I love my bed. I love the fact that I have room to spread out. I love the pillow-top mattress and the little divot that has formed around my favorite sleeping spot. And the pillows? What can I say? They’re perfect, exactly the way I like them - not too old and not too new; not too flat, not too fluffy. Every morning I wake up feeling refreshed and rested and ready to face a new day. Every morning, that is, until today.
Today my back hurts, my neck is stiff, and I’m tired. How could this happen after spending the night in a place of perfect comfort? It all goes back to the divot. Mine is really more of a cradle. Inside my divot is a place of absolute sleeping perfection. As long as I am in my divot each night, life is good. So what happened to the divot last night? I remember it well. I started out in the divot. I know I did. It was just after 10:00 when I put my book down, reached up, and turned off the light. I rolled into place and settled into my favorite sleeping position, my divot holding me firmly, bringing comfort to my tired soul. And there I remained for the next few hours.
I didn’t even realize that my divot had been compromised until well after midnight. I knew something was wrong as I tossed and turned, but in my hazy, sleepy condition I was unable to identify the source of my discomfort. It took a crying baby to shake me out of my state of semi-consciousness. Only after the short fuss down the hall did I realize that I was sharing my divot. As I peeked one eye open to help me pinpoint the source of the disruption, I was enlightened by the fact that, snuggled into my divot, was my five-year-old son. He had somehow managed to evict me from my own divot mid-slumber.
Now that he had successfully moved in, I was left on the hill on the pillow-top mattress. (AKA: The Pill Hill) Of course, I wasn’t lucky enough to get the center Pill Hill. No, I had been banished to the side Pill Hill, the sliver of a hill that is nestled between my divot and the edge of the bed. It’s the hill that causes one to sleep in awkward positions to avoid rolling on top of a five-year-old while always remembering that tumbling out of bed and onto the floor is only one roll away.
By two a.m. I was missing my divot terribly. That was it, the game was over. I carefully placed my hands and feet on Zach’s back and legs and gently shoved him out of my divot and up onto the center Pill Hill. With my divot finally vacated, I rolled in and settled in for a well-deserved rest. Seconds later, what should come crashing down the center Pill Hill but my son! He had no regard for boundaries or personal space. I now had a choice: sleep with a child on my head, or resort to Sliver Mountain. I chose neither. This is my divot! I thought to myself and, doggone it, I’m going to sleep in it. So I once again began eviction proceedings. With my hands and feet in place, I carefully pushed until the little guy was once again on the center Pill Hill. Ahh...success!
Wait, no, correct that. Momentary success. No, not even that. I think it was actually less than a moment. With one quick roll, my divot was once again compromised. Wishing I was asleep and refusing to get out of bed in the middle of the night, I resigned myself to defeat. Beaten and dejected, I climbed back up Sliver Mountain and there I remained, unable to move for the next three hours.
We had a talk today, me and Zach. Now he knows that if he needs Mommy or Daddy in the middle of the night, he is more than welcome to come into our room…and sleep under the bed.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Legacy
And with your final heartbeat
Kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory's side, and
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus and live!
My grandparents made that final flight to Jesus this week. Grandma went last Sunday morning and Grandpa joined her seven days later. As I sat through two memorial services I was reminded of what is really important in life. My grandparents had worldly possessions, but those don’t matter. The most important thing that they left behind for their family is a legacy that lives on in each of their children and grandchildren.
As I was driving home tonight from Grandpa’s service, I thought about how to best describe the legacy that they have left for us. Two words came to mind: selfless generosity. Their legacy, while manifest in human terms, really began in heavenly terms. For without the love of Jesus Christ in their lives, their generosity was pointless, because it was for His glory that they gave of their time and resources.
The theme was repeated over and over as the patriarch and matriarch of the family were eulogized. Grandma sacrificed much to raise seven children, all the while maintaining an open door policy for anyone who came knocking. Grandpa embraced the Biblical concept that states, “To whom much is given, much is required.” He knew that God had blessed him so that he could bless others. The most notable thing about a legacy, however, is that it is lost if it is not embraced by posterity.
