Two short stories about his childhood that Terrence wrote and recorded.
I grew up to the age of nine, in the fine old home which still stands at 28th and Cedar in Minneapolis Minnesota. It had once been a single-family home, a doctor’s residence, but has since been subdivided into apartments of diminished prestige. Our family resided on the main level, with my bedroom in the part which had once been an entryway. The home had old cast-iron radiators, which banged in the night and scared the daylights out of me.
As a preschooler, it was my job to help around the house, which included retrieving potatoes from the cellar. At the ripe old age of four or five, I knew I was up to the task. Proceeding down the two flights of stairs, the first challenge that I met was the basement light, whose string was too short for me to reach, therefore dooming me to darkness. The second challenge presented a much more formidable task, to proceed under the cellar stairs, the darkest of all darkness, where light did not exist, to retrieve the potatoes. Standing all of 3’6″ high, I knew it was up to the task. I closed my eyes, because as any child knows, that which we cannot see, cannot hurt us. I felt with my hands for the potatoes, hoping that I wouldn’t disturb any webs, with their accompanying spiders.
After a considerable search, I finally found the potatoes. I had met the challenge and victory was mine. The only task which remained was climbing the stairs in the dark, which unfortunately meant turning my back to the dark unknown, which every child knows, must not be done! I had only taken a step or two, when I felt the cold breath on my neck. I ran faster and faster, clawing my way up the stairs, knowing that they who were behind me, were ready to drag me back into darkness.
Knowing that all hope was lost and screaming at the top of my lungs, I broke through the kitchen door, flying. My landing was not graceful, potatoes flying in every direction. My mother wa looking at me quizzically. I wanted to scream, “Mom did you see them, they were right behind me!”, but instead choose to compose myself and commenced to picking up the potatoes. I had been successful, and knew that next time would be different, that I would not succumb to fear…I hoped.
That Which Lurks Under the Cellar Stairs, by Terrence Johnson
——————————————————————————————————
1956 saw my transition to first grade at Holy Rosary School, at 24th Street and 18th Avenue in Minneapolis Minnesota, whose state can only be pronounced properly, as a good Scandinavian, with a raised pitch on the last syllable.
Even at this young age, I realized that the school was ancient, with inkwells in the desks, uneven blackboards which screeched letters, and equally ancient and crabby nuns like Sister Fortunada. Her students were not fortunate to get her.
Terms like attention deficit/hyperactivity hadn’t been invented yet, there were only bad boys, and I defined the term to a T. This idea of being a bad boy carried onto my second grade were my teacher would direct other bad boys to the Terrence Johnson corner, with knees kept flat to the floor. who’s This torture technique was later adopted by North Vietnamese. Little goody two shoes girls never qualified for this group, which may have assisting assisted me in the differentiating the obvious difference between boys and girls. Girls had long hair and boys had short hair.
My theory was shook to its very core when I met my six-year-old male cousin with his shoulder length red hair. Despite my father’s numerous attempts on the long drive home, (without delving into the birds and the bees), he could not remove my confusion.
In keeping with my prior distinction of the sexes, I developed an attraction to a young girl in our class named Bunny. I was smitten. Being of a lower untouchable caste, our paths never crossed, except for once in the playground, where I made my move. I kissed her on the cheek, and I was in heaven, until she announced that she knew where I lived and that she was going to tell my mother. I immediately knew that life as I knew it had ended and that I had brought shame to our family’s name.
Later that afternoon, as I huddled in the dark enclave of our small linen closet, hope prevailed. Maybe she didn’t really know where I lived and there wouldn’t be a knock at our door. Unfortunately, there came a knock and I knew the fate which awaited me.
I heard Bunny revealing my dastardly actions and then my mother simply told her thank you and closed the door. No screaming or sinly sinful words emitted from my mother’s lips, she simply returned to the kitchen. But, then I realized that this might be a trap, maybe my mother was simply waiting for me to reveal myself, yet when I did, nothing happened. My saintly motherhood mother had once more exhibited the Wisdom of Solomon. Normally this would be the end of the story, but first we must fast-forward 30 years, to when our eldest daughter Amber was also in second grade, and smitten.
I revealed to her this love story of my youth, and how it was OK for her to like a boy. Later, discussing this matter over dinner, she related how she had told her teacher of how her dad had been caught kissing Bunny in the closet and had gotten into lots of trouble. Hoping against hope, I asked her if she had happened to mention to her teacher that the event she described was this happened you’re 30 years ago, to which we she replied, “Nooooo”. As I hung my head, wondering how I was going to explain my way out of this, I realized that Bunny had finally had her revenge.
The Pitfalls of a Seven-Year-Old in Love, by Terrence Johnson
