Sir Sidney The Brave

Sidney Wascomb liked to walk through the town junk yard on his way home from school. Every afternoon he would nose around in heaps of trash, digging and tugging, shifting and piling, looking for anything unusual and useful. One day, at the bottom of an exceptionally large mound of rubbish, Sidney came upon the find of a lifetime. There, laid out as if on purpose, gleaming in the sunlight which filtered through refrigerator hinges, TV consoles and rusty bed springs, was a perfectly preserved suit of shining armor.

“Wow!” exclaimed Sidney, grabbing up his prize. “A real knight outfit! It’s even got a sword and shield! Boy, Oh Boy! Now I can be a Knight!”

Sidney climbed quickly out of the junk heap and jumped into the suit of armor. It fit him exactly, and he stood tall and proud. Looking at his reflection in a puddle of dirty rainwater, he drew his sword, tapped himself on both shoulders and said, in a deep and powerful voice, “I christen thee, Sir Sidney the Brave!” With that, Sidney went off to be a knight.

The first person he encountered in the guise of his new identity was Cynthia Wilson. “Hello, Sidney,” she said. “Where did you find the knight suit?”

“It’s Sir Sidney to you, Peasant!” said Sidney. “Out of my way! Can’t you see I have important matters to attend.”

“Excuse me!” said Cynthia. “I was just trying to be nice.”

“Well, you weren’t trying hard enough!” said Sidney. “You should show respect to your superiors. This suit is proof that I am a Knight in Shinning Armor—Fearless, Bold, Noble and Brave.”

“And Snotty,” said Cynthia. “Don’t forget Snotty.”

“You’ll sing a different tune if you’re ever in distress,” said Sidney.

“I’m in distress right now,” said Cynthia. “What has come over you?”

“I have no time for such chatter,” said Sidney, striding boldly by.

It didn’t take long for Sir Sidney to become the talk of the beauty shops and coffee spots in town. The people had never had their very own Knight before, and everyone was taken by the idea. “A Knight will be good for the whole community,” they said. “He will present a fine example to the children,” they said. “And guard against all manner of vices and foes,” they said. “And be the model of high moral standards,” they said. “And protect us from dragons,” they said. “Hail to Sir Sidney,” they said; “Hail to Sir Sidney the Brave!”

Sidney enjoyed his place of honor in the hamlet that was home. He kept his armor polished and his sword sharpened. He collected many books about the art of knightmanship, but reading bored him. He felt as though putting on the armor and clanking around town was all the work a Knight need do. So, he fell into the easy routine of being loved and admired. Until the unthinkable occurred.

A dragon came calling. It was a big dragon. A Very Big Dragon. He shook the whole region when he walked. When he thrashed his tail, he knocked down trees, and barns, and anything else that happened to be in the way. When he fired up his burners and roared, the flames would light up the sky for miles around, even if the sun were shinning. He was the biggest, meanest dragon anyone could remember hearing about.

When the dragon came upon Sidney’s town, he spent the first day smiling to himself and dreaming of the fun he was about to have. Then he walked around the outskirts of the village—looking it over, sizing it up. “Doesn’t look big enough to have a Knight,” he thought. “Ought to be easy. I’ll play by the rules.” (The rules said that before a dragon could ravage a village he had to give the villagers a chance to defend themselves on the field of battle.)

So, the dragon sauntered up to the gates of the town and called out, “Hello in there! I know you can hear me, so don’t pretend that you don’t know I’m out here! If you haven’t sent out your champion to meet me by noon tomorrow, I’m going to tear this little place apart and barbecue you all!” With that, the dragon roared a teeny, tiny, itsy bitsy little roar and burned the city gates to cinders.

“Sir Sidney! Sir Sidney!” cried the Mayor and the City Officials as they pounded on the door of Sidney’s home. “Sir Sidney! You must come save us from the dragon!”

“What’s that you say?” asked Sidney. “Dragon? Did you say something about a dragon?”

“But surely you’ve heard the dragon!” said the Mayor. “He’s been tromping around the town for days!”

“Oh, that dragon,” said Sidney. “I thought you might have meant some other dragon.”

“You’re our Champion, our Knight in Shinning Armor,” said the Mayor, “and you have to slay the dragon.”

“Yes!” shouted the City Officials.

“Yes!” shouted the townspeople who had gathered around Sidney’s house.

“Go forth, Sir Sidney! Go forth and slay the dragon!”

There was no way out for Sidney. The people of the town carried him to the smoldering city gates and thrust him out into the field beyond. “Hail to Sir Sidney!” they cried, “Hail to Sir Sidney The Brave!”

“But I’m no Knight!” shouted Sidney. “I just happen to be wearing a Knight’s suit, that’s all!” But no one heard his protest. They had all fled to their bedrooms and cellars, where they hid under whatever was available. Sidney was all alone. Except, of course, for the dragon.

