Pickle Wars

Most major conflicts can trace their origins back to a key event. World War I can be traced back to the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria while visiting Sarajevo with his wife. The American Civil War began when the newly seceded Confederacy attacked a US military installation at Fort Sumter in South Carolina.

But some conflicts have no clear beginnings. Day after day minor retaliations escalate until you find yourself caught up in events that sweep you along with them. Though I'm not really clear on how the pickle war started, I vividly remember some of the battles which were fought

The lines were drawn between Jon and I shortly after I relocated my bedroom to the basement room next to his. Allison had left for college and with that departure Jon was deprived of a confidante and trusted ally. I unfortunately had been lumped with my younger siblings into the "young and naive" crowd.

Despite sharing a wall, a bathroom, and the satisfaction of being granted our own rooms in the basement, Jon and I found plenty of reasons to try each others' patience. At some point, physical retaliation was proved to have too high of a cost. First, we were starting to have more draws in our matches, and that meant that Mom had plenty of time to catch us at it and sentence us to cruel and unusual punishment (i.e. spending time with each other doing what the other wanted).

At some point it dawned on me that I could still make Jon's life miserable without laying a finger on him. I'm sure my young face twisted in a devious smile as I pondered how to best make him uncomfortable and cover my tracks. I let the thought simmer for several days in the back of my mind. I had almost forgotten this thought until one day while standing in the pantry rummaging for any leftover snacks I happened upon a jar of sweet pickles. I had learned a couple of years previous that I didn't like the taste of sweet pickles, but sometimes I would open a jar to smell and reconfirm these things. You know something like this:

BEN: (opening the refrigerator to browse): Horseradish? Ugh, disgusting. What does a horse radish look like anyway? I think I remember this stuff being spicy and hot, but maybe that was just my imagination. I think I'll taste it again to make sure. (sticking the tip of his tongue into the jar) Ugh! Ow, that burns my tongue! Yeah, that stuff is definitely gross. (Puts lid back on jar and replaces jar in refrigerator)

So, that day I smelled the sweet pickles again just to see if it still made me want to wretch. After my previous experiences had been confirmed, the timer in my head pinged to let me know that the pot simmering in the back of my mind was done. (Heh, heh, heh.) If the smell of sweet pickles could make me want to wretch, they could certainly make other people feel the same way.

I tucked the jar of pickles into a basket of laundry and headed back to the basement. As I passed mom in the kitchen she eyed me suspiciously. I gave her my best "I'm going to be a helper today" smile and trotted off without looking back. I'm sure she was calculating how many twinkies and fruit roll-ups I had fit into the laundry basket under the pile of clothes.

I ditched the basket of clothes in my room and stashed the jar of sweet pickles in my closet. Then I waited until I knew Jon would be out of his room for a couple of minutes. When I heard his footsteps heading up the stairs I fished out a pickle from the jar and tiptoed to his room. My eyes darted around the room looking for a place to hide the pickle. It couldn't be obvious, and it had to be somewhere that he wouldn't think to look. And someplace that he would visit frequently. My eyes had just caught on the model of a factory that Jon had built with my father when I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Remembering there was a small hole in the bottom to insert a light bulb, I quickly grabbed the model and jammed the pickle inside. Setting the model on the shelf I had just enough time to dig through his folded clothes on the shelves and pretend I was searching for a lost trove of snacks when Jon walked in the room.

"Hey! What are you doing?! Get out of here!!"

I made an immature face and bolted from the room.

It was several weeks before I stashed the next pickle. This time I stuck it inside a folded pair of athletic socks. It was only days until he discovered this one. I'm sure it was obvious who had planted the pickle because I soon found pickles showing up in my drawers and closet. Eventually the conflict ended. Not because of a lack of places to stash pickles, but Mom simply never bought another jar. One day I found a partially empty tuna can on top of a shelf high up in my closet. I quickly threw my white flag in surrender. I marched to Jon's room and flashed him the tuna can. "I'm through. I don't want tuna in my room." Jon smiled at me deviously as he took another bite of his dry chocolate cake mix, and grimaced as I dumped the tuna, can and all into his trash can.

It wasn't until years later when we were looking through some of Jon's things that I noticed the model of the factory still on his closet shelf. I picked it up and turned it around and heard something rattling around inside. I peered through the hole and started laughing when I recognized the shriveled lump. "What?!" Jon demanded and grabbed the model from my hands. When he too saw the initial deposit that had touched of the war, he dropped the model and promptly left the room. Seconds later I could hear Jon's voice echoing from the stairs: "Mom? Do we have any tuna?!"