O God, from my youth you have taught me, and I still proclaim your wondrous deeds.
Psalm 71:17
Much of what we experience as children is in preparation for adulthood. We learn to eat on our own, we learn to bathe on our own, we learn to dress on our own, etc. Sometimes we learn these skills from our parents, or from our friends, or from other relatives, or a combination. Sometimes, we even learn by trial and error.
As a child, I was always quite curious about various activities, and how they were done. I guess I looked at things much the same way that the boys passing by Tom Sawyer thought that the fence he was painting was a fun job. Honestly, I never knew if it was fun or not, but I was ready to experience it.
One day, while watching Granny iron, I experienced that sense of wonder, and I asked her, “Granny, what' cha doin’?”
“Well, John David, I am ironing clothes.”
“Why ya’ doin’ that?”
“So your Granddaddy will have pressed clothes to go to work in.”
“Right, what’s pressed clothes?”
It is easy for any layman to see that this could be a never-ending saga for my grandmother. Only the wisest of grandparents are able to maneuver from this tricky hold by a five-year-old without bloodshed. Luckily, Granny was a shaman grand master at this art. In another setting, some would have referred to her as Master Yoda.
“John David, would you like for me to show you how to iron your clothes?” Granny asked this knowing that I was bound to take the bait; Granny was skilled well beyond her years.
“Sure Granny, that sounds like fun.” I was hooked like a fine rainbow trout, with no chance of escape.
Granny took the time to get my sister’s play iron and ironing board out. She carefully showed me how to iron then fold my clothes. She painstakingly pointed out that I should not leave the iron in one place for too long, and that I needed to iron both the front and the back of each of my tee shirts. Never mind that the iron I was using was as cold as a cucumber since it was not capable of producing any dangerous heat. What was especially wise on the part of the manufacturer of the toy iron is the fact that they did not even have a cord on the iron that I certainly would have tried to plug in.
Each item, I carefully ironed, then folded, and placed into my drawer. I worked beside Granny as she ironed my grandfather’s shirts and pants, ironing my tee shirts. We both worked for some time, and eventually our work was done. It was a very satisfying feeling, and I was proud of the work I had done.
I could not wait for my mother to get home from work so that I could show her all that I had accomplished. When she came through the door later that day, I accosted her and drug her off to see my handiwork. “Mommy, look at what Granny and me did today!”
While my mother tried to ascertain exactly what I was indicating that I had done, she was telling me how proud she was of me, all the while not really having a clue at what I had done. After all, it is not that common that a five-year-old little boy would be pointing to an open drawer full of clothes. With some additional guidance from my grandmother, it became a little clearer to my mom. “He worked all afternoon to iron his own clothes,” my grandmother told her.
“Wow, you ironed these clothes all by yourself?!?” Obviously encouraging the tiny effort that I made, my mother wanted to keep this trend going for when heat was actually included in the ironing process.
As the rest of the evening progressed, my prowess with the iron became the continued topic for conversation. My pride in the job that I had done was bolstered throughout the evening, and I went to bed that night with my head in the clouds. Unfortunately, the rest of my body was not in the clouds with my head.
As a five-year-old little boy, I still had difficulty making it through the night without going to the bathroom; much like being in my fifties now. It was quite common for me to get up, find my way to the bathroom, do my business, return to my bed, and never really wake up. To help me make this journey without incident, my grandmother had placed a nightlight in the bathroom to guide my cobweb-filled head like a ship to a lighthouse. This was a tradition that I had become used to, and comfortable with. Unfortunately, as of this night it was no longer the only nightlight in the house.
As an added effort to help me find my way around in the dark, Granny placed an additional nightlight in my bedroom. It was a considerate and loving move on the part of my grandmother, but unfortunately an additional lighthouse that guided me onto the rocks of destruction, which is actually what happens when a ship follows the light of a lighthouse.
When I got up that evening, it went according to my normal routine. My eyes were barely open. I followed my instincts and made my way to the bathroom. I lifted the seat, as I had been taught to do, and did my business. I then staggeringly made my way back to bed and continued sleeping for the rest of the night quite soundly.
I awoke in the morning and made my way to the breakfast table, where my Granny sat waiting on me. “Good morning sunshine, did you sleep well?”
“Yes, Granny,” I answered, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
“Did you have to use the bathroom during the night?”
“I don’t remember Granny, I may have.” At five, my ability to remember and put together any significant events was not the most reliable in the world. As far as I knew, the world could have ended and begun again while I was sleeping.
“Well, John David, you did go to the bathroom last night, but not the normal way.” Granny had gotten to the point that she could barely contain her laughter. She tried to be loving and compassionate, but her laughter was about to give her away. She related to me the story of what had actually happened the previous night.
With the new nightlight, my guidance system was not accurate enough to distinguish between one nightlight and another. My cobweb-filled head guided me instead of to the bathroom to the dresser in my bedroom. When I thought that I was lifting the toilette seat, I was opening the drawer. When I thought that I was filling the toilette, I was instead anointing my own clothing. I was too out of it to even realize that the clothes that I had just anointed were the ones that I had spent the time ironing earlier.
Granny related my faux pas to me, but never made me feel stupid. Instead, I felt nothing but the love of my grandmother. I knew that I had made a mistake, and Granny helped me to find a way to keep it from happening again. Never did I feel like she was making fun of me, even when she was laughing.
