"MA'AM! WE HAVE YOUR SON"

Nine at the time ... I do believe Calvin was 9 years old when the cop called.

First some background.

We were a family of six -- two parents and four boys.   Mitch had not so long ago passed away due to his birth defects.  Darling hubby had been driving a semi-truck.  As I was raising these young boys I thought they needed to know how to tie knots, have survival skills, and get experiences from male leaders that Boy Scouts could provide.

Rusty and Calvin were then enrolled in Boy Scouts.  Often I felt harried -- in a hurry with much to do.  So this evening, already dark outside, I'd left the supper mess behind, bundled up the boys, Calvin in his blue scout uniform, and grabbed up all the needs for a toddler, and rushed to town to church to his meeting place.  The usual typical cars were there.  Through the plate glass doors I thought I recognized some of the men standing around, so into the building Calvin went, and off I drove.

An hour later a county sheriff calls.

"Mrs. Bays?"

"Yes."

"We have your son."

Okay, take a moment here, experience this to the fullest.  A cop is on the other end of the phone line, he has your son, your little boy who might be scared,  but you've been feeling warm and comfortable in your home, yet now your hubby is looking at you with big questioning eyes.  "Zing" your mind races off!  No, you don't.  The boys are here.  Isn't Calvin at Scouts?  Which son?  Who could he have?  Has he been hurt?  Why does a cop have my son?  What happened to him?  Did someone molest my son?  What do I do now?  Where is he?  Someone's prank calling.  Do I recognize this voice?  Could this be a trick?  Are they carting him off to juvenile detention?  Why would they?  He's just a little boy!

"Ma'am!"  This strident, deep male voice is commanding attention.  "Do you want to come and get him or do you want us to bring him to you?"

I look at darling hubby, dear John, trying to convey with my wide eyes and stammering lips what the cop is asking, hoping John will give me the answer.

It turns out the meeting had been cancelled, those men were there for something else.  Calvin didn't think to use the church phone, he thought he knew how to get home.  A passing motorist had seen a little bobbing head in the corn field and called 911.

Calvin told us that the bridge he was looking for, the one halfway between the church and our house, was a lot further away than he thought.

Again, the sheriff's voice ricochets in my head, it insists I pay attention to him.
"Ma'am!  DO YOU WANT TO COME AND GET HIM OR DO YOU WANT US TO BRING HIM TO YOU?"

"I'll come there.  Where do I go?"

We arrived at the corner of two roads, where the witness car and a sheriff's car were parked on the shoulder with red and blue lights flashing their warning.  It was heart stopping to see little Calvin sitting in the back seat.  Thank the Good Lord he was safe.

"Ma'am!  We have your son.  He's all right."

IN A MAN'S NOTHING BOX

“Bu-zi-zi-zi-zi-zit, bu-zi-zi-zi-zi-zit!” says the presenter standing behind a figurine of a female brain.  He’s making electric arcs with his fingers describing how a woman’s brain thinks,  “Connecting this wire to that wire and that wire to this.”

While standing behind a second figurine, he discusses the male brain.  “A man runs to his nothing box.  This is how they unwind.” 

Lying here, it’s 3 a.m., I can’t sleep.  My wires are connected to this, arcing to that, all scrambled static, when I remember men have a nothing box.  Hum mm.   Nothing box.  I could use a nothing box.

With the dark of night, the warmth of my teal covers, and eyes closed, I conjure a nothing box.  There it is.  Laying on its side.  Brown cardboard.  Four walls and a bottom.  Flaps open.  Something’s uncommon about the bottom.

Oh, I see.  It was once cut out and is now taped back together.  Through the clear cellophane I can see sunlight and glimmers of green grass.  Ha, ha, ha, this box is in the grass!

Ah.  There.  I’m all alone.  In a man’s nothing box.  My nothing box.

Huh?  To the left something tiny and black moves.  An ant?  An ant in my nothing box!  But it scurries away.  Through a microscopic hole in the tape, he disappears.

