HOW SHALL WE THEN PRANK?

         

 Wise people have often admonished, "write about what you know."  You may have noticed that I most frequently write about embarrassing screw-ups.  There is another topic I feel fully qualified to cover: the fine art of "pranking."

            Anyone can decorate a yard with toilet paper, or "fork" the front lawn of an intended target, and I have gleefully done both. 

         But the best pranks are 1. creative  2. funny to both the givers and receivers and 3. not destructive in any way.   I have to give mad props to my elder siblings for much of my education in the art of pranking.  One of my favorite recollections took place in Japan when my oldest sister who was already in High School and my slightly older brother who was in Middle School pulled a prank on Mr. Lady. Yes, that was his name.  He seemed to us to be the absolute stereotype of a British scholar, right down to the cardigan that he wore everyday.  I'm not sure about this, but it may have even sported patches on the elbows.  Shirley was the only one of us to actually have a class with him, and although she admitted later that he was a good teacher, at the time she considered that English class sheer agony. 

            Unfortunately for Mr. Lady, David (my brother) made a couple of interesting discoveries that Fall.  When he stepped out onto the roof that extended below his second story window, David realized that he could see through the windows of the high school classrooms several blocks away with a pair of binoculars.  This was great fun, because several teachers at The American School in Japan taught English as a second language on certain evenings in that building.  We could recline on the gentle slope of that roof and "spy" on the teachers!    

          There came a day when spying just wasn't enough.  But we had an amazing and harmless weapon at our disposal.  We had our father's disturbingly powerful strobe light often used for the filming of home movies.  I'm sure that no one under the age of 45 could possibly have any clue as to the horrific intensity of these contraptions.  I have no doubt that the energy required to operate these lights could have powered three small countries.  Most of the benchmark events of our family's life were accompanied by film of all of us squinting painfully into a camera that was accompanied by this tortuous device.  

          My genius siblings realized that the strobe light was powerful enough to shine into the window of the classrooms of the school like a giant spotlight.  Armed with the binoculars, and perched on the roof with extension cords hanging out of the window, they plotted their prank with the precision of an armed attack.  The moment Mr. Lady turned his back to the window to write on the chalk board, the beam of light would flood through his window.  In response to the light, he would turn around, but the “strobe fighters” would extinguish it before he could find its source! Their reward was great.  They could see the unflappable Mr. Lady becoming flustered before their eyes.  That was quite a prank.  I knew then as I sat on that roof top that I was watching greatness in action. 

                              They also modeled other minor pranks for my young impressionable brain.  I loved the time Shirley brought a needle and thread to school and surreptitiously stitched the sleeves of Mr. Lady’s cardigan closed as it hung enticingly on a coat rack.  To this day, I have to smile when I imagine him trying to put his arms through the cuffs.

          Usually a good prankster has to have a partner in crime.  When we moved to Abilene, Texas, my partner was Susan Parker.

  Our targets were usually the staff members of our church because we loved them.  In our twisted minds pranks = affection.  Examples of these little acts of love included the gathering of a couple of dozen tiny little frogs that we captured out at Susan’s farm.  We smuggled them into church on one of the many school days that we were supposed to be out selling advertisements for the school newspaper.  When the coast was clear we lovingly placed them into the top drawer of the desk of our Minister of Music, Tom. (If you ever read this, Tom, I’m just kidding, it was someone else).

        There were some great pranks at Baylor where my partner in crime absolutely was NOT Nancy Thomas who later became a judge in the great state of Texas.  Those were NOT our pledge uniform skirts hanging from the flagpole either!

         As a young single news reporter at KRBC back in Abilene, I found myself teaching a sweet class of young 8^th grade girls in Sunday School.  This is when I realized that it was time to pass the tradition of creative pranking to a new generation.  I asked my girls to begin collecting old newspapers.  When we had a huge stockpile, I tricked the Minister of Music (always a fun target) out of his house keys and we filled his bedroom from floor to ceiling with wadded-up newspapers.   I also bonded with my girls during our little escapade.  I learned that harmless pranking can be very beneficial to building relationships.

