Buddhist Catholic Contemplative Evangelical General Christian Hindu Jewish Latter-day Saint Muslim New Visions Progressive Christian

Beliefs

Topics

Columnists

Resource Library

Research Tools

Video

Podcasts

Thought Readers

Faith In Media Tracker

Newsletters

Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In Subscription Support

Follow Patheos

Home
Progressive Christian
Oscy Gets a Life

Oscy Gets a Life

Last updated on: June 11, 2010 at 2:45 pm by John Shore

Oscy Gets a Life 2010-06-11T14:45:29-08:00 John Shore

LOGO Patheos Explore the world's faith through different perspectives on religion and spirituality! Patheos has the views of the prevalent religions and spiritualities of the world.

In response to yesterday’s Father’s Day is Coming; My Father’s Night is Here, I’ve been getting some of the kindest emails and comments ever. So I definitely appreciate that.

I don’t know if this is the sort of thing you guys would be interested in, but about three years ago on this blog I published a short story type … thing, that I wrote maybe twenty years ago now, when I was going through this great stage of … trying to write in a new way, basically. Anyway, in this story I tried to capture a bit of the same sort of emotional content I dealt with in yesterday’s post. Only about nine people read this the first time I published it (and to those nine, if you’re still around: this version has been tweaked a bit, and has a new ending), so I thought I’d now run it here again. Thank you.

Oscy Gets a Life

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Oscy McGee. Oscy thought his parents were geeks. He didn’t want to think that — but there it was.

“Hey, Os!” said his dad, nudging him. “What say you and I go down to the roller skating rink, and watch the babes strappin’ on their skates? Huh? Huh? Whadda’ya say, big guy?”

“Gee, Dad,” said Oscy, “do you really think that’s an appropriate thing to be asking your eight-year-old son?”

“Oh, Oscy,” said Oscy’s mom, Fatima, setting down some delicious baked goods on the dining room table. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud. Here. Cram a cupcake down your face.”

“But, Mom,” said Oscy. “Mmmmpphhrumph.”

One Sunday morning Oscy woke up in his completely-decorated-in-houndstooth bedroom, and heard a voice inside his saying, Oscy, if you spend one more night in this house, you’re going to go insane. Go live in the tree house in your backyard.”

“Wow,” thought Oscy, “I knew I should have made Dad build a much better floor in that tree house. Oh, well. I’m outta here.”

At the family breakfast table that morning, Oscy said, “Mom, Dad, sorry, but it looks like I’ll be moving outside into the tree house to live.”

“What?” said Oscy’s mom, plopping a giant scoop of oatmeal into the bowl of Oscy’s dad. “I didn’t hear you, dear.”

“I said I’m gonna be moving out of the house to go live in the tree house in the backyard, Mom.”

“What?” his mom repeated. “How’s that again?” Her hearing was fine, though.

“Say, son,” said Oscy’s dad, “that’s a terrific idea! The tree house! You can live in the tree house! It’s outside! The tree house is outside! If you move out there, that’s where you’ll be! Yep! Pass the sugar and those little fried things, will ya’, Fatty?” (That was his nickname for his wife.)

It didn’t take Oscy long to pack: a pair of shoes, a navy blue bandana or two, a box of delicious Juicy Fruit gum.

“Well, bye, Mom,” he said.

“Huh? What?”

“See ya’ around, Dad.”

“Adios, son,” said his dad. “And listen: If ya’ ever get into any trouble or anything, you’re gonna need your old man to bail ya’ out, aren’t ya?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

Oscy’s dad put his arm around his shoulder. “Aren’t ya’, boy?” he said, squeezing.

“Yeah, Dad.”

“Aren’t ya’?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

He squeezed harder. “Aren’t ya?”

“Yes, Father.”

His dad released Oscy. “And don’t you forget it, either, ya’ little knucklehead.”

“I won’t, Dad. Good-bye, now.”

Oscy loved living in the tree house among the branches, leaves, birds, and ants, whose regimental approach to life gave him much to consider. At night, he would crawl under a stack of old blankets and look up through the leaves at the stars. When he slept, he usually dreamed he was a giant ice man living in a crystal palace in the side of a huge mountain in the North Pole. Whenever Giant Ice Oscy wanted something, he had merely to point and will it, and it was done.

