Life Among the Savages Read Online Free Page A

our community (“... well, now, let’s see; that there bugle blowed around about three in the afternoon, and I remember the day because it was the day I w’s supposed to hammer on the boards on that there gate, and here it’s been maybe six weeks since that ol’ bugle, and there hangs the gate right now . . .”). When I think about it, I can only remember the year Laurie was born because I was waiting to get a new winter coat.
    One of the most unnerving, and least original, observations I have made about my children is that as these years turn and Christmas inevitably follows the fourth of July and the fourth of July inevitably follows Christmas, they tend to grow older. Every October, for instance, Laurie has a birthday. Every November, incredible as it may sound, Jannie has a birthday; the fact that I also have a birthday every December is unfortunately entirely believable but somehow less heartwarming. When we first came to the house in the country, Laurie was something over three years old, and Jannie was six months, and then suddenly—although I had in the meantime grown a year older, and so had my husband, and we wished one another “Happy Birthday” very properly—Jannie was almost two and had become a legitimate member of the family named Jannie (instead of Baby, or The Baby), and Laurie was just short of five and was clamoring for the right to vote on domestic policies.
    The day Laurie started kindergarten he renounced corduroy overalls with bibs and began wearing blue jeans with a belt; I watched him go off the first morning with the older girl next door, seeing clearly that an era of my life was ended, my sweet-voiced nursery-school tot replaced by a long-trousered, swaggering character who forgot to stop at the corner and wave goodbye to me.
    He came home the same way, the front door slamming open, his cap on the floor, and the voice suddenly become raucous shouting, “Isn’t anybody here?”
    At lunch he spoke insolently to his father, spilled Jannie’s milk, and remarked that his teacher said that we were not to take the name of the Lord in vain.
    â€œHow was school today?” I asked, elaborately casual.
    â€œAll right,” he said.
    â€œDid you learn anything?” his father asked.
    Laurie regarded his father coldly. “I didn’t learn nothing,” he said.
    â€œAnything,” I said. “Didn’t learn anything.”
    â€œThe teacher spanked a boy, though,” Laurie said, addressing his bread and butter. “For being fresh,” he added with his mouth full.
    â€œWhat did he do?” I asked. “Who was it?”
    Laurie thought. “It was Charles,” he said. “He was fresh. The teacher spanked him and made him stand in a corner. He was awfully fresh.”
    â€œWhat did he do?” I asked again, but Laurie slid off his chair, took a cookie, and left, while his father was still saying “See here, young man.”
    The next day Laurie remarked at lunch, as soon as he sat down, “Well, Charles was bad again today.” He grinned enormously and said, “Today Charles hit the teacher.”
    â€œGood heavens,” I said, mindful of the Lord’s name, “I suppose he got spanked again?”
    â€œHe sure did,” Laurie said. “Look up,” he said to his father.
    â€œWhat?” his father said, looking up.
    â€œLook down,” Laurie said. “Look at my thumb. Gee, you’re dumb.” He began to laugh insanely.
    â€œWhy did Charles hit the teacher?” I asked quickly.
    â€œBecause she tried to make him color with red crayons,” Laurie said. “Charles wanted to color with green crayons so he hit the teacher and she spanked him and said nobody play with Charles but everybody did.”
    The third day—it was Wednesday of the first week-Charles bounced a seesaw onto the head of a little girl and made her bleed and the teacher made him stay