             You probably think that once I became a grown-up, I put away childish things.  You would be wrong!  One of my favorite bonding moments with a group of young women in my church in Columbia, South Carolina occurred when we took a pair of enormous novelty nylon granny panties (I’m talking about panties so large that my son was using them as a window covering), and hung them on a clothes line that we strung between two columns on the front of our pastor’s house.  

These are wonderful, constructive memories of church volunteerism.   As for other pranks….I cannot divulge them or our partners in crime (see Eli and Diane?  I can keep a secret!)

HONEY BUCKET BLUES

          One of the most pivotal events engraved upon my memory of the early years in Japan, did not actually happen to me.  The ripple effects of this incident reached out to a vast number of  us ignorant foreigners living in Japan at the time. It forever changed my perception of some of the most influential people in my life.  It is a story that you may not wish to read because I seriously doubt that you will be able to forget it, and if you are squeamish...let's just say it may bring to your mind images that you would rather not harbor. 
          Let me set the scene for you.  Japan in the mid-sixties was a place with a frantic pace of modern development at every turn.  A high speed rail system, sky-scrapers, Nikon, Sony and a multitude of other companies were growing at a dizzying speed.  But in odd corners here and there were still pockets of the old world.  One of these old world oddities was  "Honeybucket".  How do I explain this to you? A few

random farmers clung to the old methods of fertilizing their fields by contracting with collectors of human waste. This prized commodity was transported in covered wooden buckets.  It was not difficult to tell when the "Honeybucket" man was near because the odor wafted out in front of him like an announcement for what was coming. Occasionally there were just two buckets dangling from both sides of a wooden yoke. As he approached, the honey bucket man called out some sort of exclamation.  I never knew if he was trying to find a buyer for his unusual wares or if he was warning people of the stench.  Even rarer was the glimpse of a Honey bucket cart, where the hard-working transport man pulled an entire wagon full of these distinctive containers.

          This "Honeybucket" had to end up somewhere.  We discovered exactly where when we moved to Chofu, which was (at least back then) on the outskirts of Tokyo. Tucked among the fields of produce on the neighboring farms, were earthen reservoirs filled with "Honey Bucket" sort of like swimming pools where the farmers mixed their own concoction of waste, soil and mysterious liquids right in the ground.  The evil brew would crust over, deceiving the unsuspecting soul into thinking it was solid ground.

          As an adolescent, I knew that there was no one to be admired more than my big sisters and their cool friends. Shirley was the dark-haired beauty and Lynda, the gorgeous blonde.  They were never unkind to me (well....except for those times they told me I was adopted), but I was the pesky younger sister, so I rarely got to enjoy their adventurous escapades.  It seemed they were always doing something wondrous and exciting with friends who were laughing and having fun.
         One day Shirley and her friends Melinda and Barbara set out on one of their adventures. They were armed with one Walkie Talkie and Johnny and Billy had the other. The guys, being clueless about the interest of girls were merely concerned with testing the range of the devices, while the girls were more interested in spying on the boys. Johnny and Billy sat inside a "soba" shop (noodle shop) amazed that the wakie talkies were so clear when the girls were supposed to be at Melinda's house. Little did they know that the girls lurked right outside of the soba shop.  The girls were very proud of themselves until they realized that the guys were about to hop on their bikes and go to Melinda's house. They took off running to try and beat them there. They had to find a way to improve their odds, so they decided to cut through a farm field.  The girls saw a big concrete platform about the size of a king-sized bed and Shirley, who was in the lead, stepped up on the edge and ran around the outside perimeter.  This is where their stories differ a bit.  Shirley insists that she called out, "Watch out for the Honeybucket!", but strangely neither Melinda nor Barbara heard it. (Now is a good time for those of you with weak stomachs to quit reading) 
          Melinda, being a very practical girl stepped up on the block and started straight across.  She made it more than half way before she started sinking. That is when she realized that this was not a concrete platform at all, it was the crusty top of a pool of Honeybucket!  She sank to her armpits, and held the walkie talkie high above her head.  Now, where was Barbara? She was no where in sight! Barbara was shorter so she had climbed up onto the "platform" but her arms plunged straight through the crust and she fell in head first!  All the way in.
          Shirley was still balancing on the edge of the narrow rim around the cess pool when she saw the others splashing around in the Honeybucket.  Meanwhile, Melinda's life was flashing before her eyes, so she began yelling into the walkie talkie for help.  The boys heard the panicked cries, hopped on their bikes to rescue the girls that they feared were being attacked.  Barbara popped up through the surface and backed her way out of the crap and rolled to the ground, which unfortunately was actually a country highway.  Imagine the surprise of the truck driver who came to a stop when he saw what looked like a tree trunk that was slowly walking with its arms stretched out to its sides.  Add to that image, the intense smell that permeated from it!
            About the time Melinda was pulling herself out of the Honeybucket, Billy and Johnny arrived on their bikes.  Where were the attackers?  Why were the girls covered in brown gunk?  The Japanese couple who lived on the farm came outside to see what was causing the commotion.  The woman could not quit exclaiming, "Ara, Ara!" (loosely translated, "What the heck?" but she said it like, "What are you doing in my Honeybucket!?") Billy tried to reassure her by saying, "Machigaishimashita!" (They made a mistake!)  The woman kept her distance and no doubt drew some firm conclusions about the crazy foreigners.
           There are so many more interesting details left untold in this story, but let me close by explaining that this was the day that my Goddess of a sister became human to me.  I still admired both of my sisters, but somehow I realized that they were in fact fallible, and therefore even approachable.  I may have felt that Shirley was more approachable, but apparently that was not the reaction of others as the word spread at school.  The girls were the brunt of a silent and humorous campaign.  When they were seen in the halls, the kids would scoot to the other side, as though driven by the smell.  
          Now every year or so my sisters and I try to get together for a sister trip.  We still like adventures! 

