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!

EVEN BABE RUTH STRUCK OUT SOMETIMES

   

     
          The waves are washing up on the shore not far from my little perch as I write.  I don't want you to quit reading just because I'm in paradise right now.  (Thanks Daniel Karr, my extraordinary nephew and photographer for this view!) The flavor of my experiences hasn't really changed much, it is just that the environment has become decidedly more exotic.The only drawback about being in paradise is that I brought my accident-prone, scatter-brained self with me.   Don't get me wrong, this is a vacation of a lifetime! My husband's first visit to Hawaii, and my first after a very long absence.  I have a love for this spot that goes back just about as far as my memory will take me.  My parents were missionaries in Japan, so we "had" to stop in Hawaii on the way to and from our destination for about a week at a time.  I honestly don't know how many times I've been here, but I can tell you that my earliest memories include a Waikiki beach with little more than two hotels on it (The Royal Hawaiian and the Moana).  So you get the drift...I'm older than dirt, and I love Hawaii.  This trip is made even more special by the fact that my parents (89 and 90 years old) are here too.  I don't get to see them nearly often enough, so I am doubly blessed!            
         After my first good night's sleep in paradise, and my reminder of all of the scantily-clad lithe young bodies parading around without a shred of self-consciousness, I decided to visit the work-out facility at the hotel.  Right by the door were two elliptical machines.  One of them was occupied by a man who appeared to be in his seventies, but remarkably fit.  The other one beckoned me, reminding me to go easy on my bum knee.  Okay, I thought as I looked at all of the fitness freaks on equipment that had been conceived in the lab of some evil genius whose day job was black ops.  "I will not be discouraged!  I will exercise until my sweat is dropping freely to the floor!"  I climbed onto the elliptical which reminded me a bit of mounting a horse.  I put my feet on each step, and pushed my right foot in an effort to get the rotation started. Nothing happened.  I transferred all of my impressive weight onto my right leg.  Nothing happened.  I glanced self-consciously at the elderly man moving at Mach IV on the machine beside me, and decided the machine must need to be turned on FIRST. 

 I switched my attention to the screen in front of me as my feet strained to move the gears inch by inch.  Whose idea was it to make the controls of an exercise device look like a cock pit?  I noticed that one of the buttons was marked in green and said "quick start".  Aha! Nothing happened.  My legs were burning with the effort to move the gears incrementally.  I punched the button three more times in case it was confused by my intent.  Still no life on the control panel.  The Olympic athlete on my right glanced over at me and said, "Oh, you have to get your feet moving before you start the machine, just move your legs and get it started then you can push the button." 
       It took all of my acting ability to remain calm. What did he think I had been doing for the last two minutes?  My legs were shaking from the effort, and sweat had popped out on my brow, and I had not even gotten the machine started yet!
Clearly I had selected the most difficult machine in the entire torture chamber!  Then Mr. Olympus said, "I just have three more minutes left, then I will help you get started."  I gritted my teeth. "Thanks".  Something about my desperation must have gotten my feet moving just enough that when I pushed the button this time, the cockpit lit up like a Christmas tree.  I looked for the button that said "easy", but my defective machine didn't have it.  My legs were straining in slow motion, and the timer (also obviously defectively slow) began to count on the display. I put my heart and soul into the arm and leg movements of the machine....pumping.....pumping for what was surely 20 minutes.  Mr. Killjoy on the machine next to me finally slowed to a stop and looked at me saying cheerfully, "There, my last three minutes.  Oh good, you got it going."  (Three minutes indeed! All of the timers in the facility were clearly not working) "You can change the intensity with this dial right here," he said as he rolled a dial up and down.  
         I smiled my first genuine smile of the morning!  And immediately moved the dial in a downward motion.  "Uh, it won't go down any more than that," he said awkwardly. I smiled my very best fake smile and thanked him dismissively.  A quick look at my timer showed that I had endured for 4 minutes.  Sweat was pouring off of me and I was huffing and puffing.  My goal was one more minute (or until the Olympian disguised as an old man left the room).  My first and last workout lasted 8 minutes.  But the good news? The machine assured me that I burned 35 calories!!   
          That evening my World War II Veteran father took us to Hickham Air Field to see the mortar damage and the monuments surrounding the Pearl Harbor attack.  There is no better guide than someone who knows the names on the plaques personally.

