{"id":693,"date":"2009-12-04T18:46:47","date_gmt":"2009-12-04T23:46:47","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=693"},"modified":"2009-12-04T23:28:32","modified_gmt":"2009-12-05T04:28:32","slug":"child-speak","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=693","title":{"rendered":"Child-speak…"},"content":{"rendered":"

photo-2-small.JPG<\/a><\/p>\n

All the children say:
\nWe don\u2019t need another hero.
\nWe don\u2019t need to know the way home.
\nAll we want is life beyond the Thunderdome.<\/p>\n

—Tina Turner, lyrics: Thunderdome
\n_____________________________<\/p>\n

My cell phone rang the other evening, as I was tooling down the road in Big Blue. My brother Titus, calling from the local schoolhouse phone in Bloomfield, Iowa. Just to chat. He checks in with me once in awhile, usually about every week or two. <\/p>\n

I answered. We talked. He\u2019d enjoyed my last blog. Someone usually stops by and gives him a hard copy. As we wound down, he allowed that his son Robert had a question for me. A pause, as someone picked up on the other line. Then seven-year-old Robert\u2019s eager slightly raspy voice.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi, uncle Ira.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHi, Robert. How are you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood.\u201d Then right to the point. \u201cMay I ask you something?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure,\u201d I said. \u201cGo ahead.\u201d<\/p>\n

A brief pause. The question tumbled out, the words tripping over each other. \u201cDo you think you\u2019ll ever find yourself a wife?\u201d <\/p>\n

Whoa. Don\u2019t know where that came from. \u201cA wife?\u201d I chuckled, taken aback. \u201cNo, I don\u2019t think so.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you think you need a wife? He persisted. \u201cMe and Thomas think you should have a wife.\u201d Obviously, it was a matter of grave concern to him. To both of them. They probably felt bad for me.<\/p>\n

On the other line, Titus chuckled, a bit awkwardly. \u201cThe boys have been discussing this quite a lot lately. It\u2019s a big issue and they\u2019re very preoccupied with it. And concerned for you,\u201d he said. \u201cThey weren\u2019t really satisfied with our replies. So I told them they could just ask you themselves.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ah, good parenting, that. \u201cYes, yes,\u201d I agreed. \u201cThe only way to get the real answer. Go right to the source.\u201d <\/p>\n

Back to little Robert, and his important question. \u201cNo,\u201d I assured him kindly. \u201cI don\u2019t think I need a wife. I\u2019m pretty happy living by myself. I\u2019m used to it, to living alone. So I think I\u2019ll be alright.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOK. Bye.\u201d He said abruptly. He didn\u2019t seem convinced. He would discuss it at length, I\u2019m sure, with his younger brother Thomas. The two of them would grapple with it. After chatting a bit more with their father, I hung up. <\/p>\n

And it was fine. Other than a slight twinge of sadness, I thought the whole thing frankly humorous. And I was touched that my two little nephews concerned themselves with my well being. Children, in their innocence, will come right out and tell you what many adults think, but can\u2019t bring themselves to say. <\/p>\n

And in a young Amish kid\u2019s world, it must be a strange and frightening thing. To have an uncle, Daddy\u2019s brother, who used to be married, but now lives alone. They can\u2019t fathom such a thing, turn it in their young minds and grasp it. A concept wholly foreign to their world. <\/p>\n

And that, I suppose, is how it should be. I\u2019m glad it\u2019s still that way somewhere.<\/p>\n

But I reflected on the conversation. Mulled a bit. Children say the darnedest things. And their conclusions are usually more true than not. Which got me thinking about an incident years ago, when I myself was a little boy, younger even than Robert. <\/p>\n

Not that I\u2019m remotely comparing the two disparate incidents. Just that Robert\u2019s childish wisdom roused my own long dormant memories from decades of slumber. <\/p>\n

It was a Sunday morning in Aylmer, a sunny summer day. I was four, maybe five years old. Church was at Alva Eichers\u2019 place, a mile north and west of our home. <\/p>\n

We left for church that morning, rattling down the road in Dad\u2019s great old topbuggy. I stayed with Dad as he stood around with the men out by the barn, visiting before the service. A family of strangers from another community attended that morning as well. I don\u2019t remember whose company they were. Probably relatives of someone or other. The father looked slick, cleaned up. Trimmed beard. He may not even have been wearing galluses, I’m not sure. They were from Nappanee, Indiana, I heard later. A couple of young boys hovered close to the slicked up man from Nappanee. One of the boys was about my age. I stared at him, fascinated. Inordinately rotund, his little body was about as round as tall. <\/p>\n