GLORY

               I have a great appreciation for athleticism.  I can trace the roots of this reverence to 1969.  That is the year we moved to Abilene, Texas.  I was the “new girl in town” at Madison Junior High.  Actually I was still the “new girl in country” since it hadn’t been very long since we moved back to the U.S. from Japan.  I may have been a proud American who looked like an American and spoke like an American, but everything about my school was totally foreign.  Like most 14 year old girls, I wanted to belong.  I looked around my new little world to see who seemed to personify greatness, and realized it was…Jazen Wood.  She was tall, blonde, athletic and beautiful. 
She played volleyball competitively and was a cheerleader, and most importantly, she “belonged”.  This was surely what I should aspire to!  The evidence of her greatness was worn proudly on an athletic sweater with a giant “M” emblazoned above its pocket.  I decided then and there that I too would have a garment that displayed my greatness.

          My first shock came when I learned that you only received a “Letter” if you played a sport.  This was a predicament.  The only sports for girls were volleyball and cheer-leading.  The cheerleaders had been selected the previous year, and the volleyball I was witnessing at Madison was so much more competitive than anything I had ever seen before.  These girls were tall and ruthless and had been playing for years already.  I was not likely to grow any taller, nor reach the level of skill that these girls had attained in just a few short weeks. I shelved my goal for the moment, but did not forget it.          The next year was Cooper High School.  I was no longer the “new girl”, but the sports options were still limited.  I attempted to learn to play Tennis, but my potential was no better than with Volleyball.  I made many wonderful friends, served in Student Government, was active in drama and many other activities.  But I wanted to wear my greatness emblazoned on a jacket.  It seemed I had no options left…until my senior year.  That is when the state of Texas began to give girls more opportunities in sports.  I heard the announcement over the loud speaker that Cooper was to have a girl’s track team.  I was giddy with excitement.  It was still early spring and I could anticipate the feel of that warm jacket. 

          I joined about 20 other girls out on the track after school that day, and the workouts began.  Sprinting, jogging, sprinting some more, practicing passing batons: the endurance game began.  No matter how hard it was, or how many other girls dropped out, I never would.  In my mind, I could see that jacket, enticing me to continue. 

          One tragic afternoon after running until my legs cramped up (again) I learned a very disturbing fact. Bill, who

worked out with the track guys at the same time we were trying to organize our girls team, explained one horrifying detail to me. Being on the track team was not sufficient to earn a letter.  Apparently, you actually had to excel.  Winning and placing in your event would earn points which would be tallied at the end of the season.   Those who earned enough points would receive their letter.  The beautiful image of the enticing jacket began to morph into a taunting loudmouth. The jacket was moving farther and farther out of my reach!