I have long since known that my own father is a recipient of this legacy, but only in recent years have I come to realize that he alone is not the sole beneficiary. As Grandma and Grandpa entered the sunset of their lives, I saw the torch of generosity being handed down from own generation to the next. Even as the sun settled deeper and deeper into the night, the light of this torch burned brighter and brighter, all the time illuminating the origin of the legacy. Grandma and Grandpa’s six remaining children were drawn close together, united by their common cause: to honor their parents. Now that they are gone, none would call it a sacrifice, for it was an honor for my dad and his siblings to usher their parents into Heaven, all the time making sure that they were never left alone.
The beauty of the legacy that was begun so many years ago is that it transcends economic barriers. You see, over the course of his lifetime, Grandpa made more money than most will ever see, yet also experienced poverty that few of us know. Even as eternity lingered on the horizon, his money spent and nothing more than the remnants of a lifetime remaining, Grandpa would worry about the small things that he could do for his family. Always the optimist, always the strong one, he refused to let his legacy die.
That legacy now rests firmly upon my own shoulders. I know that it is a part of who I am and the family into which God has so graciously placed me. It is my duty to model this tradition of generosity so that my own children can pass the torch to their children. For what good is a legacy if it is not embraced by posterity?
Kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory's side, and
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus and live!
My grandparents made that final flight to Jesus this week. Grandma went last Sunday morning and Grandpa joined her seven days later. As I sat through two memorial services I was reminded of what is really important in life. My grandparents had worldly possessions, but those don’t matter. The most important thing that they left behind for their family is a legacy that lives on in each of their children and grandchildren.
As I was driving home tonight from Grandpa’s service, I thought about how to best describe the legacy that they have left for us. Two words came to mind: selfless generosity. Their legacy, while manifest in human terms, really began in heavenly terms. For without the love of Jesus Christ in their lives, their generosity was pointless, because it was for His glory that they gave of their time and resources.
The theme was repeated over and over as the patriarch and matriarch of the family were eulogized. Grandma sacrificed much to raise seven children, all the while maintaining an open door policy for anyone who came knocking. Grandpa embraced the Biblical concept that states, “To whom much is given, much is required.” He knew that God had blessed him so that he could bless others. The most notable thing about a legacy, however, is that it is lost if it is not embraced by posterity.
I have long since known that my own father is a recipient of this legacy, but only in recent years have I come to realize that he alone is not the sole beneficiary. As Grandma and Grandpa entered the sunset of their lives, I saw the torch of generosity being handed down from own generation to the next. Even as the sun settled deeper and deeper into the night, the light of this torch burned brighter and brighter, all the time illuminating the origin of the legacy. Grandma and Grandpa’s six remaining children were drawn close together, united by their common cause: to honor their parents. Now that they are gone, none would call it a sacrifice, for it was an honor for my dad and his siblings to usher their parents into Heaven, all the time making sure that they were never left alone.
The beauty of the legacy that was begun so many years ago is that it transcends economic barriers. You see, over the course of his lifetime, Grandpa made more money than most will ever see, yet also experienced poverty that few of us know. Even as eternity lingered on the horizon, his money spent and nothing more than the remnants of a lifetime remaining, Grandpa would worry about the small things that he could do for his family. Always the optimist, always the strong one, he refused to let his legacy die.
That legacy now rests firmly upon my own shoulders. I know that it is a part of who I am and the family into which God has so graciously placed me. It is my duty to model this tradition of generosity so that my own children can pass the torch to their children. For what good is a legacy if it is not embraced by posterity?
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Shallow Bowls
There are two kinds of cereal bowls in this world: narrow deep bowls and broad shallow bowls. They both serve a purpose and can be a great addition to any household kitchen line up. To the true connoisseur of fine cereal, however, only one can provide the dining experience that is necessary when feasting on the most exquisite of flakes.
