Have you ever witnessed that moment when two people realize that they actually know each other? A beautiful reunion from the distant past elicits such an expression of wonder and excitement. I got to watch such a reunion at work when a customer realized that one of my co-workers was her high school math teacher the very first year that she taught. "You used to have the longest, most beautiful hair!" she recalled with a nostalgic expression. That's what caused me to remember my young, beautiful first grade teacher, Mrs. Scargle.
As the child of missionaries, I was able to begin the first grade in Abilene, Texas because we were back in the States on furlough. Mrs. Scargle was so kind and soft spoken that she was elevated in my mind almost as high as Haley Mills, although no one could attain that status entirely! I must give her full credit, because I was not an easy child in the classroom. This was before the days when ADHD was diagnosed so frequently. Had it been, I could easily have been the poster child.
Mrs. Scargle had a way of lowering her volume instead of increasing it when the classroom began to get too loud. It worked every time. I would see her speaking, but could not hear her over my own voice and I would pipe down so I wouldn't miss anything. If I became too rambunctious, she would calmly make her way to my chair and put her hand on my shoulder to soothe me. That worked too. I was so eager to please her that all she had to do when disciplining me was to tell me how disappointed she was in my behavior and I was devastated and determined to do better (for at least 5 minutes).
But "incidents" seemed inevitable. Like that infamous game of Duck, Duck, Goose. I promise it was an accident!
My best friends in the class were boys. I honestly don't know why, but it was undeniable. A girl (let's call her Debbie) was racing around our game circle trying to catch my good buddy (let's call him John) when I noticed that she was gaining on him. That was unacceptable! John must NOT be caught! In desperation I reached my hand behind me to slow her progress as she flew past just in time to grasp the hem of her dress. RIIIIIIIP! The unmistakable sound of fabric tearing filled the playground. I quickly let go of her dress, but I had torn most of the skirt clear off of the bodice. I was horrified, but of course I couldn't undo the damage. She huddled in Mrs. Scargle's arms sobbing over her damaged dress while my hero, the beautiful and sweet Mrs. Scargle, tried to keep the fabric modestly over poor Debbie. My goose was cooked. I was so sorry, but all the other children were glaring at me and I had no defense. The disappointment in Mrs. Scargle's eyes as she talked to me later was almost too much to bear.
The year had its ups and downs. One highlight concerned my birthday party. Since we had been living in Japan for years and my parents did not really know the other parents at school, they sent me to school with 12 Birthday party invitations and instructions to carefully hand them out to my friends because we couldn't afford to ask everyone to come. I did as instructed. When my party day finally arrived I was so excited. I got to wear my brand new party dress with the pretty sash in the back, and the back yard was all set up for games and cake.
My friends started to arrive. John, Billy, Andrew...one by one they came until all twelve were there, and not one girl was among them. We moved back to Japan and I had many incredible teachers. But there was never anyone like Mrs. Scargle. I wondered where she might be after I grew into adulthood, but there was no internet back then, and I knew that I would probably never see her again. Imagine my surprise when I discovered one day that I was to have her daughter in a Sunday School class I was teaching! My work as a radio news reporter had brought me back to Abilene, Texas, and I had agreed to teach the eighth grade girls Sunday School class in
my new church.
I had worked in radio long enough to consider myself unflappable with nerves of steel. But when I realized that Mrs. Ann Scargle was a member of my church and I would be teaching her daughter, I was beyond scared. I had nightmares about tearing someone's dress.
Sunday morning arrived and I was careful to look my best and be on time (it had to happen one day). I had the opportunity to meet my ten young girls including Julie Scargle.
They probably didn't know how petrified I really was. We spent some time in introductions and I presented the lesson for which I had carefully prepared. We laughed and enjoyed the hour together and I mentally congratulated myself on the stellar job I was doing.