           With some helpful coaching by Bill (who obviously felt sorry for me after destroying my hope), I began to be competitive. And when the season ended, I was one of the first four girls to letter in track at Cooper High School.  I had done it!  I would have a letter jacket!  Of course, it was now well past spring, and down-right hot in West Texas, but I would have my treasured jacket forever.  I would take it with me to Baylor University and impress everyone with my “Jacket of Excellence”. I would show it to my children and they would weep with emotion over the pinnacle of achievement that it represented!

          Did you know that High School letter jackets are an unspoken “NoNo” on a University campus? Did you know that when one doesn’t wear a jacket, one can easily loose it? Somewhere between Waco and Abilene, Texas, is a High School letter jacket that was earned with blood back in 1973.  I sometimes think about the time and effort that I spent on something so fleeting, and I am convicted about the lack of time and effort I spend on things of real and lasting value.  To me, the missing letter jacket is a symbol of misplaced values.  What I achieved when running track my senior year was truly valuable, but it had nothing to do with a jacket.  I was forced to exercise determination, focus, and hard work which turned out to be the reward itself.

CONFESSIONS OF A NEAR THESPIAN

       
          It is interesting to look back at the twists and turns that have shaped our lives.  What seems to be a spur of the moment decision can actually be a pivotal point in the direction of our lives.   When I graduated from High School in Abilene, Texas, I was destined to be an actress.  After all, I had received "Best Actress" recognition and I knew in my heart that greatness was in my future.  So, I packed my worldly possessions into my ancient hand-me-down car, "Abner", and moved to....Waco.  Yes, I was going to Baylor University, and I was pretty sure that I would be the darling of their drama program in no time!  

          I remember the excitement and chaos of class registration.  The two most exciting classes on my schedule were Introduction to Theater and Stage Movement.  All of my other classes were to be endured so I could get to the important business of acting!  In the Introduction class, I quickly learned that if you expected to be any part of the Drama Department at all, your every waking moment belonged to the Theater.  Everyone worked on costumes and sets and sound and agreed to play bit parts in a variety of One Act plays produced by the near-graduates. (I once played a ninety year old black vegetable peddler in Member of the Wedding) Then there was "Stage Movement" on Fridays only. Our little class of about fifteen Theater students were made to sit cross-legged in a circle on the stage while our Professor, let's call her Trelawney, (of Harry Potter fame) sat with us looking proudly at her new batch of mold-able little hopefuls.  I kept looking at the other students in wonder at their ability to keep a straight face.  After all, I had been in classes at Baylor for almost a week, and no matter how "progressive" some of my professors may have considered themselves, they all dressed professionally and sat in actual chairs, at actual desks.  Our Trelawney-esque professor was wearing leotards, jingley jewelry, hair that she may or may not have combed, and an expression that seemed to indicate that she was not altogether present. 

           We learned that we would not just act like trees or rivers or forest animals....we would BECOME them.  We would develop our "Kinesthetic Sense" (that would be some wierd combination of kinetics and aesthetics .  I learned that I too would have to wear leotards and leap like an animal across the stage.  I learned that I could forestall our fearless leader with certain questions and comments (which actually did develop my acting skills).  When asked what emotions certain movements evoked in me, I learned to look earnestly into her eyes and say, "Well...Professor Trelawney, it is just so hard to pin point exactly."  Then she would launch into her favorite speech about how we have so many complex emotions that we have not even given names to most of them.  This speech was good for at least 10 minutes.   After one of my successful stall tactics, I received a fair number of subtle "high fives" from my grateful associates.  
          As the end of the semester began to draw near, I had to pray about my major.  I had to ask myself if I loved drama enough to endure the whole package of classes, activities, and time commitment that the Theater demanded.  The answer was "Heck, No".  So...I packed away my Theater accouterments and ambitions and looked around to determine what lucky department would receive my devotion in the future.   Out of curiosity, I took a journalism class and broadcasting class in the next semester.  I was hooked immediately.  I loved everything about it.    Isn't it strange the way everything in one's life can take an about-face because of one decision.  I had to face the truth...I was not a Thespian.