  Then we all feasted on Mongolian Bar-B-Q at the Officers Club.  After all, I needed to build back those 35 calories that I burned.  Real Mongolian Bar-B-Q is so much better than the chain store variety.  It is my hope that all of my readers can enjoy the experience for themselves sometime.  My parents, one sister and her husband, a niece and nephew, and of course my husband were all there enjoying the experience and the laughter.  When we finally selected our fortune cookies, I laughed at the funny and appropriate sayings that everyone opened.  My husband had jokingly said earlier that day, "Never do today what you can put off for tomorrow."  Now he was faced with a fortune that said just the opposite.  My niece, Ashley, had been to the doctors office just that morning with a fever and infection.  Her fortune said, "Don't just treat the symptoms, root out the cause."  I eagerly opened my cookie to find this encouraging little tidbit.

         Humph!  Just because I made a fool of myself in the fitness center, I didn't need to sit here and be mocked by a cookie!  I ignored it just as I did all fortunes.  I was above such nonsense!  We talked and laughed a bit more, enjoying the beauty of the "Missing man Formation" monument.

 Then several of our group decided to get another fortune cookie.  Ha, I laughed to myself, I'll show them.  I will get a better fortune this time!  I happily selected another cookie and eagerly broke into it.  This is what I saw!

         Well, one is easy to ignore.  Two of the same fortune is a little more difficult.  So, I resigned myself to finding a little relevance in the little saying. As the week wore on and my cell phone disappeared, I heard the little voice saying...."Even Babe Ruth struck out sometimes!"  All my pictures of Hawaii were gone!  Then I started thinking about all of those home runs Babe Ruth accomplished.  If he struck out sometimes, what was he doing all those other times?  I thought about my 10 days in paradise....definitely a home run.  I thought about the quality time with my husband and my parents....another home run.

 All the kind people we met on our travels were another home run!  We have so much to be thankful for!  I refuse to let the loss of a cell phone define my mood! Home Run!

DECEPTIVE PITFALLS

                  When you least expect it, the most ordinary objects in your life will turn on you and bite you right in the rear end!  Have you ever reached for something only to discover that through some cosmic mix-up you have grabbed something entirely different?

 Toothpaste became hemorrhoid  cream, shampoo became bath oil, and one of my personal favorites which only happens when putting make-up on in a dark car on the way to church....eye liner became lip liner.  Not that I've ever had any personal experience with any of these (if anyone says they saw me at church with black lips, they're lying).  

                As a good citizen, I feel I should warn you about some possible pitfalls just waiting to happen. Vitamins for instance can be wonderful, but you must beware!  On the good side of the vitamin controversy are grown-up Gummi supplements that make the struggle to remember to take a vitamin everyday a thing of the past.          As soon as I discovered the giant jar of colorful,  chewy  yummiliciousness labeled "Multi-Vitamins" I never again forgot another day of healthy supplements.   Not only that, but soon after I acquired the first bottle of vitamins, I happened upon a massive jar of chewy Vitamin C.  I know a good thing when I see it.  My overall health has improved dramatically. Soon I will acquire the chew-able calcium tablets and the B12 gummis.  Then I will be like She Ra, Princess of Power!

Of course the very thing I celebrate now caused a crisis in my little world when my children were young.  You see, not only did I constantly forget to take my own vitamins, but I usually neglected to give them to my children.  Then one day I saw the answer staring at me in the grocery store.

Flintstones vitamins! I would keep these on hand and my children would beg to have their daily dose!  I was a genius! I carefully selected a box of Flintstones vitamins plus iron because I was a good mother, and I was going to give my children every possible advantage! 

These were the Pediatricians number one choice!  It said so right on the box!  I congratulated myself all the way home, and placed the treasured bottle on the kitchen counter right next to my coffeemaker so I would never again 

forget to help my children in this manner!

         As I stumbled to the coffeemaker the next morning, thankful for the extra thirty minutes of sleep, I found my two industrious toddlers happily waiting for me on TOP of the kitchen counter.  They smiled displaying their stained teeth and chins, proudly showcasing the empty "candy" jar they had just demolished.  Oh dear!  How many vitamins were too many?  I contacted the Pediatricians office and learned that indeed you CAN get too much iron in your system.  They would need to see the boys right away.  Until that morning, they boys thought of the Doctor's office as a magical place where you got a sucker and stickers.  It was almost as good as Chuck E. Cheese.  That illusion was shattered in one brief visit. My sweet little walking garbage disposals obediently drank down the Ipecac syrup, happily staring at me with trusting eyes.  Then it hit.  The vomiting began.  Up came the brightly-colored vitamins they were so excited about.  The fountain continued. Next came the chicken nuggets from dinner the night before. The boys stared with horrified looks of utter betrayal as their stomachs turned inside-out, letting go of goodies that entered their systems in utero.

