The Adult Breast Feeder (I know. Its a rather provocative title).

In a previous blog, "Condemned to Die. Destined to Live," I shared a mythological, (but potentially realistic) story of an elderly man, guilty of some unknown crime, condemned to death, and locked away in some dank, dark ancient prison cell, to languish, without sustenance; until he died a miserable death.

However, the old gentleman was allowed one visitor a day, and since in all the world only his daughter remained to him, she appeared “like clockwork,” and on a daily basis, to spend his few remaining days with him.

But as Paul Harvey was prone to insinuate, there was a “rest of the story.”

For you see, the aged man’s daughter was a nursing mother; having just delivered a baby boy. (And perhaps even if you didn’t take the opportunity to read my last blog, you can pretty well guess the outcome of this amazing story).

For you see, while the guards were busy doing whatever guards do, and all the while intently staring at the small window in her father’s prison cell, “Margaret” proceeded to unbutton her blouse, bear a breast,

…and suckle her father.

Days went by, and then weeks, and instead of experiencing failing health, growing emaciated, and ultimately dying, the old man thrived, gained weight and developed a rosy countenance. Of course, the prison officials were astounded; never suspecting the truth of the matter.

And ultimately, the old man was released to go home; the warden and guards having been none the wiser, but rather, convinced that a miracle had occurred in their midst.

There are many artistic renditions of this story, all entitled “Roman Charity,” and while I considered posting one of those illustrations, due to the nature and sensitivity of the theme, I thought it best to allow you to do your own word search, and discover one or more renditions of this painting, yourself.

And though I put a different “spin” on the moral of this story in my previous daily blog, allow me to approach the topic in an altogether different manner today. For rather than giving the foregoing story, and artistic likeness which resulted from it, some noble title like its actual one, “Roman Charity,” I have in this case taken it upon myself to assign a baser, and rather startling moniker to it.

(Be patient. We’ll get there).

But as we drift closer to my alternate dissection of this strange story, allow me to share another equally strange, and slightly sensitive story with you.

There is a tradition that in olden times a particular Chinese baby was awarded the royal title; due to the death of his father, the aged emperor. At the time of his ascension to the throne, the child was a nursing infant. And for whatever reason, his mother continued to breast feed him

…until the age of 13!

(I know. The word, “bizarre” is an understatement).

And if you haven’t figured out the new and revised title I’ve assigned to the old story and artistic representations of it, (and simply for the purpose of the following teaching) it is, (drum roll, please)

… “The Adult Breast-feeder”

For there are those among us who (figuratively) and on an ongoing basis allow another adult, (generally a family member) to sap the very lifeblood out of them. There exists in this country hundreds of thousands of households in which such a dysfunctional relationship plays itself out 24/7/365.

The psychological terminology which has been assigned to this malady is “Codependent Behavior.”

My own characterization of this type of relationship involves the presence of both a Codependent, an individual providing “nourishment,” (re. the daughter in the famous painting), and a Dependent, an individual receiving nourishment, (re. the father in this same work of art).

Someone gives ‘til it hurts. Someone takes, and (admittedly unlike the father in the famous painting) seemingly has little or no empathy towards the individual from whom he takes.

Not so very different from the symbiotic representation of the father and daughter in the story and painting, “Roman Charity.” The Codependent adult (figuratively) bears the breast, and invites the Dependent adult to suck the very life out of them.

And lest my readers are oblivious to the presence of this malady in our midst, (not unlike a gorilla in the middle of the room) THE variable in this relational pattern is primarily, (though there are other secondary possibilities)

…MONEY

He or she who, as an adult, should be “out and on their own” depends on a mother, or father, grandparent, uncle, aunt, brother, sister or friend for their entire financial wherewithal; often unwilling to work a productive job, (though he or she has all their limbs, and all the cognitive ability required to procure a position and earn their own income).

Again and again, the Dependent individual poses such questions, (either verbally or implicitly) as:

“Will you pay my bills?”

“Will you cover my child support?”

“Will you let me live with you, (‘til Hell freezes over”)?

(or)

And this is where we consider other possible ramifications,

“Will you allow me to slap you about the head and shoulders as often as I feel like it”?

“When I’m high on drugs, will you call my boss and tell him I’m sick with the flu”?

“Would you drive up to the store and buy me a fifth of whiskey, and carton of cigarettes”?

