Killing a Bat, ala Jim Bowie

My friend took his family to Door County, WI for a 2-week summer vacation. He stayed at a big, old home converted into 3 rental units. His unit barely had enough sleeping accommodations for his 6-person family. The one bathroom was very outdated. His wife learned that the bathroom did not have a screen on the window, when a bat flew in. The bat was blinded by the bright lights, and fluttered aimlessly in the shower stall.

His wife’s blood-curdling screams caused my friend to rush to the bathroom door. He sized up the situation immediately. Without hesitation, he took off his size 13 shoe, and tossed it like a tomahawk about 12 feet towards the bat. He really had only one chance to kill that bat. If he missed, the sound of the shoe hitting the shower stall, would cause the bat to fly blindly around the room.

His “tomahawk/shoe” was true to its mark. Its heavy heal struck the bat’s head. The large sole crushed the bat’s body. The dead bat fell limp to the shower floor. His wife was still screaming. Endless consoling hugs and assurances finally calmed her down. She accepted that the threat of the “Vampire Invasion” was over, after he closed the window.

Their 4 children, who had rushed to the bathroom door in time to witness the historic family “life-saving” throw, also needed consolation. For a while, relentless wailing was heard throughout the house. Calm returned when multiple assurances convinced everyone that no more things would fly into their unit, because no more windows would be open. My friend also reassured everyone that they would find new lodging in the morning. First thing.

True to his word, they packed up and checked out before breakfast. They checked into a modern 4-Unit facility near the lake. They spent the rest of their vacation swimming, boating, hiking, playing golf & tennis, shopping in the unique, boutique stores, and eating at family owned restaurants. My friend bought 2 paintings from a local artist to memorialize this family vacation.

Years later, the only thing that anyone remembered was the “Shot Heard Around Door County”. A once in a lifetime, family saving, tomahawk shoe throw will be passed down from generation to generation. Testimony to a father’s “Grace under pressure”, as opposed to just “Blind Luck”.

(My friend admitted to me that it was “Blind Luck”, but not to tell anyone.)

“The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men… “

My friend was reminiscing about his bachelor party. He reminded me about his friend’s drunken Bachelor Party the year before. His friend insisted that it be thrown the night before his Wedding Day and include drinking Ammergutes (a shot of Brandy with Peppermint Schnapps, floated on top).

My friend wanted to avoid that calamity at all costs. So, my friend selected the most conservative friend he knew as his best man. Alex was the valedictorian of their High School Class, and an Assistant District Attorney. My friend chose a staid German Restaurant with an “Oompa-pa Band”. He only invited the 5-male members of his Wedding Party. It would be a short night of dinner & drinks, and then go home. The plan was safe and sane. It was perfect.

My friend had reserved one of the restaurant’s “Private Rooms”. The “Rooms” had 7-foot high surrounding walls and an opening with no doors to the dining room. It would comfortably accommodate his party of 6, allowing for raucous laughter. My friend introduced his wife’s brother, a college student, to the other 4-groomsmen (his friends from High School & College) during drinks before dinner.

The waitress brought a bottle of Champagne when desert was served. The wife’s brother boasted that he wanted to “Toast” his future Brother-in-Law in proper style. The other groomsmen responded by each providing a bottle of champagne, sequencially, to “Toast” their longtime friend. In gratitude, my friend ordered a bottle, bringing the total champagne consumption to One Bottle Per Person.

N. B. It is important to note that each bottle of champagne was opened with theatrical fanfare, sending the corks flying over the divider between the “Private Rooms”. The dividers were 7-feet tall. The ceiling was 12 feet tall. No one was concerned about where the corks might land.

When the final bottle was emptied, a very distinguished, well-dressed man, with a stunning, attractive woman at his side, appeared at the opening of their booth, with 6 champagne bottle corks in his hand. He said, “I was told that these corks, which landed on our table during dinner, came from this room.”Simultaneously, all 6  bumbling bachelor-party drunks began profusely apologizing for ruining that couples’ evening.

