PET CEMETERY

It was a blustery Sunday in early June. I had just turned 10, finishing the fourth grade, (I hoped) and all was well in the world . . . at least in my world . . . or so I thought. As the school year was winding down, I was looking forward to a two month vacation to Britain and Europe with my parents and my brother Dave. The lilacs had finished blooming and were beginning to turn brown. Gardens were in full growth in the neighborhood. The days were long, the nights short and it felt good to be alive.

That Sunday my brother and I took our usual places in the back seat of the red Ford Falcon and off we went to church. As we passed the Three Hills hospital on our way east out of town, I spied what appeared to be a dead rabbit in the center of the road. Its coat not fully turned from the snowy white of winter, it lay lifeless on the black asphalt. I pointed the roadkill out to the family, Dad avoided the carcass and we continued on our way.

Pets played a very important role in our home when I was growing up. Both of our parents realized the importance of animals and went above and beyond the call of duty to indulge our whims for various creatures. I have often quoted the saying, "watch how a person treats an animal and I will know a lot about their character". While I realize that there are exceptions, this has proven itself to be true many times in my observation. Neither Mom nor Dad grew up with pets and Mom was not a big fan of most of them, even on a good day! At any given time, we had turtles, fish of every description - goldfish, guppies, sword tails, angel fish, cats, dogs and rabbits. We even tried to keep minnows alive that we had caught in Pine Lake. This doesn't count the creatures we brought home like salamanders, butterflies, bees, beetles and anything else that moved that we could stuff into a box or jar.

As we were leaving the parking lot after church, Dad pulled the car over to the side of the road."Boys", he said. "I have some very sad news to tell you." Dave and I sat in the back of the car wondering what on earth could be so life shattering that Dad needed to tell us right then and there. He continued, "You know that dead animal we saw this morning on the way out of town?" "You mean the rabbit?" I said. Dad paused, "I don't think that was a rabbit," he said. "I am quite sure that is Blue Eyes." We sat there in shock. Blue Eyes was our very favorite Siamese cat. Ever the optimist, I declared, "I don't think so." I knew that the rabbit coats were still changing from white to the brown of summer and thought for sure that's what it was.

Mom chimed in, "We really hope it isn't, boys, but Dad and I felt we should tell you before we went home. He didn't pull over and check this morning, because he didn't want you to be upset all through church." We were speechless . . . Dad slowly pulled the car back out on the road and we continued back to town. That five miles was stone silent. They seemed to take forever. As we approached the spot on the road, Dad pulled over and got out of the car. He walked over to the carcass lying on the road and lifted it up. He was right, it was Blue Eyes. Dad gently placed the lifeless little body into the trunk. Opening the car door, he told us how sorry he was for our loss.

Siamese cats have gotten a bad reputation in certain circles and in come cases, rightly so. They can be territorial and temperamental and have been known to attack on occasion. They can also be extremely smart and loyal. Ours was the latter. We boys bonded with Blue Eyes. He could open the door of our bedroom at night by getting one paw underneath, and shaking it until it opened. He would then jump up on one of our beds. We received Blue Eyes as a small kitten from Doctor Paulsen, the local optometrist. At the same time, my friend Stan Kirk and his family acquired male and female kittens that they named Ahab and Jezebel. Our name was not nearly as creative, but Blue Eyes was intelligent and affectionate and we loved our cat. He even had his 15 minutes of fame, starring with my brother Dave on the cover of the school's magazine, Young Pilot. Not quite Rolling Stone, but it was a start!

This was the first time that either of us had dealt with any serious loss. For those of you who have loved a pet and lost it, you know exactly what I'm talking about. We did lose two box turtles when I was about 5 and Dave, 3. Dad brought them home and we decided the was no better thing to do than to hold a turtle race. Taking them outside and placing them on the same line on the sidewalk, we waited for the action to begin. On your marks, get set, go!  . . . nothing. The turtles didn't move an inch. In fact they didn't even stick their heads out for a look around the neighborhood. We were so disappointed. Then, all of a sudden one of them poked its head out of the shell and slowly began to inch forward. We got so excited we began jumping up and down, screaming and laughing. Unfortunately for the turtles, neither of us were very good dancers even then and our clumsy steps resulted in our little shoes making contact with the turtles and they came to a sad demise. But our beautiful Siamese cat? That was something altogether different.