Around noon, the church service ended. After Uncle Pete or Nicky Stoltzfus or Jake Eicher<\/a> had preached the main sermon. The final slow drawn out song. The children were released. We ran out to play.<\/p>\n

And somewhere in the course of our play that afternoon, I approached the little boy. The rotund one. Round-cheeked, he wore glasses, perched on his pudgy nose. We stood there, sizing each other up. Hands in pants pockets. Awkwardly scuffed the dirt with our bare feet. At least I was barefoot. He probably wore shoes, coming from Nappanee and all. <\/p>\n

We stood there, face to face. I was on my home turf. He was a stranger in a strange land. He smiled hesitantly. <\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your name? I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cErnest,\u201d he said shyly. He smiled again, almost pleadingly. <\/p>\n

Ernest. Never heard of a name like that before. I looked him up and down. Then into his eyes. Then I spoke.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are fat.\u201d I said. Flatly. Matter-of-factly. Little rancor involved. I had never before seen someone so young so heavy.<\/p>\n

His face fell. The smile vanished. His eyes widened with dismay and pain. He seemed to shrink into himself. Without a word, he turned and lumbered away. <\/p>\n

I walked off. Didn\u2019t really think anything of it. I didn\u2019t despise him. Or laugh at him. He was just different. He was, well, fat.<\/p>\n

That afternoon, after we had returned home, my sisters talked of the strangers from Nappanee. And the little boy. Ernest.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you play with him?\u201d One of them asked. Probably Maggie. She was always admonishing us to be nice. <\/p>\n

\u201cA little.\u201d I answered innocently. \u201cHe was fat.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maggie looked sharply at me, startled and suspicious. <\/p>\n

Utterly unaware of the effect my words would have, I blithely prattled on. \u201cHe was fat. I told him he was fat.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was a huge mistake. My three sisters instantly reacted with expressions of great horror and disbelief. Maggie, Naomi and Rachel. They gasped in unison. \u201cAaaaaaah.\u201d <\/p>\n

\u201cYou did WHAT?\u201d They shrieked. Practically in unison again. And right there on the spot, an impromptu school session was called to order. Three screeching teachers. One poor little unwilling four-year-old student. <\/p>\n

The tumultuous clamor of their voices echoed through the house in waves, loud, over-whelming. Next thing Dad would be awakened from his nap. And that wouldn\u2019t be good for anyone. I stood there hunkered in the full force gale, perplexed. I honestly wasn\u2019t quite sure what all the fuss was about.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t do that, make fun of someone because of how he looks,\u201d they lectured sternly. \u201cIt\u2019s not kind.\u201d<\/p>\n

Kind? What did that have to do with anything? Truth was truth. I saw what I saw. And I knew what I saw. Unwilling to concede without a defense, I bristled. <\/p>\n

\u201cBut he WAS fat.\u201d I said stoutly. <\/p>\n

Alas, my rock-solid reasoning was promptly smashed and swept aside like so much dust. My retort triggered a great cascade of even more anguished screeching. Many ominous scenarios were trotted out. What if people made fun of the way you look? Laughed at your curly hair? How would you like that?<\/p>\n

Although failing to see any connection between their ominous scenarios and my supposedly dark and apparently unforgivable sin, I nonetheless made a hasty tactical decision to shut up and retreat. Not say anything more. The screeching eventually subsided. Soundly admonished and feeling very chastised, I was released at last. Relieved, I dashed off to play. <\/p>\n

Their lecturing must have sunk in somewhat. Penetrated the obtuse barriers in my subconscious mind. I\u2019m sure I committed countless childish transgressions in the ensuing years. But none even remotely approached the level of my stark pure cruelty to a poor little overweight boy named Ernest on a long ago summer Sunday afternoon in Aylmer. <\/p>\n

At least none that I remember. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

All the children say: We don\u2019t need another hero. We don\u2019t need to know the way home. All we want is life beyond the Thunderdome. —Tina Turner, lyrics: Thunderdome _____________________________ My cell phone rang the other evening, as I was tooling down the road in Big Blue. My brother Titus, calling from the local schoolhouse […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-693","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-news"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/693","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=693"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/693\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=693"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=693"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=693"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}