Stuffties

What was your favorite childhood toy

This is my oldest son, Elijah's, favorite toy.  His name is Elephant-Elephant and he's had him since my mother bought him for Elijah on a trip to the zoo when he was 21 months old. My favorites, unfortunately can only be seen in my minds eye and so far the technology doesn't allow for those images to be uploaded to the internet.

There were the toys I wanted--Transformers were the big ones--and then there were the toys that were my constant companions, the ones that consumed my imaginative life.  There was no  one favorite toy, but there was a group of toys that were central to my childhood play: My “stuffties” (our childhood name for stuffed animal toys).  It never occurred to me that a boy playing with stuffed animals was unusual or un-masculine. (Of course it’s not something I talked about at school otherwise I’m sure someone would have “educated” me.)

Essentially what me and my siblings were playing was “house.”  I was father to ten children; my brother had his brood as well.  While I can’t identify a favorite among my ten, Vince definitely had two favorites, Snoopy and Celery.  Celery was a dog hand puppet that he’d had since his earliest days living in Oregon.  One of Celery’s eyelids had been burned off when he placed the dog’s head on the surface of our wood-burning stove in our Oregon farmhouse.   And then my sister, Dawn, being a girl, had a virtual orphanage of stuffed animals and dolls.  She was assigned the role (whether she liked it or not) of the wealthy and somewhat wicked aunt.  There were no spouses and this fact was glossed over without explanation.  There was no backstory of deaths or divorce.  We were simply single parents.

Together we created an entire alternate world where I was a pediatrician driving a yellow Corvette, Vince was an architect, and Dawn was some sort of self-made magnate, rich beyond telling.  Our games all revolved around our “children.”  Our beds were their homes and their cars were “slideboxes” (empty shoe boxes).

Imagine my amazement when the folks at Nissan actually created the real-life "Slidebox" vehicle we'd imagined those shoe boxes to be when we were kids playing with our stuffties.

Even all these years later I remember the distinct personalities of each of my “kids” as well as their real-life origins:

Leonard and Pupcake were the “youngest.”  I assigned them to be a year younger than my own age.

• Leonard was my oldest stuffed animal, a leopard about the same size as Elijah’s favorite, Elephant-Elephant.  I got him at the same time as Vince got Celery and Dawn got a stuffed yellow duck (the only toy of the trio not to survive-Vince and I tossed it into that same wood-burning stove that destroyed Celery’s eye).  I was never attached to Leonard the way Vince was to Celery, probably because I lost him for about four years.  He turned up among my cousin’s toys and I brought him back home.  Leonard was fairly eccentric, moving to the beat of his own drum and favoring bizarre fashion choices.
• Pupcake was my second oldest stufftie. He was a cheap print of the dog from the Strawberry Shortcake series, stuffed with filling to make a very small pillow rather than a three-dimensional toy.  I got him when I was  about 8 years old and living in St. Croix.  Pupcake was a chilled-out surfer dude.

The next two, Gerry and Frogger,  were my real-life age, both picked up second-hand after we moved to Florida.

• Frogger was a flimsy frog with dangling limbs and a thin fabric covering.  Frogger was the nerd of the family, socially awkward but an outstanding skateboarder.
• Gerry was a tan dog in peppermint striped pajama shirt and matching sleeping cap.  He had a music box inside that played a lullaby when you wound the the metal key on his rear.  I never used that feature.  Gerry was shrewd business-kid of the family, well on his way to wealth (if he could avoid prison due to his questionable ethics).

The next five, Humphrey, Big Bear, Riff Raff, Charlie, and Dotty were all a year “older” than me.

