Billy Says

Mr. Wilson Got Dennis, I Am Gifted With Billy

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Last winter I tried to regale you all with the Ballad Of Billy's Sled, a tale of snow infused amusement. This morning as I pondered what I was going to share with the Steemiverse on this day, Billy and the marvelous utterances that emanate from that little personage kept bouncing around in my consciousness as the obvious tale of choice for this fine Sunday.

Billy's family lives on a five acre chunk of land next to our farm. He is the almost youngest of four boys. The first time that I met him was on a coldish day shortly after his family moved into the dwelling down the road that we like to call the School House. My Dad was over for a visit and we saw this little apparition walking down the driveway with what looked like a singular purpose. As the diminutive creature strode closer, we observed that it was a young boy. Skinny would be too chunky of an adjective to describe him, for although he was the height of a three year old, the guy was maybe thirty pounds soaking wet. We sat in lawn chairs, tending a spring brush fire, watching the approach of a puffer jacket bedecked, shorts wearing, shoeless youngin with almost awe.

Dad, being the complete opposite of politically correct offered this mind-sticking observance:

"Sis! That kid looks like a refugee!"

Unfortunately for Billy, that moniker stuck, and he has been known as "The Refugee" ever since that day.

In the beginning there were a couple of facts that quickly became known about Billy. One: He had an aversion to footwear, and he could be seen tromping along our dirt road sans shoes on a frequent basis. The second Billy fact was that he had, and I quote his mother, "anger issues."

Later in the day I got to see the full breadth of those "issues" as we had our new neighbors over for my daughter's birthday party. Every year I make giant pinatas for my kid's birthday parties. Each of my children have birthdays after a major candy holiday, so I procure a stupid amount of sweets at a discounted price the day after said holidays, and proceed to construct a pinata of rural construction! It is known that I tend to seal about 30 pounds of candy under multiple layers of cardboard and paper mache, and while my pinatas are not pieces of art, they can take a metal baseball bat beating from no less than twenty kids. Twice through line no less! It usually takes an adult or softball player to set the candy free, and while my pinatas are of stout construction, I had no idea they would set Billy's inner Hulk free.

As they were new to the GK scene, I let his mother apply the blindfold bandana, and as Billy was one of the youngest in attendance, we let him go first.

Maybe I was aware of the pent up menehune rage, for as I went to spin Billy three times like I did all the kids, I found myself abandoning that ritual and retreating for safety. One of my friends that was on the raising and lowering of the pinata went to work, and soon the pinata was in a flour and glue scented dance of hypnotic candy lurage. It was then that the little, shoeless spitfire let loose with a swing of MLB proportions. We all cheered in encouragement as the bat connected with the box, the box swung back and on the forward plunge smacked Billy right in the chest.

What happened next made Billy a legend, well, at least to my Dad, who at this point had started laughing quite profusely.

Billy ripped off his bandana, let out a roar of righteous rage, and took off after the crowd of giggling people. His bat was raised and ready to deliver the pain. I watched his mother swoop in and masterfully disarm and clutch the affronted child after he took a swing at a group of kids. Her ability to contain the beast whilst thanking us for the invite was really inspiring.

I had to get my dad a cup of punch. All the laughing really took it out of him.

Betcha can't guess which one is Billy!

Billy is now seven, and he is still just as skinny, has taken to footwear, and is as full of amusing moments as ever. This summer his mother and I were sitting in chairs on the beach of our lake, watching the kids play in the water when he marched up to us and shrieked:

"Those darn shorts thieves!"

So great was his offense that I swear his little form was radiating rage. It was then that his mother told me that he was missing a pair of shorts and he was convinced that the evil "shorts thieves" has stolen them.

"I don't even know what that means?" I replied, smile barely contained. "Do they just steal shorts, Billy?"

"Yah, they sneak in when you least expect it, and they take your shorts, cause their SHORTS THIEVES!" he bellowed the last two words for effect, and as we were at a lake surrounded by mountains, the injustice in his tone echoed off the water quite nicely.

"What do you think they do with the shorts?" I inquired genuinely curious. At this point Billy's saint of a mother had to turn away, as she was red with barely contained mirth.

"I don't know what they do with them, but just wait til I get my hands on those thieves!"

Billy's shorts were in the van.

That fact mattered not, I was told later, for he just knew that there were shorts thieves, and he was on to them. Good to know, I am going to be extra vigilant in the keeping an eye on my shorts.

Yesterday, I was sitting on the forty yard line of a local football field in a camp chair, wrapped in a fleece blanket watching my baby gorilla of a son smash people, when Billy ran up to us and spouted:

"Hey T! Where did you get that really nice old-fashioned jacket?"

T was my husband and he was wearing this:

"A what Billy?" his mother asked in a slightly mystified tone.

Billy continued, "You know, one of those old-fashioned jackets, the kind that they made before they put sleeves on coats. I gotta get me one of those."

Pronouncement made he scurried away (to look for shorts thieves I presumed)and his mother and I released our held in laughter.

It was then that his mother related to me a conversation that she and Billy had earlier that day. Billy is going to play basketball for the first time, and his dad coaches the Park and Rec league age group that he would be in. He uttered:

"I am going to be the coach's kid, YES! Uh oh, Mom! What if I don't get Dad as a coach, what if I get Hitler! That would be so horrible!"

"Where on Earth does he get that stuff?" his mother wondered in a slightly confounded tone.

"I'd just like to know how he makes the leap from Dad to genocidal dictator in one fell mental swoop." I replied laughing, "I mean, what exactly is going on in there?"

We giggled for a minute as we watched Billy and his four year old brother Henry mix it up with some kids on the football field sidelines. Billy has infected Henry with an aversion to footwear too, and as I watched them tackle helpless children I found myself smiling as I pondered pinatas, shorts thieves, and old-fashioned jackets. Life is definitely better and far more entertaining with children around, especially kids with "anger issues."

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And as always, all of the images in this post were taken on the author's anger issue free iPhone.

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