Looking around, again thinking I’m alone.   It’s obvious, though, I’m still not alone.  The upper right corner hangs a wee spider busily making its capturing web.  Can’t have that.  Nope.  Spider must go.

Taking the top end of his filigree web I buoy him over the edge into the grass.

There.  Nothing box.  No thoughts.  No worries.  No plans.  No goals.  Nothing.

“Let’s take the flaps and fold them inside,” I think.  Fold, crunch, push, shove, boing!  That didn’t work -- they popped right back out.

“POW!”  “Punch!”  a small hand bursts through the bottom and young eyes play peek a boo.  Chuckle.   Yet “No!  Go away.  I don’t want to play!”  I must do no-thing.

The box flattens.  Without a bottom, it collapses, and falls flat.  

Ut.  Then it’s not a box.  Must have a box.  Open back up.

It could have tissue paper to crumple and climb, couldn’t it?

It could have bubble wrap to stomp and pop, couldn’t it?

What about dividing inserts?

Oh, bother.

Get those out of here.  This is a nothing box.

From the bottom I look up the sides and up each corner seam, noting the tears and punctures in the corrugated cardboard wondering if they could be used like rock climbing.  

A gentle breeze begins to make the flaps move.  I’m feeling uplifted.  Like a child in daddy’s arms whirling around the room, I’m airborne.

With me full of wonder riding inside, there goes the nothing box.

“I’ll fly away, oh glory, I’ll fly away……”

(And this is what my brain did while forcing it into a nothing box.)

(A day later, I have to tell you, as I was reading this blog out loud to dear hubby he became exasperated, "STOP!  It's a nothing box!  You're killing me!")

SEVENTEEN'S WISDOM

So, I'm telling my 17 y.o. son about a conversation I'd had with my boss about words.  She and a co-worker didn't know them, but a customer going through the aisles did.  This is surprising.

Now, the point of this story is to relate the mind of my 17 y.o.  That's all.  I just think he's funny.  He has a different take on life, that's for sure.  You'll see at the end.

Feeling superfluous, I was.  At my second job my hours were very flexible, and I was doing secondary work, so I was feeling superfluous.  Inquiring if boss lady knew the word, she did not.  Then something was said about my vocabulary so I wondered if she knew idiosyncrasy, "Traits of being an idiot?" she laughed with raised eyebrows.  "No, not at all," I laughed in response to this intelligent, friendly woman.

"It means characteristics that are particular or peculiar to a specific person."

"Ever hear the word 'prerogative'?" I asked.  "My mother used to say, "It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind" meaning it was her right because she's a woman.

Then we went on to discuss maudlin (sentimental, emotional) which the passing customer knew immediately and esoteric which a cashier threw out there (knowledge only a very few people know) and ergonomics.  We all know ergonomics, right?  which is the study of work efficiency?

So, here son and I are in the cool of the living room, with the first decent spring breeze fluttering through the green curtains and the 17 y.o. is relaxing in the russet recliner, and me telling him the story and asking, "You do know what uproarious means, don't you?"

He says, "Meaning to start a riot?"

Now, I'm rolling on the floor in my own riotous laughter.  "Sorry, dear, it means boisterous, loud, noisy."  Oh my, maybe I shouldn't have used the word boisterous.

Wondering who this unworldly boy has come in contact with lately, and knowing he's only ever had one job, he pronounces his edict on all peoples, especially the intelligence of those  in the work force, " Mom, sometimes out there in the world you'll find it's a miracle people even got a job."

FENG SHUI IN 120 SECONDS!

It's a feng shui disturbance.  I told hubby so.

That recliner he was sitting in was smack dab in the middle between me and the t.v.

I needed it moved so I could fully relax and enjoy the show.

We'd just decided to watch an episode or two of My Name Is Earl.  Thankfully, when the next to last boy left the nest he left behind his PS4 with a Netflix subscription.

T.V. programming isn't much to our liking these days.  With Netflix we can watch shows like Longmire and Midsomer Murders and, in this case, My Name Is Earl, until our hearts content, or until the seasons and episodes run out, LOL.