• Humphrey (along with Dotty and Charlie) was hand-crocheted by my great-grandmother, an obsessive crocheter who was constantly sending us her creations.  All three of us had several several of the toys she made.  Humphrey was a light brown bear and was the athlete of the family, devoted to weight lifting, with a bulky, polyester-filled body to prove it.
• Big Bear was actually not big.  He was both the newest and oldest member of the family.  He was the last addition but also a “reboot” of on my my first stuffed animals, a larger bear that I’d lost in Oregon.  When I got this bear, I gave him Big Bear’s name and in that sense brought him back to life.  He was a small plush bear wearing a North American Van Lines t-shirt.  Big Bear was the outdoorsman of the family, fond of camping, hunting, and fishing.
• Charlie was a clown with yellow circus outfit crocheted to his crocheted body.  His head was styrofoam ball with a crocheted covering.  Charlie, in my imagination was no clown. Instead he was a blond, stereotypically “All-American boy” (yet in our imaginary world, he was also mixed race.  Stuffed animals were the equivalent of “white”--culturally and numerically dominant, and dolls had the “black” experience.  Mixed race toys were like Charlie, doll-like in appearance but having the fuzzy, soft texture and stuffing of a stuffed animal.  Likewise a plastic animal such as a My Little Pony would also have been considered racially mixed).
• Riff-Raff was probably my highest quality stuffed animal, besides Big Bear.  He was a plush hand puppet lion with a full, golden mane.  He was loud and the de facto leader of his siblings.
• Dotty was a white crocheted bear in an orange crocheted top and red crocheted pants.  She was the sole girl of the family, sweet, friendly, and kind (and frankly, along with Charlie, somewhat lacking in personality).  An odd note about Dotty is that I’m pretty sure I named her for a classmate of mine.  We were not close and I don’t recall ever having a crush on her so I'm not sure what motivated me to do that. The real Dottie would likely have found this very weird and perhaps a bit creepy, had she known, and would not have hesitated to let me know.

And last and probably least was Ralph.

• Ralph was a dark brown vaguely dog shaped piece of stuffed plush material.  I bought the material and stuffing at a fabric store and made him myself during a short-lived interest in sewing my brother and I went through.  Ralph was like ten years older than everyone else in the family and had very little to do with the others.

Something else that Dottie (and all my other classmates) would have found weird is that I continued to play with these toys long past the age most kids abandoned this type of play.  I was still playing with them, drawing pictures of them, doing little personality profiles through 8th grade.  And I probably didn’t stop thinking about them and their imaginary lives until sometime in in my freshman year of high school.

Even today, if you asked me, with a little thought I could probably tell you where all ten of my “children” from my childhood are today and what they are doing as middle-aged stuffed animals with families of their own.

Sadly, in real life, all ten are gone.  Sometime after I went to college all of these stuffed animals (with all the drawings and paraphenalia I created around them) were lost, presumably carelessly thrown away during one move or another. It is one of the great regrets of my life.  I would have loved to share these toys with my own real-life children, especially Elijah, who has inherited his father’s penchant for deep, richly imaginative play, and who has far more stuffed animals than I could ever have dreamed of.

Clearly storytelling has been with me since I was a kid.  I love stories and the world of the imagination.  It’s remarkable that this passion survived a childhood where imagination was often regarded with suspicion and fiction considered at best a waste of time and at worst a spiritual danger.  Still my storytelling heart survived, thrived and grew through the world of my favorite toys.  And today I still believe in stories, that they can tell truths that are harder to access with just the facts and present reality.

My toys may be gone but they live, where they’ve always lived, in my imagination.

My Life (As told by Ezra)

My daddy was born a long time ago.  I don’t know when but it was before I was born.  I know he was in Nonna’s belly just like I was in Mommy’s belly.  He’s pretty old.  He even has some gray hairs!

When he was a little boy he lived in Florida where Nonna and Jamie and Ethan and Alex and Uncle Jim and Auntie Dawn live.  I don’t think his daddy  was there.  We saw him this summer though. I like going to Florida to see my cousins.  I think my daddy was pretty lucky to live there.  Uncle Vince and Auntie Dawn lived there. I bet they went swimming every day.

Then Daddy  married Mommy and they lived on Saipan which is where my brother Elijah was born.  Then they came to Columbus and that’s where I was born.  My birthday is November 20 and I’m almost five!

Daddy works a lot. I wish he could stay home more and we could have Time Together.  We used to do that a lot but now we hardly  ever do. But he still comes in our room and does his work while we are playing before we go to bed.

