WARNING : This post is a personal account of a tragic event. It is not humorous or lighthearted like most of my previous posts. It was written four years ago on December 1st and 2nd while I sat overnight in my dying sister's hospital room. I am still haunted by memories of that night. They are vividly recounted in this post. Don't read it if you feel you may be troubled by it. Also - if you are offended by Christian faith or the mention of Jesus' name in a reverent manner rather than just as a swear word, you might want to skip this. Otherwise read on. I post this to honor the memory of my beloved and dear sister, Donna. I love you, Donna and I still really miss you.
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December 1, 2005
9:41 PM
Room 39H - Wilcox Hall – Holston Valley Medical Center
Kingsport, Tennessee
As I begin to write this, I do not know how the story will end. I am alone with my oldest sister, Donna, here in her hospital room. She is in a battle for her life against cancer. At about 4:30 PM yesterday she was removed from a ventilator. Her doctors gave her anywhere from 2 to 12 hours to survive. It has now been about 29 hours and Donna is holding on.
One of Donna’s lungs has failed entirely. The other has been compromised by the disease. Still she fights. Somehow, she is managing to harvest enough oxygen with her remaining lung to live on. Now that the ventilator is removed, she can communicate a little in order to ask for water or nutrition drink.
I have always been impressed by Donna on many fronts. She was an extraordinarily beautiful and charming child. She grew up to be her high school Homecoming Queen and graduated with a perfect grade point average. She earned three college degrees spanning two fields – each with perfect results. Aside from these gifts and abilities, it became apparent early on that Donna was special in another, more important way. She was to become a great ambassador for the cause of Christ.
As a baby, Donna suffered from a high fever that would not respond to the best efforts of her parents or her doctor. Mom and Dad summoned members of their church to come and pray for Donna. During this prayer, the fever broke and Donna recovered fully. To this day, Donna has had no further problems with high fevers. This healing was a testament to God’s power and faithfulness.
As a toddler standing on a church pew between Mom and Dad during the altar call, Donna turned and faced a gentleman standing in the pew behind. “You need to go up there” she said. Without hesitation, Dewey Smith went forward and accepted Christ. To this day, he testifies about the little girl that God used to bring him into His family.
As a teenager, Donna became the church pianist at Hilltop Mission Church. This little church was home to our entire extended family at the time. Donna’s grandfather, Troy Wright, had helped to build it. Each Sunday, Donna would take her place on the piano bench and accompany the small congregation in the worship of God through familiar country hymns of praise.
In adulthood, Donna married Carlos Hammonds – the only boy she had ever kissed. They were clearly a perfect match. Several years into their marriage, Jared came along. He was followed by Audrey. Donna raised her children to love God and to understand the plan of salvation. Her spiritual strength is reflected in them.
In 1997, Donna was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was a rough time for her and the rest of the family. Audrey was little more than a baby. Donna underwent a mastectomy, chemotherapy and reconstructive surgery. During it all, she proclaimed that God would deliver her so that she could continue to be a mother for her children. Donna came through this episode seemingly clear of disease and even stronger for having endured it. Her faith and her desire to witness were also strengthened. Whenever various denominations would send emissaries into Donna’s neighborhood, she would welcome them to her home with Bible in hand. Her intent was not to condemn them, but rather to enlighten them to the truth of God’s Word. She would always begin her witness with “Who is Jesus to you?” Donna always understood that this was the central, essential question that would determine whether or not a person would receive salvation.
Seven years or so after winning her first confrontation with cancer, the enemy launched a second, more aggressive attack. The cancer resurfaced – this time metastasized to the lymph nodes. Donna was in serious trouble from a medical standpoint. Once again, she faced the disease head on – holding the Word of God high above and standing on a faith that would not waver.
Donna used every aspect of her condition to further the Kingdom of God. She would take her Bible with her to the oncology office and witness to fellow patients while waiting her turn for chemotherapy. During her exams she would witness to her doctors. In the face of an adversary whose very name strikes terror in the hearts of the bravest of men, little Donna armed herself with the sword of the Word and the breastplate of righteousness and charged fearlessly ahead.
The fight has been hard. Donna is weary. Still she fights on. Several weeks ago, I was in this same hospital visiting with her. Her left eye was so inflamed that she could not close it. She coughed constantly. Her lungs were seared with pain from pleurisy. She was curled up in a sort of fetal position on her left side – the only way that she could get any rest. A nurse whose shift had ended came into the room and went to Donna’s bedside. She said, “When I came in here this morning, I was in desperate need of a light. Thank you for being my light.” This woman was facing difficult times and Donna had shared the peace of Christ with her. Bruised, battered, beaten and prone, Donna still managed to strike a blow for God.
Donna went home for a while after that period of hospitalization. She had received a series of radiation treatments to the head to attack lesions found there on a scan. She was terribly weak, but it was decided that she would be more comfortable at home. Yesterday, she was sent back here – suddenly in worse shape than before. Donna was placed into the Intensive Care Unit and attached to the ventilator and a large array of monitoring hardware. Last night, after removing the ventilator tube, Donna was moved here into 39H where she could be more comfortable. (ICU is a hectic, noisy place with little privacy.)
It’s now almost 10:30 and I have circled around to where this story began. Donna is sleeping. Her breathing is labored and noisy. The oxygen bubbler is making a sound a little like gentle rain. I hope it is perceived that way by Donna. Maybe it is helping her to relax.
This morning, Donna was having a very difficult time with her breathing. Nurses summoned specialists who came into the room to administer a breathing treatment. Donna was fitted with a mask and the vapors began to flow. The mask filled with mist that trickled out of little circular vents on either side. With a mighty effort, Donna managed to whisper, “I shall live and not die.” Puffs of the vapor billowed out of the vents in the mask with these words. It was barely audible, but it sounded like a mighty battle cry to me. This affirmation of faith has sustained Donna during her battle with cancer. She has repeated it frequently to those she has witnessed to.
I have no medical training, but I have learned that people struggling to breathe are monitored closely for blood oxygen saturation. Numbers in the 90% range are good. Lower numbers indicate that not enough oxygen is getting into the bloodstream. A nurse came in today and placed a little device on Donna’s finger to measure her blood oxygen content. The machine read 98%. My other sister, Lisa – who deserves a story of her own, said “Hey Donna – 98%.” Donna’s eyes opened wide. Through the hissing of the oxygen mask and the rasping of her breathing, I heard her say, “Praise God! Praise God! Hallelujah!” Donna then asked Lisa to read her favorite Bible passage to her – Psalm 103:1-5.
“Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name.
Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits:
Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases;
Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies;
Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle’s.”
Physically, this is the lowest I have seen Donna get. Spiritually, however, she has never been stronger. Her praise will not be forgotten by the nurse who was administering the treatment. Years from now, when she has forgotten Donna’s name and the details of Donna’s case, God will bring this instance to her memory. Perhaps she will share it with someone else. And so the Word spreads. I have told Donna many times that I would like to know just how many people she has touched with her testimony. There have no doubt been hundreds who have heard it first hand – probably thousands who have had it communicated to them from the hundreds. I am firmly convinced that there will be souls in Heaven that will point to Donna’s ministry as the primary influence in their decision to follow Christ.
God has used Donna’s life in a powerful way. Only he knows if her work on Earth is done. Medicine has done all it can. The type of cancer in Donna’s body is beyond the reach of mortal doctors. Only the Maker can fix her now. I find myself in a grey area between faith and fear, between grief and hope, between trust and worry. This troubles me a lot. I know that God can instantly restore Donna’s body with but a thought. My human brain which is programmed to help me to survive my trials on Earth cannot comprehend such a power and is reduced to worry and fear. Scripture tells me that worry is not productive and that I am failing to trust God when I worry, but still it creeps in. I pray for Donna – as do countless others. I have beseeched God to touch her and purge the disease from her body. I know in the end, however, that He alone is sovereign. He is always right and He is always good. I suffer from the same lack of perspective that all souls bound to human bodies have. We live in the finite. Our days begin and our days end. God rules the infinite. The puff of vapor that is our time here on Earth is lost in the vastness of infinity which only the architect of infinity understands. We struggle with this, but we have no hope of comprehending it. So – we have to go back to the trust issue. Here is where my aforementioned troubles arise. I know that Donna is OK. Donna is the soul that lives inside the body in the hospital bed next to me. The body is merely a vessel for the soul to inhabit while it is here on Earth. When Donna’s soul is freed from her body, she will be finally allowed to live where she was intended to live in the first place – in the presence of the Creator. God fully understands this. I think a lot of Christians do also. I know it is true. I just have a really hard time getting past what is happening to Donna’s vessel right now. That vessel has been what Donna is to me for the 40 years I have been in my vessel. I love Donna. Her physical appearance is how I identify her. I know that the “real” Donna is not a physical being, but rather a spiritual one. It’s just that the physical part of Donna is the one I have hugged, kissed, played with, laughed with and lived with for my entire life. It breaks my heart to see her so battered and broken.
It’s now past 11:00PM. I should be trying to sleep, but I am constantly looking up from my writing to watch Donna. She is still sleeping. She is propped up on an array of pillows and the head of her bed is raised up also. This is being done in an effort to help her breathe, but it does not look all that comfortable. It is very difficult to hold back the tears when I look at her. The beautiful child grew into a beautiful woman. I look at her now and she is still beautiful to me. (Maybe I can see some of the real Donna after all.) An outsider would see a woman ravaged by both a disease and man’s desperate attempts to defeat the disease. Chemotherapy and radiation have caused Donna to lose all of her hair. She wears a little cloth cap to keep her head warm. She has lost weight. Her hospital gown is draped loosely on her. I keep trying to pull it up to cover her chest and keep her warm. The elevation of her upper body is making this a frequent task. Her arms are at her sides and her lovely hands are on her lap. Donna always had the prettiest hands and fingernails. They are still beautiful. Lisa placed pillows on either side of Donna earlier tonight so that her arms would have a comfortable resting place. The oxygen mask and the tubes and straps accompanying it distort and obscure her face. She has an intravenous port in her chest that has been used over the past several months to administer chemotherapy. There is an IV pole at her bedside ready to be used for a continuous morphine drip should her discomfort increase.
Donna awakes with a start at 11:20. She asks for water. It is difficult for her because I have to pull the mask away with one hand and guide the straw with the other. She is patient with me though and I manage to give her a drink. She tries to say something else to me but I cannot make it out. I ask her if she needs anything or if she hurts anywhere, but she says “No.” I tell her I love her and she says, “I know”. I cry.
