Michael's Picture

Michael's Picture- August 31, 2014

Michael brought me a picture; actually it was a gift he made for me when we visited last month.  He’s five, or rather, going on five, as he would say.  He is also my grandson. 

Unlike Michael, I never really knew either of my grand fathers.  One died when I was younger than Michael.  The other when I was twelve.  It’s funny what you remember; I don’t recall ever seeing either one of them smile.  To be honest, I don’t think either one was ever very interested in being my grandfather, of spending time with me, or just talking to me.  

I’ve always heard it said that people were just different back then and maybe they were, or maybe that’s just the bandage we put on it, so it doesn’t hurt so much. I don’t know. 

So anyway, back to this picture. Michael drew it and then colored it, just for me. Maddie his older sister (by two years) has given me tons of pictures, sometimes taking hours to complete just one.  And I keep them all.  I have them on the walls in my office, in my bookcase, and I usually have a couple in my suitcase when I travel. 

Grandbabies…they see world so differently. They don’t really understand the value of things.  They don’t have money, and even if they did, a dollar might as well be a hundred dollars, or thousand; but when they make something, its like they have made the most priceless thing on earth--and they made it just for you. 

And I’ve never bothered to tell them that the things they make are just paper and crayons and scribbling… and not what they think they’re worth.   

They’re worth... a whole lot more. 

Release the Kraken

“Release the Kraken"
By Kim Michael

I’m nine years old.  It’s Tuesday night.  "Bible Study Night" at church.  My dad is the teacher.  The White Chapel Bible Study is a small, but faithful group of followers who diligently meet downstairs in the basement every Tuesday night to read the bible—every chapter—every passage-every word-- diligently, if not painfully.   Like I said I’m nine.  I had a hard time sitting still.  I had a harder time even reading when it came to my turn.  There were not a lot of other kids, just me and one other boy, and I really didn’t know him all that well, just the look of misery on his face as he sat across the table from me.

Our church was small; out in the middle of nowhere.  There was an old farm house on one side and a corn field butted up to the back of the property.  There were no bathrooms, just an outhouse behind the church next to the back fence, with a Sears catalogue hanging inside (not for reading).  People joke about it now, but that’s the way it was back then.

Mom knew Tuesday nights were hard on me.  She would often fix something I liked for supper before we went.  The night of the “incident” she fixed one of my favorites.  “Beans and Weenies”.  Now for this part of the story you need to understand that I have a sensitive digestive system.  Strange things happen when I eat certain foods.  Now that I’m an adult I have come to know these foods over the years and to avoid them, however at nine, I was still very much in the discovery stage.  The food, or culprit in question here—BEANS.

I ate two helpings that night.  Beans and weenies with buttered bread.  There is nothing better.  

At seven o’clock we were at the church, down in the basement.  Just heading into the book of Exodus.  Somewhere between the first and second plague that hit Egypt something started rumbling in my stomach.  When the angel of death showed up in Egypt, I could feel his presence.  Unknown things were happening to me; pressure  building.  I began sweating.  Then I thought about that outhouse in the dark.  By myself.  In the cold.  That scared me even more. I tried to stay calm hoping it would go away, but it didn’t.  I was determined to hang in there --I would do anything not to have to go to that outhouse, but it was not to be.  

The storm of beens and weenies continued to churn, and by the time we got to the part when Moses said, "Let My People Go", it was if a voice on some distant shore of rotten eggs and sulfur cried out, “Release The Kraken”.

It started out as a low rumble.  Everyone looked up and directly at me.  No smiles or laughter.  Their eyes wide, in disbelief.  I tried to clinch, but that only made the pitch go higher.  I covered almost three octaves that ended in some kind of whistle that was still going.  I could do nothing to stop it.   

When it was finally over everyone just stared at me.  I was terrified.  My dad turned to me red-faced and embarrassed; looked me in the eye and said, “What do you say?"

My face went blank.  I had no idea.  What do you say after you’ve bombed the Tuesdays Night Bible Study group with deadly beans and weenie gas?  I was petrified.  All I could think to say was... “Thank you?"

My dad just stared at me.  Finally, his face eased up.  He looked to the others, “Give me a minute, I’ll take him out to the outhouse."  

We walked to the back door and out into the dark.  He had his flashlight.  By the time we’d gotten there I no longer had to go.  I tried, but I couldn’t.  Dad said nothing.  As we walked back toward the door, I began to cry.  I didn't want to go back inside.  I didn’t want to face all those people again.  Dad knelt down and hugged me.  

“It’s OK,” he said finally.  “Go on to the car, turn the heater on and you can listen to the radio until we come out.  Those days we had a couple of riders we took home.    

It was probably not the best decision on my dad’s part.  The beans and weenies would strike again before they all came out and piled in the car.  We had to drive home in twenty degree weather, with the windows down...my dad glancing up at me in the mirror in disbelief.  

Sometimes there are just not enough “Thank Yous” to say.   

Joseph and the Gentle Giant

 

Joseph and the Gentle Giant

 By Kim Michael                                                                                           

He was late.  Jim had been in meetings all morning and his last meeting at the main campus of the hospital ran over, putting him on a dead run back to his office six blocks away.      