Let’s start by investigating the anatomy of a shallow bowl. Shallow bowls are by their very nature, shallow. Aside from yourself, think of a shallow person that you know. Is he fun to be with? Is she caring and giving? Can you rely on him? If you apply these questions to the shallow bowl, the answer is a resounding, no. Shallow bowls are not fun to be with. Have you ever tried plunging your spoon into a shallow bowl anticipating a milky scoop of flakey delight only to have your utensil strike the bottom of the bowl with nothing more than a useless drop of milk resting in its cradle? That is not fun, it’s shallow. Let’s look at the next question. Is a shallow bowl caring and giving? Again, the answer can only be, no. Shallow bowls are stingy. They try to look generous by spreading your cereal over a wide area, but they lack depth. Given their shallow nature, these bowls make cereal extrication quite difficult. They do all that they can to retain your Cocoa Puffs for their own benefit. And when the milk does finally turn into a perfect consistency of chocolate soup, the bowl is too shallow for the average cereal consumer to fill the spoon because the spoon is actually deeper than the bowl.
Pretend with me for a minute that you were actually successful in getting every puff out of the bowl. By this point you are exhausted and, no doubt, thirsty. The milky concoction at the bottom of the bowl is calling your name. You know that your spoon will never succeed in removing all of it; the bowl is just too shallow. The only way to quench your thirst is to raise the wide brimmed bowl to your lips ad drink. As you begin to pour the milk into your parched throat, the bowl taunts you by sending milk all the way around the bottom portion of the oversized brim. It is so wide it begins to drip down the corners of your mouth and onto your shirt. The wise shallow bowl affectionado (yes, there are a few out there) will always eat breakfast before showering. That way the milky mess can be rinsed off quite easily.
As for the question about reliability, shallow bowls actually rate quite high. A shallow bowl will always come through for you if you are wishing to play a practical joke on your friend. “Here, drink this delicious milk,” you might say as you sit back and watch it dribble down his clean shirt. Or perhaps you want to annoy an ex-friend. Offer him a shallow bowl of cereal and watch him struggle to get a milky scoop. It works every time.
I think my opinion on shallow bowls is clear. Let’s turn our attention toward the cereal bowl of Mr. Kellogg’s own choosing: the deep bowl. Deep bowls are fun to be with. They can provide hours of entertainment ranging from a haircutting guide for young children to a tool for forming sand castles. I even use an old one to clean the ashes out of my barbecue. These bowls are the most generous of cereal bowls. Their deep interior allows your spoon to plunge beneath the surface of the milk and flakes and, as you raise it to your lips, drops of milk splash back into the bowl, its generosity overflowing. Each bite is a perfect mixture of milkiness and flakiness, just the way Mr. Kellogg envisioned when he invented cereal back in the late 1800s. And reliability? Deep bowls are the most reliable of all cereal bowls. Their narrow brim allows the milk to pour neatly into your mouth without spreading out to the far corners and dribbling onto your favorite shirt. We deep bowl fans proudly shower before eating our cereal, for we have nothing to fear.
Our country was founded on the principles of democracy and as such, every bowl has rights. As long as there are people in this world who still cling to the shallow bowl, shallow bowls will persevere. It is up to us, the deep bowl lovers of the world, to spread our message and do all we can to influence others that there is a better way. Because together we can change the world.
Let’s start by investigating the anatomy of a shallow bowl. Shallow bowls are by their very nature, shallow. Aside from yourself, think of a shallow person that you know. Is he fun to be with? Is she caring and giving? Can you rely on him? If you apply these questions to the shallow bowl, the answer is a resounding, no. Shallow bowls are not fun to be with. Have you ever tried plunging your spoon into a shallow bowl anticipating a milky scoop of flakey delight only to have your utensil strike the bottom of the bowl with nothing more than a useless drop of milk resting in its cradle? That is not fun, it’s shallow. Let’s look at the next question. Is a shallow bowl caring and giving? Again, the answer can only be, no. Shallow bowls are stingy. They try to look generous by spreading your cereal over a wide area, but they lack depth. Given their shallow nature, these bowls make cereal extrication quite difficult. They do all that they can to retain your Cocoa Puffs for their own benefit. And when the milk does finally turn into a perfect consistency of chocolate soup, the bowl is too shallow for the average cereal consumer to fill the spoon because the spoon is actually deeper than the bowl.
