Saved for Greater Things

Tristan and his wife, Jess.

When we were teenagers, my husby and I got involved in theatre.

And stayed involved.

This year marks 42 years for me.

And slightly more for him.

I know, I know. Do the math.

That makes us both . . . old.

But we love it.

We raised our children on the stage.

All six.

Our most recent production, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers closed last night.

To a standing ovation.

Our youngest son, Tristan was singing the role of Adam.

And as I watched him, I couldn't help but remember his first time on stage, at the age of 5.

We weren't sure if he would remember lines, so we made him a mute.

Big mistake.

He hasn't stopped talking since.

Then I thought about all of the roles he has had in his short lifetime.

And other experiences he has had on the stage.

Let me tell you about one.

We were setting up the stage for a production of “I Hate Hamlet”.

Look it up. It's funny.

We were trying different configurations with our set pieces.

One piece, a double glass door in it's own frame, was built by a home builder.

He hadn't understood that set pieces were supposed to drag around easily.

And be . . . light.

He had built it according to building code requirements.

So . . . definitely not light.

We had stood it up and were discussing where it should go in the grand scheme of things.

My son, Tristan was sitting innocently in a chair on stage, waiting for his parents to finish moving furniture around.

We stepped away from the door, intent on another piece of scenery.

And that's when it tipped.

The door, I mean.

Forward.

Towards my son.

It was one of those things that you could see happening.

But were powerless to stop.

For a moment, time slowed to a crawl.

The door dropped.

Down.

Down.

And smacked the back of our son's chair off.

Really.

A large, heavy, wooden chair.

Broke the back right off.

Our son turned and looked.

The door had missed him by a whisker.

I watched him singing last night.

And thought about that wall falling towards him so many years ago.

Obviously preserved for greater things.

The End of Slavery

Dad and some of his many slaves . . .

My Dad didn't have children.

He had slaves.

At least that is how his children saw it . . .

Dad worked hard.

Doing . . . ranch stuff.

It took him most of the day.

Every day.

When he came in at the end of the day, his chair looked really, really good.

And it took great motivation to entice him to leave it.

Great motivation.

Silly little things like removing one's work boots or tossing things in the garbage weren't nearly big enough.

Thus it was necessary to find other ways to accomplish these things.

That's where we came in.

His six little, willing slaves.

Every evening, one of us would be chosen for the distinct honour (his words) of helping Dad remove his boots.

This was a fairly simple operation, easily accomplished by a pair of small, eager hands, a backside and a large foot.

Don't get the wrong idea.

There was no kicking involved . . .

The large person seated in the chair would lift his booted foot.

The smaller person, standing, would turn their back and straddle the lifted foot.

Then they would grasp the boot.

That's where the large foot came in.

While the small hands gripped the boot, the large foot would apply pressure to the small backside.

Small person, and boot, would be moved, slowly, away from the large person.

Until, at last, the boot would drop to the floor.

Surgery completed.

The second boot would follow the first and much toe-wiggling comfort would be achieved.

And, more importantly, no one who had been working hard all day would have moved out of his chair.

Utopia. (That's another word for Paradise, I looked it up . . .)

Moving on . . .

Dad was also reluctant to leave his chair for such frivolities as throwing things in the garbage.

Call in the slaves once more.

Dad always finished the evening meal with a toothpick.

I know, I know, the rest of the world would infinitely prefer ice cream, but what can I say?

Dad even followed his ice cream with a toothpick.

That's just Dad.

He even had a preference.

For toothpicks, I mean.

He liked the wooden ones.

Which he would then proceed to chew into a little ball of pulp.

Umm . . . ick.

Now in our earlier years, us kids could always be counted on to receive the little ball of 'ick' and drop it into the proper receptacle.

As we grew older, we got, for want of a better term, smarter.

We found other places to be when Dad got to the end of his little splinter of wood.

Dad had to get . . . creative.

My Mom had a plant.

A beautiful pineapple plant.

She had grown it from the cut off top of a pineapple imported from her and Dad's trip to Hawaii.

I think the rules for bringing fruit across the border were different then.

But I digress . . .

It was large.

Really large.

And it sat on the floor right beside Dad's chair.

He's only human, he can't be blamed for what happened next.

He called out for a child.

Any child.

We were all hidden in the family room.

Giggling.

He sighed and looked for someplace to deposit his little, wooden offering.

Huh. A large, leafy plant.

Right beside him.

If Mom hadn't wanted it tampered with, she should have found somewhere else to put it.

He hid his little lump of sawdust in the pot.

Under the convenient leaves.

Mission accomplished.

Hey, that worked great!

And there wasn't a sign of anything!