“Weeellllll,” said the dragon. “I see they do have a little Knight after all. I’m sooooo glaaadddd. Now I can have a little fun before I get down to business. Come here, little Knight, come let me roast you alive.”

But Sidney was in no mood to be roasted. “Please, Mr. Dragon, Sir,” he begged. “Please don’t roast me. There has been a terrible mistake! I’m no Knight! Not a Real Knight! I’m only dressed like one!”

“Not a Real Knight?” asked the dragon. “Only dressed like one? Well you deserve worse than roasting! Anyone who would pretend to be something he’s not is a scoundrel and a goob! It’s better to be a genuine person with a limp and a wheeze than to be a fake in a suit of armor!”

“I know,” said Sidney. “And I’m ashamed of myself. I’ve learned my lesson. If you let me go, I’ll never again pretend to be anything I’m not.”

“Let you gooooooo?” said the dragon. “Why, you deserve to be fried on the spot! You wanted to be a Knight and now you’re going to have to receive what any Knight would get from me!” And with that, the dragon belched, smoking Sidney’s armor and turning him lobster ed.

“Wait a minute Dragon,” said a voice that Sidney almost recognized. “You can’t fry my friend—even though that’s exactly what he deserves. Even so, he’s my friend and I want you to leave him and the entire land alone right now.” Sidney looked over his shoulder and saw Cynthia Wilson.

“Who are you, Little Lady,” asked the dragon. “Have you come to rescue a Knight in distress?”

“That I have,” said Cynthia. “So, just turn around and trot off and we’ll forget that you ever bothered us.”

“What a laugh!” said the dragon. “I’m going to eat you and the tin man here, and then make a bonfire of that dump you call a town.”

“You’re making a mistake,” said Cynthia. “But I gave you a chance just like the rules say (The rules said that a champion must always give the dragon an opportunity to change his mind before slaying him). If you are determined to go through with this, you might start with these.” And Cynthia threw a huge sack of gum drops in front of the dragon.

“Oh Booooyyyyy! Gum drops!” said the dragon. “My very favorite food in all the world, even including stupid Knights in armor plating.” In a flash the dragon jumped upon the gumdrops, scooped them into his mouth and began chewing away. Of course, the candy stuck his teeth together and made it impossible for him to do anything more than mumble and blow smoke through his nose. Cynthia grabbed Sidney’s sword and waved it in front of the dragon.

“See this, Dragon?” she said. “I could cut off your head right now and you couldn’t do a thing to stop me. I have the power of life and death over you. You are utterly helpless. I choose to give you life, Dragon. Not because you deserve it, but because I don’t want this town, or any of the others, to ever be bothered by a dragon again. So, you go tell all your friends to keep to themselves and leave human beings alone forever. Understand?”

The dragon nodded his head. Cynthia gave him three whacks across the rump with the flat side of the sword and sent him running.

“That takes care of that,” she said as the dragon disappeared in the distance.

“Wow!” said Sidney. “I didn’t know dragons liked gum drops.”

“I know you didn’t,” said Cynthia. “You never read any of the books on being a Knight. But I read them all. It helps to know what you’re doing. There are some things you just can’t fake your way through, Sidney. And being a Knight is certainly one of them.”

“You’re right,” said Sidney. “I’m through with Knighthood forever.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Cynthia. “You’ve always wanted to be a Knight.”

“I know,” said Sidney, “but I wasn’t one. I was only dressed like one.”

“That’s how every Knight starts out,” said Cynthia. “It’s in all the books. Knights have to spend their whole life working to be who they say they are. The town needs a Knight, Sidney. It’s time you got to work.”

“Will you be my Fair Lady,” asked Sidney.

“Of course not,” said Cynthia, “there’s more to me than that. But I’ll be your coach.”

And, just like that, Sidney and Cynthia lived happily ever after.

The Frog King

It happened quite by accident deep in the night when the moon was dark and dense clouds covered the sky, and no one could see anything if they were awake that late, looking, which the Wicked Witch Peggy of the Dismal Forest was. Of course, you couldn’t actually say she was “looking” for anything—it was too dark even for witches to see anything. But, she was searching with rapt concentration.

The Wicked Witch Peggy was trying to find tender sprouts of Night Creeper Vine, which grow only during the darkest night of the last week of spring, and are highly desirable for a number of witchy brews and spells. Since the slightest bit of light is enough to spoil Night Creeper Vine sprouts, you can’t look for them with lanterns, or even candles—you have to sniff them out.

So, The Wicked Witch Peggy was on her hands and knees, sniffing along the floor of the forest, searching diligently for the object of her desires, when several things happened at once. She nosed into a puff ball and inhaled a solid quart of puff power; she opened her mouth to gasp and wheeze; and a frog named Gibley Dade, frantically trying to hop away from all the commotion, landed squarely in The Wicked Witch Peggy’s mouth.