It’s after midnight now so it’s not really December 1st anymore. It’s December 2nd. This would have been Troy Wright’s 100th birthday. A nice nurse named Kym came in a while ago. She checked up on Donna and reset her IV pump. It was beeping. I think Donna is asleep again. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Kym asked if Donna was complaining of pain. I told her no. I asked how to tell if Donna does not say anything and Kym tells me that I will know because she will get more agitated. She’s not agitated, but it sure looks like it’s a lot of work to breathe. It’s apparent that only one lung is working. Only one side of her chest rises and falls with her breath.
At about 12:30AM Donna awoke again asking for water. I gave her some. She began to cough. Her coughing is more like a wheeze due to extreme weakness. She asks me to call the nurse. Nurse Debbie comes in with a dose of morphine which quiets Donna down. I tell her that I am here and not to worry. Debbie tells me that she will find out when Donna can have another breathing treatment to loosen some of the mucus in her lungs. Donna seems to be sleeping again at 12:45.
It’s 2:00 AM and Donna needs more to drink. She has a hard time getting the straw positioned in her mouth, but she manages to get a little water. I pray with her and give her a little hug and a kiss. She tells me that she loves me. I tell her I love her and ask Jesus to let Donna touch the hem of His garment so that the virtue may flow out of Him and enter Donna’s body. The tears return. I don’t know how many more I have. I try to hide them from Donna. I don’t want to strip the last bit of hope she has from her.
Donna appears to be sleeping again at 3:00. Her breathing is less noisy now. I hope she is having good dreams. Her waking hours have not been too pleasant lately.
At about 3:20 Donna asks for water. I give her some and offer her some chocolate nutrition drink. She takes a few good drinks of it. She struggles a lot to take it because she is having problems breathing with the mask lifted. I ask Donna if she wanted me to try to get her another breathing treatment and she said, “Yes”. The nurse comes in and gives her a treatment but advises that Donna’s oxygen concentration is now down to about 79%. Not knowing what to do, I go to the nurses’ station and ask for advice. The nurses advise that I call Carlos – Donna’s husband. At about 3:30 I call him and wake him. I ask the nurse if Donna can have some more morphine to relax the breathing. (I am learning a lot about morphine today.) The nurse comes in and gives her 3mg. (She’s allowed 5mg per hour right now, but we are trying to keep it to a minimum when we can.) I think that Donna seems weaker now than she did before. Maybe it’s because I am tired. I debate about calling Lisa and decide to wait a while.
I call Lisa at 3:55. She will be here around 6 or so. I promise to call if things get any worse. I decide to try to doze a little. The only way I can convince myself that this is OK is to push my chair up to Donna’s bedside and cup her hand in mine. That way, if I do fall asleep I will wake up if she makes the slightest move. This turns out to be a bad idea. I drift close to sleep several times over the next hour, but I am jolted awake each time by the thought that I cannot hear Donna’s rasping breaths. I hold her hand and stroke it gently.
Five o’clock comes and Donna is agitated. She is trying to tell me something that sounds like “bun” or “button”. I call the nurse. Donna finally says “ouch” and I know what she is telling me. She is in pain. While waiting for the nurse, Donna asks for a pen and a piece of paper. I get it for her. There is a lot of confusion in her eyes. She tries to write, but cannot. She produces something that looks like a lower case “b” and then draws the same shape over top of it multiple times. I tell her it’s OK and that I understand that she is hurting. The nurse comes in with morphine and gives Donna another 3 milligrams. By 5:25, she is sleeping again.
At 5:35 a nurse comes in to take vitals. Donna’s oxygen level has dipped to around 65%. Earlier, I learned from nurse in the hallway that the brain needs a minimum of 65% to function normally. I decide to call Lisa back. She tells me that she will be here about 6:30. I call Dad. He’s on his way.
After I called Dad I had to shut down my laptop and stop recording what was going on. Everything from this point on was written after the fact. It is all recorded faithfully; however, the timing and sequence of some of the events may not be as accurate.
Dad came in around six. Holding Donna’s left hand, I told her “Look Donna – your daddy is here.” Donna looked over to Dad as he took her right hand in his. Behind the oxygen mask a wide smile appeared on her face. She looked up at Dad and said, “Jesus is waiting.” After a pause she said, “Now.” It was one of the last things Donna said that we could understand and it was a real gift to us. It told us that Donna knew where she was going and she was at peace with it. Over the next 30-45 minutes other visitors trickled into Donna’s room. Lisa and Carlos arrived. Some old friends, a cousin, a couple of nurses that knew of Donna’s situation and some of the folks from the church staff where Donna attended all gathered around.
Lisa joined me in holding Donna’s left hand. Dad remained over on her right. Together, with Carlos and the rest of the visitors in the room, we prayed for Donna. At around 7:00 or so, Lisa convinced me to try to catch a nap in the recliner in Donna’s room. I sat back and closed my eyes. Five or ten minutes later, Lisa woke me to tell me that the nurse had just taken Donna’s vitals again. Her oxygen level was at about 45%. I jumped up and returned to Donna’s bedside.
By this time, Donna could barely respond. On the wall opposite her bed (from my perspective) there was a clock with a second hand on it. Counting breaths, I figured that she was breathing about 40 times per minute. Over the next hour or so, Donna’s breathing gradually became shallower and slower. We all continued to pray and comfort Donna. At around 8:15 or 8:25 Donna took her last breath. Moments later, the nurse checked Donna’s heartbeat and confirmed that she had left us.
II Corinthians 5:8 says “We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord.” Today I am confident of nothing more than the fact that Donna is present with her Jesus.
I love you Donna. To paraphrase the apostle Paul in his second letter to Timothy - You have fought a good fight, you have finished your course, and you have kept the faith.
Give Jesus a kiss for me and save me a seat at the table.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
The Saga Saga
I’m going to share a story that falls into the “you had to be there” category to a certain degree. I will attempt to convey what happened with enough descriptive detail so that you have the feeling you were there – even if you were not. Some of the friends that I keep in touch with these days actually were there. I am certain you will remember this event. It was maybe the funniest thing I have ever seen personally. Again – you kind of had to be there.
Anyway – here goes.
It was the spring of 1984. I was a freshman at Florida State University in Tallahassee, Florida. I was living in a 10-story cesspool called Kellum Hall. Somewhere between five and six hundred kids lived there. The people were great. I made a lot of good friends there and we all kind of looked out for each other. The facilities were plain and utilitarian. Rooms were a little larger than a refrigerator box and there were two people in each one. The bathrooms were the community style and were located midway along each hallway. It was a typical college dormitory. It was a dump. I did have a great roommate at that time. He was neat, clean, respectful of my things, loved much of the same music I did, shared my sense of humor (most of the time) and was generally a really good guy. We became roommates our second semester of our freshman year because each of us had nightmarish original roommates. My original one was a giant kleptomaniac who removed warts from his bulbous thighs with fingernail clippers. (True.) My new roommate’s old roommate was just a mean person that generally made everyone around him miserable. I’m not sure of all of the details there, but I know it was a bad experience for my new roommate. Even though it’s getting very clumsy to write like this, I am going to let my “good” roommate remain anonymous. Those of you reading this who were there at the time know who he is and understand why I am going to avoid using his name. If he wants to post a reply to this blog entry and take credit for this story, then that’s his call.
My roommate and I were part of a group of dorm dwellers who called ourselves the Kellum Lounge Rats. There were about 10 or 12 of us and we could generally be found in variously sized subsets hanging out in the dorm lounge at any given time of day or night. We usually ate lunch together on the weekends at a place called Saga down in the Student Union. It was a cafeteria style eatery that had a little magnetic card reader box at the door. You came in, ran your card through the reader and - “PING” – a little chime would sound and you were granted access to the wonderful sustenance offered by Saga.
Now that you know what Saga was, I feel the need to share a little bit about the general opinion of the place. It was cheap. You could eat all you wanted. It was convenient for those of us without cars. It served exceptionally poor quality food. Many comments about this place could be found scrawled on the walls of bathroom stalls around campus. They were penned there, no doubt, by victims of explosive diarrhea courtesy of Saga. The best Saga joke I ever saw on a bathroom wall said this, ‘SAGA – Soviet Attempt to Gag Americans”. Very clever. This was during the Cold War days so any Russian joke was fitting. This one was especially clever in my opinion, given the fact that the author probably had to write the words one at a time in between searing abdominal cramps.
OK – back to the actual place on that particular sunny spring day in Tallahassee. When our little group got there, we found the main part of the dining room was pretty full. There were no open tables large enough to seat us all. Fortunately, there was a kind of overflow area on the far side of the cafeteria where no one was sitting. There was a large, long table there we could claim. This part of the cafeteria was separated from the main room by a wall running nearly the entire length of the room. There were large round openings in the wall about 3 feet wide. Hanging plants adorned each one.
We all sat down and began to eat. I don’t remember what all was on the menu that day, but I do know there was mashed potatoes and gravy. You will understand why I remember that once you read the rest of this story.
One of the best (and palatable) treats at Saga was the ice cream bar. You could go up there and get a scoop of ice cream and then top it off with hot fudge, caramel, peanuts, whipped cream, sprinkles and a variety of other things. Since it was actually pretty good stuff, most of us eschewed the microscopic ice cream bowls at the bar in favor of the larger salad bowls from the salad bar. You could really load one of these things up. We were all sitting around the big table finishing off our ice cream creations when I started to notice that my roommate was mixing up a huge mess in his bowl. He had not eaten all of his ice cream and had decided to mix in the mashed potatoes, gravy and any other assorted leftover foodstuffs on his plate. It was perfectly hideous. He was just kind of silently sculpting it into a goopy mound when he looked around the table at his friends and said something like, “How much will you guys give me to throw this bowl through one of those holes in the wall?” After about two seconds of stunned silence, we all started digging through our pockets for spare change to put in the pot. You have to understand that my roommate was not a violent or overly rebellious person. This was kind of out of character, yet he seemed sincere. We, his so-called friends, were more than happy to contribute to his delinquency by encouraging him into an act of vandalism.
When it was all said and done, we had scrounged up about twelve dollars or so. We had conditions, though. My roommate was to hold off on the goop toss until we were all the way over to the exit door by the cashier. That way we would have front seats to view the spectacle and a quick exit that would exonerate us from any guilt in the incident. My roommate would dart out the back door of the cafeteria after the deed was done and make his escape that way.