Pretend with me for a minute that you were actually successful in getting every puff out of the bowl. By this point you are exhausted and, no doubt, thirsty. The milky concoction at the bottom of the bowl is calling your name. You know that your spoon will never succeed in removing all of it; the bowl is just too shallow. The only way to quench your thirst is to raise the wide brimmed bowl to your lips ad drink. As you begin to pour the milk into your parched throat, the bowl taunts you by sending milk all the way around the bottom portion of the oversized brim. It is so wide it begins to drip down the corners of your mouth and onto your shirt. The wise shallow bowl affectionado (yes, there are a few out there) will always eat breakfast before showering. That way the milky mess can be rinsed off quite easily.
As for the question about reliability, shallow bowls actually rate quite high. A shallow bowl will always come through for you if you are wishing to play a practical joke on your friend. “Here, drink this delicious milk,” you might say as you sit back and watch it dribble down his clean shirt. Or perhaps you want to annoy an ex-friend. Offer him a shallow bowl of cereal and watch him struggle to get a milky scoop. It works every time.
I think my opinion on shallow bowls is clear. Let’s turn our attention toward the cereal bowl of Mr. Kellogg’s own choosing: the deep bowl. Deep bowls are fun to be with. They can provide hours of entertainment ranging from a haircutting guide for young children to a tool for forming sand castles. I even use an old one to clean the ashes out of my barbecue. These bowls are the most generous of cereal bowls. Their deep interior allows your spoon to plunge beneath the surface of the milk and flakes and, as you raise it to your lips, drops of milk splash back into the bowl, its generosity overflowing. Each bite is a perfect mixture of milkiness and flakiness, just the way Mr. Kellogg envisioned when he invented cereal back in the late 1800s. And reliability? Deep bowls are the most reliable of all cereal bowls. Their narrow brim allows the milk to pour neatly into your mouth without spreading out to the far corners and dribbling onto your favorite shirt. We deep bowl fans proudly shower before eating our cereal, for we have nothing to fear.
Our country was founded on the principles of democracy and as such, every bowl has rights. As long as there are people in this world who still cling to the shallow bowl, shallow bowls will persevere. It is up to us, the deep bowl lovers of the world, to spread our message and do all we can to influence others that there is a better way. Because together we can change the world.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Failure
As a fifth grade teacher, I am often forced into the role of judge, jury, and executioner (figuratively speaking, of course - usually). As part of the judicial process, I gather witnesses and interview them. After consulting the witnesses, I reach a verdict and issue a sentence. Quite often, the testimony of two independent witnesses is enough to provide me with a reasonable degree of certainty that the offending party is indeed guilty.
This last week, I fell victim to my own judicial process. You see, based on the confirmed testimony of two independent witnesses, it appears that I am a failure. Because there was no plausible way for the witnesses to collaborate, their testimony must be rock solid.
It was difficult for me to accept at first, since I have always considered myself to be fairly successful, but you can’t argue with the truth, especially given the evidence. It all started on Tuesday afternoon. I went into the teacher’s lounge to make some photocopies. After patiently waiting my turn to use the machine, I entered in my four-digit user ID. Immediately after pressing the “Confirm” button, the machine replied with a message for me, “User Login Failure.”
“Wait a minute,” I said to myself. “I’m the user trying to login. Is this machine calling me a failure?” I shook it off, trying not to take the insult personally. I rationalized the pain away by realizing that I must have pressed a wrong button The copy machine had probably assumed that I was someone else, someone who had a history of failure. I re-input my four digit ID and once again pressed “Confirm.”
“User Login Failure,” the machine again informed me.
“Yeah, well you’re not such a winner either, you paper-jamming, botched duplexing, stapleless looser!” I exclaimed in frustration. Then I took a deep breath and a long chug of Diet Coke. “OK, maybe I messed up again,” I thought to myself. Now that the Aspartame was beginning to course through my veins, I felt prepared to once again carefully input my four digit ID. “I can do this,” I mumbled as my index finger oh, so carefully moved from one button to the next. If only I could understand what **** really meant, then I could confirm that the number had been entered correctly. Since I don’t speak asteriskian, I had to go with my gut. I once again confirmed my action and waited for the response.
This time, I was just crushed. I knew I wasn’t a failure, but this machine was absolutely certain that I was. Nothing I could do would convince it otherwise. It wouldn’t even let me have a chance to prove myself with my duplicating prowess. “Can I borrow three copies?” I said to the teacher in line behind me. “It appears that this machine thinks I am a failure.”
