Quill #108 - Love is Kinda Crazy With a Spooky Little Kid

While stationed at Fort Huachuca, my husband got his first computer, a gift from my parents. They spent $40 on a little machine that had about 40 kilobytes of memory and only understood Basic. Peregrin spent a couple of years trying to program that calculator to do anything before we finally got a better one.

He would sit on the floor and mutter the commands as he typed them. Our son, about two years old at the time, sat beside his daddy, watching, fascinated. We didn't think much of it till Spooky - who earned that nickname by doing things like this - corrected one of Peregrin's programming mistakes, and was right.

Even with these hints, even knowing we had a little whippersnapper on our hands, we didn't really take such events seriously. We didn't know what to expect from our first child and accepted everything as reasonably normal.

About two years later, when Spooky had just turned four, my mom took the three of us shopping at a Sears store. We were walking down the aisles in the household goods department when Mom turned to me and asked, "You do know Spooky can read, don't you?" I refuted her statement outright and she turned stubborn.

"I'll prove it, " she said, and took down one of the boxes of laundry soap to show to him. He promptly stated the name of the soap brand and a couple other words from the front of the box. Again, I refused to believe it. I said, "He's quoting from ads he's seen on TV." (Not that perfect ad quotation wouldn't be worthy of note, itself.)

She turned the box to its side panel and showed Spooky the list of ingredients in the soap. He started sounding out the words, "Phosphorus, sulfates, bleach, ...," etc. He read the entire side panel. I was stunned and still unsure that it wasn't some kind of trick. We had read to him quite a bit but he hadn't ever read back to us.

When we went home, Mom pulled out a pocket New Testament from her luggage and gave it to him, asking him to read it to us and prove this wasn't a fluke. He did! He began reading every word, almost perfectly. When he finished a few pages, I asked him if he knew what those words meant and he explained to me what he had just read. This was a child who had maybe been in church ten times in his four years of life, certainly not often enough to memorize bits, and none of his attendances in church had happened since the age of eighteen months!

I will say he probably needed every brain cell he got in order to survive his clueless parents. We expected a lot from the little guy and yet he almost always delivered. I hope he has at least a few happy memories from childhood. He sure gave us a lot of good times.

(family photos picturing Spooky, Kyrie, and nephew)

Quill #94 - Upon the Marriage of Our Son and the Gaining of a Daughter (2006)

As a babe, your eyes were lined with care.
At two, you knew more than a child should bear.
Your voice, throughout the years, has grown more strong,
Deep enough to share another's song.

We enjoy the addition of a heart.
A daughter more will be a blessed start,
To what we hope will be a happy life
With young ones, pets, a warm and loving wife.

Just don't forget that you are still our son,
And more than that, were sibling number one.
No pow'r on earth can take us from your side.
We stand by you, your children, and your bride.

If future trials make your song feel weak,
To carry on as needed, do not seek
A path that takes you ever far from home.
For solace, there is no need to roam.

What we can, we will do; it's our role.
May your songs, joined together, make you whole.

Quill #85 - Halloween Memories #7

If you've ever seen the movie, Meet Me in St. Louis, with Judy Garland, you probably remember Tootie, the youngest daughter in the family, the mischievous troublemaker. Tootie had an obsession with all things ghoulish, though not of the harmful kind. Real danger frightened her just as much as anyone, but she had spunk. Tootie and my daughter could have been best friends, albeit competitive ones.

When Kyrie was eighteen months old, she memorized a poem called The Teeny Tiny Ghost by Lilian Moore.

TEENY TINY GHOST

A teeny, tiny ghost
no bigger than a mouse
at most,
lived in a great big house

It's hard to haunt
a great big house
when you're a teeny, tiny ghost
no bigger than a mouse
at most.

He did what he could do.

So every dark and stormy night
the kind that shakes the house with fright -
if you stood still and listened right,
you'd hear a
teeny tiny

Boo!

She would recite the poem and act it out, ending with a big jump on the "Boo!" She also had a black silk shirt that she borrowed from her daddy and she'd run around the house, arms outspread and flapping, with the silk streaming behind her yelling, "Bust, the Big Black Bat!" The red plush carpeting in our living room was lava and you couldn't walk on hot lava, so she'd build bridges across the living room out of books and toys that would help her navigate across the danger.

At two, my adorable daughter insisted on being a zombie for Halloween. At three, she wanted to be a werewolf. Similar progressions continued until she actually witnessed blood spurting from a stitch-worthy gash on her father's hand. After that, she was not quite as interested in lab experiments and dissecting.

She's still unique and fun, an interesting person to know, and she's planning on doing the Zombie Walk whenever possible. But, thankfully, I no longer have to worry about her becoming a sword-wielding murderess. She has a very kind and generous heart, eeeeeeeeevil laugh and all.

(Meet Me In St. Louis image from Reel Classics)

Quill #49 - Soap Dish, Part Deux

For 25 years, I suffered in silence. This one little thing annoyed me, but I managed to remain quiet about it, until one day I snapped. I yelled at my whole family about the way they put the soap on the soapdish in the shower. How could they not know which side was up? One way gave maximum air-drying and minimum melting and they always did it the wrong way - or so I thought.

Almost the same day that I snapped, I found out I was wrong. I went to each person at whom I had yelled and apologized. I told them I was wrong, I was sorry for yelling at them, sorry for being wrong, and even sorry that I was the kind of person who sometimes yelled at others, and who was annoyed by stupid things. I asked them for forgiveness and told them that they had been right about which way to set the soap after a shower. Then, I asked them to return to their previous method. Each one was gracious and accepted my apologies. Each one asked me if I was sure of what I wanted, to which I nodded emphatically, and each one agreed to return to their old ways.

God, in his infinite wisdom, or Loki, in his infinite tricksterhood, has seen fit to remind me of my failings every single day for the rest of my life. Every member of my wonderfully loving family, who would do anything to make me happy, remembers me yelling at them, and what I wanted then. Not one of them remembers the apology.