Tonsils

My brother and I had our tonsils removed at the same time. This was common practice back in the day. One kid gets tonsilitis, so we better just put them all in the hospital and get it taken care of and the parents can have a night to themselves. I was very young and very nervous about the whole thing.

Yes, they really did put us in the hospital for a whole night back then, and I can still picture that room in my mind. It was kind of dark and creepy, late sixties style. But we got to eat a lot of ice cream afterwards. A LOT. These days, I’m sure, the insurance companies probably force you to get your tonsils cut out of your head as you drive by the hospital in your car. Come to think of it, you just don’t hear about people getting their tonsils out much anymore. Is it no longer en vogue? It used to be a rite of passage.

I still sometimes wonder where my tonsils are. If anywhere. Did they burn them up or did they just throw them in the trash? Are my dried up little tonsils still laying in a plastic bag in some dump somewhere under 500,000 pounds of who knows what? Or did a creepy doctor surreptitiously take them home and put them in a glass case as some kind of strange trophy? Perhaps he had them for dinner, Hannibal Lecter style? I’m thinking, if he mixed them up with chicken gizzards, he could have served them to guests, none the wiser...

Hey. You go ahead to the bathroom and puke. I’ll wait for you. La di da di dum dum dum. La di da di doooooooooo...

So, anyway. What I wish sometimes is: I wish they had given my tonsils back to me in a glass jar full of formaldehyde so I could bring them out and sit them on the table whenever conversations started to lag. I imagine that being a good way to get things going again. The thing is, I don’t remember giving anyone permission to take them from me in the first place. It’s not like there was a tonsil fairy to recompense me for my loss.

Here’s something nice that happened: Before we went home, the pastor of my church came and visited us at the hospital. He didn’t make it to everything, because he couldn’t, but this time he came, and I remember it very specifically. He gave both of us one of those drawing boards with the plastic sheet on it. A Magic Slate. You draw your picture, look at it, consider how fleeting life is, then pull up the plastic to erase the picture. Ta daaaah.

Okay, I admit it. We didn’t really consider how fleeting life is. But it was fun and it was a kindness. It was a small grace that made a kid feel a little better. And I hope my life is that way for others. Small graces are all I have to give most of the time.

By the way. If you see my tonsils laying around anywhere, would you please contact me so I can retrieve them? Thanks. And....

Peace to you.

© LW Publishing 2010

Garbageman

Sure. You’ve heard of Superman and Batman and Aquaman. But my personal hero is Garbageman.

It went down like this:

I was three years old, playing in the upstairs of our house. This house no longer exists – it is now a parking lot – but it still exists in my mind, and I remember this upstairs bedroom where a window overlooked a small store next to our house. I liked to look out this window at the people getting in and out of their cars, unaware of my presence. It was interesting.

Then, one day, I heard a loud noise out that window and I looked to see a garbage truck loading the refuse from the store's dumpster. Now THAT was interesting! But it was a little hard to see from that angle, so I pushed against the screen that had been put in the window. It popped out and fell to the ground, and that screen had been holding up the window, which promptly fell down on my shoulders, completely pinning me in place. I could not get out. And my line of sight made me feel like I was going to fall.

I was terrified.

So I began to scream like a terrified three year old. Makes sense, right? And I remember Garbageman looking up at me, jumping slightly as he realized what was going on. I imagine he thought I was going to fall from the window, so he ran to the front door of our house and ran with my mom up the stairs and rescued me from the hungry mouth of the foul window. He lifted the window so mom could pull me out.

Garbageman had very dark african skin. He was massively tall and bony, his head seemed to hover near the ceiling, and he had a deep voice, like a great blues singer. He brushed me off and my mom gave me a hug. Then he said one of the nicest things that’s ever been said about me. Garbageman said, “That’s the nearest thing to an angel I will ever see.”

Garbageman went to the store and bought me an ice cream. He came back to the house and gave it to me, patting me on the head and smiling at me. He was nothing but kindness. And I remember going out of my way to wave to Garbageman whenever he would show up for the dumpster at the store. He always smiled and waved. We had a connection.

Here’s what I think: I think he was the angel.




Hebrews 1:14
Peace to you.



© LW Publishing 2010

Encounter

In the days of the cavemen, while I was a student at Wayne State University, I was sitting in the hallway near the band room one day when a guy in his mid twenties came in from the front. He was very thin and disheveled. There was a wildness to him. His hair was a mess but his clothes were clean. His movement seemed slow and specific, like he knew where he was going but he didn’t want to get there. He was carrying a Monopoly game box under his arm. It had big rubber bands holding it together, packed full of papers that were sticking out here and there. It was impossible to not see him. On the street you might not see him, but in a university music building, he stood out like a stop sign.

We made eye contact.

He looked away. His eyes scanned the hallway, floor, walls, ceiling, as if he was looking for cracks. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Finally, he looked at me again. Then he walked right up to me and stood directly in front of me where I was sitting on the bench. If I’d tried to stand up, I would have bumped into him. He looked very tall from that perspective.

Him: You go to school here?
Me: Yes.
Him: Me too.
Me: Cool.
Him: Yeah. I’m a trumpet major. French horn. Flute. But right now I’m producer for the Commodores.
Me: Wow.
Him: Yeah. But you gotta be careful.
Me: Careful about what?
Him: About them. You can’t trust them.
Me: Who’s them?
Him: The operator. You can’t talk to her because she know. She can see what you thinking. You have to be careful.
Me: Yeah.
Him: They’ll get your numbers and then you got nothing left.
Me: Is that what’s in your box?
Him: Yeah. All my numbers. I produce. The Commodores. Kool and the Gang. Retha Franklin.
Me: You produce all of them?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Wow.
Him: Yeah.
Me: Must keep you busy.
Him: I got it all right here. Everything I need.
Me: Cool.
Him: Yeah. Don’t call her. Don’t talk to the operator. She know, man. She know. You gotta be careful what you do.
Me: Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.
Him: Yeah.

Awkward pause.

Then he walked away, that box held tightly to his chest. As he went he looked at the floor and the walls and the ceiling. He turned the corner and I never saw him again.

Another student in the music department walked up to me. He said, “I think that guy used to go to school here. I said, “Really.” “Yeah.” “Wow.” “Yeah, they say he dropped out one year and then he just came back around all messed up.” “Wow.” “Yeah.”

I have wondered from time to time if that could happen to me. The brain decides to stir up a little too much dopamine. No one knows why. Would it be a slow decline into confusion? Would it be a sudden fall? Could I wake up one morning and find myself compulsively trying to avoid the operator, walking the streets, speaking nonsense to strangers?

If you were the stranger, would you be kind to me?






Peace to you.


© LW Publishing 2010