‘Ol Poopy Butt
This is a true story, although you might not think so. I had
trouble believing it myself until it was confirmed by the son-in-law of the
speaker. The teller of this tale was ‘ol poopy butt herself, a proper and
refined lady about my age who told the story during dinner. After I got home, I
wrote down all that I remembered and I have tried to faithfully record her
story verbatim. Since ‘ol poopy butt may be known to some readers, I’ll use a
writer’s prerogative and simply refer to her as Linda M in order to protect her
from unremitting ridicule by our mutual friends. Here is Linda M in her own
words as I remember them.
“It was a
beautiful fall afternoon some years ago when my family gathered at Mackinaw
Island for a last taste of summer. Our family group of six adults included my
two grown daughters and their husbands for this one-day getaway on Mackinaw
Island. I had dressed carefully for the trip, even wearing a new pair of
stylish, light blue Capri pants. We had taken the ferry in late morning,
planning to spend the afternoon exploring the island before returning to the
mainland in the evening. As we walked off the ferryboat, the first thing we saw
on our right was a huge bicycle rental place. We planned our trip on the spur
of the moment: we would rent bicycles and spend the afternoon touring the
island, then enjoy a relaxing dinner along the shoreline in a pleasant
restaurant before catching the ferry for our return to the mainland. A perfect
day for a fall afternoon, we thought, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead.”
“My daughter
Tammy was always the adventurous one. She decided that her rental bike just had
to be a bicycle built for two. No one else seemed to share her enthusiasm, so I
agreed to join her as co-pilot while the other four adults chose solo bikes for
our trip around the island. Since Tammy is younger, bigger and stronger, I
agreed to ride behind her. Our tandem bike was a boy’s style bike with the high
cross bar connecting the two saddles. I stood on a curb and mounted the rear saddle
while Tammy steadied the front end. Once aboard, I held the bike for her while
she mounted the front saddle and then we were off!”
“It took but
a moment for our group to find our way on Mackinaw’s coastal highway. Leaving
town behind us, we began the long counter-clockwise route around the island. It
promised to be an exhilarating ride with the cool breeze from the lake cooling
my sun-warmed face as we formed a phalanx of bicycles and pedaled along the
flat coastal road. After a while, I noticed that our tandem bike seemed to
swerving back and forth across the road so I asked Tammy about it.
“ ‘ Oh,
didn’t you notice the horse poop? I am swerving around the piles,’ “ she yelled
to the wind that caught her voice and sent it back to me. I began looking down
along the road. She was right! There was horse poop everywhere. I thought the
island people cleaned it up. Apparently, there are so many horses they can’t
keep up. I noticed that you could tell the older piles from the fresh ones since
the older ones consisted of little poo apples that were congealing in the sun
to form one large pie – something you certainly didn’t want to hit with the
bike or step in.”
“The trouble
began after we had ridden several miles on the coastal highway and decided the
eight mile-long road around the island was too slow and too boring. Tammy was
one of the ringleaders who decided it would be more adventurous to turn left at
the next road and cut across the island toward town where we could visit the
shops and tourist attractions. I was enjoying the ride, so it didn’t matter to
me which way we went. I pedaled silently behind Tammy.
[Mackinaw Island is essentially a large rocky hill sitting
in the watery straits of Mackinac. Over millennia, the waves and the wind have
gradually worn down the hill at the shoreline to provide a flat perimeter
around the island where the coastal highway is located. Turning inland,
however, one encounters the hill that rises to a peak in the approximate center
and then descends to the fort and the village on the southern shore. It was
this rise in the land that allowed the British to capture the American fort
during the War of 1812 when the British landed unobserved then climbed the hill
overlooking the fort. The American commander wisely surrendered.
Automobiles were banned on the island in 1898 when local
residents complained that the new-fangled contraptions were scaring their
horses. The ban has remained in effect since then. The result is a picturesque
society of exclusive horse transportation and an excess of horse excrement on
every public road until the hardworking road workers sweep it up. Most folks
don’t mind the horse offal, but most folks don’t ride tandem bikes either.]
“We didn’t
realize the road across the island would be quite so steep, especially for
those on a bicycle built for two. Within minutes of our turn, we were slowing
down and Tammy struggled to keep our bike balanced. As the bike slowed, we
began to wobble and I began to get scared of falling. When it appeared we were
stopping, I leaned to my left and hopped off the bike … almost. I had forgotten
about climbing on the curb. When I hopped off my left foot hit the pavement but
my right foot got hung up on the too-high crossbar. Since the bike hadn’t
stopped moving there was nothing to be done but hop forward on one leg while
the unaware Tammy continued to valiantly pedal forward. By the time I had made
three or four hops forward, my yelling finally got Tammy’s attention. She
stopped pedaling one moment too soon. We had just passed a horse pile, the
congealed type, and my left foot landed square in the center. It was slippery,
too slippery. My left foot slipped forward while my rear went down. In the
pile.”
“I didn’t
know whether to laugh or cry. I wasn’t hurt, but I found myself sitting in a
pile of horse manure* with my right leg draped over the bike. I remember that
the rear wheel was still turning and Tammy was standing in front still holding
onto the handlebars with her end of the bike still partially upright.
*[Modesty prevents me from quoting Linda M directly at this
point. The plain talking woman actually used other, more colorful language to
describe the pile of excrement. I recall that it was a simple word of four
letters, commonly used as a prefix to the word house.]
“Everyone
else in our party of six heard my yelling and turned back to investigate.
Presumably, my husband and family members deduced that I was unhurt. At least I
hope so because all I saw was, at first, a few smiles and then uproarious
laughter. Even Tammy joined in. I couldn’t cry and so I too, finally smiled.
The worst part was when other bicyclists rode by and my family couldn’t desist
in the laughter and simply pointed at me as the visitors rode by.”
“After the
hilarity began to subside, Tammy managed to disengage herself from the bike and
then helped me get my right leg from the downed bicycle. I gingerly got up,
carefully leaning aside to avoid the pile. [Editor’s Note – see prior asterick].
Some portion
of the pile got up with me,
sticking to my backside and offering a noteworthy color shift to my light blue
pants, almost like a bullseye [Editor’s Note
– see prior asterick]. The hilarity began again, this time including me.
We couldn’t quit laughing. Finally, our sides hurt from all the laughter, and one-by-one,
we regained our sanity. It might have been Tammy, I’m not sure, but one of the
family looked me and established a new and forever family nickname -
‘Let’s go,
‘ol poopy butt.’ “
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