Daddy cooks on the weekends and I like to help him. He says that I could really help him by  going and playing but I think he’s just saying that.  He really needs my help.  I also help with the laundry.

Daddy and me like to sleep in the morning and stay up late at night. He says we are not morning people. Every morning he dresses me for school while I’m still asleep.  Then he carries me out to our van, puts me in my car seat and then puts my wrap around me so I’ll be warm and toasty all the way to school!

And that’s the story of my daddy.

Standout

What sets you apart from the crowd?

What are some aspects of me that are unusual, that make me different from most people?  I came up with a few things that make me stand out from the crowd:

My metabolism. I have an unusually high metabolism. I’ve always been a good 20-30 lbs underweight and I have also always been a big eater.  I’ve just never been able to gain weight. I think my metabolism is only now beginning to slow ever so slightly.  But at least so far I’ve been able to eat and drink what I want, exercise when the mood strikes, all without consequences.

My memory. I have remarkably good memory.  I keep a whole calendar in my head, and learning lines has always been easy for me.

My life in paradise. Most people dream of the life Barbara and I lived for 11 years on the tropical island paradise of Saipan in the Northern Marianas Islands.  We were lucky enough to live that life. Living the tropical island dream comes with costs though--I think it’s why more people don’t  do it.  Distance from family, the inconveniences that come with island living, and the fishbowl existence of missionary life are sacrifices the average person isn’t willing to make.  But we were, and indeed most of the time it barely felt like a sacrifice at all.  

There are other things that make me different but most, but I think three will do for now.

On the Menu

“Call me pls. Bentley won’t eat the food.”

Claire noticed the text on her phone as she breezed into the kitchen to get more cheese. The cheese plate seemed to be particularly popular tonight.  She groaned inwardly. This was her first soiree since the twins had been born. It was the sort of thing that she and Mike used to do all the time before kids.  A carefully selected guest list, an ambitious menu, great music--it was their specialty.  But then the boys arrived and their lives changed.  Their friends self-segregated into those that had kids and “got it” and those who didn’t, and found it odd to end the evening by 10.  Mike had taken on more of the cooking responsibilities but his tastes ran more towards convenience than inventiveness.  And music? Who had time to listen to music?

But the boys were on solid food, finally, which meant for the first time Claire felt she could take on the challenge of hosting an evening like she did in the old days.  Like most modern American women she had felt the pressure to breastfeed as long as possible, and she was proud to say she had done so.  She didn’t even like to pump if she could avoid it.  And with twins her commitment had been especially challenging, but she’d gone six solid months and now the boys were transitioning to baby food. She had triumphed, at least by her own considerably high standards.

Unfortunately, her mother didn’t see things the same way.  Her mother felt that the boys were transitioning too soon, and never let an opportunity pass to point it out.

Sure enough, there was another three texts when she walked by the phone to grab more wine.

“I told u too soon.”

“Did u at least send a bottle?”

“Call me. Bentley not eating. I’m not even gonna try Barkley.”

Claire felt the rage rising in her.  Couldn’t her mother just watch the children for one night without trying to guilt her for her matronly failings.  Couldn’t she appreciate the efforts Claire put into being a good mother?  Hell, she made her own baby food most of the time. Her mother had never done that.  It had been nothing but Gerber for Claire and her brothers, filled with all those preservatives and chemicals.  Granted, she had broken down and bought some strained pwA today because she just didn’t have time to put together a new batch of homemade baby food. But it was EarthFirst, all organic and no artificial anything. But she got credit for nothing.

As Claire passed into the kitchen for more ice she saw three missed calls.   She considered continuing to ignore her mother’s attempts to reach her.  But then she knew Mother would try Mike’s phone and Mike had never met a call he’d screen.  She’d end up talking to her one way or the other.

She unplugged the phone, and put a finger in her ear to muffle the noise of the party.  Mother picked up on the first ring.

“Clarie! Did you send anything besides this baby food?  Did you pump?”

“No, mother,” Claire sighed.

“You’ve got to pump, dearie.  The children aren’t ready to be completely free of the breast.”