With my borrowed copies in hand, I headed back to my classroom. It was time to login to the online grading program to check on some test scores that had been scanned in earlier in the day. I clicked on the bookmarked site and waited for it to load. Seconds later the login screen appeared. I typed in my user name, and then entered my password. “Login failed,” came the reply.
“What!” I shouted. “How can this be?” I quickly retyped the information and clicked the login button once more. Same response, “Login failed.” I flashed back to earlier in the day when I had relied on the testimony of two independent witnesses to convict a child of wrongdoing. I had told the felonious youngster that because the two witnesses had not spoken to each other since the incident and their stories corroborated each other, that their testimony must be true. He was thus guilty as charged.
I sat at my desk absorbing the reality of the moment. Two independent witnesses had come up with the same story about me without ever having met. They were three hundred yards apart in separate buildings, for crying out loud! Based on my own theory, I had to accept the fact that I am indeed a failure. That was a difficult moment for me. Feeling dejected, my work ethic for the day dissolved, I gathered up my things and headed for the door.
As I was locking up, a sliver of hope crept into my mind. Maybe, just maybe, the copier and the online grading program had conspired against me using the campus computer network. That would completely negate both of their testimonies, thus rendering their failure verdict null. Since I alone am the judge, jury, and executioner, I quickly ruled in favor of the defendant and dropped all charges. Case dismissed.
This last week, I fell victim to my own judicial process. You see, based on the confirmed testimony of two independent witnesses, it appears that I am a failure. Because there was no plausible way for the witnesses to collaborate, their testimony must be rock solid.
It was difficult for me to accept at first, since I have always considered myself to be fairly successful, but you can’t argue with the truth, especially given the evidence. It all started on Tuesday afternoon. I went into the teacher’s lounge to make some photocopies. After patiently waiting my turn to use the machine, I entered in my four-digit user ID. Immediately after pressing the “Confirm” button, the machine replied with a message for me, “User Login Failure.”
“Wait a minute,” I said to myself. “I’m the user trying to login. Is this machine calling me a failure?” I shook it off, trying not to take the insult personally. I rationalized the pain away by realizing that I must have pressed a wrong button The copy machine had probably assumed that I was someone else, someone who had a history of failure. I re-input my four digit ID and once again pressed “Confirm.”
“User Login Failure,” the machine again informed me.
“Yeah, well you’re not such a winner either, you paper-jamming, botched duplexing, stapleless looser!” I exclaimed in frustration. Then I took a deep breath and a long chug of Diet Coke. “OK, maybe I messed up again,” I thought to myself. Now that the Aspartame was beginning to course through my veins, I felt prepared to once again carefully input my four digit ID. “I can do this,” I mumbled as my index finger oh, so carefully moved from one button to the next. If only I could understand what **** really meant, then I could confirm that the number had been entered correctly. Since I don’t speak asteriskian, I had to go with my gut. I once again confirmed my action and waited for the response.
This time, I was just crushed. I knew I wasn’t a failure, but this machine was absolutely certain that I was. Nothing I could do would convince it otherwise. It wouldn’t even let me have a chance to prove myself with my duplicating prowess. “Can I borrow three copies?” I said to the teacher in line behind me. “It appears that this machine thinks I am a failure.”
With my borrowed copies in hand, I headed back to my classroom. It was time to login to the online grading program to check on some test scores that had been scanned in earlier in the day. I clicked on the bookmarked site and waited for it to load. Seconds later the login screen appeared. I typed in my user name, and then entered my password. “Login failed,” came the reply.
“What!” I shouted. “How can this be?” I quickly retyped the information and clicked the login button once more. Same response, “Login failed.” I flashed back to earlier in the day when I had relied on the testimony of two independent witnesses to convict a child of wrongdoing. I had told the felonious youngster that because the two witnesses had not spoken to each other since the incident and their stories corroborated each other, that their testimony must be true. He was thus guilty as charged.
I sat at my desk absorbing the reality of the moment. Two independent witnesses had come up with the same story about me without ever having met. They were three hundred yards apart in separate buildings, for crying out loud! Based on my own theory, I had to accept the fact that I am indeed a failure. That was a difficult moment for me. Feeling dejected, my work ethic for the day dissolved, I gathered up my things and headed for the door.