"You're in the way of my feng shui,"  I'd said.  "Give me two minutes and I'll quickly explain."

Darling Hubby hadn't heard about feng shui so I explained that it's a Chinese philosophy of humans interacting with their environment.  In extreme simplicity, I said the couch in the living room should be on the wall opposite of the door.  A bed should not have anything under it -- anything stored under the bed would be an interference with the harmony of humans and earthly elements.  There was more; yet I tried to be brief.

"It took you 120 seconds to tell me this?!"

"What did you think?" I asked.

"I've no idea what Finch Way is!  I thought it was your bird feeder outside and wondered who's been disturbing it!"

PIES ARE SQUARED

The son rose when the sun rose.  Well, one of them did, anyway.   And the one that did went to school.  Sons learn many things at school.  Most of it's good, some of it's not, and some gets misunderstood due to static on the lines of communication!

He came home and as typical parents do, "What did you learn at school today?"

Answer, "Pies are squared."

Huh?  Today must be one of those days where you had to "be there or be square" days.

"Pies are square?  I always truly believed pies are round!"  My mother made wonderful yellow lemon and vanilla custard pies.  Shoot, she made wonderful ANY pie!  My paternal grandmother would make eight pies for Sunday, one would be mince meat, the real mince meat with beef.  Every Christmas I scrounge around for at least one slice of mince meat pie; somewhere, someway I have to get one piece just to round out the season.  My sister makes the best crust of all the women in the world.  My maternal aunt made the most delicious raspberry pie for which your mouth could ever water.  Try emulating hers -- you can't.

But always, always, always the pies were round!

Try putting a pie on it's side, it'll roll just fine, I know I've seen Bugs Bunny do it.

Try putting a square pie on it's side.  Roll, thunk.  Roll, thunk.  Each time it thunks on a square corner all the little itty bitty berries squeal, "Ow, stop it.  Ow, stop it."  The littlest one clings to the crust trying not to land in a heap in the dust.

No, pies are round.

So, what are they teaching kids these days?  That's the cry heard all across America in the last 20 decades.  "What are they teaching kids these days?"

I know what they're teaching them, they're teaching them that pies are square.  And so are the parents!

Truly, if you want to know the measured area of a sweet crunchy pecan pie so you can divide it equally between you and your six siblings, a teacher would say first square the radius to get pi.

I've squared the radius.  I've leaned it in my favor.  I got the bigger piece of the pie.

It was an extra large triangle! Yum, yum!

LOVE ENEMIES AND SNICKERS

Here are a few quick quips you might overhear in my house.

LOVE

Though not married, Spencer moved into his own home 20 miles away.  He was the baby of the family for 8 years, basking in bountiful wonderful auntie love.  My boys have been spoiled rotten to the core by their aunts.  At this time Aunt Mary Ann popped in moments before Spencer also popped in.  We'd all been at the same church the day before and afterwards had had lunch together.  

This tall, adult manager of Pizza Hut, with twinkling adoration in his eyes reaches out his arms:  I love you!

Mary reciprocates:  I still love you!

Me:  Were you two out of love or something?

Spencer:  Yes, it’s been a whole day.

ENEMIES

Overheard a Bays boy say:  An owl and a turkey are natural enemies.

Me:   Does the owl eat the turkey or the turkey eat the owl?  Who eats who?

John steps in:  It’s a Mutual Massacre!

VEHICLES

Spencer and I are checking Craigslist for me another vehicle.  I’d just sold my Mercury Capri.  He reads the ad aloud,

“2004 Pontiac Grand Prix GTP $3600, Peru, Indiana”

Me:  How fast can it be?

Spencer:  Faster than my Mini Cooper.

John:  What’d he say?

Me: We’re going to Peru!

SNICKERS

Me:  She said to do it.

Him:  Who said do it?

Me:  The customer.  She was indifferent. 

Him:  Do what?

Me:  She said to just put her Snickers candy bar in the same bag with her little bottle of Downy clothes softener.  I had to chuckle at her, “You not only want your candy to taste good but smell good, too!”