The Wicked Witch Peggy gagged, sputtered, spewed, and coughed. “BLEAATCH!!” she bellowed, sending Gibley Dade flying into the darkness. She wiped her mouth, trying to remove the thought of a toad on her tongue from her memory. It didn’t work.

She whimpered, shivered and gagged at the very idea, and ignited a small shrub with the snap of her fingers. In the light of the burning bush, she saw Gibley Dade trying to rub the memory of witch’s tongue from his mind.

“Ha!” said The Wicked Witch Peggy. “There you are! I’ll curse you forever for this, you filthy frog! May your fondest dream come true!”

Having his fondest dream come true didn’t sound like much of a curse to Gibley Dade, particularly when it was such a wonderful one. The only dream Gibley ever had was of becoming a king. He’d heard all the fairy tales, and knew it was common practice for kings to be turned into frogs, and he had always thought how grand it would be if it worked the other way.

And now it happened! Instantly, Gibley Dade was transformed into the handsomest king on record, any record, before or since. Peggy disappeared with a snap, and a pop and a slight wisp of smoke. Gibley was alone with himself and the glowing embers of the bush. He admired what he could see about his new appearance. “This isn’t bad,” he thought.

Suddenly, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men arrived with torches, and lanterns, and barking dogs. “Here he is!” they shouted. “Hooray! We’ve found King Gibley! Where have you been, Your Highness? We’ve been searching all over!”

Gibley could only shrug as they hoisted him onto his white charger and carried him away to his kingdom.

They arrived at the palace to the cheers of women and the cartwheels of small children, and Gibley was ushered straight away into the banquet hall, which was overflowing with all the delicacies of the realm. “You must be famished, Your Majesty,” said Gibley’s servants, “Sit and feast!”

Gibley was a bit hungry, but the platters of meat and vegetables, the baskets of fruit and the plates of dessert didn’t interest him at all. For some reason, his eyes stayed on a fly that flew about the table.

In the days and weeks that followed, Gibley grew increasingly depressed. The demands of kinghood were more than he could bear. There were always decisions to make, and public appearances to tolerate, and people seeking audiences and favors.

The only relief he found was in the time he spent swimming in the lily pond on his country estate. He didn’t know why he preferred that to the indoor pool at the palace, but he felt more at peace with himself there, at home somehow.

But it wasn’t enough. Gibley spent his days in sorrow and despair because kingship wasn’t really what he wanted. He didn’t know what he wanted, but the kingly life wasn’t it. He pined for what he didn’t have. The sadness showed in his eyes, in his expression, his body, his gait, his tone of voice and his general demeanor and disposition.

Gibley’s subjects tried everything they could think of to cheer him up. They held grand parties and circuses and ice capades. They sent him to the great resorts. He went skiing, and scuba diving, and mountain climbing. He rode horses, and went fishing, and watched television. But none of it helped. Gibley didn’t feel any better

Nothing he did eased the notion that things were not as they should be. Nothing he bought filled the hollowness within. Nothing he could think of doing, or having, or seeing, or hearing eased the emptiness in his soul, or diminished the ache for Something More that he carried with him every day.

“What do you want, Your Highness?” asked his loyal court. “Just tell us, and we will gladly bring it.”

“I don’t know what I want,” said Gibley. “I don’t know what to want. I just know this isn’t it.”

The people looked at one another with perplexed concern, and brought him everything they had. They brought him bicycles and dinner jackets; baseballs and sports cars; hula hoops and elaborate stereo systems. They worked late in their factories, hard on their technology, around the clock in their research labs. Every invention, creation and project was hailed as the salvation of the king.

But nothing worked. No matter what they gave the king, his countenance did not lift, his spirits only lowered. Then, one day there came a light knock on the palace door. The guard admitted a little girl who said, “My name is Mary Nuel, and I want to see the king.”

“I’m sorry, child,” said the guard, “but the king cannot be bothered.”

“But it’s rather important,” said the little girl. “I want to help the king.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” replied the guard. “The entire kingdom has been trying to help the king, to no avail. What makes you so bold as to think that you can succeed where so many others have failed?”

“What do you have to lose?” the girl asked.

“Good point,” said the guard, and he showed her to the throne room of the king.

The little girl walked up to the king’s throne. His eyes were closed, his brow was wrinkled, and his body was slumped in defeat. Gibley had tried with all his might to reason his way out of his difficulty, and now he was lost.

“Excuse me, Sir,” said the little girl, tugging on his sleeve. “I want to show you something that I think will help.”

“Nothing will help,” sighed the king. “I know. I’ve tried it all. Several times.”

“This is different,” said the little girl. “It always helps me when I feel bad. I think it’s just what you need.”

“What is it, then?” asked Gibley.

“Here,” she said, holding out her hand. “It’s my pet frog, Emma. My mamma says she is like one of the family. So I call her Emma Nuel.”