GENETIC MISFIRE

   

        There are people, we've all met them, who keep their homes and offices so clean that it almost looks like they have them staged for a photo shoot.  Don't misunderstand me.  I am not criticizing; I am in absolute awe! My mother always kept our house looking beautiful.  Of course, my father was right there sucking up wayward crumbs with a dustbuster before they even had a chance to hit the floor. Somehow they managed to do this without loosing their joy and humor ...this just can't be normal.  My big brother, Billy, was a neat freak who left a trail of cleanliness everywhere he went.  My sister Shirley, can have her house perfectly clean and decorated, feed a crowd of 20, have the dishes done and a scrapbook created before everyone even goes home!  My sister Lynda, likewise entertains so many friends and family at her ranch house, that she really ought to install a revolving door!  She also keeps her house and guest rooms ready at all times.  
          Then there is me (and possibly my brother, David).  I KNOW that this gene of cleanliness and organization skipped right over me!!  David may have it, but he pours it into computer applications rather than his environment.  So I have to wonder. Has it been irrevocably removed from my branch of the family tree? My fear for my children stems from experiences way back in their earliest endeavors. Let me give you an example that occurred when my sons were one and two years old. 
          Back when we naively believed that one could keep a clean house with young children and a dog, my husband had a brilliant idea.  We acknowledged that we were very hard on carpets, but as a condominium developer he was on the cutting edge of all of the latest amenities for the home.  He realized that we might be good candidates for commercial grade carpet, and he had seen a beautiful Berber that he acquired for our home. The day it was installed, I gleefully rubbed my hands together and said to myself, "Let me see you destroy this one...hee...hee...hee." I THINK I said it to myself, but clearly my little babies were listening and must have thought I was challenging them.
          The carpet looked amazing.  I began to entertain thoughts of having friends over again. Perhaps I was NOT such a bad housekeeper.  In fact, my house looked amazing. I picked up all the carpet scraps which were laying around and made a mental note to vacuum up the extra fuzzies in a little while.  The boys wasted no time in bringing their favorite toys into the den.  They were enjoying the new soft and bumpy fibers beneath their toes.  Steve was in his office just a few steps away and called to me to bring him some insurance papers.  I gathered them up and walked up the short staircase into the office to help my husband find the information he needed.
          Ten short minutes later I walked down the steps into the den and looked in stunned silence.  My brain could not process what I was seeing!  There was a large red liquid stain all around the coffee table deeply absorbed into the new carpet!  That would be the new carpet that I hadn't even vacuumed yet!  What was that crimson flood, and why were my two little diaper clad angels sporting bright red hands and mouths?  AAAAHHHH!!!  The noise ripped from my diaphragm and Steve came running to find out what had attacked me.  
          We followed the red drippy stain into the kitchen where we found the abandoned one gallon Tupperware pitcher on the floor.  I had mixed-up an entire gallon of red Koolaid just that morning.  The pitcher was empty. Looking into those innocent little red-stained faces I had to face the fact that Preston, the one year old with the muscles of Bam Bam (That is a Flintstones reference for you young folks), had managed to open the refrigerator door and pull out the heavy one gallon pitcher.  Stephen was an idea man, the mastermind, no doubt.  The stain told the story of their trek from one room to another.  The den was perfect because the coffee table was nice and short.  Just their size.  No cups to drink out of?  Not a problem.  Just pour it on top of the table, place your face and hands in the pretty red juice and slurp!  When there is no more juice on the table, just pour some more!  So easy!
          I quickly read the directions on my carpet cleaner and got busy.  Considering the permanent nature of red Koolaid, it worked pretty well.  Of course there was a slight pink cast to the carpet in that location for the rest of its life, but more importantly I learned that I was doomed not to have a clean house.  I am bad enough on my own, but I also gave birth to some anti-clean influences and that tipped the scale.
          You may think that this is an isolated incident and I should not jump to conclusions so quickly.  Let me assure you that I have many other illustrations where that one came from!  To be fair, I should say that my girls color-coded their closets and have showed many wonderful symptoms of the clean and organized gene.  Even my boys have shown a few signs of effort in their adulthood.  I am so proud.  Now that they have grown up and moved out I should start exerting a greater effort to keep my own house clean.  I know I should, but I'd rather write in my blog!