And the possible scenarios are infinite in number.

Ultimately, (and this is the saddest “cut” of all) while he or she who practices Codependent Behavior believes they are merely following “The Golden Rule” or following Christ’ command to “love thy neighbor as thyself,” in essence the Codependent person limits the maturity, responsibility and functionality of the individual who has been taught to depend on their goodwill.  At some point, and in the most chronic cases, he or she “who offers the breast” begins to act intuitively, and takes those same age-old dysfunctional actions on behalf of the “Feeder”

…without even being asked to do so.

Ultimately, the Codependent’s entire focus and priority becomes intermeshed and intertwined with those of the Dependent, and the former’s sacrificial efforts play out day after day, week after week, month after month,

…year after year.

And both parties are forever

…STUCK!!!

World without end. Amen!

Obviously, it is imperative that such dysfunctional relational cycles be broken. As a counselor I have referred to this course of action as, “Breaking Cycles.” While it is not the purpose of this particular blog to outline in detail every ingredient of such an undertaking, suffice it to say both the individual who displays Codependent tendencies and the individual who displays Dependent symptoms must first recognize, and affirm such dysfunction exists in their lives.

And having recognized “the beast,” it is imperative at least one, and preferably both parties make an irrevocable, on purpose Decision to overcome the impact of this malady in their lives. It goes without saying that the very nature of such dysfunctional behavior patterns often requires the presence of a counselor or support group.

 

(By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Concepts, Teachings, Practicalities & Stories")

Condemned to Die. Destined to Live

Thirty years ago when my wife and I regularly traveled to Jacksonville once a month to do the recreational dad thing with my children, we often visited St. Augustine for the weekend. One day we decided to tour the Flagler Museum. We walked past mummies, the desk of Napolean’s uncle, and such stuff as that. But on one wall hung a painting unlike anything I’d ever seen. My daughter, Mary, stood transfixed with her mouth open, staring at it.

For right there in front of God and everybody, hung the visage of an old man, and a young woman,… her blouse open. While the old man suckled at her bosom, the young lady appeared frightened and her gaze lingered on a dark wooden door a few feet away.

Obviously, we were stunned, and as much as we felt compelled to go, we felt compelled to stay. In spite of this somewhat R-rated exhibit, and the presence of the children, we lingered and began to read the description beneath it.

It seems that in a faraway land during the medieval times, whether true or fictional, I know not, and for some unknown crime, an old man was sentenced to death. His manner of execution? He would be denied sustenance of any kind, except for water… and would experience a slow and excruciating death.

The old man was allowed but one visitor. And on a daily basis, his daughter dutifully came. Unknown to his jailer, and much to the good fortune of her father, Margaret happened to be a… nursing mother. And now you know at the least the beginning of the rest of the story.

Though altogether unconventional, Margaret offered that life-giving supply of nourishment to her father on a daily basis. Not only did the old man not die, but his tired old frame began to fill out, and his cheeks became downright rosy.

Of course the warden and jailer never learned their secret, and after a substantial amount of time on what they thought was a diet of water, all the while the old man grew healthier, and he was released to return home.

A miracle was thought to have occurred, and the old man was celebrated far and wide.

And though this must be one of the most bizarre stories I have ever heard, who can deny but that the results were positive. A condemned man, but for the love and courage of his daughter would have died.

Condemned to Die. Destined to Live.

I have often taught the principal of what I refer to as "Momentary Ministry;" that is, the notion that we should be available on a moment's basis to come along side someone in need. And while our "coming along side" may not be as dramatic or unusual as the illustration in the foregoing story, we are all confronted with momentary and unexpected circumstances in which we are given an opportunity to make a difference in the life of another human being.

We may consider such an occasion as this a momentary event, or "a shot out of the blue," but our Lord knew such an opportunity would present itself

...before He made the worlds.

I, for one, wish to make myself available to help the hurting and give hope to the helpless.

I hope you will join me in this worthy endeavor.
 

 By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Concepts, Teachings, Practicalities & Stories"

Motivation is Highly Overrated

This may well be the shortest blog of all time since what I have to offer today can be summarized in a few sentences.

I come from a cognitive-behavioral approach in terms of my pastoral counseling practice, and often teach my clients about such topics as Feelings, Behaviors, Motivations and Mindsets.

