Speech and Drama

My tongue was too big.  It kind of flopped around in my mouth and I really had no control over it.  Everyone seemed to think it was ‘cute.’  “Oh, that little boy has a lisp,” they would cackle.  Those cacklers didn’t really bother me however, because frankly, I didn't know what ‘lisp’ meant.  Anyway, I figured they were all laughing with me, not at me.

Mom tried her hardest to correct my speech and help me say certain words correctly–like my name.  “Jeff, I want you to say your name back to me. Put your tongue against the roof of your mouth as you make the ‘J’ sound and make an ‘F’ sound by blowing air through your lips when you put your top teeth against your bottom lip.

No matter how long she coached, my name still came out as, “Thepp.” I was consigned to the peasant class of young speakers and would remain there until first grade when my teacher sent me to the Speech Therapist–where the ‘dumb’ kids went.

Dick Putnam is the one guilty of conferring my first nickname.  He had a deep, hearty, roaring laugh.  “Your name is ‘Sapp?’  It was catchy and the moniker stuck with me for  the next twenty years or so.  I didn't mind the nickname.  In fact, it was kind of endearing–uttered by my little sister, Julie, for example.  She was my closest playmate growing up and I knew she loved me.

Later, I would occasionally muse that a person named ‘Dick’ really should be careful who they tag.  I thought Dick Putnam was a great man, though, and he and his wife, Lynn, were good friends of my parents, since I was a baby.

Dick was a fireman in Boise, Idaho.  He was a hero.  Like my dad, he worked his share of night shifts, helping people.  I liked him.  I liked his wife until she beat the hell out of me for putting dents in her precious piano leg.  Mikey and I were at her house to be babysat. Playing in the road, I found a small container that was full of gravel. The gravel was stuck inside my new toy and hard as I tried, I couldn't pry it out.  My adolescent knowledge of physics dictated I should pound it out. Lynn’s piano seemed like a good, solid object to do the trick.

When she saw what I was doing, she transformed into a raging beast.   I had never been kicked and punched by an adult until that day.  After that incident, I stayed out of her way–and feared her.
Dick owned a boat.  Often, he and his son Richey pulled up with that boat in tow.  Our destination was always the Lucky Peak Reservoir, and it was always an adventure.  Dick always had a package of “Boat Cookies” sitting on the front seat.  They were my favorite and I knew they gave me special powers to handle boat rides in rough water, and if the boat tipped over, well, those cookies would give me special powers to get to shore.  I put a lot of trust in those cookies.

We were like ravenous beasts as we ‘downed’ those tasty morsels.  I was happy that I was not alone in recognizing their powers. Mikey and Richey seemed to be believers, too. I was around ten years old, shopping in Edmund Bills’ grocery store with mom, when I realized those ‘boat cookies’ were just plain ole Fig Newtons.  They’re still my favorite cookies.

In those days, I put trust in ‘things’ to give me special powers.  I needed powers to get through the day–and the night.  There was a Green Man who lived under my bed at night.  I knew that, because mom told me so.

One evening, Mikey and I sat on mom’s lap in the old brown living room chair as she told us bedtime stories.  This particular night, she informed us that the “Green Man” lived under our beds, and at night, he would come slithering out and put sand in our eyes, which would make us sleep better.  That is why we woke up every morning with gritty stuff in the corners of our eyes.

"AAHHHH!  Mom," I screamed, "I don’t want the Green Man living under my bed! Get him out of there, mom…I don’t want sand in my eyes!  Mikey kicked dirt in my eyes one time and I couldn't see!  I don’t want sand in my eyes!  Mom, get the Green Man out of my room."  Mikey was wailing almost as loudly as I.

Mom sat there befuddled.  She had that look of utter confusion and amusement all wrapped into a little bundle that showed in the twinkling of her eyes.  “Boys, the “Dream Man” is good!  He likes us!  He wants us to sleep soundly,” she argued.

“No mom!  You told us the Green Man lived under our beds.  You didn’t say Dream Man,” we wailed.  And we were convinced.  Nothing our mother said would change our minds.
Misconceptions promulgated in youth will never completely disappear from one’s psyche. Odd rituals and mannerisms are born as a result of many stories such as the Green Man.

For the next 20 years, after getting up to take-a-leak in the middle of the night, I dove from ten feet out as I vaulted back into bed.  Getting near that space of no-man’s land where the open floor merged into the black abyss under the bed was strictly forbidden if one wanted to live to see morning.  The Green Man was also known to grab ankles…lurking in the abyss…under my bed.