One of the girls arrived late and we had to squeeze another chair into our tiny room, so I pushed the door closed to create a space for the new chair. When it was time to break so we could attend the service I reversed the process. The only problem was that the door knob fell off in my hand and the door would not open. We were trapped! We had been having such a great time that we were the last small group to finish. No one else was in the outer room to hear my awkward pleas for release. (this was pre-cell phone of course) I don't remember how long we knocked and banged on the wall for our release, but it felt like eternity to me. I realized that all hope of creating a brilliant first impression with Mrs. Scargle was surely dashed.
After the church service that day I had my reunion with Mrs. Scargle. 
She was still beautiful and soft spoken. She was also very gracious about my inauspicious beginning as her daughter's Sunday School teacher. After all these years she was still encouraging and kind. We don't always get "do-overs" in life. Unexpected reunions are like "do-overs". Despite the fact that I did not get to present myself as mature, perfect, and qualified, I cannot deny that I was myself, and Mrs. Scargle was still loving and gracious. Everybody should get a "do-over" sometime.
Research has recently revealed that the adolescent and teenage brain are not fully developed. They require a few more years of development to mature in the area of critical thinking. Of course, all they had to do was ask the parents of adolescents and teenagers and they would have heard a chorus of, "Well...Duh!" There are no shortage of examples in most households (I hope). I have selected an example to which I fondly refer as "The Great Squirrel Caper."
It all started when my husband decided to relocate the burgeoning squirrel population in our back yard. In one day these deceptive creatures occasionally stripped all of the fruit off of our ripening peach and plum trees, and I don't mind telling you we did not regard them as "cute". They had been known to chew holes into peoples attics, chew the insulation off of electrical wires, and cause house fires. We were daydreaming of ways to catapult them across town in a giant sling shot, or load them on a freight train bound for LasVegas. But before we could move them, we had to catch them.
Steve bought a cage-like trap in which to capture the squirrels. This was to be step one. Based on my fifth amendment rights, I will not discuss steps two or three. But picture, if you will, my sons (ages 15 and 16) and several of their friends as they discovered two unrelated objects (at least they SHOULD be unrelated). First they encountered someone's discarded miniature dog harness. The type of contraption one might see on a chihuahua. Then they spotted the trap with a squirrel inside of it. Their warped little minds began to explore the possibilities! They could alter the size of the harness with duct tape (what can you NOT do with duct tape?) and they could take the squirrel for a walk! Of course! What could be more natural? Where might the best place be for this pet-walking exhibit? The Mall, of course!
The boys now had their goal and they were determined to see it through! Stephen, the budding young videographer, gathered his equipment, including a fresh video tape in the camera so that he could document this historic activity. Preston found a pair of his father's very heavy, protective, leather gloves to aid them in the actual harnessing process. The other boys altered the harness with the duct tape, and attached the small leash to it. In an effort to cover all their bases, the boys wisely decided they needed to complete the process in a contained area. They certainly did not want to lose their squirrel. They settled on the stairwell leading down to the basement level of the house. They closed the doors at the top of the stairs, the bedroom, the bathroom, and the door to the garage. So IF the squirrel should get away, it couldn't get too far.
With great anticipation and barely contained excitement, the boys took their positions. One behind the camera, one getting ready to open the trap, one with protective gloves ready to reach into the cage, and the others ready to maneuver the harness onto the little critter's body. Not once did their little underdeveloped brains consider any possible danger...that is...not until they prepared to open the door of the cage. That was the moment that the young guys (practically in unison) began to entertain thoughts like "RABIES", "SHARP CLAWS", and "SHARP TEETH". Slowly as the door opened and the squirrel clung tenaciously to its prison, a cloud of terror descended on the young adventurists.
