gerbils

We had gerbils many years ago when the four oldest boys were young. The boys liked to make mazes out of blocks and run the gerbils through them, among other entertaining things. One day Jesse (about 6 years old) picked up his gerbil by the tail and swung it around; who knows why. The swinging twisted the skin at the base of his tail, causing the skin to break and slide right off the tail. The gerbil went flying, leaving Jesse holding the empty tube of furry tail skin. What to do… We tried sliding the skin back on the tail and taping it, but it didn’t work. I actually can’t remember what finally happened, perhaps it was just so horrible my subconscious has blocked it. Thankfully Jesse won’t be doing THAT to Jim & Pam, they’ll just be terrorized by a cat with a penchant for furry little critters.

The Case of Paul Drake's Dilemma

One of my purposes in watching all the old Perry Mason videos has been to find the only case I remember seeing many years ago. I remember it because of the very poignant final scene. I found it this week! It originally aired November 14th, 1959

Paul’s gun is used in a murder after Paul is knocked unconscious on a job. There are several suspects, each with a compelling motive for the murder, but things get complicated when a wealthy patriarch uses his money and influence to manipulate the evidence so as to cast suspicious away from his own children. Perry defends Paul, and eventually the truth comes out. In the final scene, Perry is summoned to the mansion of the millionaire, who is so delighted that none of his children was the murderer, that he hands Perry a generous check.

“There you are, sir, a very small token, I grant you.”
“Is this what you wanted to see me about?”
“Of course it is, and I’m sending an even bigger one to Paul Drake. Do you realize how foolish I feel after all my efforts to steer the course of events?”
“You very nearly steered them into causing a great injustice; Marsden might have confessed earlier if he hadn’t seen that you were helping to cover everything up.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought it was necessary.”
“That’s the tragedy, Mr. Dameron.”
“What is?”
“You know when I leave here, I’m meeting Paul Drake at a restaurant. He’ll pick up the check for dinner; that’ll be the fee for my services. He’s just a friend, but I never once doubted his innocence.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Mr. Dameron, I’ve never before met a person so far removed from humanity that he believed every one of his own children capable of committing murder.”

Perry picks up the check, tears it in pieces, and tosses it on the desk as he walks out.

a better route home

Last night I was reminded of a sweet memory from my childhood in the small college town of Rexburg, Idaho. It was 1962, I was 9 years old. I had spent the day with my best friend, Laurel Zollinger. Their large family had a nice home and I always felt welcome there. They had a lovely playhouse in their back yard but it wasn’t as popular as the fabulous mud hole at one end of the long driveway where I learned to “bake.” We made such wonderful delicacies from that rich Idaho soil and never-ending supply of the finest ingredients: cinnamon sugar (sand), nuts (gravel),dried fruits (leaves)… Our creations were laid out on a seemingly endless length of 2x4 to bake in the sun.

This particular day we baked until after dark, when the “oven” cooled down, and although it was a straight shot for me to walk only two blocks to my home, Laurel asked her dad if he would drive us there. I was a little embarrassed to bother him, but Laurel insisted, and I thought I saw a little twinkle in her eye. Her Dad agreed and we got in his car. He claimed to not know the way, so she happily agreed to give him directions and thus began a nice little wild-goose chase through our neighborhood. “Turn right here, then turn left at the next street, then go strait for two blocks and turn right again…”

A good ten minutes later I was getting nervous that he would have enough of this nonsense and just drop me off at the next stop sign to find my own way home. But he was quite agreeable to play along, even when her directions led us right to the A&W drive-in! “Well, lookie here,” he said, feigning surprise, “I must have gone right when you said left! Well, as long as we’re here, let’s get us a root beer!” And so we did. My nervousness subsided as he happily handed us our mugs. We all enjoyed our treats and then, surprise, he knew right where I lived…

I was terribly impressed with Laurel’s cleverness, but touched more by the father, who was willing to take the time to make a sweet memory for a child. He knew the better route home after all.

the month of love

The year is flying by and already we are into February, the month of love. Valentine’s Day became my favorite holiday way back in second grade when Tony gave ME the prettiest valentine anyone in my class received. The other second-graders sure made fun of him, of us, for that daring public gesture of tender affection. Although we never spoke of it, there was a quiet understanding between us until he moved away a few weeks later. Sweet Tony never realized how much it meant to me to be that “Special Someone” to “Someone Special” (perhaps that is why I never forgot his name). For me, it began a quest to discover the magic that is love. As with so many things, it is easier to discover what it “isn’t” than what it “is”; there’s an awful lot of counterfeit love out there. But real, true love is something we all want and need, something to make life worth living. And so for each day in this shortest month of the year, I will share with you something I have learned about love. I hope you will share it with your “Someone Special”!