Early one Saturday morning, while lying on his back in his tree house watching a finch flittering through in the braches above, Oscy heard the front door of his ex-house slam shut. He rolled onto his stomach to look out over the edge of his tree house. He saw his father walking from the house to the garage. Dressed in his “weekend grubbies,” as he called them, his dad was clearly planning to do some yard work. He hauled open the garage door, and began gathering the tools for the job: hedge clippers, power mower, electric grass trimmer, branch pulverizer. He set them all on the driveway.

Then he stood with his hands on his hips, contentedly surveying the grounds around him. “Yep,” he said. “Yard work. That’ll do ‘er.”

The problem, though, was that there wasn’t any yard to work on at all. Except for Oscy’s tree, the entire McGee “yard” consisted of cement spray-painted green.

Which had much to do with why the McGee yard care equipment was in such pristine condition.

“Yep,” said Oscy’s dad again. “Time to trim the ol’ yard up.” He rocked back on his heels, happy to think of getting some of that good soil under his nails, of shaping and perfecting the yard around his house. He never moved from that spot, though. He just stood there, rocking back and forth, patting his stomach and saying, “Yep. Yard work. That’ll do ‘er.”

Oscy wiggled a little closer to the edge of the tree house. He thought he might call out something, like, “Hey, Dad! It’s me! Oscy! I’m still out here! Remember how I moved out here to live and everything? Remember that?”

He tried to say that, or something like it. But when he opened his mouth, the only thing that came out was a weird little wheezing noise. Nothing. Still, though, his father cocked an ear, as if he’d actually heard something.

“What?” he said, peering off into the distance. “How’s that now?”

Oscy tried once more to say something, but he knew it would be useless; like his mother, his father sometimes just couldn’t hear him. He slowly rolled onto his back again, and rested his clasped hands upon his chest. The rapid flickering of the sunlight through the leaves made him feel like he was in a silent, flickering movie, one of those really old ones where everyone is supposed to be so funny.

Similarly: The Story of My Life

Previous Post

June 10, 2010

Father's Day is Coming; My Father's Night is Here

Next Post

June 12, 2010 Sad to Say, I Won't Miss My Father

Browse Our Archives

Select a Category Christian Issues Christian Spirituality Dear John En Espanol Everywhere She's Not Humor Look See Pastor Bob's Corner Personal Portuguese Relationships Russian Short-short story Smith Family Chronicles Uncategorized

Select a Month March 2024 August 2022 August 2020 July 2020 June 2020 February 2020 December 2019 June 2019 December 2018 May 2018 May 2017 January 2017 December 2015 November 2015 October 2015 September 2015 August 2015 July 2015 June 2015 May 2015 April 2015 January 2015 December 2014 November 2014 October 2014 September 2014 August 2014 July 2014 June 2014 May 2014 April 2014 March 2014 February 2014 January 2014 December 2013 November 2013 October 2013 September 2013 August 2013 July 2013 June 2013 May 2013 April 2013 March 2013 February 2013 January 2013 December 2012 November 2012 October 2012 September 2012 August 2012 July 2012 June 2012 May 2012 April 2012 March 2012 February 2012 January 2012 December 2011 November 2011 October 2011 September 2011 August 2011 July 2011 June 2011 May 2011 April 2011 March 2011 February 2011 January 2011 December 2010 November 2010 October 2010 September 2010 August 2010 July 2010 June 2010 May 2010 April 2010 March 2010 February 2010 January 2010 December 2009 November 2009 October 2009 September 2009 August 2009 July 2009 June 2009 May 2009 April 2009 March 2009 February 2009 January 2009 December 2008 November 2008 October 2008 September 2008 August 2008 July 2008 June 2008 May 2008 April 2008 March 2008 February 2008 January 2008 December 2007 November 2007 October 2007 September 2007 August 2007 July 2007 June 2007 May 2007 April 2007

TAKE THE

Religious Wisdom Quiz

Who was the oldest person recorded in Genesis?

Select your answer to see how you score.

Noah Jared Methuselah Adam

Books by This Author Books by John Shore

See All Titles »