Preston had to peel the claws away from the cage in order to pull it out, all the time wondering if the two layers of leather work gloves would protect him from certain death! Stephen, who was suddenly aware of his own mortality forgot the camera on his shoulder as he looked frantically around the small space, planning his escape if the deadly animal were to get loose. All went well until the first attempt to harness the squirrel. To the shock of the young men, it leaped directly on the chest of one, then leap-frogged onto the wall. As the panicked animal tried to scramble to the top of the wall, he resembled a Saturday morning cartoon where the Coyote runs in mid-air before realizing it and falls. Only this squirrel was not going to land on the floor without a fight. It leaped from stair step to wall, and back to stair step until it found it's way onto Kevin's shoulder.
With certain death staring right at him, Kevin turned himself around to face the animal straight on. Unfortunately, his little squirrel claws were embedded in Kevin's shirt and as Kevin turned, the little critter turned with him. For several minutes there was just a blur of movement as Kevin kept spinning around and around, certain that the monster on his shoulder was just about to attack. The dizzy squirrel lost a little bit of his agility, and the boys were finally able to grab it once again.
This time, they carefully outfitted the squirrel in the harness, and clipped the retractable leash to it. With great excitement and no small amount of relief, they took it outside for a practice "walk". It took a few tentative steps in the garage and the boys knew that fame was within reach. All they had to do was get their new buddy to the mall for a stroll. Just as they were dreaming of their success, the squirrel stopped, looked at them as if he had been waiting for this moment, and backed out of the leash. Never before or since has anyone seen a squirrel run as fast as this one did straight into the bushes and up a tree.
If the researchers who made this amazing discovery about the teenage brain need any further evidence, we have a video....well, sort of. The video doesn't actually show the squirrel, it scans drunkenly from side to side, then up and down, all the while broadcasting the high pitched squeals and screams of what sounds like a girls slumber party. It is good for a laugh, as long as you close your eyes. If you don't you will get dizzy. Nevertheless, it is extremely reliable proof that the teenage brain lacks elements of critical thinking. I am very happy to report that both of these sons have brains that have fully developed now. They each had the good sense to marry godly and beautiful women. We are proud. Let me assure you that if you can just survive those teenage years, the reward is great!
There is a pivotal moment in cinema where a dramatic incident occurs and suddenly our hero (previously smitten with amnesia) recalls all of his or her lost memories as a tsunami of information breaks free in his or her mind. I had one of those moments a few weeks ago in the stairwell leading into the basement level of our house.
It began so innocently. I was walking up the stairs from the garage with my arms full. I turned on the landing and noticed a bright green tree frog crouched very still near the corner.
(except for that time Susan and I trapped about 20 tiny hippity frogs to put in Tom Mosely's desk drawer)
I slinked past the tree frog hoping that I would not inspire it to hop on me, then put my stuff away and started fixing dinner, not giving the frog another thought. In my defense, I must say that I wasn't too worried about the frog. I planned to go back down after dinner with a broom and usher it out of the house. I did marvel at it's almost neon green appearance (so unlike the muddy brown colored ones that croak so loudly every night).
My husband (let's call him Mr. I-Eat-Nails-For-Breakfast) sat down nearby to watch the news as I cooked. I casually mentioned the frog and a transformation occurred.
I can only describe the scene as a nervous interrogation.
"Why did you leave the frog there?" "Which way did it go?" "What were you thinking?" It never occurred to me that my husband (Mr. Macho) would be reluctant to encounter the two inch tree frog.
The dilemma for him revolved around his "Man Cave" that he fashioned from the suite of rooms that used to house our sons. He created a retreat where he could recline and watch his flat screen with his very own remote control and even his own bathroom. Apparently, there was no room in this paradise for a tree frog.
In fact, he jumped up out of his chair looking like Conan, the Barbarian on the hunt. He barreled down the stairs determined to root out the evil that was surely waiting to ambush him. Unfortunately, the little croaker had disappeared. Somehow, the frog managed to hide from the FBI-caliber search that ensued.
