Toot
by Niles Reddick
We were on a
walk to the country store in town from our
grandmother's house with our Aunt Kate who was
visiting from Jacksonville. We hoped she’d
buy us Yahoos and Mary Janes, but when Aunt Kate
passed gas, we all snickered.
Aunt Kate
turned on her heals, put her hands on her hips.
“Think my toot was funny?”
We nodded in
unison. “It’s called farting, Aunt Kate.”
“No, that's
not what it's called when women do it. It's
called tooting. If it's a man, it's a disgusting
fart and smells terrible, maybe worse than a
skunk. You didn't smell mine, did you?”
“No mam,”
we said.
“You boys
remember that and when you grow up to be men. Don't
do it around women at all, like your dad does.
Even as a child, he farted all the time.”
“Yes mam,”
we said.
Back at our
Granny's house, Granny did more than toot. The
gas rolled out from beneath her large frame
planted in the chair, sounded like an approaching
thunderstorm, and permeated the room. We giggled,
looked at Aunt Kate, and said, “That wasn't
a toot.”
“Oh, mama,
for goodness sakes, I'm trying to teach these
boys some city manners, not country ones like
their daddy.”
“Well,
here in the country, we fart. It’s natural.
Got nothing to hide,” Granny said.
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