Over lunch, we decided that the dignified thing to do was to give our beloved Blue Eyes a proper burial. The four of us gathered out in the ditch, about 60 feet from our front yard at 102 Prairie Crescent.  By now Dad had put the body in a cardboard box. He dug a hole, put the small casket in and covered it over with dirt. Dave and I cut some beautiful pink peonies from one of Mom's favorite bushes, and placed them on the little mound of dirt. We put a small stake on the grave with a little placard that simply said, "BLUE EYES". We stood in that grassy ditch in the wind and rain, we boys in our little yellow raincoats, Mom holding her blue umbrella, trying to come to terms with our grief.

I took my place in class that Monday morning a little worse for the wear. After the events of Sunday, I hadn't slept very well.  Just before class started, a boy who sat in front of me made a very loud proclamation. "Yesterday when we were driving out of town, a cat ran out in front of our car. My Dad hates cats, so he sped up and hit it. He killed the cat!" This was all said triumphantly, almost like someone was announcing a battle victory. I couldn't believe my ears. A light bulb went on in my head as I had never realized that there were adults who held such disdain for animals. Choking back tears, I sat at my desk in stunned silence. I didn't have the emotional fortitude or the words to say anything to this boy. So I said nothing. Not at recess. Not even after school. Actually, not ever.

I ran home at lunch and blurted out the whole story. I had found the murderer of our cat. I wanted Dad to do something. While both Dad and Mom were extremely sympathetic towards us, Dad wisely counseled that there was very little he could do. The man could very easily say it was an accident and there was no way of proving his son's rendition of the story. Dad said if the man did do it on purpose, we would both need to work at forgiving him and suggested maybe we could pray that in the future he would be kinder to animals. (I am still working on the forgiveness part!)

Enjoy your pets. Appreciate them. Be kind. Care for them. If you don't have a pet, consider it . . .

Maybe don't start with a turtle.

www.prairieboy.com

© 2012 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.

My brother Dave with Blue Eyes our favorite Siamese cat.

THE COMPANY YOU KEEP

The story goes that in England there was a very famous banker who would take the 6:30 a.m. train into work each and every day. He would arrive at the bank promptly at 7:30 in time to say a hearty "good morning" to the night watchman as he was ending his shift and getting ready to return home. One day as the banker entered the bank and gave his usual greeting to the night watchman, the fellow asked if he might have a word. The banker graciously answered, "Of course", and ushered him into his office. Sitting down the night watchman said, "Last night I had a dream. I dreamt that you took your usual 6:30 train and there was a terrible accident and many people were injured and killed. May I suggest, sir, that tomorrow you take the 6:45 train?" The banker thanked the night watchman and sent him on his way. The next day, the banker thought about what he had been told and decided that it really wouldn't make much of a difference if he was 15 minutes late for work. So, just to be on the safe side, he took the 6:45 train. Sure enough, the 6:30 train was in a terrible accident and many were killed and injured. Arriving at the bank, he called the night watchman into his office and fired him. Why did he do this?

This riddle and many others were some of the delightful morsels shared by J. Sidlow Baxter, the famous British preacher, when he was in our home for a meal. I count it a great privilege to have been included, along with my brother, at many meals and coffee times with guests in my parents home. Stuart Briscoe, Ivor Powell, Don Richardson, Dr. Helen Roseveare, Dr. Stephen Olford, J. Edwin Orr and countless others are some of the people that I remember who were invited over to enjoy one of Mom's home cooked meals or fine desserts. Mom took a lot of pride, not only in the meal, but in the whole presentation. Her china was a Scottish pattern, Brigadoon, with a beautiful purple thistle pattern. This large set of china is now in the proud possession of our daughter Christy, and it brings me great joy to recognize that Mom's legacy of hospitality lives on in our daughter.