It took a couple of days for my husband to let down his guard and relax again in the basement. But relax he did...right down to his Clemson orange boxer-briefs. Only then did "little Croaker" reveal himself again. I heard my husband's voice urgently calling me downstairs. I followed the sound into the bathroom. There, sitting on the toilet seat, was our little neon green tree frog. We both laughed until I realized that he expected ME to move it. It was a stand-off worthy of the OK Coral. Finally with a "humph" of disgust, he grabbed the trash can and I handed him some cardboard with which to scoop the little critter. All was going according to plan until he pushed the trash can into my hands and told me to take it outside.
In those few seconds of transfer and indecision, the tree frog leaped out of the trash can above our heads and defied the law of gravity by sticking high upon the door frame with its creepy little suction cupped feet.
The little two inch tree frog also inspired a few shrieks and acrobatic jumping in the bathroom that night (I won't say who jumped the highest). It was in those moments of shrieking and jumping that I had my momentous onslaught of recall. In this very spot over ten years ago, our sons along with several of their pubescent friends were at the center of a screaming, screeching, spinning and terror-induced tornado, that we refer to as "The Great Squirrel Caper", which, incidentally is the title of next week's blog entry. But as for the tree frog incident. Let us just say that the eventual hero of this story was our dog, Charlie. She freed our basement of Amphibious terror. We are grateful.
What would you think of someone who accidentally gave away one of her most prized possessions? I'm not talking about giving something away because you have a kind heart or a giving spirit. That is admirable. But taking something valuable and casting it aside like last week's garbage is different. You would probably think she was a schmuck....and you would be right.
I had actually managed to forget this disheartening incident until my father brought it up in an unusual way a couple of months ago. We went out to dinner with a wonderful pastor and his wife in Honolulu. I had never met them, so of course I wanted to make a good impression. When the waiter had taken our order and left us to chat over our Bread, my father asked a question, "Nita, why don't you tell them about the time you gave away your oven?"
There went the good first impression. I didn't actually give away my oven, it was more of a cook top, but it was embarrassing nonetheless. But how did my father pull that 25 year old memory out of his hat? I had managed to suppress it nicely from my own memory bank. There is no way I can put a positive spin on this.
I should explain that my husband is an architect and a builder, and over the years he has handled some of the most cutting-edge appliances and gadgets for the home. Often they were for clients, but I had some truly wonderful innovations in some of my kitchens too.
I remember the day I watched with wide-eyed wonder as he showed me something called an "Induction Unit". The name alone impressed me. I fully expected to be transported onto the Starship Enterprise.
To the casual observer it looked just like a glass topped electric cooking unit, like hundreds I had seen before. But then he put a paper towel over the "heating" element, then a stock pot full of water, and turned it on. In a very short time, the water was boiling, but the paper towel was not catching fire.
It was a strange and wonderful innovation. It seems that this cooking unit cooked food using magnetic energy. The cook top itself did not heat up.
Perhaps everyone has heard of this technology by now, but this was way back in the 1980's, and it was cutting-edge and quite expensive. I was so proud of my little cooking unit that when guests came over, I took them into the kitchen to show them the magic.
One day one of the cooking rings quit working. I was so disappointed. I knew that it might take a long time to get someone to repair my appliance. My husband worked so hard preparing his clients' homes that personal repairs sometimes took a while. Within just a few days however, a repair truck pulled up to the house and the workmen arrived at my kitchen door. They looked a little confused and told me they were here to fix my oven. I corrected them immediately, explaining that it was not an oven but an "Induction Unit". They detached it from my counter and began to inspect it with much grunting and scratching of heads.
It was clear that my magic cooking element was not going to be fixed that day. They finally conceded defeat and explained that they would have to take it into the shop. As they looked over their paperwork they rattled off a phone number and asked if that was still my number.
"No!" I answered. I then corrected their information (with a growing suspicion that this would not be a quick repair). They loaded my precious appliance into their truck and took off.
I never saw them or my cooking unit again. When my husband got home I told him about the repairmen.
His comment to me was, "I didn't call any repairmen."
So there you have it. That's the day I gave away my "oven". That is how I qualified myself for the "Schmuck" Hall of Fame!