“They aren’t completely free of the breast, mother!  I still nurse them to put them down for naps and bedtime!” Claire’s voice rose against her will.

“There’s no need to shout, Claire,” her mother reprimanded. “The boys do not like this food you sent them. I know you’re trying, but they just don’t like it.”

“They;re babies mother!  They don’t know what they like. You  just have to keep trying.”

“I have been trying, Claire.  But I’m not at all sure this food is appropriate for children.”

“Oh my gosh! Mom, stop it!  The food is fine!”

“No, I don’t think it is.  It has a very strong smell.  They’re too young for food like that.”

“It’s strained peas, Mother,” Claire hissed.  “Baby food often seems a little off-putting to adults.”

“This is not strained peas.”

“Yes it is!”  Julie ducked her head into the kitchen and gave Claire a quizzical look.  Claire mouthed an apology and spun into the pantry where she could fight with her mother without disturbing her guests.  “Okay, I failed to be the perfect mother and I bought some baby food okay! It’s not home-made, it’s strained peas from--”

“Babe!” Mike had come into the kitchen in wake of an upwelling of laughter over some joke she hadn’t heard and he was chuckling too.

Claire peered out of the pantry.

“What are you doing in there?” he asked, his face flushed and pleasant.

“It’s Mother,” Claire replied as if that explained everything.  “What do you need?”

“What’s up with the pesto?”

“What do you mean ‘what’s up with the pesto’?”

“It just doesn’t taste like much.  Did you leave out the garlic or something?”

“No. . . I did not leave out the garlic. I’m already having to put up with crap from Mother and you criticizing my pesto doesn’t help.”

“Language, dearie,” Claire’s mother chimed in over the phone.”

“Well, nobody’s eating it, which is a good thing.  There was only the one little container in the fridge.”

With that Mike ambled back to the party.

And suddenly it all made sense.

“Mother, I’m coming over with the food,” Claire said quietly, defeated.

“Breast is best, Clarie. Might as well feed them properly while you’re here.”

“Yes, mother.”

Claire hung up, dropped the phone into her purse, went out into the great room and picked up the appetizer plate with barely touched pesto at the center.

“I gotta go feed the kids,” she announced, and walked out the door without another word.

The Journey

To ensure quality and for training purposes this call may be monitored & recorded.

“Thank you for calling Travelers, this is Jeanie speaking. How may I help you.”

“Yeah. . uh hi, umm. . . I was trying to buy  some insurance on your website and I was having some trouble?”

“Ok, what kind of insurance were you trying to buy?”

“I wanted to buy travel insurance?”

“Okay, I can help you with that. Let me just get some information from you.”

“Okay.  Thanks so much. I kept trying to submit my application and I kept getting these error messages, you know?”

“I understand. Let’s get started with your dates of travel.”

“Umm, well it’s kind of open-ended. I’d like to begin my journey as soon as possible really, but I’m not sure when I’ll. . .arrive, you know.”

“Okay, we can work with that.  Do you have a ballpark, a general of idea of when you want to depart and return.”

“Well, in terms of departure, I’m thinking today would be great.  You know what they say:

‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life.’  As for return, ideally I don’t ever want to come back.”

“Ok. . .that is a little tricky. We can insure you for same day travel as long as you haven’t already begun your trip.  But we can only insure your travel for a specified length of time. It sounds like you’re considering an open ended trip so what I’d suggest you do is buy insurance for however long you think your trip is going to be--a week, a month, 90 days, whatever.  And then you can always extend it if you want.”

“Ok that sounds workable. What’s the longest amount of time I can buy insurance for.”

“90 days is the maximum, but you can always extend that.”

“Ok, so let’s do 90 days.”

“Very good.  And will your travel be domestic or international?”

“I don’t really know. . .I may have to stay close to home, because you know, I have a job and everything.  But then again, I might just quit--you know, tell the boss to take this job and shove it.  Man, that would feel so good.  Another thing is, I”m not sure how my wife is gonna feel about all of this. I might need to flee to Mexico, if you know what I mean.  I’m not even sure if I believe in marriage anymore, you know.  I’m kind of interested in exploring open marriage?  But again I don’t know how that’s going to go.”

