Once upon a time there was me.

The Toilet Witch

Age 7 , c. 1977

I’m sure you’ve heard about the witch who lives in the gingerbread house, and the Wicked Witch of the West. But there’s another witch you may not have heard about . . .

I’m a little Misfit, and my cousin warns me about the witch who lives in the sewer, roaming around and looking up the pipes for young victims. She’ll grab you by your round, bare bottom and pull you down into her lair. And flushing the toilet is knocking on her door—you’ll definitely get her attention.

I am fully convinced.

From this moment on, to limit the time I am on the toilet, I hold things in and frequently water the garden. When the time comes that I do have to brave the witch, I won’t flush.

It doesn’t take very long for my grandmother and other family members to scold me for not flushing the toilet.  I tell them about the witch. They don’t care about my safety. Not at all. They still make me flush. There is no way for me to avoid knocking on her door.

But I also want to live. So I stand outside the bathroom, holding onto the door frame, strrrreeeetching with one arm as far as I can reach to push the lever with a single fingertip. As soon as the whirl of water starts, I launch and run away asfastasIcan.

This, of course, creates another problem. Now, they yell at me for running down the hall.

So, no surprise, I start holding things in again.

And here comes the final problem. I’m curled up on the couch, holding my stomach and crying in pain, unable to straighten out. They rush me to the hospital, fearful for my appendix. The x-ray shows that I am crammed full, top to bottom. The image is solid black.

The nurses work hard to unclog me, saying I am close to being poisoned by my own poop. (From now on my family reminds me that I almost died because I was full of shit.)

The remedy is more water, more fiber, and more exercise.

Being rushed to the hospital happens twice.

Even though I know better now, I still feel the effects of the toilet witch. Although I’ve outgrown the fear of her, I’ve never regained my natural flow.

There’s more to tell about the other monsters in that home. Visit The Attic for more. Click the logo and then “Upgrade” for the keys.

Candy Cigarettes

throughout childhood

Ahhh, nothin’ like a good candy cigarette to start my day. I was loyal to the chalk cigarettes with red tips. Then I crossed over to the paper-wrapped bubblegum ones that puffed white dust when you blew. I felt like an adult. On occasion, I’d enjoy a good, old-fashioned bubblegum cigar. When I was out with the boys, I’d take a big dip of Big League Chew.

Sitting with my pack of candy cigarettes in hand, I eagerly bonded with my large chain-smoking family who ranged in age from their early teens to my gray-haired great-granny.

You’re probably thinking that this little misfit never had a chance, that he’d be chain-smokin’, dippin’, and spittin’ with the best of ‘em.

Nope! You’d be wrong. I never made it past the sugar stage.

Mr. Taco

8 years , c. 1978

This little misfit took life lessons from The Little Rascals. As a result of this education and my go-get-‘em attitude, at eight years old, I had my first paid job.

My employer was a local entity, Mr. Taco. Every day after school I swept the floor and wiped down tables and chairs for $1 a week. Plus, I was given a complete meal each day. Looking back, I think my boss saw my scrawny frame more than my gumption.

Do you want to know more about my first job and its associated heartbreaks? Click the logo and then “Upgrade” for a look behind the paywall in The Attic.

Hogan’s Heroes

beginning around age 6 , c. 1976

When I was a little Misfit, I loved watching Hogan’s Heroes. And, no surprise, I still do.

In fact, I loved it enough that whenever I could get away with it, I’d skip school and stay home to watch it in the morning.

I’d play like I was sick, hide out making no noise because my mom was passed out, beg and make deals to stay home, play on her good mood or on her need for me to do stuff for her since she was too drug-sick to do anything.

Little did I know that years later, I’d find myself in a prison, where the show’s humor about confinement, authority, and survival would become a secret garden—a place that has helped me stay sane inside the insanity.

This Little Misfit didn’t realize he wasn’t truly skipping school after all. It was just a different curriculum.

~MFT