It's Too Bad That Four-Year-Olds Don't Run the World.

Honesty seems to be a completely forgotten virtue amongst the powerful. Maybe it has always been that way. But not everyone lives by deception. I know a group of youngsters that are quite honest. Maybe even brutally honest.

Not too long ago I was taking my turn in the nursery at church. The age group I work with is three- and four-year-olds. They are busy. They are energetic. They are fun. And, as I have mentioned, they are honest. They wear me out a bit, but I love it.

That particular day there were no boys in the group. I sat down on the rocking chair and mused to myself that Mrs. Brenda was going to have a busy time of it while I was relaxing. Silly me.

Mrs. Brenda was a veteran at entertaining girls and immediately had them digging in the costume box. Scarves, shawls, capes, and tiaras were all in a cloud of motion around the girls as they excitedly claimed and rejected costume parts. The objective was to dress up for a princess party. I sat back amused.

It did not take long for the girls to come to me for fashion advice. That judgment failure can be overlooked due to their age. Those kids were born with more fashion sense than I've ever been able to glean.

Then they needed items fixed. That part I could handle. Presently they were ready to be princesses and they needed some form of entertainment. One of the girls said,”Mr. RV, you be the prince!”

I was pretty comfortable and had a difficult time visualizing myself slaying dragons or fending off Huns from the rocker. I shamelessly played on the stereotype and replied, “The prince is supposed to be young and handsome.” Immediate conflict registered on the faces of those girls. Clearly in their eyes I was not prince material.

My rocking chair career was momentarily secured. Rolling with the concept I added, “Kings are old and gray.”

There was instantaneous recognition and one of the girls decreed, “You're the king!”

Some people may want to be patronized, but I just love the honesty. If the world was run by four-year-olds, I think it would be a much better place.

Why I Write, Installment #3

Why anyone does anything is generally a complicated jumble of reasons. When people claim to do something from a singular motivation, they are either purely good, completely evil, or confused. I vote they're mostly confused.

The reason I write is … Okay, let's try that again.

One of the myriad reasons I write is because it delights my heart when people enjoy reading the story. That delight is compounded in magnitude when the person is a child. I guess I've always had a soft spot for children.

The photo that accompanies this post shows that in action. This is the daughter of Shawna, the artist doing the illustrations for the Adventures of Boathouse Mouse books. Shawna messaged: “(My daughter) loves the changes in the book, by the way! She highly approves book 1 so far. I did get lectured as I'm not done with all the sketches yet.”

Shawna's children got an uncustomary reading of an early draft of the book, and the kids loved it. I have since sent a final (or nearly so) edit and evidently it is approved by my focus group.

Why do I write? How can I not write with that kind of audience?

Adventures at 35 mph!

The old proverb goes, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.” That is very true, but there are still a thousand miles to travel. Unless, of course, the trip is longer, which was our case. Actually, in all, our trip was about 7500 miles. Thankfully, only about the first thousand miles of that journey involved continuously brutal travel conditions.

We were moving out of Alaska, and everything we owned was packed into the back of our 1975 Dodge pickup and our boat, which was pulled behind it. I called that truck The Warthog, because it was so rusty, so ugly, and so tough. It was the only appropriate name. For our trip, The Warthog was grossly overloaded.

That first step was March, 3, 1993, at four in the morning. The sky was clear and it was a brisk twenty degrees below zero as we rolled out. It was an emotional event as we intentionally said goodbye to our chosen homeland and began our journey back to the States.

We had not gone far when the trouble began. Actually, we were probably still in the driveway when I noticed it. Frost heaves! Frost heaves were, and continue to be, part of northern living. The roadbed freezes and buckles upwards creating a speed bump effect. It's annoying for sure, but after so many years of driving on roads like that, I had become complacent. What made those frost heaves special was the fact that The Warthog was so loaded down, and there was so much weight on the trailer tongue, that driving over 35 mph was impossible.

We heaved, bounced, bucked, and jostled our way down the highway. It was like crossing a railroad switch yard for over a thousand miles. And that is how we spent the first thirty-odd driving hours of that trip. It did rock the kids to sleep nicely, I'll say that much for it. I had a less relaxing experience.