Our home was always a beehive of activity. Mom and Dad entertained constantly. It was not unusual for my Dad to show up at meal time with someone in tow that he had just met. Mom would rise to the occasion and set another plate . . . or two . . . or three . . . . From members of the church, to students, visiting preachers, missionaries, politicians and dignitaries, all were made to feel welcome in our home. A guest book was kept and it's amazing to look back through those hundreds of names and realize the impact of my parents' hospitality.

In those years Prairie had a large board of advisors made up of some of Canada's brightest business, legal and accounting minds. This board met twice a year and was always invited to our home for a meal. I have a distinct memory, that when I was about 6 years old, Frank Reimer (one of the founders of Reimer Express) handed my brother and me each a five dollar bill. He very emphatically encouraged us to get down to the bank the following Monday and start a savings account. I should have listened!

For many years, until Mom's health made it impossible, Dad would invite 15 of his students for dessert every Friday night. Over the years, hundreds and hundreds of students came to our home to see their professor outside the classroom and visit with him in a more informal setting. Mom would prepare one of her famous desserts for the occasion. Baked Alaska, rhubarb custard pie with ice cream or fancy parfaits were the order of the day.

There are a couple of life lessons, learned from observing my parents' hospitality for which I will be forever grateful. The first lesson is that they treated everyone the same. From child to student, business executive to staff member, preacher, teacher, to the odd millionaire and even billionaire, (not that millionaires and billionaires are odd, but . . . ) all were respected and honored. This sent a huge message to us as children about the value of every single person. The second is that most of the time they included us in these meals and coffee hours. Mom and Dad did not buy the axiom, "Children should be seen and not heard", but instead encouraged us to interact with these folks. Of course we needed to be respectful and wait our turn to speak (which was sometimes pretty hard, especially for me) but the experiences were rich in that they taught us a lot about different cultures, viewpoints and various styles of communicating. I believe we received an entire education just from these experiences alone.

Today, as cell phones, facebook, email, texting and twitter seem to have become the main forms of communication, human interaction seems few and far between. In this fast paced world we live in, where communication can be so very impersonal, why not consider inviting a human over for some real genuine "facetime"? As we approach summer, what a perfect time to invite that neighbor, co-worker or friend over to your home for a barbecue or pancake breakfast. Get to know something about them–their heart, their family, their interests and what they are passionate about. You could even text them the invitation!

O yes . . . the nightwatchman . . . remember he said, "Last night I had a dream . . ."?

The bank manager fired him for sleeping on the job.

www.prairieboy.com

© 2012 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.

SHATTERED GLASS

"The Queen of Desserts" may have been an apt title to describe my Mother, although I was fortunate to marry a wife and have a daughter who are both known for their delightful culinary skills in that department as well. Mom put a lot of creativity and work into the fine art of the dessert and its presentation.

My parents entertained frequently and throughout the year Mom would labor in the kitchen turning out Hungarian Crumb Cake, Baked Alaska, Chocolate Crunch, Angel Food Cake with ice cream and strawberries, cobblers of various kinds, Apple, Banana and Rhubarb Custard pies, shortbread, doughnuts and steamed pudding. At Easter she would make her special sunflower coffee cake, resplendent in yellow icing, with brown chocolate sprinkles at the center.

At Christmas the work would start weeks before, making Russian Teacakes, Almond Roca, chocolates, peanut brittle, fudge, divinity, mints, rosettes, nuts and bolts and fruitcake. We kids would help pull taffy, decorate cookies and wrap the candy. Many of these treats were shared with neighbors, friends and relatives, but there was always plenty for our own consumption. Mom took a great deal of pleasure  in finding new recipes and trying them out on our family. I never remember anyone complaining! She would have loved Martha Stewart and  all the cooking shows that are available these days. Back then she was her own "Martha Stewart".

It was the spring of 1974 and I had just turned 13. That time in one's life where you're an expert on just about everything and have no problem letting others know about it. Mom had been carefully crafting a new recipe and it was the day of its debut for our family before she rolled it out for company. After the main course, she brought out a tray of fine looking, elegant goblets. These tall vessels contained a beautiful parfait. Bright colors of layered jello, pudding and custard topped with whipped cream and a cherry rounded out the presentation. We couldn't wait to get started! Mom set the tray down and handed one of the parfaits to each of us. She then asked us if we had noticed the new goblets. I can't say that we had as we were more interested in the contents. Mom was always buying dishes in large quantities as it was not unusual for us to entertain 12 or more people at one time. She had found a sale on a dozen of these tall elegant goblets and was rightly proud of her find.