With breathless anticipation, we all got up from the table, dropped off our dirty dishes on the conveyor belt that led to the kitchen and walked over to the exit door. When I turned around, I realized that our view was perfect and we were in for a real show. I could see my roommate standing up at the table. He had his arm drawn back just like a medieval catapult preparing to launch a missile at a castle wall. His face was screwed into a sort of grimace one sees on the face of a pugilist about to deliver a mighty roundhouse punch to his foe. Then he did it. The catapult was released and the black melamine bowl with it’s payload of leftovers whizzed through the opening in the wall, narrowly missing the hanging plant.
Now. Before I conclude this story, let us ponder such things as fate, karma and luck. You may not believe in any of these things, but something almost supernatural was at work this day I tell you. I was there. I saw it. I have witnesses. Some of them might even comment on this post. This really happened. Continue pondering for a moment before you read the next paragraph.
OK. We’re back to the story now. As I said, the bowl just barely missed the macramé plant hanger, but that’s just the first miracle. The second miracle is that the contents of the bowl retained their shape and place in the bowl throughout the entire flight of the projectile as it arced its way to its target. Oh, yeah. That’s the other part. The target. Fate? Karma? Luck? Who knows? The bowl flew, goop first, smack into the center of my roommate’s old roommate’s chest where it exploded in a rain of various carbohydrate-laden organic material. It was gorgeous. A direct hit. The victim’s arms came up in kind of a reflex-driven response, but they provided no protection. He was covered.
I looked up from the aftermath to gaze at my roommate with new found honor and respect. He was already gone. The back door of the cafeteria was almost completely closed, slowed by the pneumatic door-closer attached to it. This delay was nearly very unfortunate. There were some really big, burly guys sitting fairly close to ground zero. They were not as amused by recent events as me and my friends were. I feared I would faint from loss of breath induced by laughter. The others in my party were in a similar condition. The burly guys were not so handicapped and leaped to their feet just in time to see the door closing. In a flash they were in pursuit of my roommate. Luck (or karma or fate or whatever) was on my roommate’s side, however. He ran like a jackrabbit all the way back to the dorm and eluded his pursuers. They gave up the chase when they realized he had gotten out of sight.
When I got back to my room, my roommate was there – a little nervous and worried that he had been identified, but with a virtual badge of honor from his friends, and 12 bucks.
By the way - if you are reading this, my old roomie buddy, the guy who kept calling the room and saying things like “I know who you are Ice Cream Man” for the next several days was not me, but I know who it was. Drop me a line sometime and I’ll spill the beans on him.
Anyway – here goes.
It was the spring of 1984. I was a freshman at Florida State University in Tallahassee, Florida. I was living in a 10-story cesspool called Kellum Hall. Somewhere between five and six hundred kids lived there. The people were great. I made a lot of good friends there and we all kind of looked out for each other. The facilities were plain and utilitarian. Rooms were a little larger than a refrigerator box and there were two people in each one. The bathrooms were the community style and were located midway along each hallway. It was a typical college dormitory. It was a dump. I did have a great roommate at that time. He was neat, clean, respectful of my things, loved much of the same music I did, shared my sense of humor (most of the time) and was generally a really good guy. We became roommates our second semester of our freshman year because each of us had nightmarish original roommates. My original one was a giant kleptomaniac who removed warts from his bulbous thighs with fingernail clippers. (True.) My new roommate’s old roommate was just a mean person that generally made everyone around him miserable. I’m not sure of all of the details there, but I know it was a bad experience for my new roommate. Even though it’s getting very clumsy to write like this, I am going to let my “good” roommate remain anonymous. Those of you reading this who were there at the time know who he is and understand why I am going to avoid using his name. If he wants to post a reply to this blog entry and take credit for this story, then that’s his call.
My roommate and I were part of a group of dorm dwellers who called ourselves the Kellum Lounge Rats. There were about 10 or 12 of us and we could generally be found in variously sized subsets hanging out in the dorm lounge at any given time of day or night. We usually ate lunch together on the weekends at a place called Saga down in the Student Union. It was a cafeteria style eatery that had a little magnetic card reader box at the door. You came in, ran your card through the reader and - “PING” – a little chime would sound and you were granted access to the wonderful sustenance offered by Saga.
Now that you know what Saga was, I feel the need to share a little bit about the general opinion of the place. It was cheap. You could eat all you wanted. It was convenient for those of us without cars. It served exceptionally poor quality food. Many comments about this place could be found scrawled on the walls of bathroom stalls around campus. They were penned there, no doubt, by victims of explosive diarrhea courtesy of Saga. The best Saga joke I ever saw on a bathroom wall said this, ‘SAGA – Soviet Attempt to Gag Americans”. Very clever. This was during the Cold War days so any Russian joke was fitting. This one was especially clever in my opinion, given the fact that the author probably had to write the words one at a time in between searing abdominal cramps.
OK – back to the actual place on that particular sunny spring day in Tallahassee. When our little group got there, we found the main part of the dining room was pretty full. There were no open tables large enough to seat us all. Fortunately, there was a kind of overflow area on the far side of the cafeteria where no one was sitting. There was a large, long table there we could claim. This part of the cafeteria was separated from the main room by a wall running nearly the entire length of the room. There were large round openings in the wall about 3 feet wide. Hanging plants adorned each one.
We all sat down and began to eat. I don’t remember what all was on the menu that day, but I do know there was mashed potatoes and gravy. You will understand why I remember that once you read the rest of this story.
One of the best (and palatable) treats at Saga was the ice cream bar. You could go up there and get a scoop of ice cream and then top it off with hot fudge, caramel, peanuts, whipped cream, sprinkles and a variety of other things. Since it was actually pretty good stuff, most of us eschewed the microscopic ice cream bowls at the bar in favor of the larger salad bowls from the salad bar. You could really load one of these things up. We were all sitting around the big table finishing off our ice cream creations when I started to notice that my roommate was mixing up a huge mess in his bowl. He had not eaten all of his ice cream and had decided to mix in the mashed potatoes, gravy and any other assorted leftover foodstuffs on his plate. It was perfectly hideous. He was just kind of silently sculpting it into a goopy mound when he looked around the table at his friends and said something like, “How much will you guys give me to throw this bowl through one of those holes in the wall?” After about two seconds of stunned silence, we all started digging through our pockets for spare change to put in the pot. You have to understand that my roommate was not a violent or overly rebellious person. This was kind of out of character, yet he seemed sincere. We, his so-called friends, were more than happy to contribute to his delinquency by encouraging him into an act of vandalism.
When it was all said and done, we had scrounged up about twelve dollars or so. We had conditions, though. My roommate was to hold off on the goop toss until we were all the way over to the exit door by the cashier. That way we would have front seats to view the spectacle and a quick exit that would exonerate us from any guilt in the incident. My roommate would dart out the back door of the cafeteria after the deed was done and make his escape that way.
With breathless anticipation, we all got up from the table, dropped off our dirty dishes on the conveyor belt that led to the kitchen and walked over to the exit door. When I turned around, I realized that our view was perfect and we were in for a real show. I could see my roommate standing up at the table. He had his arm drawn back just like a medieval catapult preparing to launch a missile at a castle wall. His face was screwed into a sort of grimace one sees on the face of a pugilist about to deliver a mighty roundhouse punch to his foe. Then he did it. The catapult was released and the black melamine bowl with it’s payload of leftovers whizzed through the opening in the wall, narrowly missing the hanging plant.
Now. Before I conclude this story, let us ponder such things as fate, karma and luck. You may not believe in any of these things, but something almost supernatural was at work this day I tell you. I was there. I saw it. I have witnesses. Some of them might even comment on this post. This really happened. Continue pondering for a moment before you read the next paragraph.
OK. We’re back to the story now. As I said, the bowl just barely missed the macramé plant hanger, but that’s just the first miracle. The second miracle is that the contents of the bowl retained their shape and place in the bowl throughout the entire flight of the projectile as it arced its way to its target. Oh, yeah. That’s the other part. The target. Fate? Karma? Luck? Who knows? The bowl flew, goop first, smack into the center of my roommate’s old roommate’s chest where it exploded in a rain of various carbohydrate-laden organic material. It was gorgeous. A direct hit. The victim’s arms came up in kind of a reflex-driven response, but they provided no protection. He was covered.
I looked up from the aftermath to gaze at my roommate with new found honor and respect. He was already gone. The back door of the cafeteria was almost completely closed, slowed by the pneumatic door-closer attached to it. This delay was nearly very unfortunate. There were some really big, burly guys sitting fairly close to ground zero. They were not as amused by recent events as me and my friends were. I feared I would faint from loss of breath induced by laughter. The others in my party were in a similar condition. The burly guys were not so handicapped and leaped to their feet just in time to see the door closing. In a flash they were in pursuit of my roommate. Luck (or karma or fate or whatever) was on my roommate’s side, however. He ran like a jackrabbit all the way back to the dorm and eluded his pursuers. They gave up the chase when they realized he had gotten out of sight.
When I got back to my room, my roommate was there – a little nervous and worried that he had been identified, but with a virtual badge of honor from his friends, and 12 bucks.
By the way - if you are reading this, my old roomie buddy, the guy who kept calling the room and saying things like “I know who you are Ice Cream Man” for the next several days was not me, but I know who it was. Drop me a line sometime and I’ll spill the beans on him.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Hosed by Bozo
I despise Bozo the Clown. Why? Read on.
For those of you too young or too oblivious to know who Bozo is, I’ll fill you in. Bozo was a clown character created in 1946 by Alan W. Livingston – near as I can tell. Mr. Livingston developed books and records for children featuring the character. Popularity grew, television came along and eventually Bozo was syndicated into countless local media markets. He had a half-hour show on the local ABC affiliate in my hometown of Kingsport, Tennessee. This website has a clip from either 1968 or 1969 (depending on whether you believe the headline or the text of the story.) It’s a mind-numbingly boring clip, but if you want a visual, check it out.
http://www.vimeo.com/3814121
As a preschooler, I was riveted to our 26 inch, bulbous-screened, 400 pound, country oak finished, behemoth television every weekday afternoon. WKPT was on UHF – channel 19 to be exact. That meant I had to turn the upper dial to “U” and the lower dial to 19 in order to tune in the pasty faced jerk. I usually had to twiddle the rings around the tuning dials to get rid of the wiggly static lines and avoid buzzing in the sound. Suffice it to say that I put in a lot of work and energy as a 4-year-old to watch this clown. (Hey, it doesn’t really sound like an insult when the target really is a clown. Hmmm…)
Once I got it tuned in, the show generally consisted of some cheesy cartoons and lame clown tricks in front of a group of about 20 or 30 lucky kids who got to watch the show in person down at the station. Of course, given the fact that I was four and the entertainment choices for a kid my age in 1969 were limited, I ate it up. I watched it every day.
