The 6-year-old hurricane boy and the just turned 8-year-old princess were recently riding with my mother and their Aunt Myra, my sister, who was visiting from San Francisco. They passed a large cemetery as you enter Dawson and the princess exclaimed, “Look, they are still having the same funeral that they had yesterday at the cemetery.”
Apparently, a backhoe used to dig graves was parked in the cemetery and had been there the day before as well. My sister, not knowing the reason for this proclamation, asked in jest, “Are they taking two days to have funerals in Dawson these days?”
I wasn’t there but I can tell my sister the last few I’ve been to they’ve been closing in on two days. Finally, the little hurricane replied, “Well, they had to dig that one especially deep.”
Well, I did not read the obituaries for that particular week, so I’m not sure who it was that was being buried especially deep. I could, however, think of a few worthy candidates but I shall refrain, lest I fracture relationships in the community.
On the very next day, the little princess was complaining about all the gnats that had gathered on her window as we traveled down the road. She soon had killed each one and told me, “Daddy, I killed all these gnats on the window. I feel kind of bad about killing the gnats, though, because you know they didn’t mean to get in the car.”
I, of course, said, “I would not get too concerned about the gnats. You needed to kill them.”
She replied, “Well, daddy, I guess I don’t feel too bad because the gnats will go to heaven and be better off anyway.”
I almost coughed up my gall bladder. I’m all for heaven being all inclusive, but I draw the line at letting gnats in. I’ve already determined that if I awake after death and gnats are flying all around me, I’ll just go ahead and put on an asbestos suit because it is pretty clear I did not make the heaven cut. The little boy pretty much summed it up, by saying, “Don’t be ridiculous, everyone knows gnats and Florida Gators don’t go to heaven.”
I really can’t imagine where this boy gets his ideas.
When not worrying about gnats, the little princess also managed to break her collar bone while playing hide and go seek. One would have thought she’d been the victim of a roadside bomb blast in Iraq given the reaction of her mother.
I can now state with certainty that my wife is the foremost expert on collarbone breakage in the nation. She has read every internet site ever created concerning the collarbone or, to be technically correct, the clavicle, and read every medical journal. I fully expect we’ll travel to Johns Hopkins to give a lecture on the subject soon.
Poor little princess, no swimming, no dancing, no piano, and only one free arm to swat all these gnats that she’s planning to send to heaven.
At least I can say she has a heart of gold. The little boy is busy playing the video game “Call of Duty” and has a body count higher than Jeffrey Dahmer.
As for me, I better start working on my heart a little harder. Who knows, those folks could have been digging deep for me.
Contact columnist T. Gamble at firstname.lastname@example.org.