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.

Parking For Dummies

See? There's hardly any dent!

Driving is important.

At least when you live on a ranch a million miles from anywhere.

Well, not quite a million, but almost.

Moving on . . .

And it happened early.

Driving, I mean.

As soon as I was able to reach the pedals on the tractor and still hold onto the steering wheel,  I was driving.

Mowing, baling, stacking.

There were lots of reasons to perch me up on 'the beast' and start the engine.

But on a tractor, I had the entire field to turn around in.

And on the Stringam ranch, the fields were . . . large.

Enough background.

At the age of twelve, I graduated to the pickup.

Again, I was limited to travelling in the fields and doing ranch work.

But I was still driving.

And in control.

More or less.

One morning, bright and early, I decided to go for a ride.

I don't know why.

It was spring.

I'm an idiot.

Take your pick.

Anyways . . .

Because I was still a fairly new driver, and driving was still a treat, and because I was basically  lazy, I decided to take the pickup to the far corral where my horse, Peanuts was currently residing.

All went well.

I drove there and parked.

Spent an hour or so with my horse.

Drove back to the ranch house.

And that's where everything went wrong.

Sigh.

I should probably mention that I had gone riding very early. So by the time I returned, everyone was still in dreamland.

I drove carefully up to the carport situated, by the by, directly beneath my parent's bedroom.

And very, very carefully drove into it.

And I do mean 'into'.

Crunch.

Oops.

Frantically, I backed up.

And clipped the pillar again.

I tried to straighten out and hit it a third time.

And a fourth.

The truck just kept getting more and more . . . crooked.

Stupid machine.

Fifth.

Sixth.

This was going nowhere fast.

By now, my door and the pillar were probably looking like hamburger.

Can wood and/or metal look like hamburger?

And suddenly, there, standing in a shaft of early morning light, was my father.

Now I should explain to you that my Dad always wears pajamas.

Nicely pressed, matching button-up top with trousers (that Mom cuts off just below the knee and neatly hems).

They are quite a sight.

But I digress . . .

At this time, I only vaguely noted his light green PJ's.

Because Dad. Wasn't. Happy.

I let the engine die.

We stared at each other.

"What the hell is going on here?!"

Okay, he's a rancher. Sometimes they say 'hell'.

But only when really perturbed.

Usually when I'm around.

"It's okay. I can fix it!"

"Diane, get out of the truck!"

"I can fix it, Dad!"

He just looked at me.

I know that look. I've seen it before.

A few times.

Ahem . . .

I climbed sheepishly out of the truck and moved towards him.

"What on earth are you doing? You almost shook me right out of my bed!"

"Umm . . . I went for a ride."

"In the truck?"

"Well, Peanuts is clear over . . ."

"I know where Peanuts is."

"Well, I drove over there and went for a ride."

"At five o'clock in the morning?"

"Well, yes."

"Get in the house."

One never moves faster than when avoiding fallout. I knew this from past experience.

I disappeared in a heartbeat.

There were a couple of 'bruises' on the support of the carport.

And a dent in the truck door. (Which popped out when Dad went to get the mail and slammed the door.)

So the damage was relatively minor.

I did learn to drive.

For real.

But I'll always remember that first time.

And my Dad in his PJ's.

Some things you just never forget.