Like most memories people have from such a young age, mine are foggy and incomplete. Only the most joyful or traumatic experiences seem to remain in focus over the years. I vaguely remember the Bozo cartoons. I think there was a little blond haired boy in them who was Bozo’s pal. I can also picture the studio set with the small set of bleachers set up for the kids and Bozo prancing around in his clown suit and big floppy shoes.
By far the most vivid memory I have is of the hamster races. Even though they may have in fact been gerbils or even mice, I recall in great detail the little three lane race track device that Bozo had and the sight of the critters scampering down the track to the little piece of food at the end. What excitement! Adding to the excitement was THE FISHBOWL! I had to introduce it in all capital letters because of the enormous importance of it. It sat on a pedestal in the studio. In it were dozens of cards with the names and phone numbers of Bozo fans around the area. In response to my earnest request, my mother had sent my name in to the studio on a postcard so that I could be entered in the daily drawing. One lucky kid each day had his or her name drawn from the fishbowl. Bozo would take the card and go to a telephone on the set and dial the number on the card. (This show was live, folks.) If the kid on the card was home and answered the phone he or she was given the chance to win fabulous prizes. All you had to do was guess which rodent would win the race. If your choice won, you got the booty. I knew my name was somewhere in the fishbowl. Every day I held my breath while Bozo silently read the card and then began to dial. He wouldn’t say who he was calling. He would just dial. That added to the suspense.
Well, one day it happened.
I was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV just like I did every day. Bozo pulled a name from the fishbowl, read it to himself, gave a little clownish smile and picked up the telephone receiver. He then started to dial. I leaned forward on the floor toward the TV. Maybe I could see if he was dialing my number if I looked really closely. Please! Oh, please! Call ME, Bozo. Call ME!
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
Gasp! Could it be? Without getting up, I spun my buzz cut blond four year old head around and gaped at the phone on the wall in the kitchen. (There was a pass-through in the wall between the living room and the kitchen in my house. You could see the phone hanging there.)
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
I turned back to the TV, frozen by the enormity of the event. Bozo was waiting for the party on the other end to answer. My phone was still ringing. It might be him! No. It couldn’t be. Could it?
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
Panic. What if he hangs up? Aaarrrgh! I suddenly pulled myself together enough to leap up from my place in the floor and dash into the kitchen. The phone was high up on the wall at grown-up height. I scrambled up onto a kitchen chair. I stared at the phone for a second or two.
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
I grabbed the receiver and breathlessly said, “Hello?” I said it like a question because I still wasn’t sure it was the clown on the other end of the line. Nearly simultaneously, but slightly out of synch due to delays across the airwaves and telephone lines I heard Bozo say the words I only dreamed I would ever hear him say. “Is this Timmy Wright?” (Yes, they used to call me Timmy. My sister still does.) “Yes!” I said. It was all I could choke out. My heart was pounding in my throat. My mouth was dry. I couldn’t believe it! Bozo then asked me which hamster (or gerbil, or mouse, or whatever it was) would win the race. I can’t remember the names of all of the animals, but I do remember the one I guessed. It was my favorite one – Candy Shop.
Amid the excited squeals of the studio audience, Bozo set up the race track. The vermin were in position. The gates were set. The treats were in place. “Ready, Set, GO!” Bozo yelled and tripped the lever that simultaneously opened all three gates. Never looking back, Candy Shop streaked to the finish line and hungrily gobbled up the treat. She won! She won! Better than that – I won! The bleachers in the studio erupted in screams and cheers. Yay! We have a winner! Then, Bozo went over to a huge cache of toys that were arranged in a mountainous pile that was at least half as tall as he was. Stunned, I gazed back through the pass-through into the living room in sheer ecstasy. All of those toys – all mine! They were the cool toys, too. All new stuff. Games, cars, trucks, action figures and even some toys that ran on batteries! Bozo went on to say, as he always did when somebody won the race game, that all you needed to do is have your mom or dad drive you down to the studio and pick up your prizes.
Town was a fair drive away. It took about 30 minutes or so to get down there. We never went unless we had a good reason to. I waited through what seemed like years for the chance to get down to that TV studio. In reality it was probably just a couple of days. I’m sure my incessant begging and whining would have worn my mother down by then. However long it was, the day came. I spent the whole trip gazing sightlessly out into space dreaming of the incredible play experiences that awaited me. Which toy would I play with first? Where would I put them all. My toy box was pretty full. It was an old vacuum cleaner box in my closet that had most of my playthings piled in it. I would have to make room. Perhaps a shelf could be cleared off. Maybe Mom would buy another large item and bestow the cardboard box upon me so that I would have another container for my treasures. Oh the burdensome joys of the wealthy! I finally understood. Yes, I was the Toy King, the Toy Czar, maybe even the Toy Emperor!
We finally got to the studio and Mom parked our behemoth Mercury station wagon. I leaped out of the car and into the parking lot. “Come on, Mom! Come on! Let’s go! Come on!” Leaning forward at about a 45 degree angle gripping my mother’s hand like a vise I pulled her to the door. I yanked it open and we went inside. The lobby was a bit of a nondescript affair. It wasn’t fancy or anything. It looked a little bit like the waiting room at my pediatrician’s office. That should have been my first hint.
Mom went up to the counter to identify us and point out that I was the winner from the Bozo show. In the next sixty to ninety seconds or so, all of my joy and exuberance fell in a nearly audible avalanche of despair and woe. The clerk at the desk said something like, “Oh. The Bozo Show. Well, that’s been cancelled. They pretty much cleaned everything out. I’ll go back there and see if they left any prizes.” Still clinging to some hope, I was thinking that maybe this peon didn’t know what she was talking about. Bozo? Cancelled? What folly. It couldn’t be. Besides, I was a winner. The kids cheered for me. Bozo displayed the sprawling array of toys that were to be given to me as my reward. Surely it would all work out.
It didn’t.
The clerk came back and said, “This is all they left. You can have it.” My grand prize had been reduced to two toys. One of them was a Slinky. Wow! That was maybe a 50 cent item at Woolworth’s, right? The other one was essentially a six foot long, two foot wide Slinky covered in blue cotton fabric called the Tunnel o’ Fun. It was collapsed down into what looked like an extra, extra large pizza box.
Disappointed, crestfallen, stunned, chagrinned, despaired, angry, devastated, furious…
So many emotions for my preschooler brain to sift through. Which one to pick? Over time I think my reaction kind of evolved. I cried. Mom tried to appeal to the peon to no avail. I sucked it up and took my measly awards and moped back to the Mercury. On the way home, Mom did her best to console me, but the rollercoaster had reached its nadir. The ride was over.
I did have fun with the Slinky for about an hour until it became hopelessly tangled upon itself. The Tunnel o’ Fun lasted a while longer, but eventually the cheap fabric that covered it started to come apart at the seams and tear - ending whatever Fun the Tunnel contained. I think it was then that the anger really surfaced. That clown did me wrong, man! He lied to me! He told me that I won that prize package and then he blew out of town. That’s not right. Stupid clown!
Maybe after 40 years it’s time to let go. Maybe it’s time to put all of this behind me and forgive the Bozo Show. Maybe I can move on.
Nope.
I despise Bozo the Clown.
For those of you too young or too oblivious to know who Bozo is, I’ll fill you in. Bozo was a clown character created in 1946 by Alan W. Livingston – near as I can tell. Mr. Livingston developed books and records for children featuring the character. Popularity grew, television came along and eventually Bozo was syndicated into countless local media markets. He had a half-hour show on the local ABC affiliate in my hometown of Kingsport, Tennessee. This website has a clip from either 1968 or 1969 (depending on whether you believe the headline or the text of the story.) It’s a mind-numbingly boring clip, but if you want a visual, check it out.
http://www.vimeo.com/3814121
As a preschooler, I was riveted to our 26 inch, bulbous-screened, 400 pound, country oak finished, behemoth television every weekday afternoon. WKPT was on UHF – channel 19 to be exact. That meant I had to turn the upper dial to “U” and the lower dial to 19 in order to tune in the pasty faced jerk. I usually had to twiddle the rings around the tuning dials to get rid of the wiggly static lines and avoid buzzing in the sound. Suffice it to say that I put in a lot of work and energy as a 4-year-old to watch this clown. (Hey, it doesn’t really sound like an insult when the target really is a clown. Hmmm…)
Once I got it tuned in, the show generally consisted of some cheesy cartoons and lame clown tricks in front of a group of about 20 or 30 lucky kids who got to watch the show in person down at the station. Of course, given the fact that I was four and the entertainment choices for a kid my age in 1969 were limited, I ate it up. I watched it every day.
Like most memories people have from such a young age, mine are foggy and incomplete. Only the most joyful or traumatic experiences seem to remain in focus over the years. I vaguely remember the Bozo cartoons. I think there was a little blond haired boy in them who was Bozo’s pal. I can also picture the studio set with the small set of bleachers set up for the kids and Bozo prancing around in his clown suit and big floppy shoes.
By far the most vivid memory I have is of the hamster races. Even though they may have in fact been gerbils or even mice, I recall in great detail the little three lane race track device that Bozo had and the sight of the critters scampering down the track to the little piece of food at the end. What excitement! Adding to the excitement was THE FISHBOWL! I had to introduce it in all capital letters because of the enormous importance of it. It sat on a pedestal in the studio. In it were dozens of cards with the names and phone numbers of Bozo fans around the area. In response to my earnest request, my mother had sent my name in to the studio on a postcard so that I could be entered in the daily drawing. One lucky kid each day had his or her name drawn from the fishbowl. Bozo would take the card and go to a telephone on the set and dial the number on the card. (This show was live, folks.) If the kid on the card was home and answered the phone he or she was given the chance to win fabulous prizes. All you had to do was guess which rodent would win the race. If your choice won, you got the booty. I knew my name was somewhere in the fishbowl. Every day I held my breath while Bozo silently read the card and then began to dial. He wouldn’t say who he was calling. He would just dial. That added to the suspense.
Well, one day it happened.
I was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV just like I did every day. Bozo pulled a name from the fishbowl, read it to himself, gave a little clownish smile and picked up the telephone receiver. He then started to dial. I leaned forward on the floor toward the TV. Maybe I could see if he was dialing my number if I looked really closely. Please! Oh, please! Call ME, Bozo. Call ME!