As I was locking up, a sliver of hope crept into my mind. Maybe, just maybe, the copier and the online grading program had conspired against me using the campus computer network. That would completely negate both of their testimonies, thus rendering their failure verdict null. Since I alone am the judge, jury, and executioner, I quickly ruled in favor of the defendant and dropped all charges. Case dismissed.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Black Widow
Wednesday. I know it was Wednesday because it was a day I won’t soon forget. Actually, it started on Saturday, but Wednesday, that was the main event. Let me take you back to the beginning so that you can understand the full impact of this moment.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning, so beautiful, in fact, that my wife suggested we go out for breakfast. After enjoying a very satisfying meal, we returned home. I pressed the button on the remote and the garage door opened. The car fit perfectly into its place and we all got out. I should have noticed her lurking in the corner sooner, but I didn’t. Our garage is more than just a spot to park the cars, it is also a play area for our kids, so we take great pride in making sure it is a safe place. That’s why I should have noticed her sooner.
She caught my eye as I walked around the front of the car to open the door for the kids. I don’t know what made me look, but for a moment, there we stood, eye to eye. Her web had been spun inside the leaf blower where she patiently watched for her prey to enter the trap.
The red markings on her belly betrayed her sordid past. She was a ruthless killer. Her husband, no doubt devoured, his carcass digesting within her asymmetrical figure. “You’re not welcome in these parts,” I said to the black widow as I drew my weapon. With my foot raised eight inches off the ground, cocked and ready to fire, I took careful aim. She was a coward. I had called her out, yet she remained tucked safely within the confines of a leaf blower between the trigger and the gas tank. She knew my foot would never fit into that gap.
Her cowardice revealed her true identity. She was no black widow. She was nothing more than a yellow widow and I didn’t care. “You will be mine,” I said. “Oh yes, you will be mine.” This time I pulled a short piece of one by four lumber from the scrap wood pile. I aimed its narrow edge at her head and let it fly. She scurried deeper within the confines of her Coward Cave, just missing the projectile that soared past her thorax. (That’s a part of a spider, right?)
“Honey, get the kids in the house,” I commanded. “This might get ugly.” This beast had no right to live in my garage and I wanted blood. I looked around for anything that might be used as a weapon against her. My eye settled on the air compressor. Seconds later, it roared to life. I fit the hose with the narrowest nozzle and tested the pressure. There was no way she could resist such a force. Taking careful aim, I let the air fly deep inside the Coward Cave. The compressor huffed and puffed, but still couldn’t blow her house down. That was okay. I could wait. She’d have to come out to eat at some point. But she was not welcome to wait in my garage. Carefully picking up the leaf blower, I moved it into the backyard. We’d play the waiting game there, where she wouldn’t have a chance to hurt my family.
Sunday morning. She was still hidden. Sunday afternoon. She was getting hungry. Her head peeked out, but I still didn’t have a clear shot. Monday night. She was out. I took a shot, but missed. She’s pretty fast for a girl. (You will never believe this, but a spider just crawled across my shoulder as I was typing. He’s dead. Now back to our story.) Tuesday night. Looks like rain. I looked at the sky and then down at my leaf blower. I couldn’t leave it in the rain, but I couldn’t let her back inside the garage. I looked back up. A drop landed on the ground. Against my better judgement, I picked up the blower and put it back inside the safety of the garage. There wasn’t an ounce of sympathy for the spider in that gesture. It’s just that a real man never leaves power tools in the rain.
Wednesday night. The blower is still in the garage, no sign of rain. Time to escort our lady friend back outside. I approach carefully, scanning the machine for any sign of her ugly head. She must have grown cocky in the warm environs of the garage because, to my surprise, she was in plain view, nowhere near the Coward Cave. I raised my foot, feeling much like Daniel-San in the climactic scene of The Karate Kid. I cleared my mind and focused on one thing, and one thing only - victory. This was my moment. I would defeat her and the garage would once again become a safe place for my children to grow and play.