The king looked at the frog, and something stirred within. He felt the realness of times long forgotten. His eyes lit up. A smile came to his face. He didn’t know what it was, or how to begin putting it into words, but, as strange as it seems, he felt a connection with the frog—it was as though he could see himself in the frog. And he knew if he was going to be the kind of king the people deserved he had to become the frog that he was.

So, the king spent the rest of his life pondering the essence of frogness, and he worked diligently to become less kingly and more froggy.

“Frogs live close to the land,” he decided, so he moved out of the palace and into the woods. He tilled the land himself and taught the people the value of hard work, and led them to respect their relationship with the natural world.

“Frogs have no pretensions,” he realized. So, he gave up his royal robes and set aside his many titles. He stopped acting as though being king made him better than anyone else and lived to identify himself with his subjects and listen carefully to their concerns.

“Frogs don’t try to get ahead,” he reflected. So, he let go of his desire to solve all imaginable problems in order to relax in the pleasing splendor of the Ultimate Answer. He simply dealt with each difficulty in the moment that it arose, and let tomorrow’s problems be tomorrow’s problems.

In this way, Gibley Dade lived out his life, reflecting upon and expressing the best of his inner frogness through all of his dealings with the people of the realm. The kingdom prospered under his rule; the people grew strong during his reign; and the swamps resounded with the proud croaking of all the frogs.

Sour Sophie

During my childhood, Sour Sophie Morgan was The Enemy, and we were at war. We had always been at war. The war in which we were engaged had a timeless, always present sense about it, which made it a lot like grandfathers and bubble gum. It was so much a part of the way things were that we never stopped to wonder where it came from or why it was there. It just “was,” and we accepted it as such and went on with the business of doing battle. The problem was that Sour Sophie won every skirmish.

Sour Sophie was the only person in town who could consistently get the best of all of us. Even Mean Eddie. If Mean Eddie wrote chalk letters—as in “A,” “B,” and “C”; not as in “Dear Sophie, Why are you so Sour?”—Eddie wasn’t the brightest kid in town, just the meanest. And in my association with him, he never got so far as to actually write words. The alphabet was quite an accomplishment for him, and he usually misspelled that. But he loved to practice with chalk on the side‑walks of town, and if he wrote letters on the walk in front of Sour Sophie’s house, she would cause his entire supply of chalk to go bad. If he tried to retaliate by throwing rocks at her mail box, she would somehow keep his mail-order Sergeant Preston Secret Code Ring (with the special hidden compartment for carrying messages safely through the Yukon) from ever arriving.

Of course, it’s hard to believe now that Sour Sophie ever did those things, but we were convinced of it then. We were so certain of her powers that Mean Eddie would actually break down in tears over his helpless inability to get her without getting gotten in return. She was the only person I ever knew who could make Mean Eddie cry. And she was the only person who could make Cryin’ Sammy stop crying.

If Cryin’ Sammy tuned up in sight of her house, she would storm outside and stand on the edge of her yard with her fists on her hips and her feet spread apart, and stare him into silence. Her Glare was absolutely awesome. Flowers wilted before it; song birds were rendered eternally mute; large dogs would whimper and run—and we would too. Nobody could stand his or her ground when Sour Sophie turned on The Glare.

We never had any Rogue Elephants in my home town, except in the Tarzan films on Saturday afternoons, but if one had ever paid us a visit and rampaged through the neighborhood, I would have preferred to be behind a Glaring Sour Sophie than behind the charging bull elephant. The Glare was raw power in action.

You may be wondering by now, if she were all that bad, why didn’t we simply give her a wide berth and do our growing up elsewhere? Why not just avoid her; leave her alone; stay far away? Well, you can think this way because you didn’t grow up where I did. No place is “far away” from any place there. Every place is only “just down the road.” Besides that, the only decent plot of ground on which to carry out the obligations and duties of growing up was directly across the street from Sour Sophie’s house.

If we wanted to play baseball, that’s where we had to play baseball. If we wanted to play tag, or fireworks, or cowboys and Indians, that’s where we had to play them all. But playing those things in the vicinity of Sour Sophie Morgan extracted a high price. We lost a fortune in baseballs alone.

Everything hit over the center fielder’s head usually rolled across the street and into Sour Sophie’s yard. When that happened, it was gone for good. Sophie was fast to be three hundred years old. We didn’t have anyone who could match her in an open field race to the ball. We rotated the position of center fielder among all the kids in town, but we couldn’t find anyone who could outrun Sophie. She always got to the ball before we did. Or close enough. Sophie had the advantage of not actually having to reach the ball. Glaring distance would do.

Sophie’s Glare would bear down on us from half-a-lawn away. It would stop us cold, flip us around in mid-stride, and send us off at twice our approach speed. If we had ever been able to run to the ball as fast as we ran from it, we would have had no problems—and we all could have played for the Yankees when we grew up.

