Page 139, in which, Mrs. Kathryn Explodes

Let's be honest, shouldn't we be? Some people were born to sing, and some were born to sit. When people get confused about which they are, there's gonna be trouble.

The young lady was in trouble, there was no doubt about that. Standing up on the pulpit, her shaky vibrato had just gone flat, and it was time for the high notes. "My… FAAATHER'S EYESSSSSSS!" she warbled. "My… FAAATHER'S EYES!!!" and with that her eyes rolled up in the back of her head as she moved up and down trying to find the right pitch. That is all is took; back in the audience, our pew started shaking violently, and Kathy put her head down with her hand over her mouth. No dice. A volcano of explosive laughter was heading to the surface, leaving my poor Mrs. Kathryn scadoodling out of the pew and out the back of the church to burst into peals of laughter in the sanctity of the parking lot, yet once again.

We were recently recounting stories at dinner of "Mom/Kathy Explosions," about the millions and millions of times she has cracked up in really inappropriate venues, frequently at church or when musical performances go sour. Don't misunderstand. It' s not that she's maybe laughing at you. She is definitely laughing at you. But in a sweet, innocent way, and she in no way wants to hurt your feelings. See?

Mrs. Three Names (let's just call her "Cindy") had been a Pageant Queen. Miss California. And Miss Universe. And a cheerleader for a professional sports team. And. And. You knew all this because she would tell you the second she met you. That is, if she could get a word in edgewise to interrupt herself talking about her gallbladder. Never in the history of gallbladderdom has anyone talked more about theirs. It was Enlarged. It was Aggravated. It was Cranky. It was Better. No, Surly again and much, much Worse! And lucky as we were to sit in a Sunday School class every week with her, she would monopolize the first fifteen minutes of every class talking about Her Gallbladder, even AFTER it was removed. Those of us with poor character (and possibly missing the point of church altogether) described this part of Sunday School as "exasperating." So it was near Easter Sunday, and time to fill out the Easter Lilly dedication form during the Sunday Service. I handed mine to Mrs. Kathryn for her to inspect as the service got quiet. "In Loving Memory of Mrs. Three Names' Gallbladder" I had written. Kathy looked at me with wide eyes, and then I mashed my leg onto hers to seal the deal. Hand over mouth. Head down, as if she was praying. A horrible suppressed gurgle noise. And suddenly, a forceful exit from the pew and Mrs. Kathryn fleeing down the aisle making a beeline for the back door, tears screaming down her face. SCORE! (I can't help it. I have "The Bad Gene.")

But the worst time, I can barely speak of -- and have changed a couple details to protect the truly innocent. One of my college jobs was Music Minister (oh, STOP laughing yourself) and one church near the University of North Texas had a VERY sweet lady with The Biggest Forehead In the Universe (BFITU). And she loved to sing, exactly one song, and that only a capella, and not so much in key. "He Could Have Called… TEN THOUSAND ANGEEEEELLLLS," she would sing. I didn't care if it wasn't good. She was a sweetheart and everybody loved her. Right after we got married back in the 1800's, I had told Mrs. Kathryn about her. Some time later, we had the occasion to visit this church. Seated in the pew during the somber service, I looked down at the bulletin to see who was doing the "Special Music." Oh. No. I tapped Mrs. Kathryn and pointed trying to warn her, but she didn't understand. For the next 20 minutes, I sat in horror waiting. Finally BFITU took the stage. "He could have called…. TEN THOUSAND ANGELS!" she crooned, a capella, and about 1/4 step flat and getting flatter. Kathy turned her head in astonishment, wild eyed, looking at me as recognition registered. No, no, no, no, I thought. If she got up to leave or Lost It, it would be the embarrassment of the century. I have blocked what happened next, but I remember the pew shaking like a '67 Plymouth, and someone, perhaps me, BEGGING Providence to please, please, give the 10,000 angels holding Kathy's mouth shut the strength of Samson. If memory serves, the prayer worked, except for muffled snorting noises, a used-up box of Kleenex, and bewildered stares as people seemed sure she was having a meltdown or in-pew epileptic seizure.