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
Gasp! Could it be? Without getting up, I spun my buzz cut blond four year old head around and gaped at the phone on the wall in the kitchen. (There was a pass-through in the wall between the living room and the kitchen in my house. You could see the phone hanging there.)
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
I turned back to the TV, frozen by the enormity of the event. Bozo was waiting for the party on the other end to answer. My phone was still ringing. It might be him! No. It couldn’t be. Could it?
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
Panic. What if he hangs up? Aaarrrgh! I suddenly pulled myself together enough to leap up from my place in the floor and dash into the kitchen. The phone was high up on the wall at grown-up height. I scrambled up onto a kitchen chair. I stared at the phone for a second or two.
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
I grabbed the receiver and breathlessly said, “Hello?” I said it like a question because I still wasn’t sure it was the clown on the other end of the line. Nearly simultaneously, but slightly out of synch due to delays across the airwaves and telephone lines I heard Bozo say the words I only dreamed I would ever hear him say. “Is this Timmy Wright?” (Yes, they used to call me Timmy. My sister still does.) “Yes!” I said. It was all I could choke out. My heart was pounding in my throat. My mouth was dry. I couldn’t believe it! Bozo then asked me which hamster (or gerbil, or mouse, or whatever it was) would win the race. I can’t remember the names of all of the animals, but I do remember the one I guessed. It was my favorite one – Candy Shop.
Amid the excited squeals of the studio audience, Bozo set up the race track. The vermin were in position. The gates were set. The treats were in place. “Ready, Set, GO!” Bozo yelled and tripped the lever that simultaneously opened all three gates. Never looking back, Candy Shop streaked to the finish line and hungrily gobbled up the treat. She won! She won! Better than that – I won! The bleachers in the studio erupted in screams and cheers. Yay! We have a winner! Then, Bozo went over to a huge cache of toys that were arranged in a mountainous pile that was at least half as tall as he was. Stunned, I gazed back through the pass-through into the living room in sheer ecstasy. All of those toys – all mine! They were the cool toys, too. All new stuff. Games, cars, trucks, action figures and even some toys that ran on batteries! Bozo went on to say, as he always did when somebody won the race game, that all you needed to do is have your mom or dad drive you down to the studio and pick up your prizes.
Town was a fair drive away. It took about 30 minutes or so to get down there. We never went unless we had a good reason to. I waited through what seemed like years for the chance to get down to that TV studio. In reality it was probably just a couple of days. I’m sure my incessant begging and whining would have worn my mother down by then. However long it was, the day came. I spent the whole trip gazing sightlessly out into space dreaming of the incredible play experiences that awaited me. Which toy would I play with first? Where would I put them all. My toy box was pretty full. It was an old vacuum cleaner box in my closet that had most of my playthings piled in it. I would have to make room. Perhaps a shelf could be cleared off. Maybe Mom would buy another large item and bestow the cardboard box upon me so that I would have another container for my treasures. Oh the burdensome joys of the wealthy! I finally understood. Yes, I was the Toy King, the Toy Czar, maybe even the Toy Emperor!
We finally got to the studio and Mom parked our behemoth Mercury station wagon. I leaped out of the car and into the parking lot. “Come on, Mom! Come on! Let’s go! Come on!” Leaning forward at about a 45 degree angle gripping my mother’s hand like a vise I pulled her to the door. I yanked it open and we went inside. The lobby was a bit of a nondescript affair. It wasn’t fancy or anything. It looked a little bit like the waiting room at my pediatrician’s office. That should have been my first hint.
Mom went up to the counter to identify us and point out that I was the winner from the Bozo show. In the next sixty to ninety seconds or so, all of my joy and exuberance fell in a nearly audible avalanche of despair and woe. The clerk at the desk said something like, “Oh. The Bozo Show. Well, that’s been cancelled. They pretty much cleaned everything out. I’ll go back there and see if they left any prizes.” Still clinging to some hope, I was thinking that maybe this peon didn’t know what she was talking about. Bozo? Cancelled? What folly. It couldn’t be. Besides, I was a winner. The kids cheered for me. Bozo displayed the sprawling array of toys that were to be given to me as my reward. Surely it would all work out.
It didn’t.
The clerk came back and said, “This is all they left. You can have it.” My grand prize had been reduced to two toys. One of them was a Slinky. Wow! That was maybe a 50 cent item at Woolworth’s, right? The other one was essentially a six foot long, two foot wide Slinky covered in blue cotton fabric called the Tunnel o’ Fun. It was collapsed down into what looked like an extra, extra large pizza box.
Disappointed, crestfallen, stunned, chagrinned, despaired, angry, devastated, furious…
So many emotions for my preschooler brain to sift through. Which one to pick? Over time I think my reaction kind of evolved. I cried. Mom tried to appeal to the peon to no avail. I sucked it up and took my measly awards and moped back to the Mercury. On the way home, Mom did her best to console me, but the rollercoaster had reached its nadir. The ride was over.
I did have fun with the Slinky for about an hour until it became hopelessly tangled upon itself. The Tunnel o’ Fun lasted a while longer, but eventually the cheap fabric that covered it started to come apart at the seams and tear - ending whatever Fun the Tunnel contained. I think it was then that the anger really surfaced. That clown did me wrong, man! He lied to me! He told me that I won that prize package and then he blew out of town. That’s not right. Stupid clown!
Maybe after 40 years it’s time to let go. Maybe it’s time to put all of this behind me and forgive the Bozo Show. Maybe I can move on.
Nope.
I despise Bozo the Clown.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Fog
There’s a light fog hanging in the Tennessee Valley this morning. I’ve always thought that fog is just clouds that lack ambition. Slackers.
The fog has put me into a bit of a funk this morning. If you’re going to read the rest of this post and you have some anti-depressants handy, you might want to wolf down a handful. It takes a while for them to do their thing so I’ll pause here for a bit to give you time to prepare. (I hope you understand that’s my feeble attempt at humor. Don’t OD on Zoloft or Prozac or something. That would be stupid. Besides, I think chocolate can do the same thing. Maybe pound down one of those half pound Hershey bars instead.)
***
Back already? OK. Here’s where I’ll start with this. My wife thinks I’m bipolar. She may be right. I do have wild mood swings. I can be really down one day and upbeat the next. That’s fairly classic bipolar disorder symptoms I think. I’m no doctor, but I’m not sure the answer is that simple. I think that what is going on is that there is a part of me that still thinks I’m a kid. I had a great time as a kid. I grew up in a loving family atmosphere. I had lots of friends. I had a big yard to play in. We were far from rich, but I never went hungry. It was a good time. I was comfortable there and I guess I try to cling to it a bit.
That kid in me, however, has to make room for the adult to take care of the necessities of being a responsible spouse and parent. It doesn’t want to share the limited real estate in my mind with boring stuff like work and paying bills. Yuck! Let’s play! Oh, wait. Other people are depending on me. Family, co-workers and friends all have a stake in me fulfilling my responsibilities. Since I’m not a monster or a sociopath, I actually care about that sort of thing. Uh-oh. Conflict. Usually, when I get to this point, I can successfully tell The Kid to go take a nap and let the adult work. Sometimes The Kid persists and has to be sent to “time out” for a while. In other words I have to kind of preach to myself a bit to get my priorities realigned.
The real trouble comes when the adult work piles up to the overwhelming point and then gets aggravated by a healthy (or unhealthy) dose of external stress. Back in 2005, my family lost my mother and my sister within a 6 month span of time. I just about lost it. Ask my wife. The details of that story will have to wait for another time, but suffice to say that The Kid came running and screaming from his corner of my psyche and demanded to take the wheel. The Adult could not let it go. It was a crisis time in the family and it was time for adult discussions and adult emotions. It was no time for play. My faith – which is a primary tool for managing The Kid – took a serious beating and got weak. My sense of responsibility – which is essential for keeping my priorities straight – strained at the leash and tried desperately to flee. Amid the grief and without the strength of faith, responsibility couldn’t see its value in the situation. The result of all of this was a pretty deep and dark depression that just about wrecked me. It’s still there. Those wounds never fully healed and they flare up from time to time. I have to let The Kid loose every now and then to keep my sanity. I can’t let him run amuck. If I do, he will try to drag me back to the past with his promises of comfort and freedom from responsibilities. It’s a tempting offer, but it’s one that can never be delivered. And after all, I really don’t want to go back there to where The Kid is from.
Wow! That was harder to write than I thought it would be. The Kid is very compelling.
The key is this… The Kid is a part of who I am now, but everything that has occurred between when he came on the scene and the arrival of The Adult has resulted in the total person – complete with all of the good things and all of the bad things that have developed along the way. If I were still “under the table and dreaming” as Dave Matthews put it I would be blissfully content, but I would not have all of the good things that I have today. I have a loving wife of 22 years and counting. I have two beautiful daughters who love me unconditionally and without restraint. Those are things that are far more valuable that any dream I could have concocted as a child.
I have to think that I am not alone in this. When things get rough in your personal life or work life or wherever, it’s very easy to drift off into the past and summon The Kid. That’s OK. Let him play. Just make sure he’s not taking over entirely. He’s a kid. He’s irresponsible and will drag you into a pool of manufactured regret and depression. When he starts to do that, it’s time for another “time out”.
Count your blessings. Life itself is a blessing. Look around you. Even though you may have had a bumpy ride in this life, you still get to live. There are good things to find. Yes – the bills are staring you the face. Yes – you are getting older and parts of you are wearing out. Yes – your job can be oppressive at times. Yes – people have done you wrong from time to time. Yes – you have suffered loss and experienced grief. Welcome to humanity. We’re all in this together.
Focus on the good things – the rewards of living.
If you have children, hug them and tell them you love them every single day. Say it like you mean it, too. When you child hugs you back and tells you that she/he loves you too, drink it in like a warm cup of cocoa. There’s nothing like it for me.
If you have a job you love, relish in the satisfaction of a job well done. Be proud that you are making a difference. Strive for excellence. Be the best “whatever you are” that there is and be happy that you have the skills and experience to do it.
If you have a talent for speaking, writing, making music or interacting with your fellow human beings in other ways, take pride in the fact that you are making life better for those around you. That sort of thing is very fulfilling.
If you have good friends or a spouse, be thankful that they are there to share in your joys and listen to your heartaches.
If you have none of these things, I am sure that there are other blessings you have been given that you might be taking for granted. Sometimes you just have to stop and count them.