But it didn’t work out like that. As we shot away, Sour Sophie would shake a bony finger in the air and shout a sentence or two based on the theme of never having met anyone rotten enough to deserve children. Then, she would leisurely scoop up our ball and add it to her abundant collection.

One day, in the midst of all this, a little orphan girl moved into the house next door to Sour Sophie. She was about three years old. Her parents had been killed in a car wreck, and she had come to stay as a foster child with the family who lived by Sophie.

Our parents told us about the situation, and asked us to be nice to her. We knew they were wasting their words on us. We were nice to little kids. Sophie was the one they needed to address. And we knew we should have been talking to the little orphan girl. But she was only three years old, and there are some things you can’t translate down to a three-year-old.

“Sour,” for instance. How do you explain “sour” to a three-year-old? Some things have to be experienced in order to be understood, and we didn’t know how to talk to a three-year-old about things she had never encountered. So, she walked in on Sophie cold, and fresh for the kill.

We were trading comic books in the lot across the street, and watched transfixed as the little girl chased a butterfly into the middle of Sophie’s yard. “Uh oh,” said Mean Eddie.

The screen door to Sophie’s front porch opened and slammed shut in the same instant, with Sophie somehow pouring through without getting caught in the act. The butterfly saw her coming, shifted into warp-drive, and disappeared. Now it was just Sour Sophie and the little orphan girl.

“What are you doing in my yard?” screamed Sophie. And, without pausing for an answer, repeated, “What are you doing in my yard?”— getting louder with each word. I’m sure they heard her down at the train depot over the whistles of approaching locomotives. The little orphan girl heard her too, and started crying.

“Stop that crying!” Sophie yelled. “And get out of my yard!” The little girl cried louder, with tears streaming down her face. But she didn’t move, except to hold out her arms to Sophie.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Sophie yelled some more. “I said GET OFF OF MY YARD!!!” The little girl remained unmoving, crying, her arms lifted to Sophie.

Our hearts were pounding. Or, perhaps they had stopped. I don’t remember. I do remember not knowing what to do. I wanted to run, snatch up the child, and rescue her on the spot. Roy Rogers would have done that, or Gene Autry, but I didn’t dare. My friends and I just drew together in a tight little pack, hypnotized by the scene being acted out in front of us. We knew what was coming.

Sour Sophie shifted her feet, clinched her fists, placed them on her hips, positioned her chin, and launched, The Glare. The blood drained right out of our faces. The little girl kept crying, her arms out-stretched. Sophie kept Glaring. Eternity passed. No one moved. We were all frozen into our roles: glaring, pleading, watching.

“Look at that!” Cryin’ Sammy broke the silence with a whisper wrapped in amazement. I guess he noticed it first because he knew so much about crying. There was a tear on Sophie’s cheek. And that tear was followed by another, and another, and another, until Sour Sophie was sobbing right out loud, just like the little girl.

The Glare was gone. And Sophie bent down and picked up the little orphan girl, and hugged her tightly to herself, still crying. And eternity passed once again.

What were the secret sorrows being shared in that close embrace? What was the impact of anguish upon anguish? Of brokenness encountering brokenness? Of pain healing pain? What was the meaning of that moment for the two women at its center? I don’t know. I’ll never know. But I do know that in that moment the universe shifted, miracle happened, and lives were transformed forever. The future was radically altered. Nothing was the same again. And, something new came to life in the world.

After an interminable amount of time and tears, Sophie looked at the little girl and said, “How about a piece of cake?” Then she looked over at us and said, “You boys may as well come and have some too.”

Who can resist participating in the making of a miracle? Even Mean Eddie came along. We ate her cake, and drank her milk, and had a good time talking about anything any of us could think of to say. On our way out, Sophie gave us an old trash can with seventeen baseballs in it. We thanked her with relish and abounding gratitude. And, we never saw Sour Sophie again.

Kiddie Hawk

Joey Maynard was gone on Monday. We looked everywhere for him, but he was not to be found. He had vanished. I was only seven years old at the time, and that was a long time ago, but I’ll never forget Joey’s disappearance and the impact it had on us all.

We had played Rope-and-Brand-’Um the day before, and Joey had been the one who suggested that we burn Ethel Mae at the stake. “That’s what the Indians always did with white women,” he’d said. I don’t know where he got his information (probably from one of the Saturday matinees I somehow missed), but he spoke with a tone of authority. Not that knowing what he was talking about was important. Burning Ethel Mae at the stake would have been a good idea whether the Indians did things like that or not.

I expect that each of us had thought of burning Ethel Mae at the stake at one time or another. We’d never come right out and said it because Ethel Mae might have gotten wind of it and struck first. The only thing that enabled Joey to voice his idea was that we had Ethel Mae roped, tied, and on the ground—a state to which she had peacefully submitted, as part of the requirements of the game we were playing. He could take a chance with her in that condition.