Paying some attention now to the goblets, I announced that they sure looked like plastic to me. The sides appeared far too thin to be glass. I took my spoon and lightly tapped the side of the goblet. "Steve", Mom said, "You be careful, that's glass". "That can't be glass," I said, as I tapped a little harder. "It sounds like plastic to me". "Please be careful or you'll break it", Mom continued. I insisted that it was plastic. Eager  to prove my point, I tapped with a little more vigor . . . Clink . . . to my surprise, there lay a small chunk of glass on top of what was left of my dessert. Oops! . . . I guess I was wrong. I felt bad, but the damage was done and super glue was not going to fix the problem. Mom was  very disappointed, Dad was upset and I was embarrassed.

Did Dad take me out to the wood shed to teach me a lesson? Did Mom make me buy a new goblet? Did I have to do penance for the next year? None of the above. Mom came up with a very clever punishment and one that may have been more meaningful in the long term than some of the others. She washed out the goblet, complete with the shattered piece and placed it on the dresser in my bedroom. Everyday, when I went to get a pair of socks or underwear, there was a clear reminder that just maybe I didn't know it all and there's a reason that we are given people in our lives for guidance and advice.

How many times in life or in business have we thought we knew it all? Maybe a partner, business colleague or friend has clearly warned us, even numerous times, that the results of our actions could have devastating consequences. We plow forward, tinkling the glass until it's too late. The damage is done.

I still like my desserts but I try to be a little more careful about how much I think I know.


Special Gift just for you from the Rendall Vault:

MOM'S SHORTBREAD

1 cup margarine
1/2 cup cornstarch
1/2 cup icing sugar
1/2 tsp of salt
2 cups sifted all purpose flour
Beat margarine until smooth
Sift dry ingredients 4 times
Add to margarine, work with hands until mixture cracks
Roll out to about 1/2 inch and cut in shapes or squares
Bake at 325 for 20 minutes

ENJOY!

www.prairieboy.com
© 2012 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.

POISON PEN

Each year when Christmas came around my mother played the role of part time Santa, part-time Mother Teresa. She took on the monumental task of making sure that, as it seemed to me at the time, half the town had a present under their tree from the Rendalls. These were not particularly exotic, expensive presents, but rather a token of her love. One year, it might have been a candle or decorated soaps which she had made. Another year it may have been a special food item. She would individually wrap hundreds of gifts for neighbors, friends, families, married students, the senior's organization and many others. My brother Dave and I were called on to act as "Santa's helpers" and were enlisted to help make deliveries.

One house I was usually dispatched to was directly across the street. The small house couldn't have been more than 400 square feet and was always neatly kept. I was very fearful of the particular tenants of this house, especially the man. Not because he was part of a gang or the toughest guy in town. He wasn't a particularly big or strong man. Yet I knew he had a weapon. Not a knife or gun, not even a sling shot. The weapon he wielded was a pen . . . a poisonous one.

Tom Brannan and his wife lived in the small house across the street and had moved to Three Hills to enroll their kids in the high school at Prairie. There was some kind of disagreement with the administration over a disciplinary action involving one of his children and Tom really let this get under his skin. Quite frankly he became bitter. This little seed of bitterness grew into an entire root system that choked out life. He began to turn his anger into letter writing. A gifted man and former preacher, he was never at a loss for words. Over the years he wrote dozens and dozens of letters to the local paper and individual leaders at the school. He attacked L.E. Maxwell, my Father and others in his rants. He had not only taken a bitter pill, he had swallowed the whole bottle. Venom and bile spewed from his pen like Mount Vesuvius. Poisonous darts aimed at hurting and causing pain were lobbed in the direction of any and all that he felt had wronged him or his family in some way. He attacked with a vengeance that would have made William Wallace proud. This "cause" absolutely consumed him. He thought of little else and really had no life outside of this obsession. No friends, no real activities, just a very sad life. As is often the case in small towns, the rumors swirled and Tom became a larger than life figure as people went out of their way to avoid him on the streets and in the shops, fearful that he might turn his weapon on them. Looking like something from an aggressive political campaign, even his lawn was dotted with small stakes sporting placards denouncing his great displeasure with Prairie.