Following is a succinct, but poignant teaching which I have often used in the context of individual and marital counseling:

**Motivation is highly overrated since motivation is little more than a feeling. If you wait until you "feel like it" you may be 103.

Every good thing, every purposeful, productive thing begins with a decision, and requires a subsequent action. (Only wrecks happen by accident).

William McDonald, PhD

Because I'm a Wh_ _ _

I was shopping in the local Walmart tonight, and I saw an old client.

“Prissy” originally came to me when she and “Jack” attended my church, and the former of the two had been involved in multiple affairs, (as many as 20) over the course of several years.

During one session I sat with Prissy and asked her to read Proverbs 7 with me. This chapter refers to a wayward woman who “entertains” strangers when her husband isn’t at home.

When we finished reading the chapter I asked Prissy, “Do you understand the topic of this chapter?”

 

To which she answered, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

 

I asked a follow up question,

 

“And what do we call a woman in our day and time who entertains men who aren’t her husband?”

 

To which Prissy responded,

 

“A Wh_ _ _.”

 

And then I popped the question of the century, (or at least the decade)...

“And why do you think I chose this scripture for us to read aloud tonight?”

Without so much as a pause, or bit of pink about her cheeks, Prissy replied,

... “Because I’m a Wh_ _ _.”

 

(She said it. I didn’t)!
 

Obviously, I was attempting to get her attention, and lend her a little insight about her transgressions. Well, I think the average client, (or random person on the street for that matter) would have stomped out of the room as soon as she laid eyes on the chapter I had chosen, (much less agreeing with me about the moral classification she fell into). But not Prissy. Mais non! (as they say in France.)

At this point I concluded the counseling session, and to my surprise as Prissy stood, and proceeded to step through the door, she turned, and said,

 

“Perhaps I can come back sometime,

 

... and we can read more of God’s Word together.”

 

(By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 2)

9 Against ONE

Yesterday the Supreme Court of the United States took it on its self to interpret our constitution in such a way as to change the established law of this nation; bringing to a total of 50 states in this nation in which same-gender marriage is now legal.

The man some people refer to as “President,” (I don’t, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with his race) issued an edict that the White House, (the People’s House) should be bathed, last night, in the rainbow colors of the gay coalition, a move which angered and offended many of his constituents; given that millions of citizens in this country deplore the outcome of the Supreme Court decision. From my perspective, momentarily coloring the White House pink, yellow and green was designed to be a “throw it up in your face” moment, (and nothing less than defacing a national monument).

Some among my family and friends come from a different persuasion in terms of their opinion about someone like our chief executive who, on the surface, espouses and embraces Christianity, while at the same time supports the gay agenda (and abortion).

Their perspective is that religion and government don’t mix.

However, this nation was founded on the tenants of the Christian faith, and the majority of our founding fathers were believers, (or at the very least deists). The Holy Bible represented the first and primary text by which children were taught to read. Our great universities, such as Harvard and Yale, were populated by Christian professors and students, and the tenants of scripture were taught and counted sacred there.

I like what the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court had to say, in his dissenting opinion, about yesterday’s controversial decision:

“If you are among the many Americans — of whatever sexual orientation — who favor expanding same-sex marriage, by all means celebrate today’s decision,” Chief Justice Roberts wrote. “Celebrate the achievement of a desired goal. Celebrate the opportunity for a new expression of commitment to a partner. Celebrate the availability of new benefits. But do not celebrate the Constitution.

… It had nothing to do with it.”

If as Christians we claim that scripture is the very Word of God, and Proverbs 14:34 admonishes us that, “Righteousness exalts a nation, but sin is a reproach to any people,” then how can we legitimately separate the attitude of a nation from the admonishment of God? He desperately involves Himself with the affairs of nations. What represents sin for an individual is all the more sinful for a nation.

We find the definition of marriage, a sacred relationship established and ordained of the Creator, in the first book of an ancient text which Jews and Christians refer to as “God’s Word.”

“Behold, a man shall leave his father and mother, and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.” (Genesis 2:24)

Thousands of years later, in a subsequent book of scripture, God addresses a man-ordained version of marriage; (or simply a co-habitive relationship).

²⁴ Therefore God gave them over in the sinful desires of their hearts to sexual impurity for the degrading of their bodies with one another. ²⁵ They exchanged the truth about God for a lie, and worshiped and served created things rather than the Creator—who is forever praised. Amen.

