The Taleswappers’ Porch

September, 1997

Robbie likes to play pretend. Pretending is very serious business for a three-year-old boy. When he becomes Darth Vader or Freakazoid or Daddy, Robbie becomes that character one hundred percent. You much call him by his correct name when he is pretending, and woe to you if you don’t know who it is that he is pretending to be! You must act as he tells you to act in your role. If Darth Vader tells you that you are Luke Skywalker and you have to cross light sabers with him, then by golly you’d better.

A few weeks ago, Robbie became God.

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Corny was a corn snake. He was about four feet long, and very proud of his beautiful orange and gold and brown skin. He lived in Mr. H’s classroom at Old Donation Center, where he got to meet all kinds of children, who loved him and took care of him. But sometimes, the children would all go away. Most of the time it was only for a day or two, but at other times, it would be for a week or more. At those times, Corny would get very lonely and sad.

One year, Corny met a class of children that he loved.

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I was chatting with a friend the other day and all of a sudden, a couple of memories of a single year in school came back to me. It was the year I was in grade 3.

The first memory to come to mind was of discipline gone wrong. I remember my teacher in the middle of a lesson, and I remember somebody was disruptive. This teacher could do the disciplinarian if she had to, but that wasn’t the whole story. In this case, she figured that an effective way to get this student’s attention would be to whack her wooden pointer on the student’s desk. It certainly got everybody’s attention. There’s something about the end of the pointer breaking off and flying across the room which tends to do that! The whole class (the teacher included) had a good long laugh at that!

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July 19, 1999

This morning was a hard one. Both Robbie and Becca wanted more sleep, but I had to roust them out of bed and help them get ready for the day anyway, all the while wishing I could have some more sleep, too. By the time they were dressed and having breakfast, they seemed okay, though. Becca was telling stories in a silly voice, and Robbie laughed so hard he couldn’t take another bite of his waffle.

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Some quick little stories for this Sunday morning for you…

When I was in fifth grade, I was preparing for First Communion. The parish did this by sending home a series of letters that were to be discussed in the family. We were discussing the last one at the dinner table, and my mother observed, “In some churches, they don’t use wine at Communion.” My five-year-old sister gasped and said, “You mean they use real blood?”

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I have been fortunate through my life. For, yea, I am a klutz. Despite that fact, serious injury has not befallen me.

I don’t recall how old I would have been, but I was probably in the 8- to 11-year-old range, when one day I was over at the house of a friend who lived just around the corner from me. And we decided to play baseball. And, we had fun (especially because her yard was bigger than ours, though home runs would be hit into the forest instead of over a fence). But it was often hard to retrieve balls, so we’d try to keep them on their lawn instead of ruining the fun by losing the ball.

So, I remember her pitching to me. I remember getting a great hit, and excitedly thinking I had a sure home run. And I started to run. I touched first base, which was probably somebody’s jacket. I ran and kept running as I circled second base, which may have been a patch of sand in the lawn.

Then, as I kept running, something felt wrong.
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When I was growing up, I had a retarded parakeet.

Isn’t that a great opening line? It’s funny, it’s unexpected, it’s politically incorrect, and now you’re thinking how on earth can a parakeet be retarded? Well, she was. But as in all stories, this one has a beginning, and the retarded parakeet comes in somewhere in the middle.

When I was in second grade, living in New Orleans, my parents gave me a parakeet for Christmas. (And to be completely nitpicky, it was actually a budgierigar or budgie, because that’s the proper name for what we usually call parakeets in the States.) He was a fun little thing, blue and white. Because he was too young to know his sex yet, I named him Hobbie, after Holly Hobbie, which gives you an idea of my age. He was quite smart, and in the time I had him, he learned to whistle, mimic the telephone, and say a handful of phrases. I loved to play with him, to let him ride around on my shoulder, to watch him play with his toys.

Hobbie, however, turned out to be like a Greek tragic hero.
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Ten years ago, the night before Thanksgiving, I had the most wonderful, most blessed, holiest communion in my life. Robbie and Becca and I were sitting at the dining room table eating roast beast and mashed potatoes and fresh bread. Suddenly three-year-old Becca held up her bread and said, “Take, eat. This is my new covenant.” Then she broke off a piece, put it in my hand, and said “The body of Christ, the bread of Heaven.” I ate the bread and felt a tugging on my other sleeve. Four-year-old Robbie had broken off a piece of his bread, and he put it into my hand saying “The body of Christ, the bread of Heaven.”

I smiled at them and kissed them and said thank you. But Becca wasn’t done.
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