So many other stories could be told. They say laughter is the best medicine -- so that makes my Mrs. Kathryn a world class physician. So if you're up on stage and you see Kathy out in the audience with her head down and pew shaking, remember, it's only medicinal and she's a professional.

Page 138: Hell Hath No FURY Like A Sister...

...Scorned. Especially a Twin Sister.

I found the handwritten letter on Pappy's old desk. Apparently, there had been "drama" around the old Scott place the night before. "Keaton, I take it Kristin was trying to mess with your hair last night?"

He nodded, exasperated. "Uh huh."

"Let me guess -- she wanted to make it look ridiculous, then laugh herself silly at you?"

"Uh huh."

My wish for each of you is that you have a set of Twins, at least one of which is "high spirited." Well, "then again, I wish for alot of things."



"Lord, hear our prayer."

Page 137: Miracles in the Mirror

I try to keep blogs short, under 800 words. I apologize that I have struggled to write this for 2 years and cannot get it under 800 words. Hopefully the heartfelt sincerity of this story will atone for its lack of brevity.

The Age of Miracles is Over.

So says conventional wisdom. But that January in 2008, the Reverend Steve Bolen had a different perspective.

"My goal… my dream, is that each one of you will experience a miracle in 2008," he said, his voice steady and resolute. I sat in the pew, listening. Steve Bolen is no sideshow charlatan; he is the über-discerning overseer of a large flock of thoughtful people. What? Miracles? I listened and tried to tune into his frequency. He said many things, but the way it came home for me was this: to accomplish a miracle, you must allow -- more than allow, truly enable -- a thing to happen that you think is literally impossible.

Immediately, I knew what Kathy's "Miracle" was. To be reconciled with her father, with whom she has not spoken or seen since she was 11 years old.

Thirty five years is a long time without your father. There was a bitter divorce. A mother who remarried and moved her far away from her life in Kentucky down south to Texas. A heart-stricken father who felt that his youngest was slipping away forever. Terrible words were exchanged -- "you will never see me again." Difficult for a child, but also impossibly difficult for a father in pain. When I first met her as student in Denton many years ago she was 22 and had spent half of her life without her father. She is one of the strongest people you will ever meet, but the hole in her heart over her father was palpable. After being married some years, she sought counseling to "get over it. "I’m going to have to let him go, without regrets," she said. Any notion of a reconciliation became a dim memory of lost hope.

But Steve Bolen's inspiration suddenly opened the possibilities wide. Reconciling with her father? Impossible, wasn't it? When we got back home I asked her what she thought of Steve's sermon.

"I thought it was intriguing," she replied.

"I know what your 'Miracle' is," I said quietly. "We are going to Kentucky in September for your grandfather's 95th birthday. Your dad will only be a few hours away. Let’s -- just show up at his door. This is your business and it's up to you, but I have to tell you, it seems like the right thing to do. Well, if we are going to believe in a Miracle."

She stared at me, speechless. The conversation was short. I didn’t bring it up again, but she did about a month before we left for Kentucky. "I think we should do it," she said. She spoke to her sister, who had maintained a relationship with their father, and who agreed. What we didn’t know was that there would be an angel in the middle of this exercise to help bring this Miracle to life -- her father's girlfriend, Karen, a delightful soul who would be let in on this secret and help set the stage.

It’s a great idea to surprise him, she conveyed through Kathy’s sister, putting us all more at ease. She cooked up a feast beforehand and even had the piano tuned so that the Scott kids could show off just a little. And as Karma would have it, the weekend we planned to arrive, her dad’s siblings were visiting, a sort of mini-family reunion setting the table for a much more dramatic one.

It was a long drive there, and when we rolled up the hilly driveway to Ken's house that day, I felt somewhat sick. I can only imagine how Kathy felt. Thirty five years of absence and hurt sets the stage for grand drama and a real case of butterflies. I will never forget walking up to the door and knocking, or the look on Ken's face when he saw the daughter he had not seen in so many years.