²⁶ Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural sexual relations for unnatural ones. ²⁷ In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed shameful acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their error.

²⁸ Furthermore, just as they did not think it worthwhile to retain the knowledge of God, so God gave them over to a depraved mind, so that they do what ought not to be done. (Romans 1:24-28)

I happen to believe that what we refer to as The Holy Bible is the God-given, every letter and syllable in the book Word of the Creator. The word and context of scripture is clear that we have been denied the wherewithal to treat the Holy Word of God like a smorgasbord; picking and choosing what we like, as if we were loading our plate at a buffet.

While I subscribe to the notion that Jesus is THE Way, THE Truth and THE Life, it is worth mentioning that Christianity is not the only religion which prohibits homosexual activity, and refers to it as sin. The writings of the Old Testament to which Jews (and Christians) subscribe, and the Qur’an, the volume considered holy by the adherents (Muslims) of the Islamic faith are very clear in their prohibition of homosexual activity.

Beyond the forgoing, even nature, itself, attests to the functionality of a one man- one woman marital relationship. The scripture of which I have previously alluded (Gen. 2:24) speaks to the practice of “leaving and cleaving.”

…”shall be joined to his wife.”

Anatomically, the parts fit like a puzzle; as if they were designed for that purpose; which they were. (As some sage once mused about the topic, "It was Adam and Eve. Not Adam and Steve").

and

Practically, the continued presence of mankind on the face of this planet requires the presence of one man and one woman. (No offspring have ever yet been born in the context of a same-gender relationship).

Yesterday, The Supreme Court voted 5-4 to broaden the definition of marriage among all 50 of our United States. While I believe this decision represents a sad day in the history of this great nation, the opinions of 5 men and women lack the power to rewrite God’s Word, or to ultimately change His (or my) mind on the matter.

As a legislator in Texas recently said, (and said it well)

..."Any law which violates the stated will of God is no law at all. Our nation has bowed to the law of political correctness."
 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Concepts, Teachings, Practicalities & Stories"

 

Dr. James Dobson and Shirley's Aching Feet

The counseling association to which I belonged at the time, The American Association of Christian Counselors, was co-sponsoring a week-long conference along with Focus on the Family in Denver, and I was determined to take advantage of the opportunity.

Our hotel was no more than a couple of blocks from the convention hall, and while I attended various workshops during the day, my wife toured the local sites, such as the Denver Mint, and Rocky Mountain National Park.

The week passed quickly, and the event was everything I might have hoped for, or expected. Dr. James Dobson, founder and then president of Focus on the Family, spoke to the audience on the closing night of the conference. Afterwards, he invited anyone who would to chat with him, pose for photos, (and no doubt, he got writer’s cramp with all the autographs he gave out that evening.)

It so happened that I was somewhere near the middle of a line of people which stretched from one end of the auditorium to the other, and I decided to “bail out.” Leaving the line, I walked to an exit door, and prepared to head back to the hotel. But then

… I changed my mind, and walked back from whence I’d come. I was going to talk to this man. After all, I’d traveled 1500 miles to be here, and I doubted the opportunity would ever repeat itself. Well, since I’d walked away, I was now forced to take my place at the end of the line.

Slowly, but surely the line moved forward, (with the emphasis on “slowly.”) Dr. Dobson must have had the patience of Job, since he would pose for photos, and sometimes summon family members to stand with their loved one. As I neared the imminent psychologist, I heard Shirley Dobson utter a quiet complaint.

“Jim, we really need to go home. It’s getting so late.”

I looked over at her, and was surprised to see the “First Lady of Focus on the Family” standing there barefoot, and holding her sandals in one hand.

By this time, I was no more than a few feet from Dr. Dobson, and he was speaking to his last two or three participants of the event. And it was obvious that he planned to attend to everyone in line, whether his wife was tired, hungry, or just plain ready to go home. But to his credit, he did not say, “Well, darn Shirley. Why did you bother to come with me, if you can’t hang loose, and let me do my job?”

But it was finally my turn, and Dr. Dobson smiled, and he looked my way.

“Well, how are you doing? I’m James Dobson.” (But he may have been thinking, “Man, oh man. I’m glad this guy is the ‘Last of the Mohigans’ and I know Shirley is gladder than I ever thought about being. She’s really gonna pound my head!”)

I introduced myself, got his autograph, and asked my question.

