Cinnamon Trident Gum

This post was inspired yesterday by someone mentioning Trident gum, and whenever I hear about Trident gum, I am reminded of my aversion to Cinnamon gum or breath mints. Come with me as I tell a story of horror, torture, and salivation.

I wasn't much older than nine years old that day. Upon getting dropped off by the school bus, I made my trek down our long, windy, rough driveway, avoiding the murky pot holes. As I rounded the last corner, I smiled, looking up on the hill to see my little fort I put up over the summer. My mother's red truck was parked in the driveway. Good, I didn't like spending too much time alone. I walked towards the right side of the garage, down the makeshift stone walkway, and into the side door of the garage.

"Hi mom!" I looked down the cement stairs to the basement to see my dear mother kneeling at the bottom, frantically doing something. I stood at the top of the stairs, trying to figure out what she was doing as she looked up at me with a worried look on her face.

"What are you doing?" I innocently asked.

"We have a really bad leak in the stair here."

For story purposes, let me explain. Our house was very close to wetlands, and after heavy rains, our basement would often floor with anywhere from an inch to a foot of water. It had just rained the night before.

I dropped my backpack down on the floor of the always cluttered garage, and bounded down the stairs to give my expert, nine year old opinion. Reaching the bottom step, I saw my mother with her finger in a hole in the front of the bottom step. She pulled her finger out momentarily and I watched the water flow out like blood from an artery. She put her finger back in to stop it for the time being.

"Wow, that's pretty bad," I opined.

"Yes, I know that, we need to plug it up with something."

My mother was getting more and more frantic with each passing moment. I knew that as the man of the house at that moment, I had to think fast, and act even faster. My mind raced to the answer line, but unfortunately got lost in the pit area.

"I have an idea," I declared.

I ran back up the stairs and into the kitchen door. Once in the kitchen, I opened up the pantry. They were looking straight at me. I grabbed the box and flew back into the garage where I grabbed two packs and ripped them open.

"What are you doing?" my sweet mother yelled up.

"Hang on a minute!" I responded.

After opening the two packs, I unwrapped each piece and put it in my mouth, one at a time, until I had two entire packs of Trident Cinnamon gum in my mouth. That's a lot of gum. Once I got it going and into proper form, I calmly strolled back down the stairs to my confused mother. She saw the look of confidence on my face; she knew everything would be alright. Well, until I answered her next question.

"What are you doing?"

Drool started overflowing and running down my chin as I managed to get out a couple muffled noises, explaining exactly what my plan was.

"Is that gum?!" she asked.

I nodded proudly. She stared at me for a few seconds, trying to figure out if this was crazy, or creative.

"Well, let's give it a shot."

I knelt down next to her and took the huge wad of cinnamon gum out of my mouth, holding it near the finger plugged hole, ready to save the day. My mother pulled her finger out again and I shoved the gum into the hole in the steps, pressing it in to stop the flow of water. We waited a few seconds to see if it worked.

"Well, what do you know, it worked," I declared. Only a few drops of water squeezed through the impenetrable seal of Trident gum. We both heard a car door close as my surprised mother admired our handy work.

My father opened up the door to the garage and started up the two steps to the kitchen door. He saw us both down at the bottom of the stairs to the basement.

"What are you guys doing down there?"

"Well," my mother answered, "we had a really bad leak in the stair here, but we fixed it."

My father seemed satisfied with the answer. It was fixed, done, complete. He put his hand on the door knob and twisted it to open up the door. Then he stopped.

"With what?" he called down.

Puffing out my chest, "Gum!" I said. Gum.

That's when he stared at me, much like my mother had earlier. He tried not to laugh, but that didn't work out so well.

"You should have just used contact cement, we have some down there," he explained. Then he twisted the knob and stepped into the kitchen.

My mother stood up and marched upstairs, leaving me to admire my cinnamon plug. However proud I was of my accomplishment, I couldn't get that horridly strong taste of cinnamon out of my mouth.

From then on, I have not been able to have cinnamon gum or breath mints. I can't even smell a cinnamon flavored candle, that's how much I have been traumatized.

That's your story for the day. If I have brought you to tears (of sadness), and you feel bad for my harrowing ordeal, please send donations. Any type of money will be acceptable.

Any type of cinnamon gum will be burned though.