WHISKEY FOR TEETHING?
by
Jim Schneegold
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011
Smashwords Edition, License Notes.
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MRS. DUNGY
I was eight years old when the snowball traveled from my hand to Mrs. Dungy’s front picture window. As far as I was concerned it was a direct hit. When she looked out to see who threw it, we all began to run. Her eyes followed my first few steps as I attempted my fruitless escape. Mrs. Dungy was not only my next door neighbor; she was the head cafeteria monitor at my elementary school. There was no getting out of this dilemma; I knew I was in trouble.
Later that day, I looked out our front picture window and saw this dark oversized station wagon pull up next door, then leave. “Looks like Mr. Dungy passed away,” Mom whispered.
“How do you know that?”
“That’s a hearse. Mr. Dungy has been sick for some time now,” Mom replied.
Uh Oh! I hit her house with a snowball and he dies the same day?
That evening the only thing I could visualize was going to school tomorrow, confronting her and being afraid of what she might do. “She’s gonna hate me forever, I just know it. No more cutting her lawn for money. No more free cookies and lemonade.”
So, the following morning, I did the only thing a smart eight year old could do. “Mom! I don’t feel so good. I feel sick.”
After taking my temperature, she gave me that stare like only mom can and reluctantly said I could stay home. “Whew! That was a close one,” I thought. After school, my snowball throwing, bandwagon jumping, partner-in-crime friends came by with my homework and announced, “Mrs. Dungy was asking where you were today. Boy, are you in trouble.”
My fear escalated and the next day my lingering problem kept me home once again. No way am I ever going back to school. Just bring my assignments home until I graduate out of this school in three years and I’ll be fine.
After dinner, Mom stormed into my bedroom and shouted, “OK! What’s going on? Why are the kids talking about you and Mrs. Dungy?”
“Mom! I threw a snowball at her house two days ago and I think I might have killed Mr. Dungy. Now my friends are waiting for me to go back to school and get yelled at.”
“I see! You get your butt out of bed and down to the phone and apologize to her.”
During the call, I was almost crying when I told her how sorry I was that her husband died and for throwing the snowball at her house.
I could have done without the school bell sounding for lunch the next day. My friends were chomping at the bit to see me get my beating. Two days off from school- I had to get this over with.
I spotted Mrs. Dungy out of the corner of my eye. “She’s on her way over, Jim!” my friends informed me with much more excitement than necessary. You’re in for it now.”
“Hi Mrs. Dungy,” Johnny Asher angelically remarked. “Do you see Jim is back in school today?”
My head was making its way back into the shell when she came up behind me for my impending doom. I would have given up my lunch money for a month to survive the next few minutes. Oh! Go ahead - punish and embarrass me in front of my friends.
“You gonna yell at him?” my classmates shouted.
“Yell at Jim?” she said. “Why would I yell at my buddy, Jim? I’m so happy to see you are feeling better today- we missed you.” She gave me a big hug and walked to the next table. That was it. Over. Done.
Her smile was the perfect remedy for my nervous stomach. My friends were more than disappointed I survived.
That summer Mrs. Dungy asked me if I could come over and cut her lawn. She said she’d give me five dollars. It took me over an hour on that hot, muggy day. When I finished, she brought me out a big glass of lemonade and a brand new five dollar bill.
I drank the lemonade.
I left the five dollar bill.
THIRD GRADERS MAKE ME CRY
Recently, I was invited to teach a writing exercise to a third grade class at a local elementary school. It was my day off from my regular job and to be able to help eight year olds appreciate the wonderful world of writing was an opportunity I would never pass up. Besides, I owed the teacher a big favor. He always helps me distribute the newsletters for my after-school writing program.
As I entered the classroom, I was excited to be in this world of possibility and promise. I watched these bright-eyed children look at me as though I was a celebrity with a story to tell. I was in my element as I handed out a sheet of paper that asked the students if they thought they could change someone’s life with what they might write. After they shared their answers, I gave them a choice of three letters to write: a “thank-you” letter, a “get well” card, or an “I’m sorry” letter to someone they felt needed to be acknowledged, feel better or apologized to. One student’s eyes began to water when he chose who the “I’m sorry” letter was to go to. A second classmate wrote a letter to her mom who always takes care of her when she’s sick.
