Swamp Thing Returns

This is the story of a boy who went to sixth grade camp and had a blast. On the first day, a sparkling creek invited him for an invigorating (and fully-clothed) dip. That night the boy stuffed his sodden clothes into the extra plastic bag his mom provided. After five days he stuffed the plastic bag, more wet clothes, clean dry clothes (clearly superfluous), two damp towels, and a hunk of well-sanded manzanita wood into the suitcase.

Upon his return, his mother opened the suitcase and immediately detected a presence. Being invisible and having no sound, the presence can only be identified by a peculiar and specific funk. The boy’s mom recognized it to be none other than Swamp Thing.

After admiring the well-sanded hunk of manzanita, the boy’s mom tried to dispatch Swamp Thing by dumping the entire contents of the suitcase (including a handcrafted name badge and several pieces of sandpaper) into the washing machine. She turned the dial to ‘hot’ and glugged several seconds’ worth of ammonia over the clothes. She crossed her fingers. She might have said something like, “Holy cow, I hope there aren’t any dead animals in there.”

The boy’s mom had encountered Swamp Thing several years earlier. The boy’s parents entrusted a teenage girl to housesit while they were away. The teenage girl and her friends delighted in the use of a community pool and a linen closet stocked with fresh towels.

A day (or two?) before the family returned, the teenage girl tidied up by washing every towel the family owned (dish towels included) in two washer loads. For reasons unknown, her tidying efforts were interrupted. Marinating in the laundry room were one washer full of wet towels, and one dryer also full of wet towels.

The memories of that encounter with Swamp Thing were so distressful the boy’s mom couldn’t remember how she finally defeated the beast. She may have resorted to burning something. She hoped this time a hot water and ammonia bath would be enough. She washed and waited. In the days following, she retrieved load after load of laundry with no hint of the creature. Satisfied, she gave the hunk of well-sanded manzanita a little victory pat.

Weeks went by.

Then one morning the boy approached his mother before school.

“Mom, does this shirt smell weird to you?”

Against her better judgment, the boy’s mom took a whiff. “Is this one of the shirts you took to camp?”

The boy looked down and considered the Spiderman print. “Uh-huh.”

Yes, the boy had been to camp, had a blast, and brought home a little something extra. A highly resilient something extra. It’s on, Swamp Thing. It’s on.