afordrunning

The boys are up before dark…I ask them to be quiet this morning, seeing as how it is 6:15 AM on a Holiday and the whole house is still sleeping, except these two (and well, me too, ok – just the women are sleeping) but still it’s kinda early for them to start a construction zone. Their all, yes sir Daddy, totally quiet over here, you’ll never even know we are up nonsense. Cut to doors being slammed in the kitchen, cereal being poured loudly, didn’t know you could even do that, and the general sound of two guys plotting out a strenuous day of pushing stuff around the floor.

Then they go back for a second bowl of cereal and apparently the milk runs low, so the 7 year old is trying to grab a full gallon out from behind some leftovers and the 5 year old is rythmically clapping for him like some kind of Zulu manhood ceremony is about to take place.

I come around the corner and the look on their faces is not one of sorrow for not being even a tiny bit quiet, or one of despair for how much trouble they might be in, but a look of complete disconnection at all. The 5 year old keeps up his warrior clapping the 7 year old has one milk jug in his left hand, the full gallon in his right trying to unlodge it from the evil grip of the leftover spaghetti, and all I can think to myself is…”why doesn’t anyone have on pants?”

Me – Where are your pants, or underwear?
7 Y.O. – Oh, we went to the bathroom.
Me – Where?
7 Y.O. – In your potty.
Me – So why are you standing bare-bottomed in my kitchen digging through the fridge?
7 Y.O. – (Laughing now, and noticing his half nude form) Oh, we must have forgot to put them back on.
Me – And why are you clapping?
5 Y.O – I wanted Augie to get the milk.

I cannot explain them, but sadly in many ways I completely understand them – must be the male brain.

Pee – eat – plot out fun….repeat!

My four year old asked me for a scary story the other night, so I made up one about a gorilla that becomes a ghost after passing from a broken heart. His name was Ed, this is his tale. For effect, do your best Vincent Price voice toward the end.

It’s not really scary, not well written, and certainly not illustrated properly – but it made us laugh. Probably not worth a dedication, but since my Mama encouraged me to tell stories as a kid, and the Mother of my children encourages me still to tell stories to the kids – I wish them both Happy Mother’s Day! I’d be broken-hearted without you.

When I was a teenager this old man who lived in my hometown used to hire several guys to move furniture. Not normal furniture like a couch or chair, but turn of the century metal fridges and cast iron tubs. Stuff that would have survived several nuclear attacks and still been under warranty. It was always heavy and in the hardest to reach room in the county, but we got paid squat so it evened out well. 

One hot Saturday me and this other fool were moving some old freezer from the top floor of this creaky old house down to the slave masters truck when my co-worker “got tired”. He said he needed a break so we put down the freezer on the landing of the stairs. This got boss fired up and he laid in to my buddy for being soft. Called him white bread over and over. Initially I thought this was a racist statement (although accurate) because the old man was black. But, after much derision my co-worker said he was ready to tackle some more stairs and the old-man just kept calling him white bread, and started referring to my lack of complaining and strong back as cornbread.

“See there White Bread, Cornbread over there don’t cry about being tired or hot, stairs being too high or freezer being too heavy. He’s Cornbread. Meanwhile, you’re White Bread. See White Bread, you put a piece of white bread in a glass of milk, and what it do? Falls apart. On the other hand you cut you a slice of that cornbread, dunk it in the milk and what happens? You get half a glass of sweet milk in your next bite of cornbread. Cornbread don’t fall apart, it soaks it up. You’re parents ought to be ashamed to have raised such a refined piece of White Bread.”

That was a valuable lesson that I never forgot. Have some substance, mix in some favor and you can get pretty far working hard. I call it Grit & Grace. The idea is that substantial people have had substantial favor and are also filled with substance. Not merely hot air with no purpose, or shallow shells of pretty veneer – but scarred vessels with dextrous essence.

Grit & Grace. I hope we all have some of both in these troubling times.