Renaissance Man

Looking up.  Looking way, way, WAY up.  And I see his face smiling down at me.  Knee-high to a grasshopper, and he is the grasshopper, his legs stretch up to the clouds, his hands reaching down to pat my head.  My Papaw, Howard Kesler.

I wish my daughter could have known him.

Soldier, Mechanic, Musician, Storyteller, Hunter and Gatherer.  Grandfather.  So tall, strong.  Frail.

I do not remember ever climbing on his lap to cuddle, although I probably did, but I do fondly recall sitting at his feet to listen to his stories, or watch mesmerized as he played the fiddle or the harmonica.  I remember following him around in his garage as he tinkered with cars, my wiggly chatter to his hushed methods.  I tried hunting once or twice; he would watch in silence, and I would scare away the squirrels.  There was Lady, beautiful black dog following her master, and two squealing little girls chased them both while the older boy was off searching the woods for adventure.  Louisiana country life at its finest.  Soaring pines, rusty swings, sunflowers taller than me, lightning bugs and butterflies.  A Southern kid's dream.

Or nightmare, if you remember the wasp stings and ant bites, stifling humidity, incredible thirst, and the annoying little sister shooting her BB gun at you.  The truth is, I would have preferred being inside playing with the Barbies by myself, but I am thankful for the times my grandmother shooed me outside to enjoy the sunshine, and my grandfather's quiet company.

He died when I was sixteen, slowly withered away.  I still look for his deer head on the wall when I visit my Nanny, and I picture him in his rocker, his teeth out, jaw working overtime, telling stories and laughing like only he could.  I miss the carport full of tool boxes and that metallic smell of well-loved drill bits and hammers, familiar dust and sweat.  I can't hear a harmonica and not see his long, skinny arms moving, his head bouncing back and forth and foot tapping the beat as he hypnotized the crowd.

I did not inherit his memory or his penchant for spinning yarns, his Post-Depression-era habits, height or shape, but I am thankful to see some of his qualities passed on to my daughter.  She lives to tell stories about her day to anyone who will listen, and her delight shows in her eyes when others laugh with her.  She moves with music, cries with the sad songs and bounces with happy ones.  She loves puzzles and tries to fix things.  Like my Papaw, Angelyn can do anything she sets her mind to do, and she can do it well.  Angelyn may not have any memories of him, but his legacy is there for all the world to see.

And I have one of his harmonicas, one of my treasures, in my pink hurricane box, next to my daughter's first pair of shoes, my husband's favorite baseballs, and my wedding scrapbook.

First Aid 101: Bandaging a Cut

Saturdays are family days at my house.  Which translates to a little bit of cleaning and a whole lot of watching movies and lounging around the house all day.  Oh, and the most important part:  SLEEPING IN!

Who doesn't like to sleep in?

This past rainy Saturday was no different.  We were in the living room watching a movie when Angelyn asked for a cookie for a snack.  Fed up with me being so fat and hearing my daughter on her "is that healthy food?" kick, I bought some healthy choices the last time I went to the store.  I was so proud to be able to tell Angelyn to go get an apple, and quite pleased with myself to see her little face light up as she ran to pick out her "prize".

And, quite frankly, a little worried that she was that excited over being told to eat an apple when she had asked for a cookie.  Is that normal??

 

I shook my head and went back to watching the movie, thinking no more about it.

I didn't worry that she was in the kitchen for longer than it takes to pick up an apple.  The computer is tucked away in the corner, and she often runs back and forth between a movie and the Solitaire game on the computer (it's not hooked up to the internet, so we don't worry about her being unsupervised - that's for all you protective Moms and Dads out there!) and her DS and her room and playing with toys and just doing whatever she wants on Saturdays.  That's what Saturdays are for, after all.  No schedule.

That's when I heard the scream.  At first, I thought it was her "BUG!" scream.  But then it got louder and more intense, much like a fire truck wailing as it comes toward you.  And she ran up to me holding her left thumb.

"Oh my GOD!" I yelled when I saw the blood.  "Johnny, HELP!" and I cupped her hand in mine and ran with her to the bathroom.

I held her hand over the sink, shaking at the sight of all the blood, wondering what in the world she was doing to have cut herself so badly.