In mid-apology, the distinguished man, with great flourish, placed a bottle of Champagne on the table and said, “Congratulations to the Groom. Our waitress told us what was happening. It reminded me of my bachelor party. Prosit.” With that “Toast”, the man popped the champagne cork over the divider, as he & his wife drank with the rest of the wedding party.

Then, the man said to my friend, “You should call your wife-to-be and tell her that you love her.” That seemed like a splendid idea. (Except, that it was midnight, and his fiancée was staying at her parent’s home.) Those facts were lost in the haze of champagne bubbles. Her father answered the phone.

The father tersely asked, “Who is this?” My friend replied, without a shred of sobriety, “This is Paul. I want to tell Jane that I love her.” My friend can’t recall the exact expletives muttered by the father, as he handed the phone to Jane. When my friend repeated his unconditional love to Jane, she simply said, “Oh, Paul”. My friend doesn’t recall anything else about that phone call.

Then, someone shouted that they should go to the bar of last year’s bachelor’s party, and drink some Ammergutes. Another splendid idea. Everyone piled into a few cars and off they went to drink “Gutes”.

Somewhere between the 3rd & 4^th ”Gute Shot”, someone asked, “Where’s Jim?” (the wife’s brother). When they looked around, Jim was gone. After a brief pause, the “Gute Shots” continued.

Meanwhile, Jim, who instinctively knew that he wasn’t well and was getting worse, left. Outside, he began to walk toward his college dorm, miles away, across the river. He walked onto the railroad trestle, next to the pedestrian & car bridge, over the river, 50 feet below.

Jim’s legs slid & straddled the railroad ties, painfully engaging his reproductive organs. (And destroying the new suit that his mother just bought to wear at Friday’s Rehearsal Dinner) But fashion was irrelevant to survival.

Jim’s journey led him into the stockyards, across the river. There, barbed wire and cow manure completed the destruction of his suit, and any remnant of his dignity. He emerged on a street several blocks away from his dorm. Somehow, he managed to call his dorm roommate. By the grace of God, the roommate found Jim wandering around on a sidewalk near the dorm.

A variety of versions about the bachelor party swirled around the Rehearsal Dinner. More bachelor party folklore was served at the Wedding Reception Dinner. Only one thing is for sure: “The best laid plans of mice & men…”

“Daddy’s Little Girl” – Always

My Friend was telling an acquaintance, Gary, about waiting up until all of his children were home for the night. Gary was concerned about his son & daughter continuously breaking their curfew requirements. My friend said that he waited up every night that his kids went out, regardless of their age. He told Gary the following story to emphasize his point:

My friend’s oldest child was his daughter. She was in college and came home for her semester break. One night, she was going to a downtown bar to meet some of her old High School friends. Her curfew was 1:30AM. (She had ALWAYS kept her curfew all through High School & College, unlike her brothers.)

My friend sat in a green, leather chair that faced the TV in the den, but more importantly, had an unobstructed view of the back hall, into which you had to enter from the garage. NO ONE could enter the back hall undetected by my friend. That seating arrangement not only allowed the recording of their arrival time, but also served as an inspection “Sniff Test” for underage drinking. My friend sat in that green, leather chair without exception, when his kids were out.

His 3 sons also went out to meet their friends at a variety of events on the same night as his daughter. (There was a 10-year gap between the youngest child and his oldest, his daughter.) One by one, the boys began to trickle in, always beyond their curfew, testing the old man, but never beyond the unspoken limit of his tolerance. He gave them the usual & customary “Responsibility” speech, and sent them off to bed.

They were all home by Mid-Night. At 2:00 am, my friend noticed that his daughter was not home yet. She had never missed her curfew before. He rationalized that she was having a good time and didn’t want to disappoint her old friends, whom she hadn’t seen in a while. So, they probably stayed until the bars closed.

At 3:00 am. He rationalized that they went to some 24-hour diner to eat some greasy stuff to offset the booze they drunk. However, he called the local County Sheriff to determine if there were any reported highway accidents. (He didn’t ask about drunken arrests.)