Merry Christmas!

Family photo from 1994

sneak peek

When I was young I discovered one of my “talents” is the ability to open gifts without damaging the paper/ribbons, etc. This skill came in quite handy during my teenage years when holiday secrets became just too much to handle. I could open a gift for a sneak peek and restore the wrappings to their original condition with no one else the wiser for it. There was one year that I knew what was in every package under the tree. I was very good…

One year I was babysitting while my parents were away for the evening so enlisted my 4-yr. old brother, Jared, in the “fun activity” to pass the time. We talked about how exciting it would be, how to keep it a secret, all those things a criminal stresses to an accomplice. He was in, so I let him choose the first one. We opened only a few, since we expected my parents wouldn’t be gone too long. The gifts were back under the tree looking pristine when my parents got home. I winked and smiled at Jared as a way to remind him not to fold. But he just fell apart. He spilled the beans about the whole thing; my parents could hardly understand him through his sobbing.

Well, the truth was out and oddly, there was no fallout. My parents weren’t upset by what we had done, they figured it was OK with them if I wanted to ruin the surprise for myself… I comforted Jared and asked what had happened. Apparently he couldn’t handle the guilt any more than I could handle the anticipation. I was sorry I’d wounded his tender spirit.

Somehow the experience cured me of the anticipation woes and since then I haven’t had trouble keeping my anticipation in check. I rarely use those skills anymore, unless I forget to take a tag off or include a gift receipt; and then I don’t feel much excitement, I just think to myself, “Oh, bother; I should have used a gift bag.”

silent night

The earliest Christmas I remember was when I was five. We lived in Baltimore where my father was attending school. We lived in a row house on Pimlico Street, near the race track. The bedrooms were upstairs, mine was the one in the middle and had a skylight. How I loved that skylight! It seemed to be a window into the heavens and most nights I counted stars as I drifted into happy dreams. But not on that Christmas eve. I was very sick with an ear infection. Wisps of hair, damp with sweat, curled about my fevered face and if I drifted off to sleep it was only momentarily as pain roused me awake again. I stayed still and quiet so as not to wake the others sleeping in the next rooms. The hours dragged and I wondered if morning would ever come. The skylight was my friend and comfort during those quiet, ‘though not peaceful, hours. I studied the stars more carefully that night and let myself be carried away in my imagination to that “night of nights” when the Baby Jesus was born. Was I looking at His star through my skylight? Which one would it be? Certainly His would stand out; certainly His would be the brightest. It would be special enough for the wise men to notice and know that it was finally time to begin that long-awaited journey of a lifetime. I pondered the glorious multitude of angels whose music was most surely the finest human ears had ever heard. Did I get to hear it; could it be that I was singing with them? I thought of the humble shepherds, bewildered by it all but worthy of that distinct honor of being the first to meet their Savior. Would I be worthy? And then I thought of Mary and Joseph, so carefully chosen for their most important roles. What were they like; was there a special role in His kingdom for me?

Morning came and my fever broke. Although weak, I joined my family to open gifts and managed to eat a little, a rather anticlimactic day to follow the “silent, holy night” I had been privileged to experience. I don’t wish anyone illness during the holiday season, neither would I deny such an experience to you; perhaps there is a way to have one without the other. One silent, sleepless night to enjoy and forever remember the wonder that is our Savior’s birth. He is the reason we celebrate, but more than that, He makes living worth it, giving everything we do purpose and meaning, and making everything we are matter immensely.

magic

Many years ago, when Isaac was about 4 years old, we visited my brother, Kirby. As well as being the quintessential teller of tall tales, Kirby is somewhat of a magician, specializing in card tricks. Naturally, my children, fascinated by his skills, gathered around to see his latest trick which used two decks of cards, a magic deck and an imaginary deck. The trick was that, as a member of the audience did something to the imaginary deck, the exact same thing would happen to the magic deck. Kirby demonstrated several times until the children were appropriately and totally amazed! Kirby was delighted with their reverence and awe and as a gesture of good will gave the magic deck to one of the older children (later teaching him how to do the trick himself) and gave the imaginary deck to Isaac. Isaac was beside himself with excitement and slipped it into the pocket of his shorts for safe keeping. It was promptly forgotten, or so I thought.