“I’m not quite sure I follow. . .you’re not sure where you’re going?”

“Well, I don’t where I’m going.  But I sure know where I’ve been. Hanging on the promises and the songs of yesterday. But I’ve made up my mind; I ain’t wasting no more time. “

“Pardon me?”

“I’m going down the only road I’ve ever known.  Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone.”

“So it sounds like you’re staying fairly local.  Domestic travel it is.”

“Sure.  But like I said, that could change.”

“Ok, but just to be clear, the type of package we offer does depend on the nature of your travel.  And I have to stress that once you’ve begun travel we aren’t able to change your coverage.”

“I understand.  I just know I need to do this and I know I need insurance.”

“That’s fine. We’ll do our best to work with you.  Let’s talk about coverage.  What kind of coverage do you need?”

“I don’t know. Probably best to get it all.”

“Well, our most popular package is our vacation package--that includes trip cancellation--”

“Oh no, I don’t want that!”

“You don’t want what?”

“The trip cancellation.  The last thing I need is anything that will tempt me to back out. "

“Well, just to be clear it applies to certain common situations in which your trip might be cancelled--family health emergency, hurricane damaging your destination or cancelling your flight, that sort of thing. You can’t just cancel your trip and expect insurance to cover you.”

“I don’t care. I don’t need any excuses not to take this journey. No cancellation insurance"

“Okay, that’s a bit unusual but we can do that.  What about the other provisions of a vacation package. We have medical emergencies, evacuation, lost, stolen, or delayed baggage, all covered in one convenient plan.”

“Okay, so medical emergencies. .. yeah, let’s go with that.  Like I said, I don’t know how my wife is gonna take this. She might kill me!”

“So we can add AD&D. ..”

“AD&D?”

“Accidental Death and Dismemberment”

“Oh yeah, definitely. Dismemberment could be in my future especially when she finds out about the Porsche I bought.  Now, about the baggage.  My whole goal is to get rid of my baggage, so I don’t think I need that.”

“You’re traveling without baggage?”

“That’s the goal.  That’s the goal.”

“Okay. ..”

“And what’s this about evacuation?”

“If you needed to be evacuated due to natural disaster or unrest.”

“So if I’ve found I’ve backed myself into a corner, I could be bailed out, right? I like the sound of that.”

“Sir, I’m not quite sure if you’re understanding how this works.  May I ask, exactly what kind of trip you are planning to take?”

“Well, I guess the best way to put it is that I’m embarking on a journey of self-discovery.”

“A what?”

“A journey of self-discovery. You know, finding myself.  My therapist says it’s important that I take this journey. And I feel like I really need insurance, because honestly I don’t know how this is going to go.”

“I’m sorry, we can’t insure you for a journey like that. We deal with actual, physical travel, not. . .mid-life crises.”

“Hey, that’s kind of low.”

“Just calling it like I see it, sir.”

“Damn.  Isn’t there anything I can purchase?  I mean what if something happens? I need some protection.”

“I hate to break it to you, sir.  But when it comes to self-discovery, I know what it means to walk along a lonely street of dreams.  And, well, it’s like you said earlier. . .you’re on your own.”

“I get the feeling you’re mocking me.”

“Not at all, sir. Not at all.”

“Okay, well I guess that’s it, huh.”

“Yes sir.”

**sigh**  “Here I go again.”

“Best of luck to you sir.”

Call disconnected.

Oops (Confessions of a Less-Than-Perfect Husband)

A less than flattering picture for a less than flattering moment. This is photo is of the actual sermon in which I ran afoul of good sense.  Who knows it might have even been the very moment when I firmly planted my foot in my mouth!

“Sean, nobody talks as much as you do.”  So said my 8th grade teacher, Mr. Grant, and I have to admit he’s probably right.  For me talking is as easy as breathing.  Whether holding court in conversation or speaking to a crowd from the front of the room, talking is my talent.  You would think that someone who talks as much as I do has many examples of verbal indiscretions--those moments where you say something and immediately your face feels prickly and hot as you ask yourself “Why on earth did I just say that.”  Open mouth, insert foot.  It happens to the best of us, and it stands to reason that it would happen to someone like me more than most.