You may think it was harsh and unkind of us to consider burning Ethel Mae at the stake. Actually, it was rather light treatment compared to some of the things she had done to us over the years. And if we had managed to carry out the plan, she would have gotten off easier than she deserved. But the way she treated us was not Ethel Mae’s greatest sin.

I suppose we could have forgiven her for the mean tricks she pulled on us; for stealing our baseball bats; and hiding our roller skates; and covering our football with grape jelly. However, the thing that got us; the thing that grated upon our nerves and trampled upon our pride; the thing for which we could not forgive Ethel Mae ever, was that she was better at being a boy than we were.

She could throw a baseball harder than we could and hit one farther. She could shoot a BB gun straighter and load one faster. She could dig more worms and catch more fish. She could run faster, and climb trees faster, and eat supper faster. She could eat more ice cream, and tell better lies. It was a shameful thing to be a boy with Ethel Mae around. And we spent a considerable amount of time trying to figure out how to make her not-around. Burning her at the stake seemed to be the perfect solution.

We didn’t have a stake, but we decided that one of Joey’s clothesline poles would do. When Ethel Mae saw what we had in mind, she stopped cooperating, and we had a time of it getting her hauled over and tied to the clothesline pole in what we thought would be a proper position to be burned.

The rope ran out before we got to her feet, and she kept kicking away the sticks we gathered and tried to stack around her. She also kicked Marty Freeman in the mouth, putting him out of commission, and leaving us somewhat short-handed and demoralized. We may have stopped the procedure right there, except for the fact that Ethel Mae was describing graphically and in great detail all of the things that were going to happen when she got un-tied and at us. Having come this far, we knew we had to complete the task or suffer the burden of our failure to do so.

And we might have completed it if Joey’s mother hadn’t come out of the back door to call him inside. She saw what we were doing and told us to “stop-it-right-now-this-instant-I-said-stopit!” We knew we were in for it, and dashed to our respective homes. I looked over my shoulder and saw Mrs. Maynard and Joey untying Ethel Mae. It was the last time I ever saw him. The next morning he was gone for good.

At first we blamed it on Ethel Mae, but she seemed to be as genuinely troubled by his disappearance as any of us were. No one had any answers. And the adults weren’t talking. His mother would only say, “Joey’s gone”; or “Joey doesn’t live here any more.”

Our mothers were even less helpful. They would just shrug and change the subject. Or say they “didn’t know,” in a tone of voice that said, “I’m not saying a word, and the less you say, the better.”

What happened to Joey Maynard? The question burned in the souls of us all. And, no one would answer it for us. Later in life, I found that Joey’s folks had divorced, and he had left that Sunday night to go live with his father in Memphis, Tennessee. But in Itta Bena, Mississippi, in 1952, the big people didn’t talk to the little people about divorce (or about where babies come from; or about what Uncle Buck kept in the brown bag under his bed). In Itta Bena, Mississippi, in 1952, they didn’t tell little kids the truth straight out.

I’m sure they thought they were doing us a favor; protecting us from life; saving us from a lot of pain and worry. What they didn’t realize is that in the absence of truth, imagination reigns. And imagined pain and worry is infinitely worse than the real thing. We had to know what happened to Joey Maynard. If they wouldn’t tell us, we would figure it out for ourselves.

It was David Gillespie who led us to the light. He had been reading a comic book in the same room where his parents were talking in low tones (so as not to wake the baby) about the Wright brothers having invented the airplane at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. They were planning their family vacation, and North Carolina was one of the places they were considering.

David didn’t hear anything about vacations; or about the Wright brothers; or about airplanes. All he heard was Kiddie Hawk, and the fact that they lived in North Carolina. It was a revelation to us all.

Everything fell into place as he recounted his parents’ conversation. We were terrified and undone. And we finally understood what happened to Joey Maynard. Of course, we had never seen a Kiddie Hawk—but we had seen a chicken hawk.

We had watched one make off with one of Mr. Ed Randal’s prize pullets about three weeks before. The poor hen had no chance in the clutches of the hungry hawk; and we could imagine the helpless horror Joey (and all the other kids) must have felt, dangling from the talons of a Kiddie Hawk.

“I wonder if he took him all the way back to North Carolina before he ate him,” said Ethel Mae. We all grimaced at the very thought, and our lives changed dramatically.

Suddenly we understood why our parents warned us about going out after dark, and why they told us to be careful whenever we went outside to play. Now we knew why they didn’t want us climbing the tall oak tree down on the lake bank or playing on the railroad trestle over Roebuck Lake—high up in the branches, or out there on the rails, we would have been perfect targets for a soaring Kiddie Hawk. We left the tree and the trestle alone, and were very careful whenever we were outside.

We went everywhere huddled together in packs of three or more. One of us would always watch the sky, trusting the others to be careful guides, and hoping that we would never see what we watched for with rapt concentration. Of course, we all promised that if a Kiddie Hawk attacked one of us, the rest of us would be quick to the rescue. We knew it was a lie, but it made us feel better to have the pact, and we reminded each other of it often.