Kathy had always said of her father, "we loved each other so much. He was so funny and full of life." The man I met that day, the father-in-law I had never met, was a delight. Keenly intelligent. Funny as hell. And, most importantly, immediately accepting of a long lost daughter and her family. Whatever had caused years of hurt and pain melted away like the cold ice of winter into the green leaves of spring. It was a moment bright with love and redemption, and it was an utter miracle -- for neither Kathy, nor me, nor anyone in her family, probably including Ken -- thought it even remotely possible. Thank you, Steve Bolen. I write with moist eyes to tell you that from your words sprang the realization of an impossible dream. Had we not been there to hear your words that day, this amazing Life Moment would never have happened.


Kathy and her father have stayed in close touch since. There is no dwelling on the past, for as the jazz musician Babatunde Olatunji said, “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today? Today is a gift. That's why we call it the ‘present.’” The joy of living in the midst of a Miracle is that it evaporates old painful memories, leaving the old nostalgic ones in their place as a backdrop to the happiness of a new Today.

"The sun never says to the earth,
'You owe me.'
Look what happens with a love like that.
It lights up the whole sky."
-- the Sufi mystic Hafiz

And even I would not be shortchanged in this year of Miracles. That January day “my” impossible miracle popped into my head, but I quickly dismissed it. My brother Dan, lost to me so many years, far over a decade. Not literally a brother, but more literally a brother than most brothers. We had lost touch, both moved around the country, and I couldn’t find him. I am good at finding people -- I spent years tracking down my Ohio family -- but I could not find Dan despite many, many hours of trying. Finding him seemed impossible, although listening to Steve that day, I thought "I'll find him, eventually." Somewhere in some distant place there was a "click," because sometimes The Universe -- God by any other name -- has surprises in store for us.

About a month later, I received a message on my Batcave site. "Guess who?" it said. No idea. An email came in the next day... “Que Pasa?” from sender “Dan Endres.” I sat staring at the screen. In the midst of my impossibility, it seems that Dan had been looking for me for quite some time. When I started Blogging some years ago, leaving a crumb-trail to be found was definitely one of my reasons why. And as it turned out, this was a critical piece of making it happen. Seeing him and his daughter Alie in Austin that summer was my highlight of the year.

What should you make of all this, Gentle Browser? Perhaps it means that whether you are a hymn-singing Baptist, a loyal Catholic, a mystical possibilities-oriented Unity practitioner, or a confirmed Agnostic, there is a Principle which can affect and change your life. “I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you,” Jesus said. Part of such Faith is the very active act of putting-your-actions-where-your-thoughts are. The Buddha echoes this sentiment: “However many holy words you read, however many you speak, what good will they do you if you do not act on upon them?"

Miracles come to those who Believe. And even more so to those who make it so. Blessings.

With much love and gratitude for my friend Rev. Steve Bolen, a true and sincere light illuminating the path...


Steve on a recent local Fox News 7 segment:

Page 136: TERRY-FIED!!!

It was kiddie's bedtime minus ten, which is a little later than most in our house, and Keaton and I were laying on the batcouch watching a Dave Matthews concert. Suddenly, Kristin piped up from down the hall.

"DAD! There is a big spider in Keaton's room!"
"Well, then step on it or smack it with a shoe," I replied, half-asleep. I could hear some kind of commotion.
"DAD!!! DAD!!!"
"Kristin. You are the bravest girl I know. You catch bugs and lizards. Just smack it."
"DAD! It's… I think it's a TARANTULA! PLEASE come here."

Muttering under my breath, I got off the couch and went into Keaton's room, where all three kids were now assembled, pie-eyed. They looked like they had seen a ghost. I took a look by Keaton's desk.

"Nice try, Kristin. That's fake."
"DAD! It's not fake! It's MOVING its legs!"

She was right.

There was some debate about what to do -- "do NOT step on that" I said, and probably shouldn't have mentioned that tarantulas can jump about 8 feet, which immediately cast a macabre, spooky atmosphere in the room. Kellen argued for trapping it in a "big pot from the kitchen," but we finally decided on a Tupperware cereal container, and when Kellen brought both up from the kitchen, the cereal container was helpfully still full of Strawberry Mini-Wheats.

