Locked Out and Let Down: A Summer Tale of Soup, Chaos, and Consequences

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Summer days as a kid were usually straightforward—simple lunches, afternoons of play, and the occasional mishap. But one particular summer day left me with a memory I’d love to erase. It’s a tale of soup, swimming, and sheer embarrassment, with a sprinkle of chaos for good measure. If you’ve ever been locked out of your house at the worst possible moment, trust me, you’re not alone. Here’s how it all went hilariously—and horribly—wrong.

When I think back to childhood summers, I remember the predictability of lunch at 12:30. My mom always had something ready: a ham or turkey sandwich with store-brand BBQ or Sour Cream and Onion chips, or a can of soup paired with crackers. Between sandwiches and soup, soup almost always won. Our pantry was stocked with Chicken with Stars, Chicken Noodle, Vegetable Beef, and Alphabet Soup. These weren’t the fancy Campbell’s varieties, either—they were store-brand, salty and indistinguishable from one another, but I didn’t care.

Dinner, on the other hand, was less predictable. My mom would occasionally fry chicken—seasoned well but often burned on one side, with the meat near the bone still questionably undercooked. It wasn’t a gourmet meal, but it got the job done. Or so I thought.

On this particular day, I’d had soup for lunch and was invited to swim at the McKenzies’ house next door. They had a pool, and we didn’t, so I rarely said no when Kim McKenzie extended an invite—although her mom wasn’t my biggest fan. She thought I was weird, which, to be fair, might’ve been true. Her son had quirks of his own, but that’s a story for another day. Before I went over, mama told me DO NOT GET IN THE POOL.

So Kim and I were splashing around in the pool when I felt a hot rumble in my stomach—the kind that tells you you’ve got less than two minutes before disaster strikes. I told Kim I needed to use the bathroom, but her response was swift: “You’ll have to go home.” Apparently, the McKenzies’ bathroom was off-limits to me. Ironically, I’d already peed in the pool. Twice. But this was a situation that couldn’t be handled discreetly.

I bolted for home, only to find every door locked. My mom had a habit of locking us out during the day to encourage “outdoor playtime” and keep us out of her hair. I pounded on the doors, rang the doorbell—nothing. The laundry room door? Locked. The back door? Also locked. Panic was setting in, along with increasingly urgent churning in my stomach. I remembered that my sister sometimes left her bedroom window unlocked, so I ran barefoot through the pine-bark-covered ground behind the front yard bushes to check. Locked. My own bedroom window? Locked. By this point, my stomach was in full rebellion, my feet were on fire from the sharp bark, and my shorts were bone dry—thanks to the blazing summer heat.

And then it happened. Standing in those bushes, in sheer desperation, I lost the battle. Let’s just say the alphabet soup I’d had for lunch made an unceremonious reappearance, and I might’ve also peed myself for good measure. The slightly undercooked chicken from the night before had come back to haunt me in the worst possible way.

Thinking quickly, I turned on the water hose to clean myself up. As the cool water hit my skin, I started to feel slightly more human—until I realized I’d have to face my mom. I ran back to the McKenzies’, hoping Kim would still be outside, but she had already gone in. So there I was, dripping wet—not from pool water, but from the hose—and reluctantly headed home.

As I rounded the corner, I saw my mom standing at the front door, her expression a mix of confusion and suspicion. The screen door flew open, and she glared at me. “I heard the water hose come on,” she said. Seriously? The water hose was what got her attention? Not the frantic doorbell ringing, the pounding, or my desperate pleas to be let in?

Our old house on Pace Lane...though it looked NOTHING like this when we lived there.

She assumed I was trying to rinse off the chlorine smell, since I wasn’t supposed to be in the pool that day. What followed was the grand finale: an ass whoopin’ in wet shorts. If you’ve never experienced a belt on wet fabric, let me tell you—it’s an experience that stays with you.

Looking back, it’s the kind of story that makes me laugh now, though it definitely didn’t feel funny at the time. Childhood is full of these moments—embarrassing, chaotic, and sometimes downright ridiculous. If this story brought a smile to your face or reminded you of your own summer misadventures, I’d love to hear about it in the comments. And if you feel like supporting this blog and helping me keep the memories alive, I’d deeply appreciate your kindness. Thanks for taking the time to read, and here’s to all the wonderfully messy moments that make life memorable.



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