At 4:00 am, he called The County Sheriff back. He explained the whole story, and asked about accidents & arrests. The Sheriff had nothing to report. My friend was distraught. What could possibly have happened? Certainly, his daughter would have called him if she were to have missed her curfew. She was exceptionally responsible. She knew that he waited-up in that green, leather chair until all of his children were home. She never had missed her curfew before.

At 5:00 am, my friend called the Sheriff, again. This time, he asked the Sheriff to call the surrounding County Sheriffs to determine if there were any reported accidents or arrests. A bit testy, the Sheriff asked my friend, “How old is your daughter?” My friend said, “She’s22.” The Sheriff snorted, “Look Pal. Your Daughter isn’t a little girl. She’s a WOMAN. Call back in 3 days. If she is not back home, then, she’s a “Missing Person”. And hung-up.

My friend slumped in his chair. The Sheriff was all wrong. His daughter isn’t a woman. She’s Daddy’s Little Girl – no matter how old she is. (His daughter came home at 7:30 am, driven by the man she spent the night with.)

Even after 19 years of marriage and 2 children, she’s “Daddy’s Little Girl”– Always.

A Daughter’s Love Letter to Her Dad

My friend recently received a love letter from his daughter.

(His daughter is 46 years old, a doctor, married to a doctor, mother to 2 daughters, and sister to 3 brothers. She is bright and caring. She could have chosen the gratuitous self-satisfactions of self-reliance. Instead, she chose to make other lives breathe easier with her immense talents. Her talents were evident as a child. She gave up her medical practice to raise her 2 daughters; then got a Master’s Degree to help Autistic children.)

My friend wanted me to mention those things because he is very proud of his daughter. The “Love Letter” dealt with a childhood incident that was a life-changing moment for her. It expanded her awareness of and increased her potential to help others. The following letter speaks for itself:

“Dear Dad,

I loved going to the Simon House on “Report Card” day. Many of my friends dreaded report card day. But not me. I was excited to get my reward for getting all “A’s” on my report card. It was a wonderful day to get all dressed up, and go to the Simon House, and eat their incredible, delectable famous Prime Rib dinner – a feast that no other 3^rd grader could imagine.

However, because I made my “e’ with a fancy, embellished curve, instead of the boring, conventional line, I received an NS (Not Satisfactory) for Penmanship on my report card. I was devastated. I immediately went to my room after school, where tears flowed down my cheeks.

I was still sobbing when you came home from work. I shamefully shared with you the details of my “Failure”. I braced for guidance about how I would do better next time, or worse, chastisement for not following my teacher’s instructions to the “letter” (pun intended).

I was confused when you said, “Well, we can’t go to the Simon House while you are crying. Why don’t you hurry up to wash your face and to change your clothes, so we can get going, before they run out of Prime Rib.  I must have looked befuddled, because you said, “You did a lot of hard work, and earned “A’s” in all your other subjects. Never forsake the “Good” in search of the “Perfect”. There’s a lot to celebrate.”

What an important lesson to learn early in life: “Celebrate the Good. Improve the exceptions. Tolerance replaces dejection. In relationships, tolerance replaces bitterness by accepting the Joy of the moment “As Is”. That lesson helped me be a better daughter, sister, wife, mother, doctor, neighbor, and friend. I couldn’t be tolerant of others, IF, I weren’t tolerant of myself. Thanks dad.”

Love, Jenny

Now it was my friend that had tears in his eyes. His daughter was the person he had hoped she’d become. Clearly, she fulfilled Emerson’s verse about “Success”: “To make even one life breathe easier because you lived.” She fulfilled Christ’s command, “To love one another as I (Christ) have loved you”. She did all those things because she cherished the “Good”. She was never bitter by the absence of the “Perfect”.

Sadly, many live lives of quiet desperation, unaware of and unsatisfied by all the “Good” around them. They only focus on their unfilled, expectations of the “Perfect”. Perhaps, the letter about a 3^rd grade girl’s experience of the value of “Good” could be life-changing.

It’s never too late.