"We've got to take her to the hospital!  She's going to need stitches!"  I hollered to Johnny, as he ran down the hall towards us.

A word of caution here:  Moms should never, EVER say something like that in front of an imaginative, dramatic, terrified six-year-old girl!  Naturally, the siren became deafening at this point!

"Calm down, Nila, she does NOT need to go to the hospital.  Put pressure on it!  Angelyn, it's okay, you're okay."  Why was Johnny so calm when my daughter was clearly bleeding out in front of my eyes?!?

"But, Johnny, there's so much blood!"  And in my head, I'm conscious of the fact that I am freaking out worse than Angelyn, and jealous of Johnny's calm demeanor and attitude, and wishing I could chill out and remember my First Aid training - stupid, worthless Certification!  But here's Johnny, saving the day.

"Daddy's going to take care of you, Baby Girl, just calm down," I repeated over and over, silently wishing my heart would not keep pounding in my ears so fast, so loud!  I needed to think!  THINK!

Johnny gently ran water over the thumb, revealing the cut - deep, deep cut, it seemed to me, and so much blood!

"Nila, where's the peroxide?"

 

Peroxide!  Yes!  I can do this!  Ummm….found it.  Handed it to him.

"Okay, I'm going to clean out your cut with this.  It's not going to hurt, it'll just feel like the water felt just now, maybe a little colder,"  I said.  No, wait, that was Johnny talking.  I back cowering in the corner, shaking like a leaf.

"That wasn't cold," said Angelyn, her screams dying down.

"And now we'll put a Band-Aid on it.  What happened?  How did you cut your hand?"  Still Johnny, talking in a normal voice.

 

"Well, I was trying to cut my apple!"

OH MY WORD!  "What?!?"  I jumped out of my corner, back onto center stage.  "Why?  You know you're not supposed to play with knives!  Why didn't you ask for help?"  Great job, Mom!  Come to your senses just long enough to scold the terrified child.  You're so awesome!

I took a deep breath and went on, in a slightly less hysterical tone, "Honey, I know you think you're grown, but you're really not.  There are some things mommies and daddies need to do for you.  Like cutting an apple.  And sometimes even WE miss and cut ourselves.  You can't be doing that.  When I said go get an apple, I just thought you were going to pick it up and take a bite like everyone else does.  I didn't think you wanted it sliced.  Next time, please just let me know and I'll help you!  I don't want my Baby Girl to get hurt!"

And the whole time in my head, I'm thinking Stupid, Stupid Nila!  Horrible, lazy  mother!  Watching a movie while your daughter tries to cut her own apple and nearly chops her finger off!  Stupid!  Stupid!

Meanwhile, Hubby is over there quietly working, putting the bandage on the little finger and inspecting his work.  The finger is fine, by the way.  No stitches necessary.  Apparently not as deep of a cut as I thought.  And not once since has she complained that it so much as hurt a little tiny bit, which is unusual, as she normally milks it for all the cookies it's worth!  We set her up with a snack (threw away the partially-sliced apple and gave her two Oreos and some ice water instead - turns out apples are not all that healthy after all!) and her very own movie to watch in her nice, safe bedroom.  She was perfectly calm by this time, just a little tired from the wailing.

Me, I'm a basket case!  Johnny and I go back to the living room, and continue to watch the movie.  It was long over and the next one started before I stopped shaking.  I don't even remember which movie we were in the middle of!  Like it mattered.  My Baby Girl was bleeding!  Real blood!

Geez, I acted like I had never seen blood before.  I have, and much worse than that.  Just never before was it My Daughter's Blood.  Well, except for minor nicks and scrapes.  I think what freaked me out the most was that by the time she got to me, her finger was covered in blood, and I couldn't see the source.  It was that Not Knowing that was so frightening.  I can deal with it when I see what happened.  But that was a jolt I would care to forget, and know I never will.  Such a minor little thing, but it still reminds me that life is precious.  And temporary.  And oh, so fragile.

And I was so proud of my husband for being so strong and clear-headed for our girl in this Family Crisis.  Well, I was proud after my jealousy wore off!

My next trip to the store, I bought a package of pre-sliced apples in a re-sealable bag.  Mom to the rescue!