"Unless you have some Grasshopper Sugar Pops in there, I don't think the tarantula is interested in breakfast right now," I said. "Pour the cereal into the pot." I took a deep breath and used BBQ tongs to coax the tarantula into his new plastic digs, slipping on the cover. The boys stared in wonder at the giant, hairy creature. It was about 5 inches across.

Kristin was gone. "She probably went to tell Mom," Keaton said.

"Mom!!!" Kellen beamed, an evil grin spreading from one side of his face to the other. "Let's go show her!"

"Kellen, behave. We're not going to scare your mom. But I do want her to see it."

We arrived downstairs just as Kristin was trying to lock the master bedroom door. For the record, Kristin is the bravest kid around, but fiercely protective of her mom. But as for her mom, Kathy is probably the most squeamish person in Texas around anything with four or more legs. When it's Kathy vs. the Insect Kingdom, the insects will win every time, even if it's a battle with a lone cricket. To her, they are all vicious, venom dripping, blood-sucking, flesh chomping man-eaters.

We managed to get into the room before Kristin locked the door.
"Kathy, look at this," I said. She looked at the container and immediately screamed like a B horror Movie starlet.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!"

"Honey, honey, it's okay," I said. And suddenly Kellen was behind me, trying to push me closer to her. "Kellen, stop that." Poor thing, but I really had no intention of getting it close to her. I didn't realize it would freak her out this badly. "Kathy, it's okay. It is in this container and it's not getting out. "

"Get it out of here," she yelled. "Now!"

"Kathy! We will -- just wanted you to see it. We're not trying to scare you. Maybe we should keep it as a pet… name it… Terry?" Terry, apparently delighted with his new name, started crawling up the side of the cereal container. "Omigosh -- look at that. It can crawl up the side!"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!"

Now the boys were giggling like maniacs, and Kristin picked up a pillow. "Get any closer..." she threatened.

"Bad choice, my dear. The tarantula will go flying and then be in the room somewhere, maybe on your mom's-"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!"

"Okay boys, I don't think your mother wants us in here. Let's go out." But now Kellen was pushing at full force. He leaned to whisper in my ear, "Dad -- let's just act like we're going to -"

"No, no, we're leaving." But my laughing was weakening me, and he was pushing all the harder. I looked up at Kathy. "Just remember he's misbehaving, not me -- oh dear, I ...I don't think I can hold-"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAK!" she yelled. Mental Note: she could always do voice scream-overs for the movies if times get tight for us. Luckily, her last scream of terror weakened Kellen's stance, so I shoved back with just enough force to get us out without dropping Terry.

So, how did he get in the house? Only thing we can figure is he crawled up a 20 foot rock wall and came in an upstairs balcony door near Keaton's room.

In the meantime, I really wasn't pleased with my oldest son. "Kellen, what you did in there -- that was just terrible. Seriously. Are you happy with yourself? Really, that was just plain wrong. I thought I taught you better than that. So next time, DON'T forget the video camera!"

Page 135: A Boy and His Robot

Not every 10 year boy has a life-size robot at their disposal like Keaton, but not every boy is growing up in my house. In this case, the DaddyBot --pictured at right -- looks quite a bit like his actual Daddy, except for the robot-like movements and the booming voice that is unmistakable -- the voice of The Robot from Lost in Space.

17 year old Kellen was sitting on Keaton, tickling him senseless, amidst screams and peals of forced, painful laughter. Finally, Keaton was able to yell the magic words. "DaddyBot!"

"DADDYBOT ONLINE."

"Save me, DaddyBot!" Keaton howled.

"COMMAND ACCEPTED," DaddyBot boomed. "PROTECT MODE ACTIVATED. DESTROY! DESTROY ATTACKER!!!" And with that, he went into action, grabbing Kellen off Keaton like a ragdoll, pinning him down to the floor, and then robo-tickling him until he was screaming like a little schoolgirl. Except Kellen’s not a little schoolgirl at all (except when he screams like one). Finally, DaddyBot released the hoodlum and he ran for the hills. Keaton lay breathless on the couch.