One afternoon we were at baseball practice when a crop duster cruised over with the engine off. As the plane’s shadow glided easily over the ball field, we shrieked, and scattered, and headed for cover.

Coach Stanley couldn’t imagine what we were doing inside and under his car and it took a lot of prodding to get it out of us. When we explained what was going on, he walked around bent over, laughing for a long time. Between wheezes and gasps, he pointed out the airplane to us and said there were no such things as Kiddie Hawks. By the next day, everyone in town was laughing and saying the same thing.

But, that was Itta Bena, Mississippi in 1952, and they didn’t tell little kids the truth, straight out. They said there were no such things as Kiddie Hawks, but they didn’t tell us there were things as bad as, or worse than, Kiddie Hawks in our future, and what we might do to deal with them.

Ethel Mae developed leukemia and died in her teens. David Gillespie’s twin sons wandered into a farm pond and drowned when they were four. Marty Freeman was killed in an airplane crash in his twenties. There are things waiting in the lives of all of us that we cannot bear alone.

We all need a place—the right kind of place with the right kind of people—where we can find what we need to face what lies tucked away in our lives—where we can go to process the day, and say who we are and how it is with us. Where we can talk about the impact of living, and how we are dealing with it, and what we might do to deal better with it.

We need the presence of the right kind of company. We need to spend time with those who can listen to us without preaching to us; without trying to fix us, or correct us, or convert us, or straighten us out, or advise us, or change us.

We need those with us who can offer the right kind of help in the right way—who can be, in the words of Shel Silvertstein, “the kind of help that help is all about.” Itta Bena, Mississippi didn’t have nearly enough of those people in 1952. There were plenty of people who laughed at the idea of Kiddie Hawks but did nothing to help us handle a truth they couldn’t handle themselves—and that is no laughing matter!

Story Time

The nine stories in this collection originated as sermons in Amory, Mississippi. There were seventeen in all, before the congregation had enough and asked me not to do that anymore, but to return to the old comfortable way of telling them what they had already heard, and fully expected to always hear, as a confirmation of all they hoped to be so.

The fact that Jesus told stories and never said anything about doctrine, theology, creeds or catechisms did not deter them in their quest for these things. And so it was that I was led to other ways of shaking up the Just So world of my congregations in Amory and Batesville in Mississippi, and at the Presbyterian Church of the Covenant in Greensboro, North Carolina, and introducing them as I was able to a world waiting for them to live the life that they alone were capable of living, in redeeming, atoning for and transforming their world as those “thus come” to be “the way, the truth and the life” in their time and place as Jesus was in his.

My success rate in achieving that outcome was probably the same as Jesus’ was.

However that may be, here are nine stories for your consideration.

Madonna with Child

She walked past the plate glass window

next to the booth where I sat with my friend Bill

in the worst hamburger joint on the eastern seaboard,

eating a dripping grease burger

oozing with melted Velveeta cheese of all things

with fries fresh from a year in the freezer.

She was twelve months pregnant, maybe thirteen.

Sashaying her first pregnancy

down the walk and through the door,

showing everybody who she was

and what she was carrying,

beneath her red spandex top,

and navy blue spandex tights,

stopping traffic and conversation,

as all onlookers

(And who could look away?)

paused in what they were doing

to honor, marvel at, rejoice in, worship, relish, adore, and remember

the wonder of a vision

equal in every way

to the one that stunned the angels

who announced the Messiah’s birth

with their hallelujahs, backflips, somersaults and high fives—

and as redemptive!

She redeemed the day, the week, the year, our lives, all of life,

forever, throughout all eternity.

And I carry her memory in my heart

to revere and esteem:

Mary, the mother of God,

ordering a grease burger with fries

and sanctifying the moment, and all gathered there

by the wonder of her grace bestowed upon us,

utterly transforming the ordinariness of our lives.

The Way of Soul Is the Way of Life

As conscious egos, we are full partners with our unconscious (so-called because we are not conscious of her/him) Self in effecting a growing union of conscious with unconscious, incarnating it in our life, and creating a life worth living.

The Psyche (Soul) needs us to be its hero, championing the unconscious with compassionate, mindful, awareness, and assisting its emergence into light by bringing it forth into our life.

Our questions to answer are: How might we assist the unconscious and its urge to conscious realization? How might we enable Psyche to know itself? How might we live out the truth of unconscious reality in our life?

“Know Thy Self,” one of the inscriptions in the forecourt of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi in ancient Greece, is a message from Psyche to Psyche by way of human consciousness. The Oracle speaks for all to all, hoping for ears to hear.

In our dreams, we perceive dark messages from Psyche, bring the light of consciousness to bear on them, and return each night for more, seeing deeper, knowing more fully, what waits to be known, understood, and acted upon—incorporated into our life—transforming all of life.

