Gibson's Pants

I grew up in Kirkwood, MO, a St. Louis suburb not unlike Omaha's Dundee. I went to a Catholic grade school. We had ordinary teachers, priests and nuns. We wore uniforms of navy blue corduroy pants and light blue collared shirts. Playground moms volunteered as recess supervisors and then returned for carpools in the afternoon with the catholic cruiser: a Pontiac/Buick/Oldsmobile station wagon. Looking back at those days is like reading the book of Genesis before Adam took the apple from Eve. It was a highly protected, orderly and a loving atmosphere where no child was left behind.

All of that goodness came to an end one day. I had just finished my lunch --PB&J, apple slices and a thermos of milk from my Kung Fu lunch box -- and had run along to join my second grade classmates for recess kickball. Though it was a warm spring day, the air had a foul odor to it. In the rock garden not far from the chapel, I summoned up the courage to ask a big fourth-grader, Steve Doyle, why it smelled so bad outside. His reply was abject and cold: "Gibson shit his pants."

Paradise lost. Doyle was the first kid that I heard cuss openly on those hallowed grounds. Suddenly, an awareness of my innocence was gone. It was as if we were all like crapped-his-pants-Gibson, having filth all over us. Poor us. Poor Gibson.

Although he later went on to do doctorate work in Biology, primary school was a hellacious proving ground for Gibson. I'm pretty sure every school has one like him. He's the kid whose pen was perpetually exploding in his mouth, who threw up all over his desk (and collaterally into the girl's hair seated in front of him), or as mentioned, who crapped his pants at recess. Of course, he was ridiculed by me and the rest of his classmates. Yet with vomit strands dangling squarish potato cubes from his chin, or smelling like a hamper full of dirty diapers, Gibson carried on courageously with his dignity in tact.

Anyway, I thought of Gibson yesterday during my ten mile run.

Although I took precaution by eating wisely and and visiting the toilet beforehand, I soon discovered that my GI tract had other plans.

Initially, I thought it was just gas. What usually works in this situation is to slow down and -- if you're a gentleman -- check over your shoulder/drop to the back of the pack in a group before let one squeak out. Anyhow, I tried this and it was nearly disastrous. Like Gibson. Whew! I still had eight miles to go!

While avoiding dumping in my pants, I was still feeling acutely awful. Fortunately, the port-a-potty in Elmwood saved the day. It was a godsend: no line, clean and plenty of T.P. What at a relief.

Gibson was like the Biblical goat driven out of town to carry away all of the wickedness of the group. If you're reading this, Gibson, I am sorry for those days. Even more, I will say this: as a second grader, you possessed more courage and grace than I'll ever have.