Were We just tougher back then?

All across Michigan, schools have been canceled due to the extreme snow and cold. This means that Facebook will light up with us older, tougher folks complaining about school never having been canceled for snow and cold when we were younger. I might have joined in on the chorus, but truth be told, I’m jealous.

When I was younger, school was never canceled because of extreme snow and cold. If it had been, I might still have my best friend, Jimmy.

Jimmy and I would walk together to the bus stop, which was eight and a half miles away. Neither of us had coats, so we would steal newspapers from driveways and paper boxes along our trek to stuff in our clothing to act as insulation. On the worst of the cold mornings, we would light our newspaper coats on fire for extra warmth . . . it’s just what you did back then to survive.

On one particular minus-forty-two degree day, Jimmy and I were making our way through the chin deep snow towards our bus stop. We had already successfully warded off an attack from one of the roving packs of rabid neighborhood dogs, and escaped the gang of kidnappers who would prey on children walking to the bus stop. . . . so it had actually started out a good morning. Making the morning even better, we had just found the last roadkill carcass needed to strap to our bare feet to act as snowshoes. After fashioning our carcass snowshoes, Jimmy and I continued on our way.

A mile later, we in the middle of our third frozen-river crossing required to make it to the bus stop, when suddenly, the ice began to crack, and Jimmy fell through. He flailed wildly, trying to keep his head above the frigid water, but despite his efforts, he was beginning to go under.

Using a technique that I had learned earlier that year from a bus stop safety film, I fashioned a rope out of thread pulled from my burlap underwear, and was able to pull Jimmy from the icy river waters. He crawled to the shore, thanking me repeatedly for saving him, but deep inside, I knew it would probably have been more humane to simply let him drown.

Even if he did survive, I could tell from the pale blueness of his fingers that he would no longer be able to use them to complete the eleven hours of homework that was assigned to us every night, let alone, be able to hunt the possum, needed during our walk to the bus stop, for food to keep himself alive. I kept these thoughts to myself.

It was still another mile to the bus stop, so I knew I had to keep Jimmy moving. I switched out his wet insulation newspapers with some of the dry ones from my shirt and covered his head with a hat I made from some of the corn husks that my mom had sewn together to make the pants I was wearing.

I did my best to prod and encourage Jimmy’s shivering body to keep walking. I gave him bits of carcass jerky that I had ripped from my roadkill boots, but he was fading fast.

When we were a few hundred yards from the bus stop, Jimmy finally collapsed from exhaustion and hypothermia. I tried to get him back on his feet, but to no avail. I could see the headlights of the bus in the distance. There was no way I could get Jimmy there in time.

“I’ll never forget you, Jimmy!” I said tearfully, as I quickly covered him with the remainder of my newspaper insulation and lit it on fire to keep him warm in his final hours.

“Please don’t leave me,” he pleaded. But I knew that if I missed the bus, it would be Jimmy who would succumb to the kinder fate by freezing to death.

I kissed him on the head, and skin tore my lips having frozen to his icy hair . . .  and then I ran the rest of the way to the bus. As I sat down in my seat and looked back down the road through the window, I could see a truck stopping near Jimmy’s collapsed body. I knew I would never see him again.

Back in those days, there were greedy opportunists who would drive the roads on such dangerously cold mornings looking for the bodies of kids who had frozen to death along the bus routes. They would load up the victims and sell them to dog food manufacturers to be ground into dog food.

For thirty-five years now, I have sadly thought about Jimmy every time I fill a dog dish with food. So complain about school being canceled due to cold? Not I. I thank the Lord that my kids will never have to live the rest of their lives with the image of poor frozen Jimmy being loaded into a dog food truck.

 

Absent minded parenting.

It is no secret amongst people who know me that I can tend to be a bit absent minded. I’m not sure if it’s a matter of just being forgetful, or more a matter of my mind wandering causing me to forget to remember things in the first place. Or more than likely, it’s a combination of the both. Being an absent-minded dad has its advantages and disadvantages.

One advantage is I tend to forget things that I probably should worry about. So I often deal with a lot less stress than some other parents. It is not uncommon for people I come into contact with to say something like, “So how is that situation with Natalie going? I know it has had the both of you pretty worried.”

This usually is followed by me simultaneously answering “Ummm, it’s going ok . . .” All the while searching my brain frantically for what it is about Natalie that I should be concerned about.

Later, when I ask my wife what it is about Natalie that I am supposed to be concerned about, I would get an answer something like, “Did you forget that she claims to be a Wildebeest and has bitten four kids in her class . . . . and the teacher?”

I would, of course, then remember my daughter’s specie identity crisis and the biting incidents, and realize that I had not worried about it as much as I maybe should have (probably because none of the victims had reported needing stitches).

So things such as my darling youngest child biting students and teachers tend to cause a lot less stress for me than perhaps the average parent.

But then I’m always reminded of the disadvantages as well.

A few days ago, I had to drop off a book that my older daughter, Hannah, had forgotten to take to school. Feeling like a responsible, caring parent, I proudly marched into the school’s office and asked the secretary if she could make sure the book would get to my daughter.

“What grade is she in?” she asked.

“Ummm . . . I’m not sure,” I said a little embarrassed.

“Well, how old is she?”

I was even more embarrassed that I couldn’t remember how old my daughter was.

“Well . . . . Uhhh . . . she’s about this tall,” I sheepishly answered, holding up my hand.

The secretary gazed at me with a look of bewilderment.

I was, however, able to provide her with my daughter’s first and last name.