Psalm 71:17
Much of what we experience as children is in preparation for adulthood. We learn to eat on our own, we learn to bathe on our own, we learn to dress on our own, etc. Sometimes we learn these skills from our parents, or from our friends, or from other relatives, or a combination. Sometimes, we even learn by trial and error.
As a child, I was always quite curious about various activities, and how they were done. I guess I looked at things much the same way that the boys passing by Tom Sawyer thought that the fence he was painting was a fun job. Honestly, I never knew if it was fun or not, but I was ready to experience it.
One day, while watching Granny iron, I experienced that sense of wonder, and I asked her, “Granny, what' cha doin’?”
“Well, John David, I am ironing clothes.”
“Why ya’ doin’ that?”
“So your Granddaddy will have pressed clothes to go to work in.”
“Right, what’s pressed clothes?”
It is easy for any layman to see that this could be a never-ending saga for my grandmother. Only the wisest of grandparents are able to maneuver from this tricky hold by a five-year-old without bloodshed. Luckily, Granny was a shaman grand master at this art. In another setting, some would have referred to her as Master Yoda.
“John David, would you like for me to show you how to iron your clothes?” Granny asked this knowing that I was bound to take the bait; Granny was skilled well beyond her years.
“Sure Granny, that sounds like fun.” I was hooked like a fine rainbow trout, with no chance of escape.
Granny took the time to get my sister’s play iron and ironing board out. She carefully showed me how to iron then fold my clothes. She painstakingly pointed out that I should not leave the iron in one place for too long, and that I needed to iron both the front and the back of each of my tee shirts. Never mind that the iron I was using was as cold as a cucumber since it was not capable of producing any dangerous heat. What was especially wise on the part of the manufacturer of the toy iron is the fact that they did not even have a cord on the iron that I certainly would have tried to plug in.
Each item, I carefully ironed, then folded, and placed into my drawer. I worked beside Granny as she ironed my grandfather’s shirts and pants, ironing my tee shirts. We both worked for some time, and eventually our work was done. It was a very satisfying feeling, and I was proud of the work I had done.
I could not wait for my mother to get home from work so that I could show her all that I had accomplished. When she came through the door later that day, I accosted her and drug her off to see my handiwork. “Mommy, look at what Granny and me did today!”
While my mother tried to ascertain exactly what I was indicating that I had done, she was telling me how proud she was of me, all the while not really having a clue at what I had done. After all, it is not that common that a five-year-old little boy would be pointing to an open drawer full of clothes. With some additional guidance from my grandmother, it became a little clearer to my mom. “He worked all afternoon to iron his own clothes,” my grandmother told her.
“Wow, you ironed these clothes all by yourself?!?” Obviously encouraging the tiny effort that I made, my mother wanted to keep this trend going for when heat was actually included in the ironing process.
As the rest of the evening progressed, my prowess with the iron became the continued topic for conversation. My pride in the job that I had done was bolstered throughout the evening, and I went to bed that night with my head in the clouds. Unfortunately, the rest of my body was not in the clouds with my head.
As a five-year-old little boy, I still had difficulty making it through the night without going to the bathroom; much like being in my fifties now. It was quite common for me to get up, find my way to the bathroom, do my business, return to my bed, and never really wake up. To help me make this journey without incident, my grandmother had placed a nightlight in the bathroom to guide my cobweb-filled head like a ship to a lighthouse. This was a tradition that I had become used to, and comfortable with. Unfortunately, as of this night it was no longer the only nightlight in the house.
As an added effort to help me find my way around in the dark, Granny placed an additional nightlight in my bedroom. It was a considerate and loving move on the part of my grandmother, but unfortunately an additional lighthouse that guided me onto the rocks of destruction, which is actually what happens when a ship follows the light of a lighthouse.
When I got up that evening, it went according to my normal routine. My eyes were barely open. I followed my instincts and made my way to the bathroom. I lifted the seat, as I had been taught to do, and did my business. I then staggeringly made my way back to bed and continued sleeping for the rest of the night quite soundly.
I awoke in the morning and made my way to the breakfast table, where my Granny sat waiting on me. “Good morning sunshine, did you sleep well?”
“Yes, Granny,” I answered, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
“Did you have to use the bathroom during the night?”
“I don’t remember Granny, I may have.” At five, my ability to remember and put together any significant events was not the most reliable in the world. As far as I knew, the world could have ended and begun again while I was sleeping.
“Well, John David, you did go to the bathroom last night, but not the normal way.” Granny had gotten to the point that she could barely contain her laughter. She tried to be loving and compassionate, but her laughter was about to give her away. She related to me the story of what had actually happened the previous night.
With the new nightlight, my guidance system was not accurate enough to distinguish between one nightlight and another. My cobweb-filled head guided me instead of to the bathroom to the dresser in my bedroom. When I thought that I was lifting the toilette seat, I was opening the drawer. When I thought that I was filling the toilette, I was instead anointing my own clothing. I was too out of it to even realize that the clothes that I had just anointed were the ones that I had spent the time ironing earlier.
Granny related my faux pas to me, but never made me feel stupid. Instead, I felt nothing but the love of my grandmother. I knew that I had made a mistake, and Granny helped me to find a way to keep it from happening again. Never did I feel like she was making fun of me, even when she was laughing.
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