The Frozen Tongue (a very short story)
The Frozen Tongue
((A Chick Evens, Episode, 1957, St. Paul, Minnesota)(a very short Story))
The sidewalk around the garage was scattered with broken, long and heavy ice cycles, once frozen onto the rim of the garage roof. I was but ten-years old back then, back in the winter of 1957, and I had heard how cold metal or iron, would freeze a person’s tongue onto its surface, as quick as the clap of an eye. I was born with a curious nature indeed, and this was quite fascinating, yet to me unproven. So of all things, I put my tongue onto the door knob of the garage door, it must had been five below zero out. And it froze onto it, quicker than I could spit.
I started to pull, or try to pull away, but my tongue would not release from the metal knob, and so there I stood, like The Hunchback of Notre Dame, crouched down nearly on bended knees, praying my brother Mike would come along soon and save the day (I needed no more proof, it worked).
As I remained in this position for eons it seemed, this raised the question, that surely my brother Mike would ask, “Why… would someone do something as silly as this.”
I mean it was harsh weather, a Minnesota winter is nothing to laugh about, for it is an enduring experience, each and every year.
I hadn’t the answer other than, ‘To see if it worked.’
When my brother did show up, he said, “Don’t you have better things to do,” a rhetorical question of course.
And I just prayed he’d hurry up, and go fetch some warm water, which he did, and pour it over my tongue, but instead it went allover my face and mouth and then onto the knob, “Oh!” I cried “It’s free!” and that was worth the additional wetness I had to bear.
My brother, who is two year older than I, looked at me with his intense eyes, carefully, “How long you been like that?” he questioned.
¨There came a mysterious pause from me, then a succession of “I don’t know (s).”
We both exchanged a humorous look, I think my face apologized mutely for taking up his time, and as he walked up the stairs, his back to me, on the path to our house, he laughed shaking his head, to the right and left (and likewise, so did I).
Written on the roof, Lima, Peru 1-19-2009, Dedicated to Mike S.
•••
((A Chick Evens, Episode, 1957, St. Paul, Minnesota)(a very short Story))
The sidewalk around the garage was scattered with broken, long and heavy ice cycles, once frozen onto the rim of the garage roof. I was but ten-years old back then, back in the winter of 1957, and I had heard how cold metal or iron, would freeze a person’s tongue onto its surface, as quick as the clap of an eye. I was born with a curious nature indeed, and this was quite fascinating, yet to me unproven. So of all things, I put my tongue onto the door knob of the garage door, it must had been five below zero out. And it froze onto it, quicker than I could spit.
I started to pull, or try to pull away, but my tongue would not release from the metal knob, and so there I stood, like The Hunchback of Notre Dame, crouched down nearly on bended knees, praying my brother Mike would come along soon and save the day (I needed no more proof, it worked).
As I remained in this position for eons it seemed, this raised the question, that surely my brother Mike would ask, “Why… would someone do something as silly as this.”
I mean it was harsh weather, a Minnesota winter is nothing to laugh about, for it is an enduring experience, each and every year.
I hadn’t the answer other than, ‘To see if it worked.’
When my brother did show up, he said, “Don’t you have better things to do,” a rhetorical question of course.
And I just prayed he’d hurry up, and go fetch some warm water, which he did, and pour it over my tongue, but instead it went allover my face and mouth and then onto the knob, “Oh!” I cried “It’s free!” and that was worth the additional wetness I had to bear.
My brother, who is two year older than I, looked at me with his intense eyes, carefully, “How long you been like that?” he questioned.
¨There came a mysterious pause from me, then a succession of “I don’t know (s).”
We both exchanged a humorous look, I think my face apologized mutely for taking up his time, and as he walked up the stairs, his back to me, on the path to our house, he laughed shaking his head, to the right and left (and likewise, so did I).
Written on the roof, Lima, Peru 1-19-2009, Dedicated to Mike S.
•••
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 2:45 PM
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