          That was the day that going to the doctor transformed from a cake-walk into navigating a minefield.  Never again would it be routine.  If you have ever wondered what kind of memory a two and three year old have, let me assure you it is legendary.  

           Sometimes we just outsmart ourselves.  We fall into potentially dangerous areas because of a simple mix-up.  Unfortunately, the only lesson I seemed to learn from this incident was that I would never again give my children vitamins.  

            Fast forward about 6 years.  Curiously, both of my boys had been diagnosed with ADD.  Each morning before school, I would dispense their tiny little tablet of Ritalin.  One morning after they swallowed their medication and gathered their books and supplies for school, I reached over on the counter for my own Thyroid medicine, also a tiny tablet.  I stared at it.  Something was wrong. My tablets were a pale blue, this tablet was a pale pink.  I grabbed the bottle and took a closer look. Oops.  I had the wrong one.  I had just given both of my boys Thyroid medicine. I reluctantly called the school nurse.  At least this time there was no need for ipecac.  Their teachers and the nurse observed them uneasily all day, then gladly gave them back to me at the end of the day. Whew!  Crisis averted.

               This tendency to disguise things as something else never seems to stop.  My husband and I recently attended a beautiful wedding in Charlotte, North Carolina.  After the ceremony we drove to a stunning country club where we sat at tables on the immaculately manicured lawns.  We were served delicious ice-cold glasses of sweet tea as we awaited the wedding party.  It was a bit warm and humid and that sweet tea really hit the spot.  I'm not really a drinker of adult beverages, and usually I can detect even the faintest hint of  alcohol in something.  I simply don't like it.  But imagine my surprise when I discovered (after 3 glasses) that this tea was made with "Fire Fly" vodka.  WHAT?  I don't remember a whole lot about that wedding reception except that it was really, really fun!

               Things can often deceive us.  It is a wonder that we ever survive into adulthood and beyond. 

HYSTERIA

         
 How many ridiculous horror films did I watch in my youth that triggered reams of heart-felt belly laughs? The melodramatic reactions of the silly girls in these stories left me torn between indignation that they should represent women in such a poor light, and hilarity at the over-acting and never-ending screams. I knew in my heart of hearts, at the very core of my being, that frightened or not, I would never react like these feather-brained nincompoops in the movies!
          But as fate would have it, I was to be put to the test during my Freshman year at Baylor University.  My best friend Susan was my roommate (see the July 14th post on pranking for more adventures with Susan).  We lived on the first floor of Collins Hall and had already made some wonderful friends.  For the first time in my life I was living in an environment filled with potential friends, and very few authority figures.  It was a time for self-discovery and realization.  I saw a few friends around me embark on paths of self-destruction, and I began to realize that the truths and morals on which I had been raised were valid and valuable.  I quickly saw that I had one of the greatest roommates anywhere. 

          However  I also learned that I (who adored sleeping late) was the only one in our room who could be awakened by an alarm clock.  It was my job to stagger out of my bed when Susan's alarm went off and pull her nice warm covers off of her bed so she would eventually wake up.  Sometimes even that did not work.  I had never known anyone who could sleep more soundly.  I remember a couple of times I actually dragged Susan off of her bed onto the cold hard floor where she DID wake up (a little grumpy perhaps) 
           One night after a few weeks in school, we repeated what was becoming a routine in our room.  We followed our various beauty regimens which on that night included my newest hair discovery.  I learned that if I put my longish straight hair in a ponytail on top of my head, and rolled the ends up on orange juice cans, it gave my stick- straight hair the appearance of body, bounce and thickness the next day.  Of course, I looked a little strange, but sometimes you just have to work toward delayed gratification. Our Wing Ding, Pam checked on us once the dorm was locked down for the night (11:00 pm if I remember correctly) and chastised us as she did every night for not locking our door. We promised we would as we did every night (but did not always follow through).  We finished our class prep, talked and laughed, set our alarms, and finally went to sleep.