"DaddyBot, thank you, thank you!"

"YOU ARE WELCOME, KEATON SCOTT."

Yep, it’s swell to be a 10 year old boy with your own personal DaddyBot. Sometimes, however, DaddyBots can malfunction. For example, there Keaton and DaddyBot were in the ginormous pool late at night at Port Royal on the Texas Coast. "The Redneck Riviera," they call it, but it's our coast and our rednecks, and we loves 'em. The beaches are exactly like the beaches in Destin, Florida, except the sand and water are brown and every hotel, motel, and rental house on the beach is a rusted out filthy dump that rents for ridiculous prices. But it's our brown sand, brown water, rusted out dumps, and ridiculous prices, and we loves 'em.

Keaton was cruising around on his dad's back around the pool. Suddenly, the Bad Gene / Mischevious Circuit was activated. "DADDYBOT ONLINE."

"Wha?" Keaton asked.

"ATTACK MODE ENGAGED. SCANNING FOR TARGETS… SCANNING FOR TARGETS...!"

"Oh nooooo," Keaton gulped, but DaddyBot's docking clamps held his legs tight -- Keaton wasn't going anywhere, except exactly where DaddyBot wanted him to go. A middle aged lady in a nice dry flowery muumuu was walking along the edge of the pool. "Oh no, no, no," Keaton moaned.

"ATTACK SEQUENCE COMMENCING...DESTROY!" DaddyBot whispered, perched in the water by the side of the pool, gazing in the opposite direction. Just as Granny Flabs passed by, DaddyBot went into quick action, using his robotic cyberarm to summon an ENORMOUS tidal wave of water -- a pool tsunami -- right over the edge and up through the air. DaddyBot was already underwater and traveling at high speed with Keaton in tow by splashdown time, leaving a Muumuu with a Boo Boo and a bewildered woman looking angrily at all the kids in the vicinity.

"SCANNING FOR TARGETS!" DaddyBot repeated, and his onboard sensors locked onto a group of very dry teenage kids sitting at the table by the edge of the pool, oblivious on their very own Planet Yack & Snack.

“No no no no, DaddyBot, NO!!!” Keaton pleaded, giggling. “Cancel attack sequence and power down!”

“COMMAND *NOT* ACCEPTED,” DaddyBot replied. “VOICE COMMAND INTERFACE *OFFLINE*!!!” Approaching the unsuspecting, dry victims, DaddyBot hovered. “ACTIVATING AQUA CANNON,” he intoned, and a gigantic wall of water went hurling over the edge of the pool, bringing April showers but little in the way of May flowers to the entire table. “DADDY VOICE SIMULATION ENABLED,” DadyBot whispered.

The dripping wet table sat, stunned, looking around to see who dunnit.

“Keaton! What have I told you about splashing people? I mean it. Sorry folks, this boy is a real prankster. Now, young man...I think a good old fashioned spankin’ might just be in your future,” and then the drenched, bewildered table stared as the father headed off down the pool, dragging a red-faced Keaton in hysterics along behind him.

Keaton could not stop giggling, a sort of terrified giggle -- what does one do when one’s DaddyBot goes so beserk? “DaddyBot....oh DaddyBot...”

“TO QUOTE A FAMOUS RABBIT... AIN’T I A STINKUH?” DaddyBot quipped. That was when the stern looking woman in the pantsuit came marching into the pool area.“TARGET ACQUIRED!” DaddyBot purred. And Keaton knew it was going to be long, splashy night.

Keaton & Kristin -- picture by "DaddyBot"

Page 134: "Good Times"

In the first century, a Jewish family lived in a small stone house. The time had come to move the wife's elderly parents in, but the husband was vexed. He went to his rabbi. "We will be too crowded. Our house is too small. What should I do, master?"

"You should do the right thing and take in your family," the rabbi advised. "And in helping in this way you will have abundant blessings. Do this and come back in one week."