“Dr. Dobson, what one recommendation would you suggest to a pastoral counselor?”

He put his imminent demise out of his head, and replied,

“Well, if I had more time, perhaps I’d come up with something wiser, or more interesting, but I’d encourage you to be loyal to your clients, your pastor, your church, and your God.”

I thanked him, and stepped away; content that this was very good advice. It was time to make that five minute walk back to the hotel.

But in the meantime, time had slipped away from me, and it was approaching “the bewitching hour.” My wife had long since begun wondering what had become of me, (since she knew the meeting would have ended two hours ago,) and she had spoken to the hotel security guard.

“Well ma’am, perhaps he’s gone to a bar to get a couple of drinks.”

To which my wife responded,

“No. No way. He’s not like that. You don’t know him. He doesn’t drink.”

And they agreed that he’d go looking for me if I didn’t appear within 5 minutes.

Well, I did.

And my wife was not a “happy camper.”

Of course, I apologized, and told her that time had gotten away from me, and that I’d been talking with Dr. Dobson.

While the psychologist with the initials “J.D.” might have slept on the sofa that night, thankfully my wife was almost as big a fan as I am of “the man,” and the matter was soon forgotten.

(By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Concepts, Teachings, Practicalities & Stories")

 

 

 

Woman "Comes Out" as a Canine (A Satirical Look at the World of Coming Out as...)

A woman has decided to "come out" as a dog.

I just received this breaking news report out of Boulder, Colorado, submitted by J. B. Bernstein:

A 34 year-old female has redefined coming out of the closet. People Magazine announced it will feature her story in their upcoming August issue highlighting her honesty and courage. 

Sandra Jones tells it this way:  

Growing up, I knew there was something different about me. My parents noticed it. My aunts and uncles noticed it, and my teachers were very concerned about my behavior.

As a toddler I had zero motivation to walk like other kids but crawled on all fours until I was a tween, when my parents gave me no choice.

It was at the tender age of 7 that I finally understood why I panted deeply and rapidly with my tongue hanging out of my mouth. At first the doctors thought I had COPD but my lungs were normal and I never had a breathing problem. They, like many professionals, were puzzled. 

As I grew from a toddler to a young child, I refused to eat with regular utensils yet found it natural to eat and drink from a bowl. My understanding mom would place my food and beverage in two separate bowls next to each other on the floor under the kitchen table.

During family meals I ate on all fours while my siblings ate sitting on chairs at the table above. Ever since I remember I would gobble up whatever dropped from their plates. In time, they purposely dropped whatever they didn't like and I would eat it. Trust me, I have had my share of liver and spinach.

In school I often found myself in the principal's office for sniffing other kids' butts and at the age of 12 it dawned on me I was a dog trapped in a human female body! 

As I think back, my folks were so understanding because as I became older, when I refused to sit on the toilet, I would feel deeply loved as my folks cleaned up after me with a pooper scooper until I was old enough to leave home. 

I have come out in the open because I no longer want to live a lie. I am tired of being mocked and drawing attention to myself when I drool and get excited at the sight of milk bones and dog biscuits in the pet isle at the Acme.

And when I finally was forced to walk with two legs you cannot imagine how embarrassed I was when my friends would laugh hysterically as I would stop at almost every tree, sniff around and relieve myself at the tree of my choice on the way to school every day. To me this was natural. 

My goal in coming out is to make it easier for others in the future to also come out of the closet, or as the cruel, biased right-wing media has been fond of saying, the dog house.

I have always been a very caring and extremely affectionate person. I enjoy licking people no matter what color or sex they are and I am no longer willing to hold back.

And I will no longer be offended at anyone who calls me the "B" word. This is who I am. 

Sandra is changing her name to Scruffy, has been undergoing canine hormone therapy over the past two years and is proud to show off the beginnings of a new tail. 

She is being awarded the coveted Arthur Ashe Award for courage and loyalty. An overwhelming number of her classmates and neighbors admit Scruffy was and remains their best friend. 

Scruffy will be an honored guest when she is presented with the Ashe Award at the upcoming Snoop Dogg concert, her favorite performer, at his sold-out performance this September at Madison Square Garden.  

She said, "I think it is about time 'all of God's creatures' are free to be who they truly are without fearing what people think. 

"I just want to bite those who say God would never create someone in a wrong human body or in the body of the wrong species, as in my case.

