This is a little story I like to call “The Mystery Panties.”
I was nine years old, visiting my Dad and stepmother in Missouri for the summer. As I did every summer, until I was 16.
It all happened so fast. I had to poop badly.
Whatever. I had a hot pink bike with a banana seat. An ice cream truck to chase after. Dude! Rocket pops were 50 cents. And a good friend who let me lounge around on her pink gingham canopy bed while we listened to the Grease soundtrack.
But my friend wasn’t home that day and I was in dire straights.
So I pooped my underwear.
There was only one thing to do. Bury the underwear, of course. Otherwise, I would be so busted for having a poop accident at nine. Quick! Find a shovel! Dig a hole near the marigolds! Bury the panties!
It was never brought up ever again. Until the next summer. Guess what? My stepmother was planting petunias this time around and she dug up a pair of panties. The. Mystery. Panties.
I shrugged when questioned, “Do you know anything about these?”
I mean, who would ever admit THAT??
*My little sister was not stupid. In fact, she’s now quite brilliant and is a professor and lecturer these days.