THAT TIME I WRESTLED WITH GOD

         

          This morning I was reminded of a time when I wrestled with God.  It was as real a battle as the one described in Genesis 32 between Jacob and God, and it left me changed.  This occurred a few short years ago after a devastating moment in the life of our family. 

 My husband Steve, fell about 40 feet from the steep rooftop of our tall, Victorian house, and though he was  battered and broken, he survived. That event has become a dividing line for everything that happens in our family.  That happened before the accident, or that happened after the accident.  I did not wrestle with God at that moment, it took a few more days, and a few more blows before I took a swing at God.
          It was not as if I thought God had abandoned us, far from it.  I remember rushing outside after the horrific clatter of ladders falling, to find Steve lying in the yard in great pain and confusion. Despite the obvious severity of his injuries, I was immediately perplexed and assured of God's intervention by two curious facts. The first inexplicable element was the fact that Steve was talking and moving, even his feet.  When the full realization of his impossible fall hit me, I was dumbfounded. How could he be conscious? How could his spine not be severed? In a split second I knew that God was at work.  The other perplexing truth was the location of his landing.  How did he get so far from the house? How did he avoid all the brick sidewalks and stone columns that surround the house? I do not claim to be an expert in physics, but I could look at the steep pitch of the roof and see that the angle of his fall made no sense.  He landed on a patch of grass far removed from the deadly brick and stone. I kept looking at the roof as we waited for the ambulance, shaking my head in bafflement.  I felt like Mr. Banks in Mary Poppins looking into his fireplace as he tried to make sense of the torn letter that he had destroyed.

          The weeks of life at the hospital Intensive Care Unit began, and not a day, or even an hour went by that God did not show himself.  Steve had a broken back, but it was not severed, so he would not be paralyzed. He had a Traumatic Brain Injury but it would be months before we would know the extent of it. All around me were church members and friends who encouraged, prayed and  loved our family in many tangible ways.  It is humiliating to think that in the middle of all of this I would pick a fight with God.

            Some scary developments arose.  Several blood clots were discovered in his Carotid artery and another that leads to the brain.  A hidden wound under his beard became infected with Staph. We waited to hear from the lab whether or not the infection was MRSA, the most likely to be deadly, especially since the infection had traveled from his tracheae to his lungs.

His life seemed to be dependent on a multitude of wires, tubes and moniters that just looked like spaghetti to me! The dreaded report came back from the lab that his Staph was definitely MRSA.  I kept reminding myself that his recovery was not one bit more difficult for God today than it had been yesterday.  But I had to remind myself  of that over and over and over.
          I awoke early the next morning preparing for my daily trek to the ICU, when I got a phone call that pushed me over the edge.  My mother had a heart attack.  She and my father (and one sister) were in Hong Kong at the time.  Everything in me screamed that I had to go be with her!  What if I would never see her again in this life? Of course...I couldn't go.  I needed to be in Columbia with Steve.  It was just too much to bear!  I got in my car to drive to the hospital and I railed at God! Really, God?  You didn't think I had enough on my plate? This is too much!  My hands may have been on the wheel, but God knew I was shaking a fist in his face. I was mad! Wrestling with God took the form of screaming out his injustices and announcing to him that I was not going to take it anymore.  Somehow I sensed God asking me if I really wanted to take over these situations.  Did I really believe I knew best? Did I want to be God? That stopped me.  It literally stopped me.  I pulled over and wept.  I told God I really didn't want his job.  What have I ever done without him that was worth anything?  I know the answer to that question. Nothing! Ever! Not one thing!  
          The circumstances did not change in that moment, but my heart did.  The remainder of my drive to the hospital God was cradling me in his arms.  Thankfully, he won our little Wrestlmania match, but he gave me the prize.  He is generous like that.
         I don't like to leave you hanging, so let me tell you that My Mom will soon have her 92 birthday.

She and my Dad still have sharp minds and know how to encourage those around them.  Steve has been blessed to experience so much life in these last 6 years.  He has seen both sons married, walked our youngest daughter down the aisle and danced with her at her wedding, he has seen the birth of three grandchildren, and has been able to work some.  He walks with a cane (when he remembers it). 

BABY BOOMER BEFUDDLEMENT

       

  Many people know the lesson of the Frog in the Kettle…where the Frog just hops out of the pot of boiling water if you try to toss him in. Of course, I’m still trying to figure out how any human being was ever inspired to cook a slimy frog in the first place….but I digress.  These nameless (and hungry) people learned that if you put a frog in a pot of water at room temperature, then slowly let it reach a boil, the unsuspecting frog gets cooked without ever sensing danger. 

          We can thank George Barna for bringing this analogy to our attention.  As much as I resent being compared to a slimy, brainless frog, the truth is we swim around in our pot (our culture) with the temperature rising dramatically, but the losses and concessions are so incremental we fail to take action. 

          This fable can be applied to an almost endless list of changes that we Baby Boomers have witnessed so far in our lives, but I find myself navigating a bizarre and uncharted “Twilight Zone” of culture that has resulted in befuddlement and frustration.  What is this activity that I have engaged in that has brought about such dismay?  I have found myself in the ranks of at least 10% of all Americans right now; I am looking for a job! 

          As a Baby Boomer, I clearly remember the lessons my parents taught us about putting our best foot forward.  I was to bring my resume and letters of recommendation with me, dress professionally, start early, be confident, and look the interviewer in the eye. 

Imagine my shock when I learned that most companies don’t even want job seekers to walk through their doors.  They don’t have a place for those resumes even if you did walk in.  Everything is done on line.  Suddenly I feel like I am living in George Orwell’s 1984. 
          I have nothing against computers (at least most of the time), but Dang! Let’s see what happens when a computer takes over this formerly human aspect of employment. There are about 30 employment recruitment companies online that now have my resume and probably enough personal information to steal my identity and sell it to some guy named Nicolai.