During the next 20 minutes, many students came up to me and wondered if what they had written was acceptable. Between the moments of reading these letters, I loved throwing verbal suggestions into the air hoping the message would find its way down to their paper. I also reminded them what I didn’t want them to write, such as letters that said, “Hi Mom! I had to write this thank you letter for school so thanks a lot for taking care of me, I guess.” I also mentioned to worry less about how many words they wrote and to concentrate on the feelings they wanted to share with that person. “Pour your heart out in this letter because it might be the only chance you get to say what you feel to this person. This doesn’t have to be done today. Take your time, gather your thoughts and write a great letter.” I hoped that whatever feelings they had would be transferred to the page.
What I didn’t count on was receiving letters from two of the children choosing me as their “thank-you letter” recipient. The first student folded her sheet into quarters and drew a postage stamp like a real addressed envelope. When I opened it, she wrote about how the story I read in class made her think of stories she could write, and how because of this day, “You are now my friend.” The second letter touched me when I read the line, “You told me to pour my heart out in my letter so I now pour my heart out to you!” She continued by telling me how she felt she was a better writer because of my visit. It took all I had to hide my emotions in front of a filled room.
After my hour and a half visit, I left for home and knew what I needed to do next. I took my time, thought about it for days and finally came up with the words to say how I felt to these students.
So in my appreciation to Mr. Ward’s third-grade class who gave me their undivided attention, warm smiles and kind hearts, this is my thank you letter to all of you. Thank you so much for making me feel special, important and appreciated.
MRS. B.
Some psychologists might tell you that, as an adult, the way you view the world is shaped from childhood experiences. When I think back to my childhood as a nine year old paper boy, I realize two things about myself that are still true to this day; I avoid confrontation, and don’t like being taken advantage of.
Delivering The Buffalo News to 32 customers wasn’t hard work but it taught me responsibility, commitment, cash flow and, most importantly, “human behavior.”
Although my weekly routine of collecting from my customers netted me less than ten dollars, I liked the idea of being a paper boy, seeing my customers, saying “hi” and moving on to the next house. I collected every Thursday evening. I liked people who were ready with their 55 cents and collection card that needed to be punched. There were customers that even gave me a ten cent tip. They were obviously millionaires that could afford it. In the winter, some customers let me come inside their homes and gave me hot chocolate to keep me going. I liked that.
And then there were customers like Mrs. B.
Mrs. B. was never happy. She was always yelling at her dog, complaining about Mr. B. and constantly giving me a look like I was an intruder. But the last straw came one cold, winter evening. I was sick the Thursday before so I had to collect for two weeks ($1.10) from every customer on my route.
Everything was going fine until my knock on Mrs. B’s door.
“A dollar ten cents for the News,” I said.
“What do you mean, $1.10? she shot back. I paid you last week. I only owe you 55 cents and that’s it.”
“Mrs. B.! I was sick last week and didn’t collect. Everyone on my route owes me $1.10, so I’m pretty sure it’s right.”
“Well I know I paid you last week so I’m not paying you for two weeks.”
“Well, why don’t we take a look at your card. Maybe you’re right. See Mrs. B., I haven’t punched last week’s date. That’s why it’s two weeks.”
She grumbled a little, then promptly told me I should keep better records if I wanted to be a paper boy. I stood there weighing my options. Mrs. B. was a friend of my mom’s – why I had no idea. I had been collecting for over an hour. I was cold, tired and now Mrs. B. was questioning my honesty. I couldn’t imagine why she wanted to con me out of the money other than it was a game she intended to win. I could either stand there arguing with her or give in and lose 55 cents. I reluctantly punched two weeks and took her money. I made no eye contact and left without saying goodbye. I shook my head in disbelief as I marched through the snow to my next customer.
When I got home I thought of telling mom. But this wasn’t her problem, it was mine. By now I wasn’t mad. I was hurt. It wasn’t the money. She questioned my intelligence. I didn’t like that.
The next morning I had no doubt what I wanted to do. I called The Buffalo News and cancelled her paper. If she called me to complain, at that time, I’d talk to mom about it.
I never heard from, or saw, Mrs. B. again. Every time I delivered my papers and skipped her house, a part of me prayed she’d come out to question me. But in my lifelong pursuit to be liked, I’m glad she didn’t.
I learned as a child that there were nice people and not-so-nice people in the world; that I could choose to associate with the good ones and spend less time around the questionable ones.
What I take with me as an adult is that respect and honesty mean a lot. And tipping the paper boy a dollar makes me feel good.
Besides, he thinks I’m a millionaire.