BLOOPFEST

          

          Yesterday I was reminded of a couple of moments in my life so embarrassing that I felt myself blushing even after all these years. (Okay, all these decades if you are going to be technical) You see, before I found my life's calling as a wife and mother, I worked in radio, primarily as a news reporter, but always with other responsibilities added into the mix. Everyone had to pitch in back then because the FCC placed requirements on radio stations that were incredibly bizarre.  For example, they required stations to broadcast information on topics that absolutely NO ONE wanted to hear. Whether you were a Top 40 station whose audience only wanted to hear the latest hits, or you were a Christian station attempting to encourage your listeners, the Federal Government was insistent that you broadcast a certain percentage of air time on topics such as health, nutrition and education.  Never was the creativity of radio stations more apparent than in the grudging compliance of these ridiculous standards.

           One of my responsibilities at a Dallas radio station was a noon time interview program called Today in Dallas. I'm sure our precious listeners believed that we crafted the program for the sole purpose of entertainment, but that was just a hopeful by-product.  The REAL purpose for the show was to appease the FCC.         

       One day when thumbing through our stack of press releases and promotion packets I noticed that the spokesperson for the Wisconsin cheese industry was going to be in Dallas. Her title was "Alice in Dairy Land".  Not only was her enclosed fact sheet interesting and professional, but she would be a perfect interview to cover the topic of nutrition! I made the arrangements for her interview even before my morning coffee break.

        The morning of my interview, I went through my preliminaries in the production room: Reel to reel player set to record (told you this was a long time ago), possible questions prepared, etc.  When she arrived she proved to be a charming representative and I knew this would be a fun, interesting interview. The tape was cued and I began, "Welcome to Today in Dallas, this is Juanita Jackson, and my guest today is...." 

          Oops! With all my preparation I failed to get her name.  "Ha Ha, I forgot to ask your name.  Don't worry, I will edit this part out.  We can just start again."  So, armed with the correct information, we rerecorded the beginning segment and had a wonderful interview.

          By 11:00 am my interview was completed.  I took the tape into the control room while chatting with co-workers about where to grab lunch that day.  It was not until I was on the way home from lunch that my error became obvious.  I was in a car full of employees with our radio station blasting.  My friends were not about to miss an opportunity to 

embarrass me when they knew I was about to be on the air.  The intro music began, then..."welcome to Today in Dallas, this is Juanita Jackson, and my guest today is...(long painful pause affectionately know as "dead air" in the industry) Ha, Ha, I forgot to ask your name!" Suddenly I had trouble gasping for air in the crowded car, my heart was beating thunderously fast, my face was turning beet red, my friends were staring at me in confusion. "Don't worry, I will edit this part out. We can just start again," proclaimed my traitorous voice. (More dead air, much longer this time followed by loud clearing of the throat noises and my friends faces looking in stunned disbelief) Then, in my most perky voice, "Welcome to Today in Dallas...."    Miraculously, I was not fired even though every superior at the station (which was just about everyone) either gave me a stern talking to or at the very least, a knowing smirk.   To this day, I cannot hear the name of the state of Wisconsin without experiencing a flush of embarrassment.  Ironically, I cannot remember Alice in Dairy Land's real name, nor one single fact that she so generously shared with me that day. Just take my word for it, it was very interesting.

          It would be so nice to say that I never made another radio blooper, but I once had a doozy when I worked as a news reporter at a station in Abilene, Texas.  One of the first and most important lessons taught to broadcasters is to read your news copy BEFORE you go on the air.   After several years in radio, and multiple newscasts each day, I rarely stumbled over words.  I had the ability to read so quickly in my head that by the time the words came out of my mouth, they simply did not take me by surprise.  I became a little bit cocky.  Two minutes before going on the air, I would scan the news stories, accurately judge the length of time each would require, and place them in the order of importance.  I was good!   

