The Belt

The oddly happy memory of two rebellious wiggly snakes

My father would erupt over problems so small that my sister and I made little attempt to understand his ever-changing rules. As much as possible, we kept out of sight and out of mind, spending our days climbing trees, riding the bike we shared, or making impossibly long daisy chains.

But he couldn’t always be avoided. When we got in his crosshairs he gave us The Belt for various misdemeanours — like arguing, or running in the house — but had trouble bending down due to his bad back. Once, we used this to our advantage.

I was eight, my sister six. We wore matching pyjamas gifted to us by our aunt. He loomed over us yelling goodness-knows-what as we stood side-by-side in the living room, the warn beige carpet beneath our bare feet, the air filled with the musty, dusty smell of the Bonaire evaporative cooler (a relic now, I’m sure).

As he unbuckled his brown leather belt, my sister and I exchanged a sideways glance then in unison dropped to the ground flat on our backs. He towered above us shouting, “Get up! Get up!” We bent our knees and used our feet to push away from him, two wiggly snakes bursting with laughter.

The consequences could come later.

A Bonaire cooling unit (not ours, but exactly the same)

Blurry pic of me (front) with my sister and mum

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