But another thing about me is that I’m very careful with the words I use.  I rarely speak carelessly without carefully considering how my words will be received. I may talk a lot but I don’t shoot from the hip.   So when I had to think about the worst time I’d ever put my foot in my mouth, I not only couldn’t come up with the worst time, I couldn’t think of any time.  I knew that couldn’t be true--so I turned to the one person who would certainly be able to remind me of a time I’d put my foot in my mouth: my wife.  

I asked Barbara if she could think of a time when I’d said something I shouldn’t have to the embarrassment of myself and others.  And eventually she came up with an incident.  And honestly, I’d thought of that incident immediately when I read today’s prompt,  but I felt I dared not write about it.  After all I’d embarrassed my lovely wife once before, surely she wouldn’t want me to rehash it again.  But she insisted I tell the story in full, making sure my readers understood exactly how clueless I had been.  

As I’ve continued to reflect, I’ve realized that actually I put my foot in my mouth a lot with Barbara. As recently as today I’ve spoken carelessly to her and immediately realized the words that exited my mouth were foolishness.  Granted, most of the time these ill-chosen words happened just between us but on occasion I’ve brought my foolhardy tongue out in public.  One particularly egregious incident is the subject of this post:

In the spring of 2014 my family and I returned to Saipan where we’d spent eleven years as missionaries.  I had been invited to be the Week of Prayer speaker for the Saipan SDA School and my family joined me for the journey back to our island home.  It was a fantastic week.  It was such a pleasure to spend time with old friends and see all the familiar places we’d loved.  I spoke a lot that week.  Vespers the first Sabbath there, two stories for the preschool daily during week of prayer, as well as the talks to the elementary school, and the Sabbath morning sermon at the end of the week at the Central Saipan SDA Church.  It was during that Sabbath morning sermon that I committed my faux pas; and I didn’t even realize I’d said anything out of line at first.

Barbara hadn’t been feeling well that morning and hadn’t come to church with me. It seemed like I should provide some brief explanation to the congregation about her absence. Of course it wasn’t  in my prepared notes, but I thought I’d mention in passing the reason for her absence.   In hindsight, I don’t know why I didn’t simply leave it at “Barbara isn’t feeling well this morning, and will hopefully get here later in the service.”  But for whatever reason I decided to go this route instead:

“Good morning church, and happy Sabbath.  It’s been such a joy and privilege to be back here on our island home ministering, and worshiping here with you on Sabbath morning.  I know many of you are probably wondering where Barbara is this morning, and I’m sad to report that she isn’t feeling well. I don’t think it’s that serious, most likely it’s just a bad case of gas.  But do keep her in your prayers.  Today I’d like to talk about. . . “

And I went on with my sermon.  If I’d been paying attention, I might have noticed a few gasps of horror in the audience, some uncomfortable titters, women looking at each other aghast at this clown at the podium.  I went on, oblivious, and it was only when church was over that it was brought to my attention that I’d stepped in it--seriously.

Barbara had actually arrived at church and was in the mother’s room with Ezra when my sermon began.  She heard me sharing her gastrointestinal challenges with the entire church and was appalled.  She wanted to join the rest of the church for our last time of worship together before we returned to the States, but felt sure all heads would turn to see the “Gas Girl” miraculously healed of her affliction.  So she stayed in the mother’s room for the duration of the service.

I was feeling pretty good about my message until Barbara got me by the elbow after church and hauled me aside for a heated reprimand:

“Why would you tell everyone that I had gas?” she demanded.

“I don’t know love, I didn’t think it was that big deal.”

“Maycock! You don’t tell the whole church that your wife has gas. It’s humiliating.”

I might have been tempted to argue that she was being overly sensitive.   But the other women in the church were as incensed as Babs was.  The school principal, Sharon, in particular couldn’t stop talking about it.  “Why you would say that?” she kept asking me.  “Who does that?”