"These things are happening everywhere and I am honored to be a pioneer to pave the way for those who will come after me. I really think I deserve a treat, not the scorn and abuse of those who refuse to understand."

Sandra is not without a sense of humor as she told us, "I am so dog-gone tired of all this negative coverage, I can just howl!"

Scruffy filed suit in New York district court on Monday against several right-wing news organizations claiming they have defrauded and violated her constitutional rights by their biased reporting.

The ASPCA and the ACLU both have announced they would cover all her attorney fees and court costs. 

CNN's Wolf Blitzer will host a special on Jones. Blitzer is just howling about the lack of fairness and understanding the conservative media and their proponents have shown toward those who feel they are "just not in the right body."

Bill O'Reilly of Fox News, has, in his talking points, recently called Jones, "one sick puppy", while Sean Hannity will be airing a program in late July entitled, "Who Let the Dogs Out?" 

Jones is thrilled at the kindness CNN has shown toward her. "I am big on loyalty so I love CNN. I am really tired of the right trying to put a leash on me. I will speak when asked and I refuse to be muzzled any longer!" 

Scruffy as part of her law suit against Fox News is saying the network has forfeited its right to use the word "Fox" in its name because of the network's demeaning treatment toward her. "The fox is such a close relative of the dog. It is abhorrent the network continues to use the term 'Fox' to describe itself."  

Greta Van Susteren said that, despite the law suit and her allegiance to Fox, she will be proactive in any case to make sure Scruffy is not chained by any of her adversaries.

Jones is already signed with a major Hollywood studio for rights to a full length movie about her life, which will aptly be called It's a Dog's Life. 

MGM has been speaking to Pitt Bull as well as Snoop Dogg about a starring role as Scruffy's dad. 

There have been rumors Metro Goldwyn Mayer will be forced by the courts to use a howling dog to replace its familiar roaring lion before the start of this feature film. "Why not give other animals the same opportunity as the lion?" asks Jones. 

The president of MGM, when asked about this historic substitution, simply shrugged his shoulders and said, "What can I do, the world is going to the dogs." 

If you haven't figured it out by now, this is a spoof, a satire, and it is not meant to mock the suffering experienced by those who identify as trans (or other). It is simply a reminder that perception is not reality. (The piece was, in fact, written by J.B. Bernstein, who can be reached at goz@mail2go.net This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. .)

It is also a cautionary tale, since there are people who truly believe they are partly (or entirely) animals, as I document in my forthcoming book Outlasting the Gay Revolution: Where Homosexual Activism Is Really Going and How to Turn the Tide. They actually claim to number in the hundreds of thousands. May God truly help them, along with all others whose perception of reality differs from reality itself.

Michael Brown is the author of 25 books, including Can You Be Gay and Christian? and host of the nationally syndicated talk radio show "The Line of Fire." He is also president of FIRE School of Ministry and director of the Coalition of Conscience.

 

Falling Into My Own Trap

A half century has come and gone since the events of this story transpired, and they say with the progression of years one learns to laugh about such things,

… but I never have, and never expect to (laugh).

I was in the throes of adolescence, perhaps 13, and at the time we were living a few miles out of town, in what we referred to as “the country,” (though since then this part of our local geography has been annexed into my hometown of Bartow).

I was an introvert and bookworm, and I had very few close friends at the time; a circumstance which hasn’t changed much with the passing years. I filled up my days with a few hobbies which required the participation of all of one person; skateboarding, bowling, weightlifting, and of course, reading.

It was common on summer days, when old Summerlin Institute, (now Bartow High School) didn’t require my daily appearance, to skateboard about a mile to the local bowling alley. I always carried my little transistor radio with me, and of course, only one band existed at the time (or so it seemed to me),

“The Beach Boys.”

On one such day, much like every other day which preceded it, I found myself bowling, alone, on my favorite lane. At this juncture, I don’t recall the number, but I remember that it was on the far right of the bowling alley.

I would ALWAYS bowl a minimum of five or six games, sometimes more, and I maintained an average of “180.” Not bad for a young fella who lacked a mentor, and who always bowled…

Alone.

On one particular day, I couldn’t tell you the week or month, much less the year it occurred, it seemed impossible for me to miss. Every roll came up a strike. And my good fortune continued throughout the game. When it was “all said and done,” I rolled

...a 280 !!!