A few months later and back at home, I was folding laundry one day and Isaac came looking for a pair of shorts, putting on the very pair he was wearing that day at Kirby’s. He stuck his hands in the pockets, then a look of shock and dismay came over his face. I watched, puzzled, as he pulled out his hand, stared at the open, “empty” palm and said, “Oh no! I still have Uncle Kirby’s invisible cards!” My delight at his “discovery” had to be kept in check for the moment as we discussed the what-to-do of the situation. Not only had we kept them longer than was polite, they had been through the wash, probably more than once! We examined them carefully, but, having quite limited experience with “invisible” things, we couldn’t really tell if there had been any damage, or how severe it was (for all we knew, they were rendered impotent). We decided the appropriate thing to do would be to send them back to Uncle Kirby. We composed the perfect letter of apology, explaining the whole situation and expressing our profound feelings of regret that we may have ruined them. We enclosed it in an envelope with the cards and mailed it off that very day.

Weren’t we relieved to find out that the cards weren’t ruined at all, and Uncle Kirby was so great about it he just laughed and laughed… and laughed.

The Fork Incident

When I was twelve my mother remarried and three children became six with the addition of two step-brothers and a step-sister. They lived with their mother during the school year but came to stay with us during the summers and some holidays. During one visit, when my step-brother, Mike, and I were both 13, something happened that came to be known as “The Fork Incident”. This happened 45 years ago, but deserves the re-telling of my first-hand version, for over the years the incident has gained the status of folklore and the truth of it all has been lost to the effects of time…

One night for dinner my mother served pork chops, a very rare treat, indeed. Somehow as we all consumed the last bites of our share of this delicacy, we simultaneously noticed that there was one last, extra chop on the platter. It never occurred to most of us that there was the slightest possibility we would get some of it, but Mike, not one to ever be left out of a good thing, poised his fork, ready for a chance to go for it. His dad saw the greediness in his eyes and readied his own fork to go for it. There was a brief moment of stand-off with their eyes, the rest of us watching, wide-eyed with anticipation, we’d never seen an actual “duel to the death” before. Then, in an instant, forks flew, Mike stabbing the chop and Dad stabbing Mike’s hand!

This is where things get fuzzy; some story-tellers say that the fork didn’t even break the skin, others insist that Mike bled profusely. As I recall, of course I could be wrong, the fork punctured the skin and a few drops of blood came to the surface and oozed out. There are no scars, physically anyway, on Mike and no one seems to remember what happened to the chop; I daresay no one wanted it after that…

So if you hear a story of “The Fork Incident”, and there are many (even the half-brother and sisters born after the fact have their own versions), take it with a grain of salt. Kirby, the family’s quintessential teller of tall tales, has embellished his version so much over the years that no one can top his story in which Mike dies…

"cat"-napped

I have kept pretty good journals over the years, particularly of the doings of my young children (I wanted documentation). Although I didn’t get down everything noteworthy, I am very glad for what I did write, it is an important insight into the workings of developing individuals. Jesse’s journal has been a source of great delight to the whole family; there have been times when his siblings would be blue or bored and suggest, “Let’s read Jesse’s journals!” In no time they’d be rolling on the floor laughing so hard at the antics of that boy. There was the time he kicked a greenie Elder in the shin with his cowboy boots just because “He was looking at me funny.” And the time he went right up to a stranger smoking outside the library and told him, “You are going to die.” (Thankfully, the man took no offense, but agreed that smoking is very bad and cautioned him never to start). By the time Jesse was nine, we thought (hoped) he was growing out of some of his impulsiveness. But then we had a wild summer full of unusual adventures, culminating with the incident known as the “kidnapping”.

Neighbors down the street came knocking one day, looking for their missing cat; had we seen it? No, hadn’t seen it. The next day they came again, “Are you sure you haven’t seen it? We think Jesse might have it.” No, still hadn’t seen it. I thought it was peculiar that they thought Jesse had it, I didn’t know where he would have it; but then Jesse got blamed for a lot of things. The next day they came again, “We really think Jesse has our cat; we think he kidnapped it.” By this time I was getting a little perturbed and the Momma Bear began to emerge. “Jesse doesn’t have your cat! How in the world could Jesse kidnap your cat? The cat can jump over the fence; the cat can crawl under the gate. What makes you think Jesse has your cat?” My husband overheard the exchange and came to the door. In his mind was the thought, “If anyone could kidnap a cat, Jesse could… if anyone would kidnap a cat, it would be Jesse.” He told the neighbor children he’d check into it. He approached Aaron, Jesse’s younger brother and likely partner in crime. Aaron was at that lovely innocent age when lying is still a foreign concept. “Oh, yes, Jesse has a cat. He has him in a cage made of wood scraps, hidden in the alley up the street a ways. He’s had him for three days and has been taking him food and water. Wanna see it?” Jesse returned the cat to its rightful owners, wrote a heartfelt apology letter, and worked hard all afternoon making homemade cinnamon rolls as a peace offering.

Just when you think you’ve seen it all, children have a way of opening your eyes a little wider…