Whatever your blessings may be, acknowledge your Creator as the giver and understand that the path you have taken in your life has led you to where you are today. Even if you think the bad things in your life have outweighed the good, remember that there’s always one more bend in the road. Who knows what good things await? (I’m not Pollyanna. I do realize there may be a roofing nail in the road around that corner just waiting to relieve one of your tires of its air, but there will be good as well.)
Thanks for listening. Maybe this should be “Uncle Tilmer’s Self-Therapy Hour”. Oh. And by the way – if you see The Kid, tell him there’s a birthday slumber party at my house tonight. He’s welcome to come and join the fun.
The fog has put me into a bit of a funk this morning. If you’re going to read the rest of this post and you have some anti-depressants handy, you might want to wolf down a handful. It takes a while for them to do their thing so I’ll pause here for a bit to give you time to prepare. (I hope you understand that’s my feeble attempt at humor. Don’t OD on Zoloft or Prozac or something. That would be stupid. Besides, I think chocolate can do the same thing. Maybe pound down one of those half pound Hershey bars instead.)
***
Back already? OK. Here’s where I’ll start with this. My wife thinks I’m bipolar. She may be right. I do have wild mood swings. I can be really down one day and upbeat the next. That’s fairly classic bipolar disorder symptoms I think. I’m no doctor, but I’m not sure the answer is that simple. I think that what is going on is that there is a part of me that still thinks I’m a kid. I had a great time as a kid. I grew up in a loving family atmosphere. I had lots of friends. I had a big yard to play in. We were far from rich, but I never went hungry. It was a good time. I was comfortable there and I guess I try to cling to it a bit.
That kid in me, however, has to make room for the adult to take care of the necessities of being a responsible spouse and parent. It doesn’t want to share the limited real estate in my mind with boring stuff like work and paying bills. Yuck! Let’s play! Oh, wait. Other people are depending on me. Family, co-workers and friends all have a stake in me fulfilling my responsibilities. Since I’m not a monster or a sociopath, I actually care about that sort of thing. Uh-oh. Conflict. Usually, when I get to this point, I can successfully tell The Kid to go take a nap and let the adult work. Sometimes The Kid persists and has to be sent to “time out” for a while. In other words I have to kind of preach to myself a bit to get my priorities realigned.
The real trouble comes when the adult work piles up to the overwhelming point and then gets aggravated by a healthy (or unhealthy) dose of external stress. Back in 2005, my family lost my mother and my sister within a 6 month span of time. I just about lost it. Ask my wife. The details of that story will have to wait for another time, but suffice to say that The Kid came running and screaming from his corner of my psyche and demanded to take the wheel. The Adult could not let it go. It was a crisis time in the family and it was time for adult discussions and adult emotions. It was no time for play. My faith – which is a primary tool for managing The Kid – took a serious beating and got weak. My sense of responsibility – which is essential for keeping my priorities straight – strained at the leash and tried desperately to flee. Amid the grief and without the strength of faith, responsibility couldn’t see its value in the situation. The result of all of this was a pretty deep and dark depression that just about wrecked me. It’s still there. Those wounds never fully healed and they flare up from time to time. I have to let The Kid loose every now and then to keep my sanity. I can’t let him run amuck. If I do, he will try to drag me back to the past with his promises of comfort and freedom from responsibilities. It’s a tempting offer, but it’s one that can never be delivered. And after all, I really don’t want to go back there to where The Kid is from.
Wow! That was harder to write than I thought it would be. The Kid is very compelling.
The key is this… The Kid is a part of who I am now, but everything that has occurred between when he came on the scene and the arrival of The Adult has resulted in the total person – complete with all of the good things and all of the bad things that have developed along the way. If I were still “under the table and dreaming” as Dave Matthews put it I would be blissfully content, but I would not have all of the good things that I have today. I have a loving wife of 22 years and counting. I have two beautiful daughters who love me unconditionally and without restraint. Those are things that are far more valuable that any dream I could have concocted as a child.
I have to think that I am not alone in this. When things get rough in your personal life or work life or wherever, it’s very easy to drift off into the past and summon The Kid. That’s OK. Let him play. Just make sure he’s not taking over entirely. He’s a kid. He’s irresponsible and will drag you into a pool of manufactured regret and depression. When he starts to do that, it’s time for another “time out”.
Count your blessings. Life itself is a blessing. Look around you. Even though you may have had a bumpy ride in this life, you still get to live. There are good things to find. Yes – the bills are staring you the face. Yes – you are getting older and parts of you are wearing out. Yes – your job can be oppressive at times. Yes – people have done you wrong from time to time. Yes – you have suffered loss and experienced grief. Welcome to humanity. We’re all in this together.
Focus on the good things – the rewards of living.
If you have children, hug them and tell them you love them every single day. Say it like you mean it, too. When you child hugs you back and tells you that she/he loves you too, drink it in like a warm cup of cocoa. There’s nothing like it for me.
If you have a job you love, relish in the satisfaction of a job well done. Be proud that you are making a difference. Strive for excellence. Be the best “whatever you are” that there is and be happy that you have the skills and experience to do it.
If you have a talent for speaking, writing, making music or interacting with your fellow human beings in other ways, take pride in the fact that you are making life better for those around you. That sort of thing is very fulfilling.
If you have good friends or a spouse, be thankful that they are there to share in your joys and listen to your heartaches.
If you have none of these things, I am sure that there are other blessings you have been given that you might be taking for granted. Sometimes you just have to stop and count them.
Whatever your blessings may be, acknowledge your Creator as the giver and understand that the path you have taken in your life has led you to where you are today. Even if you think the bad things in your life have outweighed the good, remember that there’s always one more bend in the road. Who knows what good things await? (I’m not Pollyanna. I do realize there may be a roofing nail in the road around that corner just waiting to relieve one of your tires of its air, but there will be good as well.)
Thanks for listening. Maybe this should be “Uncle Tilmer’s Self-Therapy Hour”. Oh. And by the way – if you see The Kid, tell him there’s a birthday slumber party at my house tonight. He’s welcome to come and join the fun.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Moving Day
You are not going to believe this. Trust me. I almost don’t believe it and I actually saw it with my own eyes. (What an odd expression! How else could you see something – with someone else’s eyes?) I wanted to take a picture, but the camera phone I have has a security code on it that was installed by my employer and it usually takes me about 30-45 seconds to get the password right and fire up the camera. By that time, those golden Kodak moments have usually flitted by. Luckily, the image I saw was so bizarre – so unexpected – so utterly stupid that it burned itself into my brain. From that memory I drew a crude representation of the scene so that I could share it with you. How thoughtful of me!
Anyway – here’s the tale.
I had just left a little pizza place north of Knoxville with my family after a nice pizza buffet lunch. We were out in the parking lot getting ready to climb into the trusty family SUV and head home when suddenly there they were! It was a man and a woman in an old mid 90s era Chevy Camaro or Pontiac Firebird. I can’t remember which, but I’m fairly certain it was one of them. If you’ve ever been in one of these cars, you know that interior cargo room was not their main selling point. They were meant to be affordable little sporty numbers for people with small or non-existent children. The back seat was just kind of a short bookshelf that was put there just so the marketing department could call it a four passenger vehicle. In order to make the most of the limited space, the cars had a large trunk/hatch lid that could be lifted up to reveal a reasonably sized area for groceries or small luggage. You could maximize this area further by folding the back seat down and opening up the space a bit more. This meant you could carry somewhat larger items if you could finagle them around enough to slide them on top of the folded down seats. Keep the term “somewhat larger” in mind as you read on.
The woman was driving. She had the driver’s side window down. After all, it was a nice day. The wind was tossing her light brown/dark blond hair around. Her male companion was in the car also. Was he in the passenger seat? No. He had a job to do that required him to ride elsewhere in the vehicle. Well then, you might say, he must have been wadded up in the back seat. Perhaps he was really small or missing some limbs that made that part of the car just the right size for him. No. That’s not entirely true either. It’s difficult to describe using only words, but maybe this will help…
Various times in my life I have had to move from place to place. We all do every now and then. One time I used a service called “Two Men and a Truck”. This is a real company and when you hire them you get exactly what the name implies. It works really well. They charge by the hour. You don’t have to do any heavy lifting and they have their own truck. Now, only in Knoxville, Tennessee, it seems they have new emerging competition. I’ll call them “Two Hicks and a Hatchback”.
I really tried to capture the moment with the cartoon I drew. The male was straining with all his might to hang on to the bureau or chest or whatever it is you call that wooden behemoth that was jutting out of the back of the car. You could tell that he was stretching his right arm to its absolute limit to try to keep the furniture piece from bouncing and/or sliding out onto the street. Heaven only knows how his other limbs were employed doing the same thing. I could only see the one arm from my vantage point. He didn’t look too comfortable to say the least.
The other thing I want you to notice is the beaming smile on the female’s face. Why shouldn’t she be happy? Her man has herculean strength that she is sure will steady a 200 pound chunk of wood regardless of hairpin turns, speed bumps, sudden evasive maneuvers to avoid raccoons and even minor traffic accidents. He also will apparently contort himself into any painful, injurious and embarrassing configurations just to satisfy her every whim. What a guy!
Anyway – here’s the tale.
I had just left a little pizza place north of Knoxville with my family after a nice pizza buffet lunch. We were out in the parking lot getting ready to climb into the trusty family SUV and head home when suddenly there they were! It was a man and a woman in an old mid 90s era Chevy Camaro or Pontiac Firebird. I can’t remember which, but I’m fairly certain it was one of them. If you’ve ever been in one of these cars, you know that interior cargo room was not their main selling point. They were meant to be affordable little sporty numbers for people with small or non-existent children. The back seat was just kind of a short bookshelf that was put there just so the marketing department could call it a four passenger vehicle. In order to make the most of the limited space, the cars had a large trunk/hatch lid that could be lifted up to reveal a reasonably sized area for groceries or small luggage. You could maximize this area further by folding the back seat down and opening up the space a bit more. This meant you could carry somewhat larger items if you could finagle them around enough to slide them on top of the folded down seats. Keep the term “somewhat larger” in mind as you read on.