They send me emails three times a day with “hot job prospects” which I sift through and respond to or delete. If you have engaged in this process in the last 10 years or so, you may also realize that for some reason when you apply for a job on line, you are guaranteed to become very popular with the “Education” crowd.  These are hard sell companies who call you on your cell phone to tell you how desperately you need to get an “Associates Degree” (never mind that I already have a Bachelor’s Degree).  This crowd loves me so much that they call me four times a day to encourage me to go back to school.   

A few days ago some company in Memphis called to tell me that my resume looked like I would be a good fit for their branch office in Fort Worth, Texas, where I now live.  They set up an interview with an actual human being at their office.  Please understand that my resume is very eclectic with experience in writing everything from news copy and magazine articles to promotional materials and radio commercials.  It also includes on air radio experience, and enough clerical work to lead me to consider jobs as an "Administrative Assistant” which is the PC term for secretary. 

          So…with a positive attitude, a professional demeanor, and plenty of time to navigate the Interstate Highways of Fort Worth, I set off for my interview at the mysterious and generic-sounding company. My GPS guided me through the maze of construction and warehouses until it landed me at a suspiciously plain brick building in an industrial, and dare I say sketchy part of town?

    Picture if you will the memorable scene in What's Up Doc, where Madeline Kahn finds herself in an uncomfortable place.   My radar on alert, I entered the office which ironically included the word “Security” in its title.  The receptionist handed me a stack of forms the like of which I had not seen since we closed on our last house. She directed me to a room with a table and chairs and asked me to fill them out.  One hour and two fountain pens later, I returned the stack of completed forms, and asked a couple of important questions. 1. “Why did I have to give permission attend a security certification class?   2. “Why did I have to agree to pay for the State of Texas fingerprint and background check out of my first paycheck? 3. What is this job? Important questions all!
          Apparently the corporate office in Memphis felt that I would be a perfect “Receptionist” for this Security Company.

By receptionist I mean, that person who runs the metal detector wand over people when they are entering or leaving a large office and checks briefcases of the trusted employees when they are exiting the building. The human I finally spoke to was very nice. We enjoyed the chat immensely, but we both knew rather quickly that this job was not, in fact, a very good fit. Thank you computerized employment world!  

          As a Baby Boomer in a Generation X (or is it Y or is it Me) world, I feel as though I'm living in a world I don't entirely recognize.  I freely admit I'm hopelessly old fashioned.  I long for the days of human interaction, and assessment of the individual rather than the computer profile. Ribbit...

HIDDEN TREASURE

I never dreamed when I resumed my task of cleaning and de-cluttering closets today that I would unearth the most amazing treasure! There it was, hidden in a big black box beneath a mountain of hanging garments that have not seen the light of day since shoulder pads were mandatory.  The construction paper was cracking at the edges, the handwriting was little more than a scrawl, but this container was filled with the reminders and rewards of my greatest life's work.  

I found hilarious reminders that even when they were misbehaving my children could be creative. For example there was that day that Big brother and Little sister were squabbling so much that Daddy intervened.  He required them to write a report on why they had such a bad attitude.  This was the worst possible punishment for children who were supposed to be having a day off of school!  Behold Big Brother's report, and note his total innocence in the whole affair.

I can only assume from this paper, that Big brother was required to write 2 pages.  Let us see how Little Sister responded to the task.

Well, it appears it was my fault after all.  I served the SAME breakfast as always.  The truth is, along with the fussing there was always laughing and playing and plotting and performing all woven together to form the fabric of our family.  I miss those mornings, so the box in the closet reminded me of forgotten joys.  I would not want you to be deceived into thinking that I was a perfect mother (just read a couple of past posts and that will cure you) or that our household ran like clockwork.  If I wanted to pretend that it was so, the little poem I wrote after dropping the kids off at school should be proof enough that I had my own "issues".

Short Order Mom

by Juanita Hayden 

Lord, how I long to be a creature of order!

The diligent mother, the thoughtful daughter.

The children's homework, complete in clean rooms .

All sleeping soundly; hair washed and groomed.

The household awakes cheerfully at six.

Grateful for breakfast that's already fixed.

Their clothes neatly pressed and laid out last night.

Their shoes never lost, sit plainly in sight.

They skip to the car, all polished and gleaming.

Anxious for school, their little hearts singing.

The first to arrive, they respectfully play.

Pondering how they might help out that day.

I flit around making beds, doing laundry.

Touching up lipstick, scrubbing floors without floundering.

I plan the week's menu; delicious, low fat!

And all on a budget that won't feed a gnat.

Now, what is that ringing? The alarm rudely sounding!

It must be an error, off it goes with fist pounding.

The button is lost 'neath a mountain of rubble.

So I trip from the bed on a shoe with no double.

"Good Morning!" I call to my children, who groan.

I pry them from bed to a chorus of moans.

No breakfast today, unless it's dry cheerios.

"Why aren't you dressed? You can't wear those clothes!"

With no clean socks, the last underwear,

Homework is lost, snarls in their hair.

"You must get to school, and hurry," I scream!

How I wish I could get back to bed and my dream.!"

DO-OVERS

       

  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.

THE GREAT SQURIREL CAPER

        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!

FROG FRENZY

 

       

 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.

   Frogs do not horrify me like spiders or snakes, but I don't go out of my way to touch them.

 (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.

"INDUCTED" INTO THE SCHMUCK HALL OF FAME!

       
  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!