Needless to say, I was pleased. Yes, I was pleased. I recall, Ron, the alley manager smiling from ear to ear, and profusely congratulating me. (No doubt, had a professional bowled such a score in a national championship, he would have walked away with substantial earnings.) But did I mention my prize?

Ron bought me a lemonade. (I’m tempted to add… LOL).

They say, “doing a good job around here is like wetting yourself in a dark suit… you get a warm feeling, but nobody notices.” Well, I never found this theory to have all that much merit. At least, I derived a strong sense of satisfaction from my accomplishment that day, and I still feel very good about it (especially since during those rare times I have bowled as an adult, I have been very lucky to come away with a score of more than two digits).

Who can say? Perhaps if I had finished what I’d begun, I might have “made a name for myself” as a professional bowler.

But none of the foregoing verbiage is the real focus of this chapter, but might, rather, give you some insight into my life and times.

I have told you that, as an adolescent, I was an introvert and loner, and so I was. That is not to say that I had no friends, I did, (but perhaps, rather, they filled up a nebulous space between the categories of friends and acquaintances). I hung out with one neighborhood boy, David, and among all my peers I spent the most time with him. And to quote “Forrest Gump,” I might have called him “my best, true friend.”

David and I made the decision to build a fort. After all, we needed a place “to hang our hats.” Even at this age, there’s just something about having a place to hang out, to relax, to be one’s self, (and in our particular case) to defend against ourselves against perceived enemies.

At this writing, I can’t tell you where we got the wood, perhaps from a pile of scrap lumber on David’s property. We set to work on the humble little fortification, and completed it over the course of the next week. Approximately 10 by 10, metal roof, wooden floor, and interestingly enough, a trap door. We had found some old 55 gallon drums, knocked both ends out of them, dug a trench behind our “fort,” installed them, covered the joints with tar paper, and hidden any evidence of our workmanship with the same dirt we’d dug out of the trench.

Having finished our illustrious structure, David and I began spending time there each afternoon, and sometimes on weekends we spent nights in the edifice. It seems worse than claustrophobic now, but more often than not, we would open the trapdoor, crawl into the circular darkness, and doze awhile before finding our way back out of our make-shift tunnel.

A week or two after we completed that magnificent building, that 8^th wonder of the world, that grand and glorious “maison” reminiscent of the finest architecture of the ages,

… we made our first and only mistake, (but it was a very BIG mistake).

I can’t tell you whether it was David, or rather I who suggested we protect ourselves from “our enemies.” After all, we slept in that place, and who would protect us while we were sleeping? (Even now, I have a natural sensitivity about home invasion, and I lock my bedroom door at night. I’ve mused that this might provide me sufficient time to grab and load my 38, and any would-be attacker would rue the day he broke into my house).

The Vietnam Conflict was well underway, and it’s possible we took our cue from the Viet Cong, those little guys in “black pajamas” who dug holes along heavily used jungle trails, placing sharpened bamboo sticks in the bottom, and covering the evidence with brush. Too many of our hapless soldiers and marines suffered significant injuries, as a result of falling into these unconventional traps; a tactic which has been referred to as “asymmetrical warfare.”

Wherever we got the idea, we began to dig foot deep holes around the fort, which we had begun referring to as our “hut.” But we did the Viet Cong “one better.” First driving three inch nails through small wooden squares, we placed one or two sharp side up in the bottom of each hole. As in the previous illustration, David and I covered each hole with grass and assorted brush. It goes without saying that we installed some of the traps along the trail which led to our hut.

Voila. We were done. I admit it. We felt a great deal safer than heretofore.  (For reasons that were not yet apparent, this feeling would pass all too quickly).

Of course I “talked it up” to family and friends. I mean, who would build such a noble edifice and not brag about it? And of course who would build such an innovative structure without showing it off?

On one memorable day, I invited my mother to “drop by for coffee.” (Well, not literally.) She and my sister, Linda, first crossed a busy four lane highway, and proceeded to walk across a large, virtually empty field; empty, except for what in later years I have referred to as an “old shack.” (Obviously, I would never have used such terminology at the time).

As I recall, I was the only one guarding the fort at the time. David was apparently elsewhere. Suddenly, I saw mama and Linda coming down the well-trod pathway. No doubt, I was beaming with pride. I had little doubt I was about to receive

… “The American Mothers Best and Brightest Architect of the Year Award.”