As I stood, poised to kill, she saw me. Our eyes locked just as they had the first time we met. “You will be mine,” I said. “Oh yes, you will be mine.” And my foot lunged forward and down. A moment of chaos ensued as my shoe cut through the web. In the follow-through it contacted the bucket of dog food, sending kibble flying. Regaining my balance, I pulled my foot out of the mess and peered at the underside. There in a smashed up little ball of black and ooze, was my nemesis - dead. I had won. Peace was restored.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning, so beautiful, in fact, that my wife suggested we go out for breakfast. After enjoying a very satisfying meal, we returned home. I pressed the button on the remote and the garage door opened. The car fit perfectly into its place and we all got out. I should have noticed her lurking in the corner sooner, but I didn’t. Our garage is more than just a spot to park the cars, it is also a play area for our kids, so we take great pride in making sure it is a safe place. That’s why I should have noticed her sooner.
She caught my eye as I walked around the front of the car to open the door for the kids. I don’t know what made me look, but for a moment, there we stood, eye to eye. Her web had been spun inside the leaf blower where she patiently watched for her prey to enter the trap.
The red markings on her belly betrayed her sordid past. She was a ruthless killer. Her husband, no doubt devoured, his carcass digesting within her asymmetrical figure. “You’re not welcome in these parts,” I said to the black widow as I drew my weapon. With my foot raised eight inches off the ground, cocked and ready to fire, I took careful aim. She was a coward. I had called her out, yet she remained tucked safely within the confines of a leaf blower between the trigger and the gas tank. She knew my foot would never fit into that gap.
Her cowardice revealed her true identity. She was no black widow. She was nothing more than a yellow widow and I didn’t care. “You will be mine,” I said. “Oh yes, you will be mine.” This time I pulled a short piece of one by four lumber from the scrap wood pile. I aimed its narrow edge at her head and let it fly. She scurried deeper within the confines of her Coward Cave, just missing the projectile that soared past her thorax. (That’s a part of a spider, right?)
“Honey, get the kids in the house,” I commanded. “This might get ugly.” This beast had no right to live in my garage and I wanted blood. I looked around for anything that might be used as a weapon against her. My eye settled on the air compressor. Seconds later, it roared to life. I fit the hose with the narrowest nozzle and tested the pressure. There was no way she could resist such a force. Taking careful aim, I let the air fly deep inside the Coward Cave. The compressor huffed and puffed, but still couldn’t blow her house down. That was okay. I could wait. She’d have to come out to eat at some point. But she was not welcome to wait in my garage. Carefully picking up the leaf blower, I moved it into the backyard. We’d play the waiting game there, where she wouldn’t have a chance to hurt my family.
Sunday morning. She was still hidden. Sunday afternoon. She was getting hungry. Her head peeked out, but I still didn’t have a clear shot. Monday night. She was out. I took a shot, but missed. She’s pretty fast for a girl. (You will never believe this, but a spider just crawled across my shoulder as I was typing. He’s dead. Now back to our story.) Tuesday night. Looks like rain. I looked at the sky and then down at my leaf blower. I couldn’t leave it in the rain, but I couldn’t let her back inside the garage. I looked back up. A drop landed on the ground. Against my better judgement, I picked up the blower and put it back inside the safety of the garage. There wasn’t an ounce of sympathy for the spider in that gesture. It’s just that a real man never leaves power tools in the rain.
Wednesday night. The blower is still in the garage, no sign of rain. Time to escort our lady friend back outside. I approach carefully, scanning the machine for any sign of her ugly head. She must have grown cocky in the warm environs of the garage because, to my surprise, she was in plain view, nowhere near the Coward Cave. I raised my foot, feeling much like Daniel-San in the climactic scene of The Karate Kid. I cleared my mind and focused on one thing, and one thing only - victory. This was my moment. I would defeat her and the garage would once again become a safe place for my children to grow and play.
As I stood, poised to kill, she saw me. Our eyes locked just as they had the first time we met. “You will be mine,” I said. “Oh yes, you will be mine.” And my foot lunged forward and down. A moment of chaos ensued as my shoe cut through the web. In the follow-through it contacted the bucket of dog food, sending kibble flying. Regaining my balance, I pulled my foot out of the mess and peered at the underside. There in a smashed up little ball of black and ooze, was my nemesis - dead. I had won. Peace was restored.
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