          It was the sound that woke me at 3:45 in the morning.  It wasn't loud, but I had never heard anything like it before.  It was between a quivery moaning sound and a scream, but it was not loud at all.  The sound was coming from the direction of Susan's bed, but for some strange reason, it was pitch black and I could see nothing.  My sleep befuddled brain could not grasp the fact that most of the time the lights in the dorm courtyard shone brightly enough to filter through our window treatments.  We had also had to adjust to the constant light coming through the bottom crack of the door because the hallways were kept fully lighted all night long.  I did not stop to consider any of this when I woke up to utter darkness, I just felt that something was terribly wrong.  
         "Susan, What's wrong?" I called urgently.  After a few more of the spine chilling sounds coming from the direction of her bed, she finally articulated a few words.  With fear in every syllable, she screamed, "THERE'S A MAN IN HERE!"  Terror shot through me like a bolt of lightening!  What my eyes could not see, my mind supplied in horrifying detail. I could envision the man standing over Susan preparing to plunge a knife into her. Fear did not inhibit my vocal chords as it had Susan's. With sound so loud it woke students six floors above us, I released a scream of epic proportions!  As I heard myself shrieking the hysteria began to take control of me.  My scream was followed by Susan's repeated mantra, "THERE'S A MAN IN HERE!'  As soon as she finished her cry, another scream ripped from my lungs still loud enough to wake the dead. Again Susan's shouted warning!  Again my shriek!  Somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind I began to realize that he must surely be gone by now, but the screams would not quit erupting from me and I was completely helpless to stop them.  This was actual bonafide hysteria.  This would be humiliating if my mind ever returned to my control.  
          Finally, after what felt like an eternity, light began to shine under the door, and through our window. Followed very quickly by our door being thrown open and our sweet dorm mother rushing in and coming immediately to my bed to gather me in her arms.  "What happened?" she asked quickly, looking in my eyes.  The crowd of girls huddled outside our door looking frightened and concerned all looked to me for answers.
          "Uhhhhh...mneehhhh....uhhhhh" I stated articulately as I looked to Susan for answers.  I pointed at her since my ability to speak logically had not yet been restored.  The focus changed.  Our dorm mother quickly switched bedsides to help Susan.  My mind was beginning to reboot.  Susan explained what happened.  I knew almost immediately that we had supernatural intervention from God when she began her explanation with the statement, "I woke up because I felt my covers move."  Only Susan and I knew how impossible that was without God's help.  She could see the vague outline of the man standing over her and she began to scream.  At least she was trying to scream.  Fear made her voice do strange things.  The noise was enough to cause the intruder to flee, and to wake me up.  
          As I sat in my bed soaking in the lights that were now shining brightly, awareness gradually returned.  With it came the question of the unusual darkness.  Our dorm mother explained that the reason it took a few minutes to respond to us is that the breakers had been turned off for the entire dorm.  She had to turn them back on before she could find her way to our room.  (I remembered the vision I had of the man holding a knife over Susan and thought she should have come to us first, but I was still experiencing some shock) Two policeman arrived and began their investigation.  They discovered that the intruder had prepared a window at the end of the hall earlier in the day.  In the middle of my interview I remembered the orange juice cans on top of my head.  It is a strange feeling when you want to be taken seriously, but you realize that you look like an imbecile.  
          Events of this magnitude have surprising ripple effects. The biggest shock to me was how quickly the word spread all over campus.  But another surprise to me was the physical reaction I had to deal with for a while. Susan and I got an early start to the day since there was NO way we could go back to sleep in that room.  In fact, Susan packed her bag and went home to Abilene for a few days.  I spent the next night or two in my big sister's place.  Lynda was a Junior at Baylor.

  I made my way across the quiet, foggy campus that Fall morning to see Lynda, after the police had finally left.  The walk was beautiful with early morning light fighting to burn through the fog and sparkling on the moss-draped trees. A loud snap echoed to my left and I literally dove to the ground with an involuntary cry and my arms covered my head for protection.  It was a squirrel scampering from tree to tree.  It would be years before I heard of PTSD, but I suppose these were symptoms.  
          Months later the police captured a serial rapist who they believe was the intruder in our room.  We were glad to know that he was behind bars, but by then I had lost my wonderful roommate.  She transferred mid-year to another University.  We remain friends today although we live half a continent apart.  But I have to live with the realization that I am not above reacting like those feather-brained nincompoops from the low budget horror movies.  It is a little embarrassing.