He had discovered something new and wonderful.

Especially when one was blessed with slacker children.

Like us . . .

He did it the next night.

And the next.

And for many, many nights afterwards.

Then, one day, when Mom was taking care of her beloved plant, she noticed that it wasn't looking very healthy.

She pulled out the pot to investigate.

I don't have to tell you what she found.

At this point, the layer of chewed up bits of toothpick was a couple of inches deep.

The plant was obviously as fond of them as us kids were.

And protesting in the only way it could.

By dying.

Okay, yes, that is a bit extreme, but it was a plant.

You have to admit it didn't have many options.

Huffily (real word), Mom moved the plant somewhere . . . not close to Dad.

And put a garb,age container beside his chair.

Then,soon after, made him wear shoes.

Everyone was happy.

We have all moved away from home.

Dad still has a garbage can beside his chair.

And he still wears shoes that he can remove by himself.

But when we were visiting a short time ago, he initiated our oldest granddaughter in the fine art of helping Great-Grandpa remove said shoes.

It was a short walk down memory lane (in work boots).

Tenting for Dummies

George and Me, before our architect days

Tenting was my favorite thing in the world.

I could happily sit for hours in my soft, quiet shelter. Immersed in my own little world. Miles away from the business and bustle of life.
Or at least inches away.
On the other side of my blanket.
And my chair.
Oh, and the all-important pillow.
Okay, so tent-making wasn't an art with me. In fact, you could probably say that it was . . . fairly inexpert, invariably consisting, as it did, of a blanket tossed over a chair and held in place by a pillow.
Frank Lloyd Wright, I wasn't.
But I still loved it. Hiding in a shelter erected solely by my own two little hands.
For a short while, I was the queen of my world.
Then, one day, I was introduced to a whole new world. My brother, George, deigned to join me.
Something, I might point out, that rarely happened . . .
And instructed me in the creation of a complex, blanket draped wonder.
George set up chairs and draped them with covers, connecting them to each other and holding each in place by different items, drawing heavily from the various 'objets d'art' that Mom had strewn about the room.
The blankets were pulled over to the couches, secured, and then drawn to the tables. There, they were again weighted into place.
Slowly, our little 'club house' grew until it covered the entire front room.
The two of us stood back and surveyed it proudly.
It had an entrance. And a back door. It had twisting tunnels and little rooms.
It was perfect.
I was quivering with excitement. I couldn't wait any longer. I dove in.
"Careful, Diane!" George said.
But he was too late.
My rash action pulled on one of the blankets.
In fact, the blanket that was being held in place by a large, ornate, plaster lamp.
Both slid from the table.
The blanket survived.
The lamp didn't.
George and I stared, aghast, at the mass of wreckage.
And then, like a figure of doom, Mom appeared in the doorway.
"What are you two . . . my lamp!"
There was no hiding it.
There was our intricate web of blankets, furniture and bric-a-brac.
To one side, a limply hanging corner.
And, beside it, the broken lamp.
Even a fool could have figured out what had happened. And Mom certainly wasn't a fool.
"Did you kids use my lamp for your fort?"
How did one answer that? I mean, couldn't she see it?
George was braver than me.
"It was Diane's idea."
I stared at him. "It was not!" I said, hotly.
"Was too."
"Was not!"
"Too."
"Not!"
Okay, so our arguments could never have been classified as intelligent.
"Too."
"Not!"
"Too."
"Not!"
"Okay, enough!" Mom had worked her way gingerly across the sea of blankets, plucking up breakables as she went.
Finally, she reached the lamp. That lamp which, with it's matching big brother, had been a gift from Dad.
She set down the other objects she was carrying and stared down at it.
Then she looked at us.
"Ummm. Sorry, Mom," I said. Not entirely original, but it was all I could think of.
Mom picked up the lamp. Then the pieces.
She looked . . . sad.
Mom never really had to discipline me. I could do it all by myself. I burst into tears. "Sssooorrry!"
She turned and looked at us once more. "I don't ever want you two playing with my things again."
"Oookaaay!" More tears.
I should have been on the stage.
Mom carried the pieces of her lamp out of the room without looking at us again.
And just like that, our fort was no long the wonder it had been. George and I folded the blankets and put things back.

Mom kept the lamp.
The back was smashed beyond repair, but the front was still fine. As long as she kept the broken part to the wall, it looked perfect.
To our 'waste not, want not' Mom, it was totally in character.
It haunted us for years.

I still like to tent.
But fortunately, my husband introduced me to such marvels as . . . tent poles. Pegs. Guy lines.
What it lacks in ingenuity, it certainly makes up for in convenience.
And unbreakable-ness.