The father promptly moved in his in-laws, and within a week everyone in the home was miserable. He hurried back to the rabbi. "I followed your advice, teacher, and now I have never known such misery! What have you done to us?"

"Patience, my son," the rabbi replied. "Do you have chickens?" The man nodded. "Do you have sheep?" The man again nodded yes. "And a donkey? Good. Now, you must move your chickens, sheep, and donkey into the house also. Come back to see me in two weeks."

The father was bewildered, but he went back and followed the rabbi's instructions. Two weeks later he returned with disheveled hair, dirty clothes, and a wild look on this face. "Oh teacher," he moaned, "I have followed your advice. I have done everything you said. Now my in-laws have no place to sleep because the chickens are laying eggs in their bed. The goats are baa-ing and butting their heads, and the sheep are breaking things. The animals have made my house a wreck, and it smells worse than a barn!"

The rabbi frowned. He closed his eyes and thought for a long time. Finally he said, “This is what you do. Take the sheep back to the barn. Take the chickens back to their coop, and put your donkey back in its pen. Come back in one month.”

The farmer ran home and did exactly as the rabbi had told him. A month later, he came back to see the rabbi, smiling from ear to ear.

"Oh master! Our home is the most spacious, peaceful, and comfortable in the land. Thank you for your wise advise -- our family is the happiest it has ever been!"

And the rabbi smiled.

With thanks to Rev. Steve Bolen

Page 133: My Wife is HOT!

So it turns out that me, the kid from the blazing hot Texas hills who baked his entire childhood with parents who didn't believe in air conditioning, ended up marrying a beautiful woman who runs only frozen liquid nitrogen in her veins at Absolute Zero. This means that she freezes to death year round, especially in the 100 degree summer when "all that cold air is blowing."

What are the odds?

In contrast, I don't wear a jacket outside unless it's below 26 degrees. I sleep with the windows open in 40 degree weather. My idea of a good thermostat is a thermostat with icicles hanging off it. I need cold air blowing on me 7x24. See the problem?

For Mrs. Kathryn, it's a bit different. She travels around with a jacket in the summer, "in case it's cold in the restaurant/movie theater/mall/car/church/sidewalk/oven/park/anywhere." If there is a breeze, she is shivering like Scooby Doo in the Haunted Mansion. For this past Valentine's Day, I bought her a full-body flannel PajamaGram complete with footies, because she had only spoken the words "I'm Freezing" for weeks when the temperatures here in Austin dipped below 60. She took one look at the plush pink footie pajama suit and loved it! I have a picture of her wearing it, but am unable to post it on account that she might punch my head in like a cheeseball.

We were headed to the restaurant. "Kristin and Keaton, put on your coats!" Kathy insisted.

"But Mom -- it's 90 degrees outside," Kristin protested.

"If you want to catch your death of a cold out there, young lady, you just go right ahead."

Sigh.

"Would you like to sit outside, sir?" the hostess asked.

"Uh -- yes please. I guess. Can you bring me a cold rag, a sack of ice, a sweat bucket and a stack of towels? Yes? Okay, and a propane heater and electric blanket for my wife? Thanks." As luck would have it, a fan was blowing on the patio, trying to keep the patrons comfortable. Kathy gave the fan a horrified look and shot me a look of misery. Perhaps if I ask for an ax and chop off the corners of the table and start a fire, she'll feel better, I thought. And then I can jump over the rail and hit the concrete head first, and then I'll feel better too.

No, no! Do not get the wrong idea. As we approach our 24th wedding anniversary, I would not want you to think that Her Hotness's cold nature ever gets on my nerves. The answer is never, ever, ever. She is, after all, My Sweet Baboo, and when thawed out, an utter delight.

"Is that coooold AIR blowing?" she asked recently at Tres Amigos.

"Yes maam, it is. It's called the 'air conditioning'," the waiter patiently explained. "We use that here in Texas." I barely noticed, too busy fanning myself with the menu in the 80 degree dining room.

We all have these little things we have to work through in our relationships, don't we? Well, luckily for me, it's not too difficult. After all, there is one thing you cannot deny about my wife -- she's HOT! Really.