Fabric store prison blocks

It was mid-afternoon, like too many other mid-afternoons. My friends were playing outside at home. I was too young to be left there, but too old to be trapped in the fabric section of the local craft store.

That section of the store was children's prison. There was no chance for escape. I remember the sheer and unadulterated boredom that came from that corner of the store. Surrounded by suffocating ribbons, thread, and cloth of every color, I could feel the life being sucked from my soul. Our prison cells were the fabric display racks where my two brothers and I would crawl in and hide, pretending to be somewhere - anywhere else.

"Just a minute," often dragged into an hour or more as my brothers and I tried to amuse ourselves with foam balls and pins we weren't supposed to touch.

What sadistic manager decided it was a good idea to put the craft dowels next to the entrance to the fabric prison? What kind of big brother was I to not arm my siblings with wooden swords to revolt against the prison guards? What kind of mom doesn't swat their kids with their stolen weapons? Wooden dowels sting, but they couldn't squelch the uprising. Somewhere around minute fifty-nine, my mom would snap. We feared for our lives as she dragged us to the check out stand and filled in her check. We anticipated the death penalty when we got home. Dad was going to kill us again for sure.

After being loaded into the car we were reminded that there would be no soft-serve ice cream for misbehaving children. We cried a little louder for a few blocks.

Things inevitably cooled down by the time we got home. Dad gave us a firm talking to and life outside of the prison resumed, at least until she realized she left the thread she needed on top of the dowel rack with our swords.

For some reason, I still crave ice cream whenever I see a bolt of fabric.