So there I was, every Christmas, standing on the step of that tiny house, knocking on the door, gift in hand. Usually it was Mrs. that came to the door, but occasionally "he" would answer. I would hand over the package, wish them a Merry Christmas and scoot back across the street, heart pounding with fear that I might just get shot at any moment. Safely inside, I would take some time to recover before Mom would send me on to the next delivery. Mom and Dad always greeted the Brannans with a cheery hello as they would pass them on the sidewalk or see them out working in their yard. They treated them like neighbors and never shunned them in any way.

Many years passed, the letters continued to be written and at some point, Mrs. Brannan passed away. Well into his eighties, the loss of his wife only made matters worse as it gave Tom more time to focus on the wrongs which he felt had been done. One of our good family friends had also befriended the Brannans and she made a consistent effort to stay in touch with him after his wife died. One day she was over at his house for a visit when he began to break down and lament the horrible things he had written and said about the school over the many years. He said he had been doing a lot of thinking about his life and wondered what he should do. Our friend kindly suggested that they call my Dad and he would know what to do. Dad went over to the house and met with Tom. He sensed a completely different man and so offered a suggestion. "Would you like an opportunity to address the entire church after my sermon on Sunday?", Dad asked him. "You would really allow me to do that?", Tom replied. "Of course", Dad said.

Arrangements were made for Tom to be in church that next Sunday morning. After Dad was done preaching he called Tom up to the pulpit. As he made his way forward every eye focused on the "monster of Three Hills". Dad spoke to the congregation and said, "Mr. Brannan has something he would like to say", and then moved over and stood right beside him. The tears began before he even started speaking. Dad put his arm around his shoulder as he stood there sobbing, his entire frame shaking. With a quavering voice hardly understandable at times, Tom apologized for the hurt he had caused so many for so long. You could have heard a pin drop in that tabernacle. When Tom was done Dad took the microphone and addressed the congregation. He sincerely thanked Tom for having the courage to stand up and say what he had just said. He accepted his apology and then he did what I thought was the most compassionate thing. He invited any of the congregation who wanted to come forward to show their support and forgiveness of Tom to do so. Dozens of people got up out of their seats and came up on the platform. Forming a semi circle around Tom, Dad said a prayer. When he was finished, folk lined up to hug this man and shake his hand. You could see the transformation on Tom's face as the burdens of bitterness, piled up over many, many years, began to slide away.

As I have reflected on this story in recent years, I am struck by three things.

The first is that bitterness not dealt with will grow and destroy. As Rhianna sings in her song, Disturbia:

"It's a thief in the night
To come and grab you
It can creep up inside you
And consume you
A disease of the mind
It can control you"

The second is that it is never too late and we are never too old to say, "I'm sorry", admit our wrongdoing and ask for forgiveness.

The third is that as community we need to be willing to offer up forgiveness and restoration and not let our bitterness and cynicism about someone else's bitterness stand in the way.

From that day on, Tom began attending church and would sit right up at the front. After church, Dad would barely be in the door and get his coat off, when the phone would ring. It would be Tom from across the street with a word of encouragement on how much he enjoyed the sermon that day.

The poison pen had been put away. . . it had run out of ink.

www.prairieboy.com
© 2011 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.

WHERE THE ROSES NEVER FADE

It's not easy raising children at the best of times and having 12 mouths to feed would mean that there would be many sacrifices. These sacrifices were even more significant for the Nicholas Bauman family. Nic was born to German Mennonite parents in Russia, were they had a prosperous farm. His dad died when he was a small boy and his mother moved with some of her children, including Nic, to Canada just before the Russian revolution broke out.