        I might have gotten away with this habit much longer were it not for the crisis in Iran.  Imagine a world BEFORE terrorism, when the name "Iran" conjured up vague images of a wealthy Shah, and beautiful hand-woven rugs.  Sure, the Shah had been deposed, but the country would come to their senses soon.  Meanwhile there were a few scattered news stories about an upstart Ayatollah Khomeini, whose name, I was very proud to acknowledge, I could pronounce without the aid of the pronunciation guide that was included in some news stories.  I was good!   

      Imagine my surprise when I launched into my lead news story one day with my most authoritative voice, and found, buried in the third sentence, the word "Shiite" Muslim.  Picture, if you will, the familiar scene of Wylie Coyote chasing the Roadrunner, but having to come to a screeching halt before falling over the abyss.  That is a pretty accurate picture of my flawless newscast until I reached the abyss.  I mumbled the word which sounded like "shhheeet Muslim", then continued as if I meant to say it that way.  You can fool some people with confidence.  Maybe I was not as good as I thought.                                                           

        As I reminisced about these bloopers just yesterday, I could feel my face turning red all over again.  I found an old photo of my radio days, and also a photo of my youngest daughter during her summer internship at South Carolina's Public Broadcasting. She may have inherited my voice, but she seems to have avoided the "Deep Doo Doo" gene.  Well, you can't have everything.      

PASSING THE TORCH, CAREFUL, IT'S HOT

  
        If you peek into my house today, you might think it looks sort of empty.  After all, it is a rather large house for two people, and you probably wouldn't see all that I see.  For example, if we walked out on the back deck, you would see a well-used gas grill, but I see much more.  I see a cute little five year old girl looking earnestly into my face as I frantically watch over the sizzling burgers. 
 I hear her troubled little voice as she hesitatingly utters these words,                     "Mommy, I think I'm becoming a virgin."  I see myself juggling the burgers that I almost dropped as I try to compose myself enough to reply.  "Noooo, Sweetie.  You were born a virgin.  What do you mean?"  I see her confused expression as she explains. "Well...I don't think I like meat anymore."

          When I walk into the guest bedroom, I don't always see the full size bed that sits so predominately under the window, but I see two little twin beds and the little boys who knew how to stretch a 10 minute bedtime ritual into a thirty minute marathon of questions, songs and prayers.  Let's face it, there may be nothing more profound than the prayers of three and four year olds.  I wonder if they were just playing one of their favorite games of "Stump Mommy" because that is often what they did.
         On the night that "Daddy Fogle" passed away, it was obvious that the boys had loads of questions about Heaven.  The room was lighted only by the gentle glow of a night light, and one question was quickly followed by another, and I could tell that Stephen was troubled by something.   I should explain that he was always my little climber. Agility and athleticism just as much a part of him as his blue eyes.  The questions kept coming.  "Will we be angels?  Will we have wings?  Will we be able to fly?"  But one that stumped me was Stephen's troubled and frustrated query. "Will there be trees in Heaven?" 

Hmmm, that's a tough one.  Then I remembered the verses  that describe a river, the throne of God, a street of the city, and the tree of life.  None of that description (in Rev. 22) makes me think of floating around on a cloud, playing a harp.  After considering for a few minutes I was able to tell him (with conviction) that there would indeed be trees in Heaven. His tense little shoulders relaxed and a smile lit up his face as he said, "Do you think God would let me climb trees?"  I always try to be truthful with my  children, so I gladly answered, "I don't see why not."
         The sun room is filled with visions of all four of the kids playing Liverpool Rummy with blood-thirsty glee.  I treasure every moment of motherhood.  Even now, as they are all grown and living in other States (I don't want to hear any more complaints from friends that their children live an HOUR away) I am comforted in knowing that each of them (and now three exceptional spouses too) live lives of honor and value in the families they are building. 

           This is the first Mothers Day where I have the joy of seeing one of my own children embarking on this same incredible journey of motherhood.  I am passing the torch to my children's generation knowing
full well, that they will get scorched a little as they carry on.  But the joy is also unsurpassed.  And, of course, now I get to embark on the journey of grand-parenting which is essentially the fun parts of parenting without the annoying bits like "responsibility". 

        I am up for the challenge.  So...Happy Mother's Day, to my children!