THE LETTER
My fingers went numb when I received the call that my brother Bob had died. How could this happen to a forty-eight year old who never drank or smoked, and went to church every Sunday?
I spent that entire evening sitting in solitude and reflecting on all the things we did together growing up. The tears that soaked my pillow that night made me question my own mortality. The nervousness that greeted me in the morning left me with the unanswered question, “Why Bob?” The only thought that made sense was that everything happens for a reason and God must have needed him badly. A fatal heart attack while vacationing with his wife in Hawaii? The entire day I wallowed in self pity and disbelief. I went to work and shared the horrendous news. I wondered whether I was ever going to shake the fear that life isn’t fair and how could I get through this. I went with my brother, Mark, after work to Bob’s house to see what we could do. Bob’s three surviving children Tammy (25), Jenny (24) and Andy (19) were home alone wondering what happened to their Dad and why. Besides, I needed something to do to keep busy.
When we arrived, we found Tammy shaking and trembling in the passenger seat of her friend’s car. Jenny was crying uncontrollably as she approached us with a big hug. We found Andy sitting in the backyard gazebo after we were warned he hadn’t spoken a word since getting the news. It was at that moment that I realized I didn’t lose my brother, but my sweet nieces and nephew had just lost their Dad.
Somehow I started to relax. This was no longer about me and my sorrow. This was about trying to make a difference and helping them. Clearly, I didn’t have a clue on what to say but if I just kept talking, something might make them feel better. I began sharing my memories of how I felt when my Dad died. I tried to be positive and reflect how lucky I was that he was supportive and just the kind of Dad I always wanted. How after sharing these thoughts with my friend’s, they began expressing how lucky I was that I had such a wonderful childhood and that their experience was not as fortunate.
At the funeral I overheard a conversation my mom was having with Tammy. I turned around just in time to hear Tammy ask, “Nana! When I feel up to it can I come over to your house sometime and maybe you can tell me about my Dad growing up and what he was like?” “Absolutely!” Mom warmly replied.
It was at that moment when I realized how I could help. A part of me felt like I was interrupting a private conversation but I turned to Tammy and asked, “Can I write you a letter and tell you about your Dad?”
“Uncle Jim?” Would you do that? That would be great.” Somehow I felt like I was contributing to fill in the pieces they figured they’d always have time to assemble. Word spread quickly to Jenny and Andy of my offer to all three of them. For the next three weeks during lunch, I found a quiet spot and began to write. I didn’t really intend on saying too much but after the first day my memories of growing up with Bob seemed special. I spoke of the times we were kids and he always wanted to walk to the store singing all the way there and back. He always loved to sing the harmony parts. And you know what? By the time we got home the song sounded pretty good. I had no idea my mental stroll would ignite such profound memories.
For some reason my wanting to help my nieces and nephew became a warm recollection for myself. I began outlining the major events of our childhood--things I remembered him doing; the trouble he used to get into; the silly things he did to embarrass himself. I didn’t need the kids to think of their Dad as perfect. I wanted them to know that we were kids one time, making mistakes, learning from them and then moving on. By the time I was done writing, there were eleven pages. I couldn’t believe all the things I had to say. I put each letter along with a childhood photo of their Dad and me in a manila envelope and printed their name on the front. I was proud of the effort I hoped somehow could help. What I didn’t count on was what a difference it made for me. A simple gesture of sharing information to heal their hearts actually helped me to heal mine.
I drove to their house one Saturday afternoon and, unfortunately, they weren’t there. I dropped three envelopes inside the door and left. Weeks went by and I never heard a word. It didn’t matter. At the end of the letter I actually thanked them for letting me share my memories of their Dad growing up and how much this meant to me. How my heart was filled with smiling thoughts of a brother who died much too soon. I was proud I had developed my writing skills to accurately describe my thoughts to them. I was ready to move on and in some way to help them do the same. I reassured all three how I would always be there and that I was always only a phone call away.
A few months later I got a letter from Jenny who had returned to college. She wrote that she was too hurt to read my letter and was waiting for the right time when she felt stronger. One day she was missing her Dad and family and began to read. She wrote how it was just what she needed at the perfect time. What meant the most to me was that she was planning on thanking me with an email but she said nothing short of a personal letter back to me was acceptable. That if the day ever came when I wanted to remember my importance to her I could pull out the letter and read it.
I wiped a proud tear away and quietly put the letter in my scrapbook of souvenirs. For it’s in these moments that I realize what life is all about.
And death.