Nic married Susan, born of German Mennonite parents, in Canada, close to where they farmed. It is no small feat to uproot your family and move a great distance from your home but this is exactly what the Bauman family did in 1955. Nic and Susie packed up six of their ten children and moved 400 miles from their farm near Aberdeen, Saskatchewan to Three Hills, AB. The main purpose of the move was for the children to be able to attend the schools at Prairie. Four of the older children had already left home.

The Baumans had been farmers and the move marked a dramatic change in employment for Nic. They joined staff in an associate position, where every winter Nic worked in the carpenter shop and at Prairie's lumber camp out in the foothills of Alberta. Each spring he would return to farm in Saskatchewan. Later they sold the farm and became full time staff members. After an accident in the carpenter shop, in which he lost part of his thumb and badly damaged two fingers, Nic worked at the dining hall in the dish washing room until spring when he would begin his planting.

This time, the planting had a different purpose than growing food. Food for the soul you could call it. Nic started in a couple of tiny greenhouses, later working in a much larger greenhouse which was constructed specifically for that purpose. He brought the heart of a farmer to this calling and embraced his passion with 100% of his being. He spent numerous hours there, lovingly tending hundreds of plants, many of which he later planted all over campus. Others were sold to staff members for their private yards. He also made a significant contribution to the campus by planting dozens of evergreens which not only provided some shelter from the howling north winds, but helped give the grounds a warm inviting atmosphere.

My own Mother believed that we should not only nurture our bodies, but our souls and spirits as well. Because we lived in the middle of the bald prairie and had a rather spartan house and lot, Mom did everything she could to add some beauty to the equation. In every house we lived, she would plant flowers, shrubs and trees, bringing a taste of heaven to the yard. She planted tulips and daffodils close to the sheltered side of the house so they would be the first to bloom in the spring. Lilac bushes, flowering Chinese cherry trees, peonies, sweet peas, bleeding hearts, irises  and rose bushes added to the color and fragrance of the yard.

Each spring she would pile my brother and I into the little red Ford Falcon and off to the greenhouse we would head. As we opened the door, the humid, earthen smell would greet us and so would Nic Bauman. This gentle, soft spoken man would stand amidst thousands of colorful plants and flowers, thrilled to see another customer intent on making their corner of the planet just a little more beautiful. He was surrounded by trays of petunias, marigolds, snap dragons and bachelor buttons. Containers of geraniums stood like quiet sentinels. In the corner were buckets of bushes - catoni astors along with small pine and birch tree saplings all waiting for new homes. Nic would visit with my Mom as my brother and I chased each other up and down the aisles waiting for the signal that we were ready to load the car.

My Mom and Nic became fast friends and one of their shared interests was their passion for roses. Three Hills, Alberta is not exactly the rose capital of the world and a lot of extra care and attention is needed not only to have them bloom, but to ensure their survival through the long cold winters. He gave her tips on fertilizing, mulching, planting and pruning and in time, Mom grew some fantastic roses. She also tried her hand at raising the Alberta Wild Rose, the flower of the province, but it seemed to grow best in it's natural habitat, and so that idea was abandoned.

Nic planted many rose bushes all over the campus. These roses always took extra care, not only in the growing, but preparing them in the fall for winter. Yellow, pink, red and white roses. Tea cup, climbing, dainty, hybrid and English varieties gave the campus the look of a small botanical garden. Up against the walls of buildings holly hocks were planted, adding dimension and vibrant color to the landscaping, all loving planted and cared for by this talented gardener.

Sometimes, seeing my Dad on his way home from work, Nic would give him a rose or two whose stem had been broken in a strong wind storm or by a careless biker who had gotten too close. Dad would bring these roses home to Mom. She would put them in a rose bowl or vase on the table, brightening up the room and bringing a beautiful aroma to the space.

Whenever I see roses, I think of the old Southern Gospel song, Where The Roses Never Fade. The words were written by Janie West Metzgar in 1929 and the music composed by her son Robert Metzgar. This song was made famous by The Cathedral Quartet. The lyrics give hope as well as speak about life. One of the lines from the song says; "I am going to a city, Where the streets of gold are paved, Where the tree of life is blooming, and the roses never fade."

I love spring! The promise of fresh growth, the smell of nutrient rich black dirt, new beginnings, rain on the rooftops, the cry of the meadowlark, the vibrant green of the trees and fields and . . .  roses.