The woman was driving. She had the driver’s side window down. After all, it was a nice day. The wind was tossing her light brown/dark blond hair around. Her male companion was in the car also. Was he in the passenger seat? No. He had a job to do that required him to ride elsewhere in the vehicle. Well then, you might say, he must have been wadded up in the back seat. Perhaps he was really small or missing some limbs that made that part of the car just the right size for him. No. That’s not entirely true either. It’s difficult to describe using only words, but maybe this will help…
Various times in my life I have had to move from place to place. We all do every now and then. One time I used a service called “Two Men and a Truck”. This is a real company and when you hire them you get exactly what the name implies. It works really well. They charge by the hour. You don’t have to do any heavy lifting and they have their own truck. Now, only in Knoxville, Tennessee, it seems they have new emerging competition. I’ll call them “Two Hicks and a Hatchback”.I really tried to capture the moment with the cartoon I drew. The male was straining with all his might to hang on to the bureau or chest or whatever it is you call that wooden behemoth that was jutting out of the back of the car. You could tell that he was stretching his right arm to its absolute limit to try to keep the furniture piece from bouncing and/or sliding out onto the street. Heaven only knows how his other limbs were employed doing the same thing. I could only see the one arm from my vantage point. He didn’t look too comfortable to say the least.
The other thing I want you to notice is the beaming smile on the female’s face. Why shouldn’t she be happy? Her man has herculean strength that she is sure will steady a 200 pound chunk of wood regardless of hairpin turns, speed bumps, sudden evasive maneuvers to avoid raccoons and even minor traffic accidents. He also will apparently contort himself into any painful, injurious and embarrassing configurations just to satisfy her every whim. What a guy!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Pronunciation Perils
Let me start out by saying that this is not so much a story as it is a rant – although there’s a little bit of a story embedded in it. Some things just eat at me and the only way I know to properly vent about them is to sit down and write. Having said that, at the moment I am writing this I don’t really know if anyone else will ever read it. When I’m done I’ll let you know if I think I should share it.
This is not anything that anyone in their right mind should care the least bit about, but it’s my word processor so I’ll write about what I want. Get your own. (Can you tell I’m worked up about this?)
I live in the South – in Tennessee to be exact. I’ve always lived in the South. I was born in Tennessee and have lived between here and Florida for nearly all of my life. I spent a few years in North Carolina along the way, but that’s still the South. I’m not ashamed of being Southern. It’s part of who I am and I am proud of many of the things that make the South great. I’m speaking generally here, but people are friendly, food is good, the weather is tolerable, the scenery is nice and for the most part, we’re all pretty much caught up to the 21st century now.
One thing that everyone notices about the South is the southern accent that people here have. It’s more pronounced in some than others, and there are subtle differences between regions. All in all, it’s generally a charming part of the landscape. It can get confusing sometimes though. I can recall an episode when my mother first met the girl who would eventually be my wife. We were at my parents’ house in Sarasota. Ellen (who is from Ohio – not the South) was talking to my mother (who was born in East Tennessee and was about as southern as they come). Mom made some comment about the temperature in the house being too high and said, “I’m gonna have to adjust the ‘aaahr’.” I don’t know if I got that spelling correct. It’s not really the pirate sound. That’s more like “AAAARRRRGH!” This had more of the short “a” sound you hear in words like “cat” or “abalone”. It wasn’t exactly like that, but that’s close. I dare you to find a valid English word with an “r” sound after a sound like that. That’s why it’s so hard to spell. You see, what my mom was trying to say was “air”. She needed to adjust the thermostat controlling the air conditioner in the house. Well, it came out “aaahr” or something like that due to the drawl and Ellen had no idea what it meant. The rest of the conversation went something like this…
Ellen: “What?”
Mom: “I have to adjust the aaahr.”
Ellen: “You have to do what?”
Mom: “Adjust that aaahr.”
Ellen: “What do you need to adjust?”
Mom: “The aaahr. You know, the aaahr.”
Ellen: “No. I don’t know. What’s an aaahr?”
Mom: “You know – the aaahr.”
It went on like this for probably five solid minutes before mom said “conditioner” after “aaahr” and Ellen finally put the equation together.
Now comes the ranting part.
There are some individuals living in the South who think that they sound less than brilliant if they allow their drawl to creep into conversation. So they try to disguise it. They adopt a kind of generic accent that is a hodgepodge of dialects found in the community around them. I have to admit, I did this to a certain degree in high school. My last name has a long “i” sound in it. When I introduced myself and pronounced it “Wraaaht” (Hey, there’s that cat/abalone sound again!) I caught a lot of grief. So I adjusted a bit and learned to rhyme my name with things like “kite” and “smite” and “anthracite”. That worked out OK. That’s not where the problem is. The problem is with people who, in their attempts to hide the drawl, overdo it and overcorrect words that don’t need correcting. There is one word in particular that absolutely makes me cringe every time I hear someone mispronounce it due to this kind of overcorrection. What makes it really super annoying is that even people from the North and West do it. I assume they are doing it so that they don’t get mistaken for a hillbilly or something. Heaven forbid!
By now you are probably wondering what this word is. It’s a word for a type of automobile and also an animal after which the automobile was named. Jaguar. It grates on my nerves to no end when I hear someone say something like “Did you see Billy Ray’s new car? Man it’s nice. It’s one of them Jagwires.”
AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!”
People. Listen. It’s not JagWIRE, it’s Jaguar. The online resource, Dictionary.com has this entry on it…
http://www.dictionary.com/search?q=jaguar
I’ll let you check it out on your own. You will find that there are two acceptable pronunciations for this word – neither of them alludes to thin strands of copper bent into irregular angles.
People that pronounce “jaguar” with a long “i” sound in it should have to attend compulsory training aimed at stopping drawl overcorrection like this. Maybe it could be a 12-Step program or something. I can see the leader up in front of the group now. She could say something like, “OK, it’s not like you are saying something really hillbilly like ‘I shore could use some new tars on muh car’ when you say ‘jaguar’. It’s OK to say that short ‘a’ sound. It’s not really an ‘i’ sound is it? See? It’s fine. Take a deep breath and say ‘It would be nice to buy some new tires for my Jaguar.’”
Before any of my fellow southern brothers pounce on me for that, let me say that if you do need some “tars for your car” and you say it that way naturally then more power to you. I know what you mean. You are just displaying your natural accent. You’re not overcompensating for it and saying something really stupid like “I-ee really des-eye-r some new t-eye-rs for my Jagwire.” It’s that whole pretentious “I’m better than everyone around me and I’m going to prove it by talking more sophisticated than they do” kind of attitude that really barbecues my hamhocks. See – I told you I was from the South.
I think I will share this after all. Hope you liked it.
This is not anything that anyone in their right mind should care the least bit about, but it’s my word processor so I’ll write about what I want. Get your own. (Can you tell I’m worked up about this?)
I live in the South – in Tennessee to be exact. I’ve always lived in the South. I was born in Tennessee and have lived between here and Florida for nearly all of my life. I spent a few years in North Carolina along the way, but that’s still the South. I’m not ashamed of being Southern. It’s part of who I am and I am proud of many of the things that make the South great. I’m speaking generally here, but people are friendly, food is good, the weather is tolerable, the scenery is nice and for the most part, we’re all pretty much caught up to the 21st century now.
One thing that everyone notices about the South is the southern accent that people here have. It’s more pronounced in some than others, and there are subtle differences between regions. All in all, it’s generally a charming part of the landscape. It can get confusing sometimes though. I can recall an episode when my mother first met the girl who would eventually be my wife. We were at my parents’ house in Sarasota. Ellen (who is from Ohio – not the South) was talking to my mother (who was born in East Tennessee and was about as southern as they come). Mom made some comment about the temperature in the house being too high and said, “I’m gonna have to adjust the ‘aaahr’.” I don’t know if I got that spelling correct. It’s not really the pirate sound. That’s more like “AAAARRRRGH!” This had more of the short “a” sound you hear in words like “cat” or “abalone”. It wasn’t exactly like that, but that’s close. I dare you to find a valid English word with an “r” sound after a sound like that. That’s why it’s so hard to spell. You see, what my mom was trying to say was “air”. She needed to adjust the thermostat controlling the air conditioner in the house. Well, it came out “aaahr” or something like that due to the drawl and Ellen had no idea what it meant. The rest of the conversation went something like this…
Ellen: “What?”
Mom: “I have to adjust the aaahr.”
Ellen: “You have to do what?”
Mom: “Adjust that aaahr.”
Ellen: “What do you need to adjust?”
Mom: “The aaahr. You know, the aaahr.”
Ellen: “No. I don’t know. What’s an aaahr?”
Mom: “You know – the aaahr.”
It went on like this for probably five solid minutes before mom said “conditioner” after “aaahr” and Ellen finally put the equation together.
Now comes the ranting part.
There are some individuals living in the South who think that they sound less than brilliant if they allow their drawl to creep into conversation. So they try to disguise it. They adopt a kind of generic accent that is a hodgepodge of dialects found in the community around them. I have to admit, I did this to a certain degree in high school. My last name has a long “i” sound in it. When I introduced myself and pronounced it “Wraaaht” (Hey, there’s that cat/abalone sound again!) I caught a lot of grief. So I adjusted a bit and learned to rhyme my name with things like “kite” and “smite” and “anthracite”. That worked out OK. That’s not where the problem is. The problem is with people who, in their attempts to hide the drawl, overdo it and overcorrect words that don’t need correcting. There is one word in particular that absolutely makes me cringe every time I hear someone mispronounce it due to this kind of overcorrection. What makes it really super annoying is that even people from the North and West do it. I assume they are doing it so that they don’t get mistaken for a hillbilly or something. Heaven forbid!
By now you are probably wondering what this word is. It’s a word for a type of automobile and also an animal after which the automobile was named. Jaguar. It grates on my nerves to no end when I hear someone say something like “Did you see Billy Ray’s new car? Man it’s nice. It’s one of them Jagwires.”
AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!”
People. Listen. It’s not JagWIRE, it’s Jaguar. The online resource, Dictionary.com has this entry on it…
http://www.dictionary.com/search?q=jaguar
I’ll let you check it out on your own. You will find that there are two acceptable pronunciations for this word – neither of them alludes to thin strands of copper bent into irregular angles.
People that pronounce “jaguar” with a long “i” sound in it should have to attend compulsory training aimed at stopping drawl overcorrection like this. Maybe it could be a 12-Step program or something. I can see the leader up in front of the group now. She could say something like, “OK, it’s not like you are saying something really hillbilly like ‘I shore could use some new tars on muh car’ when you say ‘jaguar’. It’s OK to say that short ‘a’ sound. It’s not really an ‘i’ sound is it? See? It’s fine. Take a deep breath and say ‘It would be nice to buy some new tires for my Jaguar.’”