 

Now I have to preface this story by telling you that the Jim in this story is a friend of mine, a gentle giant. Maybe six five.  When I first met him, he probably weighed close to three hundred pounds and not an “obese” three hundred pounds, but a “big” three hundred pounds--like a line-backer.  Add to that that he’d once been a state trooper in Maine until he got the highest grade on a civil service exam in Massachusetts which landed him a job in hospital administration, which he freely admits he had absolutely no background in.  And yet, in a few short years, he had become one of the most highly respected patient accounts directors in the state-- and now he is terribly late for his next meeting--an important meeting that he can’t miss.

 

It was almost noon when he finally parked his car in the parking deck, rushed down the stairs to the sidewalk below, and then across the street to the ten story office complex where his office was located.    

 

That’s when Jim sees the homeless man sitting on the curb.  He glances at him for only a second as he passes, but before he pushes through the office building door, he pauses to see his own reflection in the glass...and then the reflection of the homeless man sitting on the curb in the distance.  

 

Then he looks down at his watch.  He’s terribly late, but instead of going in, he slowly turns back to the sidewalk, walks across the street to a restaurant and buys two sandwiches.  And then on a warm summer afternoon, in his suite and tie, Jim comes back to where the homeless man is sitting, sits down on the curb beside him, and hands him one of the sandwiches.      

 

The homeless man’s name was Joseph.  Jim never told me his last name, and I suspect he didn’t know it himself.  He didn’t have to.  He knew everything he needed to know.  They sat there on the curb and watched the cars pass by, people streaming around them as they went to lunch and came back from lunch. 

 

And I suspect in all the time they sat there, Joseph never knew that the man who had bought him a sandwich, was also a Catholic Priest.   It was’t important for Jim to tell him and it wasn’t important for Joseph to know.  Sometimes the only thing that is really important is just sitting on a curb and eating a sandwich with someone...even when you’re late.         

 

Little Princesses

Little Princesses      

By Kim Michael October 2, 2014      

         
               

Maddie is seven years old going on eight (as she likes to point out). She has long brown hair, the prettiest dark brown (almost black) eyes you have ever seen, a dog named Dawson, and next week is her birthday. Oh, and she is my grand daughter.

Kids are so much different from when I was growing up. At seven years old (going on eight) Maddie already has her career path plotted. She wants to be either a scientist (like her mom) or a princess.

Of course, she’s only seven and I suspect someday she will have to seriously re-think the whole scientist or princess thing. And for me, I am convinced the world already has too many scientists and clearly not enough princesses.  

As a matter of fact, I don’t think you can have too many little princesses in the world. You can never have too many tea parties on the ceiling, or frilly little dresses that come with magic wands filled with fairy dust, or sparkling tiaras that glow in the dark. And as far as I’m concerned, you can never have too many magic carriages drawn by white horses that are really mice, or fairy god-mothers who kiss you goodnight while you sleep.

And there is nothing like the sound of a little princess singing or laughing, or saying her prayers before she goes to sleep. Some things can never be more perfect than they already are.

No-- you have to savor the moments you have with little princesses and hold them close, because little princesses, like “happily-ever-afters” don’t last forever, and all too soon the day comes when the clock strikes twelve, the frilly little dress and tiara gets put in a box somewhere in the garage or the attic, the white horses turn back into mice... and the glass slipper no longer fits.

And that’s not a bad thing. Life goes on after all. But it seems to me, the world just turns a little slower after that happens. 

Things I Learned From My Two Year Old Grand Daughter

By Kim Michael 

1.   There is magic in this world, it’s called a box of crayons, a tree house, a tricycle, snow, puppies, ponies that don’t bite… and Christmas. 

2. You can never give, or get, too many hugs, or kisses, or prrrrrrrrhs on your tummy.
3. Moms and Dads still love you even when you spill your milk, or accidentally color on the wall with permanent markers, or pull the Christmas tree down on top of yourself, or even… when you wet the bed. 
4. Sing whenever possible, as loud and as long as you can, even if you don’t know the words, and even if no one else is singing.  (E.g. Jesus loves me this I know, E I E I O--this was actually my daughter’s rendition when she was two, but I think it merits being mentioned here.)
5. Look both ways when you cross the street, always hold someone’s hand when you’re scared, and fall asleep in someone’s arms at least once a week.         
6. Canned peas are awful no matter how they’re fixed. 
7. Always share your toys, unless of course, the one you’re sharing with spits up a lot.   
8. It doesn’t matter if you’re short or tall or heavy or skinny, it doesn’t matter if you wear glasses, or braces on your teeth, or if you look different than everyone else.   The truth is we all put our diapers on one leg at a time.          
9. It’s ok to make bubbles in the bathtub as long as you use your mouth.    
10. Always say “please” and “thank you” and “I’m sorry”.  Get used to the last one, you will use it a lot more than the other two.  
11. No matter how nice a doctor is, no matter what anyone tells you, if you see one, it means you’re going to get a wooden thing in your mouth, something cold on your tummy… and a shot.  It’s a rule, if you don’t leave crying they haven’t done their job right. 
12. Few things in life ever approach the perfection of chocolate chip cookies and milk.
13. Be kind to others, even when they pull your hair.   
14. Never play in a sandbox after a cat has been in it.  Trust me, they may look like Tootsie Rolls, but they’re not.    
15. Grand parents are “special”; they’re the first to pick you up when you’ve been in “time out”, the last to put you down when its time to go to sleep, and the quickest to forget everything you’ve done in between.