Sadly we lost my Mom in 1993 after a 17 year battle with MS. Nic Bauman passed away on February 9th, 2000 at the age of 102, after a life well lived. I sometimes wonder if  Nic may still be giving my Mom some tips on how to grow better roses.

www.prairieboy.com

© 2013 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.  

"DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE?"

A short time after my Mom passed away in October of 1993, I was called on to assist my Dad in tidying up some of his business affairs.

I accompanied him to the bank, insurance and utility companies to get the details changed over to his name and file the death certificate with the appropriate parties. One of Mom's giftings was tracking the family finances. Because of this and the fact that Dad was very busy, Mom handled all these areas over the years and Dad was thrown into the deep end of the pool with her passing.

It was at one of these appointments that Dad was asked by the clerk what his physical address was. Silence followed the question. The clerk repeated the question perhaps thinking that Dad had not understood or heard clearly. Dad had not a clue . . . zero . . . nada . . . just a bewildered look on his face. He looked over at me for this proprietary information. I said, somewhat incredulously, "Dad, you don't know what your own address is?" The answer of course was 230, 5th Avenue North. This is where he and my mother had been living for the past 18 years! I'm pretty sure he didn't even know his own post office box number. Not even sure he knew his phone number? Looking at me, he said in all seriousness, "I know where I live . . . why would I clutter my head with that information?" I chuckled and gave the clerk the address. For the past 18 years, Dad had walked back and forth to his office on the campus and evidently not once thought it was important to memorize his address, which was prominently displayed on the front door of the house.

For those of you who know my Father, you know that there is nothing wrong with his memory or his ability to retain a fact such as his own address. Dad is a veritable walking encyclopedia of information. When I was in school, working on a report or research project, I often asked Dad if he had any resources or information pertinent to what I was engaged in at the time. He would disappear into the labyrinth which was his library and emerge a short time later holding at least one, if not several books. Grinning from ear to ear, he would point out with his stubby index finger, the exact passages in the books that would be of help to me. Dad had a library numbering close to one hundred thousand volumes and he knew where every one of those books were located and what was contained therein. He had probably read the vast majority of them as well! These memory skills have served him well through his life as a great teacher, writer and preacher. Yet, he did not know his own address.

As humorous as I have found this event to be, I've pondered it over the last few years. How often do I, do we, clutter our minds with trivial stuff - not necessarily bad stuff, but stuff just the same? Stuff that takes our minds off our goals, distracts us from our purpose and sidetracks us from achieving what we have set out to accomplish. Maybe Dad was on to something. After all . . . he knew where he lived!

www.prairieboy.com

© 2010 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.

TASTE OF HONEY IN THE FIRES OF HELL

Albert Kitts was, in the words of my father, a "mountain of a man", the type with the build of a middle linebacker with no neck. Kitts, of Dutch extraction, wound up moving to Prairie sometime in the early 60's. He performed manual labor working on the farm and the construction crew. With an accent as thick as molasses, Albert was tall, broad shouldered and strong as an ox. Unfortunately, Albert was mentally unstable which caused serious problems throughout his life.

In the spring of 1982, Albert took it on himself to move back to Three Hills and take up residence in W dorm. This dormitory housed the single staff men. Those characters were material enough for a whole book in themselves. Men like George Bryant who hailed from Georgia. A very large man and bald as a peanut, we affectionately dubbed him "chrome dome". George had a typical southern drawl and was employed as a High School study hall supervisor, where with some creative gift giving of cakes and cookies, one could buy their freedom from said prison.

Earl Latimer was an odd duck who had one room of his little two room apartment chock full of tape recorders, turntables and a sizable record collection. Earl would copy LP after LP and give the cassettes to staff and visiting missionaries, "sharing" his wonderful library with the larger world. This was long before file sharing and downloading was to become an issue. Little did the artists know that in a little town in Alberta, bootlegging ran rampant. Earl could be very gruff and curmudgeonly, but underneath his tough exterior beat a kind heart.