Before any of my fellow southern brothers pounce on me for that, let me say that if you do need some “tars for your car” and you say it that way naturally then more power to you. I know what you mean. You are just displaying your natural accent. You’re not overcompensating for it and saying something really stupid like “I-ee really des-eye-r some new t-eye-rs for my Jagwire.” It’s that whole pretentious “I’m better than everyone around me and I’m going to prove it by talking more sophisticated than they do” kind of attitude that really barbecues my hamhocks. See – I told you I was from the South.
I think I will share this after all. Hope you liked it.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Ada Wright - Bane of Mice
We always knew when there were mice in the house. They left droppings in the kitchen that my mother would find. Usually, they would be on top of the sliding cover that was inside what used to be a flour drawer.
We had a green linoleum countertop in our kitchen. It was kind of a cloudy green sort of speckled with lighter green irregular spots. I imagine a lot of houses built in the 1940s and 50s had this kind of countertop. The edge was rimmed with a fluted chrome strip. The strip was screwed into the wooden substrate every foot or so with shiny silver Philips head screws. Above and below this countertop were cabinets made of knotty pine. They didn’t appear to have any kind of stain applied, but they were coated in some kind of clear varnish that made them look a bit satiny. The drawer pulls and handles were simple cast iron strips that had slightly scalloped edges. The scalloped pattern was echoed in a row of short oak planks arranged vertically over the sink. These round-bottom planks were the cornice for the curtains my mother used to look through while standing at the sink cleaning vegetables from the garden or washing dishes. From here she could easily watch me play on the carport, in the gravel driveway or out in the large, grassless area that served as my basketball court. Mom was always watchful and very protective. This is what caused trouble for the mice.
Mice were just about the dirtiest thing my mother could think of and were therefore forever forbidden from being anywhere near the food her children were going to eat. The flour drawer was not used for flour. It was rather a handy little mini-pantry of sorts. Mom kept boxes of pasta, bags of rice and some canned food in that drawer. Mouse droppings on top of the sliding cover meant that mice were plundering in the drawer for food. They had to go.
The preferred method of mouse disposal at my house was the standard Victor wooden spring trap. It was adorned with a big letter “V” in red ink that covered most of the base of the trap. Fastened to this platform were the deadly workings of the trap – a spring, a catch, a bait holder/trigger and the dreaded u-shaped bar. Popped popcorn was the bait of choice. Sometimes it was adorned with a smidge of peanut butter for extra enticement. The trap was set before bedtime and placed in the cabinet just below the flour drawer.
During the night, the intruder would be foraging for food and inevitably find the bait perched temptingly on the trap. This usually happened after we had all gone to bed, but before we were really asleep. Teetering between conscious thought and dreams, we were occasionally startled by the sudden snap of the trap. Mom was always the first one to the kitchen to check for victims. Usually, the trap did its job and the rodent would be expired with its neck crushed by the bar. Occasionally, the mouse would spring the trap and make off with the bait without being caught. I always wished I could witness such a feat, but it was always done in secret so the magic was never discovered.
On one occasion, something happened in between instant death and scot-free escape. The familiar snap sound was followed by a kind of frantic rattling, scuffling sound coming from inside the cabinet door. I jumped out of bed and arrived in the kitchen only moments after my mother got there. I was greeted by a scene that will forever be burned into my brain for as long as I live. Mom was standing there in her long pink nightgown. In her hand was a hammer. Yes, a hammer. She was bent over at the waist peering into the open cabinet door. As I drew closer I could see the trap inside. It was bouncing around the cabinet floor with a particularly unfortunate mouse attached to it. The mouse’s right foreleg had been caught by the bar and it was hopelessly fastened to the base of the trap by the crushing metal bar. The mouse was clearly far from dead. It was seriously wounded, however, and flopping around in Mom’s cabinet making all kinds of racket. Something had to be done. Mom couldn’t let the mouse go. Crippled as it was, it was still a filthy mouse and it had to go. She couldn’t pick up the trap and fling it outside. The mouse was jumping around franticly and it might end up touching her hand if she made a grab for it. This is where the hammer came in. Mom leaned over the bouncing mouse and poised the hammer over its head about two inches. Of course, it was moving up and down and side to side in its efforts to free itself, but in general she was above its head. She waited for what seemed like twenty or thirty seconds and then – at the precise moment of opportunity - tapped the mouse firmly on the skull with the hammer. It was kind of a flicking motion that did not drive the mouse’s head to the floor but rather struck it with a solid clicking noise and then bounced back. What happened to the mouse could be straight out of a cartoon. At the exact moment that the metal hammer head made contact with the furry mouse skull all movement from the mouse stopped. It seemed like it froze the mouse in mid-spasm. It was amazing. It was gruesome and disturbing to be sure, but it was also fascinating how Mom literally “turned off” the mouse with that one well-placed blow. Not nearly as daunted by this skillful display of mouse-slaying prowess as I was, Mom picked up the trap from the end farthest from the mouse with one finger and her thumb and carried it and the dangling frozen body outside to the trash. She came back in and went straight back to bed. I don’t think Dad even woke up.
You might think this story is a little odd and you might even be thinking that Mom was a little bit harsh, but consider this. My mother loved her family and kept them second only to God in her list of priorities. She had a no-nonsense kind of attitude about taking care of her kids. Danger - in all forms - had to be kept at bay. I saw this trait in her mother as well. Some jobs were grim and unpleasant, but it was all part of a mother's duty to her children. Mom passed away in 2005, leaving behind a long string of great memories and valuable lessons for me. Every time I have to chase a spider in the house or clean up after a sick child I lean on those lessons. Thanks, Mom. Thanks for waging war on the mice and making me a better parent in the process.
We had a green linoleum countertop in our kitchen. It was kind of a cloudy green sort of speckled with lighter green irregular spots. I imagine a lot of houses built in the 1940s and 50s had this kind of countertop. The edge was rimmed with a fluted chrome strip. The strip was screwed into the wooden substrate every foot or so with shiny silver Philips head screws. Above and below this countertop were cabinets made of knotty pine. They didn’t appear to have any kind of stain applied, but they were coated in some kind of clear varnish that made them look a bit satiny. The drawer pulls and handles were simple cast iron strips that had slightly scalloped edges. The scalloped pattern was echoed in a row of short oak planks arranged vertically over the sink. These round-bottom planks were the cornice for the curtains my mother used to look through while standing at the sink cleaning vegetables from the garden or washing dishes. From here she could easily watch me play on the carport, in the gravel driveway or out in the large, grassless area that served as my basketball court. Mom was always watchful and very protective. This is what caused trouble for the mice.
Mice were just about the dirtiest thing my mother could think of and were therefore forever forbidden from being anywhere near the food her children were going to eat. The flour drawer was not used for flour. It was rather a handy little mini-pantry of sorts. Mom kept boxes of pasta, bags of rice and some canned food in that drawer. Mouse droppings on top of the sliding cover meant that mice were plundering in the drawer for food. They had to go.
The preferred method of mouse disposal at my house was the standard Victor wooden spring trap. It was adorned with a big letter “V” in red ink that covered most of the base of the trap. Fastened to this platform were the deadly workings of the trap – a spring, a catch, a bait holder/trigger and the dreaded u-shaped bar. Popped popcorn was the bait of choice. Sometimes it was adorned with a smidge of peanut butter for extra enticement. The trap was set before bedtime and placed in the cabinet just below the flour drawer.
During the night, the intruder would be foraging for food and inevitably find the bait perched temptingly on the trap. This usually happened after we had all gone to bed, but before we were really asleep. Teetering between conscious thought and dreams, we were occasionally startled by the sudden snap of the trap. Mom was always the first one to the kitchen to check for victims. Usually, the trap did its job and the rodent would be expired with its neck crushed by the bar. Occasionally, the mouse would spring the trap and make off with the bait without being caught. I always wished I could witness such a feat, but it was always done in secret so the magic was never discovered.
On one occasion, something happened in between instant death and scot-free escape. The familiar snap sound was followed by a kind of frantic rattling, scuffling sound coming from inside the cabinet door. I jumped out of bed and arrived in the kitchen only moments after my mother got there. I was greeted by a scene that will forever be burned into my brain for as long as I live. Mom was standing there in her long pink nightgown. In her hand was a hammer. Yes, a hammer. She was bent over at the waist peering into the open cabinet door. As I drew closer I could see the trap inside. It was bouncing around the cabinet floor with a particularly unfortunate mouse attached to it. The mouse’s right foreleg had been caught by the bar and it was hopelessly fastened to the base of the trap by the crushing metal bar. The mouse was clearly far from dead. It was seriously wounded, however, and flopping around in Mom’s cabinet making all kinds of racket. Something had to be done. Mom couldn’t let the mouse go. Crippled as it was, it was still a filthy mouse and it had to go. She couldn’t pick up the trap and fling it outside. The mouse was jumping around franticly and it might end up touching her hand if she made a grab for it. This is where the hammer came in. Mom leaned over the bouncing mouse and poised the hammer over its head about two inches. Of course, it was moving up and down and side to side in its efforts to free itself, but in general she was above its head. She waited for what seemed like twenty or thirty seconds and then – at the precise moment of opportunity - tapped the mouse firmly on the skull with the hammer. It was kind of a flicking motion that did not drive the mouse’s head to the floor but rather struck it with a solid clicking noise and then bounced back. What happened to the mouse could be straight out of a cartoon. At the exact moment that the metal hammer head made contact with the furry mouse skull all movement from the mouse stopped. It seemed like it froze the mouse in mid-spasm. It was amazing. It was gruesome and disturbing to be sure, but it was also fascinating how Mom literally “turned off” the mouse with that one well-placed blow. Not nearly as daunted by this skillful display of mouse-slaying prowess as I was, Mom picked up the trap from the end farthest from the mouse with one finger and her thumb and carried it and the dangling frozen body outside to the trash. She came back in and went straight back to bed. I don’t think Dad even woke up.
You might think this story is a little odd and you might even be thinking that Mom was a little bit harsh, but consider this. My mother loved her family and kept them second only to God in her list of priorities. She had a no-nonsense kind of attitude about taking care of her kids. Danger - in all forms - had to be kept at bay. I saw this trait in her mother as well. Some jobs were grim and unpleasant, but it was all part of a mother's duty to her children. Mom passed away in 2005, leaving behind a long string of great memories and valuable lessons for me. Every time I have to chase a spider in the house or clean up after a sick child I lean on those lessons. Thanks, Mom. Thanks for waging war on the mice and making me a better parent in the process.
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