THE PEE-POO CRUST WALKER

        Just outside the old wooden barn where Grandpa Francis milked his dairy cows was a hill. The cows would stand on that hill before and after milking. While standing on that hill they would pee and poo to their hearts content. Below the hill was a small pond, about 30 feet across. With the help of a little rain or snow or nothing at all, the pee and poo would make its way down the hill and settle into the thick green water. Summer, Fall, Winter, Spring, day after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year the mire would ooze its way down the hill and into the pond. The smell was so bad that even the pigs would avoid it. But I was fascinated.

Francis Max Rogers. Age 8.

        You see, during the hot dry summer, the time my parents would leave me with Grandpa and Grandma, the pond would form a hard crust on the surface. At age 8, I thought it would be a feat never to be challenged by anyone to walk across the crust! Can you imagine the respect I would have from every youngster in Morgan Valley? “There goes the Pee Poo Crust Walker!”

        So it went. The time finally arrived for the big event. Venturing out slowly, testing the surface, easing my way forward, I moved on. At times the surface would rock and even appear to crack. Strange gurgling noises would rise from the deep below the surface. The small crowd of young on lookers would “ooh” and “ah” as the tension mounted.

        Half way. The deepest spot! If I went down here I may never be seen or heard from again. One careful step after another I crept forward until at last my Converse sneakers touched solid ground. “He did it! He did it! He walked the Pee Poo crust!” I bowed to my cheering fans and promised a repeat performance when I returned the next summer.

        A year passed and I was a back. The word must have gotten around, whispered like a bad joke at school. The crowd was much bigger, and so was I. I had grown a little and packed on a few pounds. The pressure was on. I should have charged admission. No messing around this time. I would just proudly walk across the pond, shake hands with my fans and listen to their gushing admiration.

        Strutting to the center of the crust I stopped, gave the onlookers a confident wink, and was just about to step forward when it happened. The center crust gave a moan and started to sink. Muck slowly rose over my sneakers and up my ankles. Then the center crust burst and I was descending like a sinner into Purgatory. Mixed with the sounds of blub, blub, were the shrieks and screams of kids scattering in all directions.  I was alone, up to my armpits in crap. Not just any crap, but years of crap cultured to perfection in the hot sun.

        “There goes the Pee Poo Crust Walker!” Yah. “There goes the Cow Muck Swimmer.” No. It didn’t have the same ring to it. I would be the talk of the Valley alright. Getting out was not an easy task! Bashing the crust with my fists to make a path covered the rest of me. My ox was indeed in the mire.

Jessie Taggart Francis.

        Grandma answered the timid knock on the kitchen door. There stood an unidentifiable kid covered from head to toe in stinking yellow-green cow crap. It must have made her day!