Tornados and Other Forms of Retribution

Had a little excitement with the weather last night. The TV kept alternating between the Olympics and "breaking weather reports," both of which are equally entertaining in Iowa. It didn't seem as though conditions were ripe for tornados, but one was reported two miles away from a town near us. Seeing as there was still plenty of daylight, I ventured outside to have a look-see. I grabbed the green lid off the kids' plastic turtle sandbox to use as a rain shield and walked to the gravel road. The sky didn't appear terribly threatening, but I was hoping to either spy a funnel cloud or make a lasting impression on a passerby. (again, both would be equally entertaining) I saw neither, for I was called in to join the rest of the family in the basement. :-( Our stay there was made more pleasant by the superb cleaning job accomplished by my niece at last month's reunion. (she is very sweet, unattached and you've already been apprised of her cleaning skills. Need I say more? Eligible bachelors will please send the standard bio with an 8x10 glossy and I'll get back to you)

We later heard of eyewitness accounts of as many as 6 or 7 tornados touching down briefly. And thanks to the miracle of the digital camera we saw pictures of a couple on TV. They were just small things, but not to be taken lightly, I suppose. (I guess)

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46, going on 18
I grew up with a father who taught science in the public school system. His "real life," however, consisted of teaching Sunday School, writing a regular column in various Mennonite magazines, and fulfilling the occasional speaking engagement. Sometimes we children were allowed (dragged, kicking and screaming) to tag along. We'd sit in the pew and listen to Dad tell the same great jokes over and over and we'd make notes of audience reaction. I used to bring a few numerical aids with me; little signs with various scores in bold marker. If I held up 9.7, it would mean, "Super! Give 'em another anecdote!" Or, if 6.8 appeared, it might signify, "They're yawning. Wrap it up!" (ok, I just made up that last part)

Of course, there was always the risk that we would hear ourselves named as part of a humorous illustration. I have a hazy recollection of my father mentioning a little girl writing on the bottom of his slippers with red colored pencil. Something about "stinky feet," I believe. But it was all so long ago, and I don't remember much, other than the fact that it was the Sunnyside Mennonite church, we were 4 rows from the back, and it was just my next oldest brother and I. (he was on my right, but, like I said, I don't remember much) I DO remember people turning around and smiling knowingly at me.

Well, Dad, this is where we employ a little literary technique I like to call, "Divinely Inspired Familial Poetic and Retributional Justice." (DIFPaRJ)

I received a called from my Dad yesterday. He and Mom check in every week or so to see how we're doing. ("What do you mean by 'pretty good,' that doesn't sound all that great to me. What's wrong?" ) He expressed some concern about the planned trip to take Sharon back to Grace College on Friday. This would necessitate making the return 8 hour trip all by my (gasp) lil' ol' self. Alternatives were mentioned, such as flying Sharon and shipping her stuff.

I think I'll be fine. I will have my little crutches along: my diet cherry cokes, my Dove's dark chocolates, the radio. What's more, I can listen to ANYTHING I want to on the way back, for there will be no impressionable young college student along to, um, impress. No, as long as I don't stop at any Goodwill stores along the way, I should be home well before dark, Saturday evening. I guess when you grow up the baby of the family, you're always looked upon as the youngest child. In other words, you're never too old to be too little.

(I love you, Dad. It'll be alright.)

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