Skip to main content

Lessons from the van, Part One

I was tired.

It had been a long, long day.

School. Work. Latin. More Latin. Homework.

Then the, "Honey can you pick up the kids?" phone call.

Thankfully, the parking lot of Incredible Pizza is big and they don't mind if you hang out in the fire lane (at least as long as you stay in your car).

So I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The kids didn't want to leave. Karen went back inside for a meeting, and Zach wasn't happy.

More waiting.

Then, the storm.

For some unknown reason, the youngest Carter — now sporting a bad attitude and three teeth — started crying. The cries quickly became a scream.

A real, loud, destroy-your-hearing scream.

Seriously, Zach was not happy — he went from screaming to crying and wailing, then he broke out the soul-wrenching, window shattering unhappy screams.

Now I understand why some parents murder their children.

Nothing I did, absolutely nothing, could make Zach happy. The screaming -- at several decibels higher than the average Van Halen concert -- continued non-stop for 10 minutes.

The kids arrived.

I shoved them in the van, slammed the doors shut, and drove quickly to the exit. Home was only a couple of miles away, but already my teeth felt like I'd eaten several lemons.

More screaming.

Then, from the back, I heard Sara say quietly, "Sing Ethan. That always works."

Softly, my 13-year-old son began to sing the folk song, "Big Rock Candy Mountain" to his nine-month-old brother.

Sara joined in. So did Clayton.

Their voices were low and, as I looked in the mirror, each of them sang directly to their little brother. They touched his tiny hands and looked directly at him.

I continued to drive, then realized that several minutes had passed and Zach had calmed down.

No more screaming.

Just quiet.

Then only sounds were those of my children singing a song by Ben Folds to their now sleeping baby brother.

They didn't see me smile. They didn't understand that by their simple act, they'd taken me full circle again.

You see, it was 13 years ago, on a cool fall night just like this one that, I, too, had driven the streets of Oklahoma City singing to a tiny red-haired boy who was screaming at the top of his lungs.

The song was by Gordon Lightfoot. And, after a while that tiny boy had also gone to sleep.

Funny, that little boy was now the one doing the singing.

And I simply smiled in the dark.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Ex-pastor suing Moore's First Baptist Church

MOORE — A former official with Moore’s First Baptist Church is suing the church for his termination, and for “spreading false rumors about his mental health throughout the community,” court documents show. Jimmie D. Lady, the church’s associate pastor, filed the suit in Cleveland County District Court last week seeking $10,000 in actual damages and $10,000 in punitive damages for “severe emotional distress and mental anguish as a result of statements made about him when his job was terminated.” Lady’s attorney, Andrew Hicks of Houston, claimed church officials terminated Lady for being bi-polar, then spread rumors about Lady in the community. “Although a man of God, Dr. Lady cannot ignore the dramatic, adverse effects these untrue and unfair accusations have had on him and his family,” Hicks said. “First Baptist Moore’s efforts to tarnish Dr. Lady’s reputation have threatened his family’s livelihood. Through this suit, we hope to restore Dr. Lady’s good name.” Church officials denied
5 comments
Read more

If I were a chef...

If I were a chef, I’d spend early Wednesday mornings at the Farmers Market. I’d get there around 7 a.m., when the produce was wet and fresh and the day was young and the people were still drinking their coffee. If I were a chef, I’d wait patiently while the wrinkled granny lady individually fondled all 631 tomatoes on the table in front of her. I’d quietly tap my foot as she sniffed and touched each of the red, buxom vegetables before she finally selected two, and paid for them. I’d do that, if I were a chef. If I were a chef, I buy peaches — boxes and boxes of peaches. I’d buy them from the old, snaggle-toothed man with the radiant smile whose booth sits to the right of the entrance to the fairgrounds building. I’d buy his peaches because I know the old man understands fruit and earth and trees, better than anyone else there. I’d smile as his wrinkled, gnarly hand gently placed peach after peach in my basket. And I’d give him a sly wink after he handed me a bruised, but succulent pea
5 comments
Read more

The Night Shift

  You can tell the ones who work the night shift.             Their bodies move slowly, bathed in the yellowish amber glow of neon. Exhausted by the day and drained by fear, they seek refuge beneath the glass and steel that – at this moment – is their home. Their faces betray them. Their smiles have given way to pain. They are pale and gaunt with dark eyes and hollow, almost lifeless expressions. This is not their true being, mind you, just the mask of wear and worry assigned them by the night shift.             They have no time for fun or laughter. Under the steel and glass there is no smoky jazz club, no the out-of-the way bistro. Here, instead are the operating theaters and the nurses’ stations, their walls covered in drab paint. Here is the worn tiled floor, the proof of a billion footsteps. This is the night shift. Those assigned didn’t seek the task – it found them. Once the decision was made – surgery, hospitalization, medicine – they were placed in the cue like so many oth
Post a Comment
Read more