Paul Koch was a small German man who worked on the maintenance crew shoveling snow in the winter and weeding flower beds in the spring and summer. In the dead of winter Paul would be up long before the dawn. Armed with his pick axe, shovels and wheelbarrow, he would make sure that the core campus was free of snow and ice insuring staff and students would be safe from injury should they slip and fall. Paul was a faithful servant who lived an extremely simple life and had very little for himself. With his German accent and a twinkle in his eye, Paul loved the students and they loved him. One day in his older years Paul mysteriously disappeared and no one had any idea where he had gone. He was found several days later face down in one of the boiler plant's reservoir ponds. He had his wheelbarrow and scythe with him and the conclusion that was reached was that he had a heart attack while weeding around the ponds and slipped into the water.

Sid Langley was also a resident of W dorm and anyone who ever met Sid was lucky to have gotten away. Sid could talk the hind leg off a donkey. Sid worked in various jobs at the school and did stints in the Bookroom, nightwatch and maintenance. One summer when I was in High School, I traveled back and forth to Camp Silversides several times with Sid. He was brave enough to let me drive his car which I thoroughly enjoyed.

The problem with Albert moving in to W dorm, was that he was not invited, nor did he have permission to live there. Albert just moved in lock, stock and barrel. He felt that it was his "right" to live there having worked for the school back in the 60's. His presence struck fear into the residents and rightly so; they were very concerned about their new house guest. Big George Bryant was so scared that he took to sleeping in his station wagon at night. Some of the other guys would bar their doors, while others had a hard time sleeping. Clearly something needed to be done. That "something" fell to my father who was a vice president at the school.

Dad had several encounters over the years with Albert. Occasionally during a church service Albert would stand up and start yelling out a bizarre concoction of verses, doomsday prophesies and general hatred and venom directed at the staff and administration of the school. It turns out that when Albert had been working for the school in the 60's, his employment was terminated due to his violent temper and his inability to get along with his fellow employees and leadership at the institute. Evidently Albert hadn't remembered the "forgive and forget" part and was back to make his presence felt.

Because of Albert's history, Dad wisely chose to take another of the vice presidents with him to chat with Albert about his living in W dorm. They made him aware of the fact that he was not really welcome to stay. To say the least, this news was not welcomed by Albert. Dad and his partner took their leave, not really sure what step to take next outside of calling in the authorities. Clearly something needed to be done as his presence in the dorm was causing a great deal of discomfort and inconvenience to the residents. Dad decided to leave it to the next day when the administration would meet and determine the next course of action.

Mom was a fairly accomplished author and had released a book entitled "Just A Taste Of Honey" in 1976. This book, published by Moody Press of Chicago, IL, featured short articles from Mom's life with a brief application at the end of each story. This was the first of Mom's four books along with dozens of articles that she wrote for the Prairie Overcomer. Just A Taste Of Honey went on to sell over one hundred thousand copies making it a best seller.

One sunny afternoon in the spring of 1982, the front door bell rang at Mom and Dad's house. Dad was at work and Mom was lying on the couch in the front room. After coming down with MS in 1976, she spent a great deal of time on the couch in the living room. Mom could still walk, albeit in an awkward teetering way, and she made her way to the front door. Upon opening the door, she saw Albert Kitts standing there, red faced and clearly agitated. Mom was frozen and scared. She had not seen Albert in years, but knew from Dad that he was back in town. Nervously, Mom reached out to the screen door, quietly locking it as she asked Albert how she could be of help. In one quick motion, Albert produced a copy of her book and yelled at my Mother in his thick Dutch accent, "May you have a taste of honey in the fires of hell!". With that he ripped the book completely in half and threw it down on the front stairs. He didn't just rip it down the spine, he ripped the book sideways. Mom, imagining those large strong hands ripping the screen door down and grabbing her throat, was shaking like a leaf. Albert, without saying another word, turned around, marched back down the stairs and left the yard. Mom collapsed on the floor her rubbery legs refusing to hold her up any longer.

After she regained her composure and some of her strength, she was able to get over to the telephone and call my Dad. He came home and was able to comfort Mom and get her comfortable. Later that afternoon, a call was made to the authorities and Albert was no longer a resident of W dorm.

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