Mama was walking hand in hand with my two year old sister, and as my mom gained her first view of the hut, it seemed to me she wore a look of both curiosity and pride on her face; (well, to be fair, perhaps more of the first, than the second).

Suddenly, a portion of my mother’s right leg disappeared. She had been wearing light sandals at the time, and almost as suddenly she seemed to scream in pain. All the efforts I’d expended in the past couple of weeks, and all the pride I subsequently felt, disappeared as quickly as my mother’s leg. She was sitting now, examining her foot. Several nails had pierced her sandal and embedded themselves in the sole of her foot. Needless to say, she was irate.

“Royce! What were you thinking, son?”

At this stage, I began to question my own sanity. What had I been thinking?

Tears were running down her cheeks now.

“If Linda has been walking ahead of me, those nails might have gone through her foot.”

(Now, that put an interesting spin on the subject).

In spite of the trauma I had accidentally visited upon my mother, I was very close to asking her,

… “But don’t you want to see my fort? After all, I didn’t put that trap there for you.”

Yet I thought better about that question, and I never asked it.

My mother almost shouted now, “Are there any other traps around that Thing you built?”

By this time, I was as upset as she was, and I expect her reference to “Thing” hardly fazed me.

I admitted that, indeed, there were several other traps in the area. Mama shook her head, and may have emitted an involuntary,

… “Damn!”

(and I had NEVER heard my mother use such a vernacular expression).

“I want you to come home with me, NOW! Your daddy can decide what to do with you.”

Her phraseology made me wonder if they might decide to ship me off to a French penal colony, or sell me to the nearest zoo.

Of course, I dutifully followed my mother as she “did a 180,” and limped her way back to the house. (She never returned to “the scene of the crime,” and I never received that afore mentioned, prestigious award).

I wondered about my forthcoming punishment throughout the rest of the day. Daddy was a self-employed exterminator, and he wouldn’t return home for several hours. It was the age before cell phones, so that hadn’t been an option for her. When I heard his truck drive up, I just knew I was “in for it.” No sooner had my dad walked in the door than I heard mama exclaim,

“Henry. Do you have any idea what your son has been doing today?”

Well, he knew it had to be good, ‘cause he knew me, and I’d never done anything halfway.

“No Erma. Honestly, I don’t have a clue.”

My mother proceeded to tell him “all about it.” And it was then that I thought I saw a faint, involuntary smile appear on his face. I think he stifled it though, and my mother was rattling on at such a clip that she didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m leaving this all up to you, Henry. If it was up to me, I might kill him.”

By this time mama had contacted the doctor, driven to his office for a tetanus shot, and wore a white gauze bandage on her foot.

Daddy motioned for me to join him outside, and as surely as I followed mama out of that field, I followed him out the back door. (I began to think about that penal colony again.)

“Son, what in the H_ _ _ were you thinking?”

And before I could answer, it seemed that little smile played about his lips again.

“Listen. I probably did worse things that this when I was a boy. And I know you didn’t mean to hurt your mother. Tell you what, son, get back out there, and cover all those traps up, and…”

He didn’t finish his sentence. It was obvious his monologue was over, and the subject wouldn’t be revisited.

Apparently, I’d avoided being sold to the nearest zoo.

The guilt was overwhelming, and that I’d avoided being punished didn’t make me feel any better. I felt such a sense of self-loathing.

A singular thought sprang into my head,

“D_ _ _, D_ _ _, D_ _ _, I hope I fall into one of those traps!”

Like Carl in the movie, “Sling Blade,” there was this proverbial washing of the hands, and the thought repeated itself,

“I hope I fall into one of those d _ _ _ traps!”

My friend and I hadn’t bothered mapping out our handiwork, and it never occurred to us that what had been meant for the “black hats” might put the “white hats” in danger.

Well, my reader, you guessed it.

For the second time in one day, those Vietnam-style traps claimed a victim.

Oddly enough, after the initial pain, a sense of satisfaction overwhelmed me, and the guilt began to abate. My dad told me later that he’d considered some sort of punishment, but after I returned from my perilous mission wearing my “war wounds,” he had been closer to awarding me a purple heart, than relegating me to Bora Bora.

By William McDonald. Excerpt from "Snapshots of a Life (Not Always So) Well Lived," Vol. 1