Apparently, I do.  And I never will again.

Finding Home

Suddenly David realized he didn’t know where he was.  It didn’t seem possible that one could get lost in one's own neighborhood, but then again this was a very large subdivision, with endless blocks of homes with vaulted ceilings and three car garages that all began to look the same when you weren’t really paying attention.  And David hadn’t been paying attention.

And also, David hadn’t done any running in the neighborhood until just recently even though he and Lauryn had bought their home there almost two years ago.  David hadn’t run much since college.

And also David hadn’t lived in his house for more than three months now--that’s how long he’d been separated from Lauryn.

And finally, David didn’t like to run by the house too much. He tried to time his runs when he knew Lauryn would still be at work.  He’d gotten in the habit of coming out for a run in the late afternoon before going back to the firm to work late into the night.  That way he could run and know she wouldn’t likely see him. But still, just to be on the safe side he’d only take a pass or two of the house before running up and down other streets in the vast, leafy, perfectly picturesque neighborhood.

He came here to run because he needed, in some small way, to hold on to the home he’d so carelessly lost.  He needed to see the gray siding and bright white trim, the brick driveway, the big windows Lauryn had fallen in love with.  He needed to imagine her still living there and hope she was still thinking of him.  He needed to find his way back.

But he also knew she might think him weak, pathetic, even creepy, so he tried to make sure she never saw him, which is why he ran away and how he ended up lost.

Breathing hard from the run he stood at the quiet intersection of a cul-de-sac very much like his own, but definitely not his, and tried to figure out where he’d come from and how he’d gotten here and how he could get back.

He was determined.  That was sure.  He was in it for however long it took; he would do whatever he had to.  She was worth it.  He knew that now.  He’d stopped paying attention. He’d gotten so lost inside his head that he’d wandered off course before he even realized it.  And now, now he must retrace his steps.  Find familiar landmarks amidst the numbing sameness. He could not give up in despair, not now.

And then as he stood there, a wet gust of wind blowing autumn leaves around his feet, the answer came to him.  So simple, he couldn’t believe it. He pulled out his phone and put in his home address. In seconds, the phone was telling him to turn left on Brookfield.  He was only 6 minutes away.

It turned out that finding the house he’d lost was easy.  Finding the home he’d lost would prove much more difficult.

Last Sentence

The Prompt: Select a book at random in the room.  Find a novel or short story, copy down the last sentence and use this line as the first line of your new story.

In the first case, the need was to renounce the consciousness of a nonexistent immobility in space and recognize a movement we do not feel; in the present case, it is just as necessary to renounce a nonexistent freedom and recognize a dependence we do not feel.

Or to put it more bluntly. I was in real trouble.

To put it still more severely, everything was happening too fast for me to have any real thoughtful reflection on my predicament. But if I’d been able to slow time down, like they do in the movies, that’s probably what I would have thought.

It’s funny how you keep doing stupid things right up until they really cost you and then it’s like scrabbling at air as you go off a cliff, wishing you could somehow take it all back and be smarter this time.

A thousand times I gambled.  Fiddled with the radio, opened a bag of chips--taking my hand off the wheel and willing the car to stay in it’s lane for the split second it would take me to get the bag open.  And then there was my phone.  The phone!  Finding my songs, taking a call, and yes, yes even checking my text messages and shooting a reply.

But it was so easy to do, so easy to trick myself, to “renounce consciousness” as a I would say if I were a great novelist instead of someone literally, but unwillingly, about to renounce consciousness.  You know it’s dangerous, but it feels so safe.  Sure it’s two tons of metal hurtling along at 80 mph. But in a quality car--like the one I drive, unfortunately--it feels like you’re barely moving at all.  Just floating on air, and who wouldn’t take a second to que up the perfect song for the drive when you’re essentially at a standstill.  

And now I have no choice but to recognize that it’s all out of my control now--the song, the drive, the car even now careening towards the guardrail.  There’s nothing left to do but depend on that which I’ve never needed more but never felt less certain of:

Jesus, take the wheel.