 100 things or people I remember in my lifetime and write about each one in a day.  This will be in addition to my daily journal writing.  This is a writing experiment because right now, today, I don't feel like much of a writer--rather, someone who may have some stories to tell.  I'll start with this challenge to myself.  100 stories in 100 days. Kind of like the photographer who took one picture a day from Winter to Summer.  A challenge.  Let's see where it takes me.  Where to begin? So much calls to me now...

     The mush pot was a place no one wanted to be. For to be in the mush pot was a penalty.  It was isolation. You couldn't follow the gang and see the fun. What was dared was not seen.  To stay out of the mush pot you had to accept, and carry out the dare.

     The mush pot existed in a garage at my next door neighbor's house.  The gang of us would sit in a circle on the cold floor of the garage that felt comforting on a hot summer day or night.  Too hot to play baseball or hide and go seek.  Too hot to go to the park or ride our bikes.  Just the right temperature to play mush pot. Especially in the warm SF Valley evenings.

     Whoever successfully completed the last task got to call out the dare for the next person.  Some were relatively easy--run down the block and back, ask the ice cream man for free gum for all of us, kiss the girl or boy across the circle.  

      One time I was dared to knock on "old lady Retinger's" door and ask if she could come out to play.  The group hid behind the bushes, in front of the redwood fence that bordered her lawn.  For some reason Mrs. Retinger was a fearsome person to us.  There was some thought that she was a witch.  Her house was always dark and the porch light never on.  I cautiously made my way to the door knowing unseen eyes were watching me from both within and outside.  My heart pounded against my chest and exploded in my ears. My palms clammed up.  My mouth dried and my tongue clung to the roof of my mouth.  I hesitated.

      I wanted to turn and run.  The mush pot beckoned.  I had never been there before.  Maybe this one time wouldn't hurt. I looked across the street and there sat Phillip on the front floor of the lighted garage.  A forlorn glance in my direction beamed, "Coward".  I heard giggles in the bushes. The porch light flashed on. I froze in a strobe light of shadow.  The door opened a crack. "Who's out there?"

     I turned toward the light slowly.  "It's me, Mrs. Retinger. Teri."

     The door opened wider.  Mrs. Retinger stood before me wearing her blue housecoat.  "Well, what do you want dear?"

     Dear? Had I heard this correctly? Dear?  I was in! My destiny was sealed. A collective gasp from the bushes.  I had to follow through but I could add a twist. "I'm supposed to ask you if you can come out and play, Mrs. Retinger."

    "You want to know if old lady Retinger can come out to play?"

    I looked down.  She knew what we called her.  I felt embarrassed and ashamed and wished I were in the mush pot right now.  I'd just volunteer.  "Just you. Mrs. Retinger. Can you come out to play?"

    She laughed.  "My mommy won't let me."  She shut the door.

    I turned and skipped down the walkway and over to Phillip.  I heard the bushes rustling behind me as I passed.

    "Did you do it?" Phillip asked.

     "Yeah, Phillip, you're free.  But don't call her Old Lady any more.  She's got a mother, too."

     I sort of lost my enthusiasm for playing mush pot after that.  Hide and seek was a much more fun game. Or hit the bat. Or dodgeball. Or baseball.  Yeah, baseball, now there's a game.

**Not bad for a first draft.  So difficult not to revise as I went.  I did add one line for consistency in the story which took place at night.  "Especially in the warm SF Valley evenings".  With this addition I added place and time, helping the reader to more center the piece.