Our first stop was Beaver Creek, Yukon Territories. We pulled in at about two in the morning. After a few short hours of sleep, we got on the road again. That's where the lodge owner's oversized dog bit me on the shoulder as I was checking the tires in the morning. There were a few tense moments of standoff between me with an ax that magically came into my hands and the dog that evidently had never been threatened with extinction before then. The anti-social dog got a stay of execution due to an owner who hastily locked it up while I was deciding if it was worth the trouble in a foreign country. I had avoided injury due to a thick Carhartt coat. The owner never apologized or even made eye contact with me as we checked out. I was less than impressed.

The next night's stop was Watson Lake, Yukon Territories. I don't remember how late it was when we arrived there. I do recall that the motel was attached to some kind of night club, and seemed to be of questionable character. It was ridiculously noisy. It didn't matter, there were no other options for hundreds of miles, and I was too exhausted to drive any further.

Watson Lake was actually about 1100 miles into our journey, and the road conditions improved after that. Our travel speed average went up to 45 mph. Doesn't sound like much, but it improved morale.

By the third day, we were hopelessly behind schedule with no possibility of making the next planned destination. Fortunately, as we entered British Columbia, there were more frequent towns with amenities. We rescheduled our next stop to be realistic and pressed on. That day we stopped at Liard Hot Springs and took a fifteen minute dip.

All the emotions of leaving my life-long dream of living in Alaska, all the tension of the difficult driving through the icy mountains, all the stress of the horrible roads, all the pain in my lower back, washed away in that 105 degree spring. So did all my ambition and all my ability to stay awake. I felt like a rag doll after that stop. Somehow I managed to drive to our next destination. It has been twenty-two years now, and I still think about that hot spring.

There were yet thousands of miles to travel on that trip. It took a long time. But, in the end, we had a great, wonderful, horrible, delightful, frustrating journey in the books. We had encountered deadly cold, blizzards, treacherous travel conditions, wonders of nature, hostile animals, near brushes with death, mean people, wonderful people, breath-taking scenery, pleasure, pain, unexpected adversity, and unbidden assistance.

In all, it turned out to be a great adventure, and we had not even been looking for one.

Can I Go Out and Be Bad for the Rest of the Day?

I already know the answer to that question.

I got that nugget of insight back in my early twenties. I was at a store called Bi-Mart, in Roseburg, Oregon, making my weekly purchase of wonder glop to keep my jalopy running. As I was perusing the latest offering of miracle cures for worn out cars, a well dressed, middle aged woman approached me.

She seemed all in a dither, and I knew when she called me Sir something was really wrong.

“My husband gave me this list of tune up parts to buy for the car and there are so many options I have no idea where to start and my lunch break is only thirty minutes and could you please help me know which items to get,” was how it all came out.

Ever the teacher, I replied, “Um, sure.” And while inconspicuously glancing around for a hidden camera, I began with her list.

“First you find the make, year, and model of your car in the book. See, here. Then you go to the the air filter column, this is the one.” (Pick from shelf, drop in her cart.) “Then the oil filter column, it's this one.” (Pick from shelf, drop in her cart.) And so on down the list of parts.

I don't think she heard a word I said. Whatever model she was did not seem to feature an OFF switch. All the while I was explaining the parts book, she never stopped gushing about what a great help I was, and how remarkable it was that I had such knowledge of car parts.

I'm not sure if I just looked that stupid and it was a surprise to her that I was helpful, or if she was afraid I would turn into a serial killer without some positive feedback. In all it took less than five minutes. When it was done, she thanked me profusely and left me with, “You've done your good deed, now you can go out and be bad for the rest of the day!”

I was just as stunned as you are.

Since then I have often wondered, was she like that all the time, an over-the-top version of Mr Rogers? Or maybe it really was a hidden camera show and my response was just a dud. What if she had just escaped from an institution and I unwittingly became an accomplice? I may never know. But I do know this, every time I do a good deed, I have permission to go out and be bad for the rest of the day.