The heroic task is to ascend from darkness into light, and descend into darkness with light, and back from darkness into light, on and on… We seek what is unknown, unconscious to us, in order that it might be known, become conscious to us, and through us, to all people.

Ours is a mission of the ages, from the ages: To see with understanding, and to live and act with knowledge—knowing, even as we do, that as the darkness deepens, it also widens, and we plumb the unknown forever: “If you went in search of it, you would not find the boundaries of the soul, though you traveled every road, so deep is its measure”—Heraclitus

In order to fulfill our mission, we have to accept, and assume, the role that is ours to play in the unfolding of the Great Way—the Way of Tao—upon the earth. That Way is the joint way of consciousness with unconscious (Yin and Yang)—conscious dipping into unconscious, transforming experience into metaphor, symbol, poem, realization and ritual—making connections which transform the way life is lived, and going back to draw more from the unconscious source as a wellspring of living water, bringing life to life.

The problem is that we, as conscious egos, can supplant—and have supplanted—the Great Way (the Tao) with our own, personal, way, Xing-out the unconscious as a factor to be taken seriously in our life. Our plans and agendas interfere with our living in allegiance to the unconscious, and working its “will and purpose” into our life. We treat the unconscious as an irrelevant remnant from the distant dawn of the species, a storage room of sorts where we might keep old memories, with nothing helpful to offer in assisting us on our way.

The story of Adam and Eve is the story of the species cutting itself off from the unconscious ground of existence, and going its own way. Our place now is, as it has always been, that of finding our way back to Eden, and living out of our relationship with Psyche/Soul forever.

We take up the work of doing this by realizing that every night our dreams call us to an honest assessment of how things are with us, of how things are in our life.

We cannot kid ourselves in our dreams. But, we can deny what they reveal to us about us, and interpret them to suit ourselves.

Our dreams mean one thing, and we take them to mean another. This is always the downfall of those who consult the Delphic Oracle.

The Delphic Oracle continues to speak to us through our dreams, and we continue to misinterpret what we find there, because we serve our own agenda.

We know what we want, and don’t care what we need, or what needs us. “If we aren’t winning (that is, getting what we want), we are losing!” is the mantra of those who serve their agenda at the expense of every other consideration.

“Mindfulness leads the way.” We have to catch ourselves in the act of turning away from our task of collaborating with the unconscious in undertaking the Hero’s Journey by mothering ourselves, birthing ourselves, overseeing ourselves, into becoming who we are.

We are what we need to do the work that is ours to do, but we have to be mindful to know it.

When we say what we have to say, we hear what we need to hear, and know what we need to know in order to do what needs to be done.

It takes being free of agendas, will, fear, desire, judgment and opinion to say what we have to say, to know what we know. We have to stand apart from our investment in our life, from our stake in having things go our way, in order to live the life that waits to be lived in collaboration with our Soul/Self within.

It helps to have a group, a community, of like-minded people who can remind us of what’s what, and what needs to be done about it. The importance of the group, of the community, is to declare to us, over and over: “I Ain’t ‘cha Momma!” And: “You are your own responsibility!” And: “You have to be doing your own work!”

The importance of the group, of the community, is to declare to us, again and again: “The Messiah is not the Messiah! You save yourself by listening to yourself!”

The importance of the group, of the community, is to tell us, again and again: “Get out of the way, and stop jamming the signals!” The signals are always coming up from our deep Self/Psyche/Soul, hoping we will be listening today.

We jam the signals by thinking constantly about what we want, and don’t want, and how to get it, or escape/avoid it.

All we know is what we like and don’t like, want and don’t want. That isn’t nearly enough. We have to know what our deep Self/Psyche/Soul knows—and incorporate it into our life.

Knowing is the ground of being. The source of doing. “Be still and know”—what’s what, and how things are, and what needs to be done about it. That is where it all begins

Knowing knows what it knows, and what it does not know. That’s knowing!

Seeing with “the third eye” sees what it sees, and what it does not see. That’s seeing!

The kind of knowing that knows, the kind of seeing that sees, stems from being present with what is present with us in its fullness, its allness.

Seeing into the heart of things is the foundation for action appropriate to the occasion. We act from seeing/knowing.

Action that flows from will, desire, fear, judgment, opinion cares not for what is needed, and serves only what is wanted.

Being present with what is present to us in its fullness, its allness, is being present without emotional attachment, without will, desire or fear—or judgment, or opinion!

To live without will, desire, fear, judgment or opinion is to be open to what is happening in a way that sees into the heart of things, knows what’s what, and what needs to be done about it—and what can be done about it—does what can be done, and lets that be that.

Our role is to understand how easily we drift away from the path, turn aside from the way, and wander into wastelands of illusion and deception.

We have to focus on our destiny, our calling, to be stewards of soul, and know that everything depends upon our being loyal, dedicated, and unwavering in our allegiance, faithfulness and fidelity to soul, guarding its interests and tending its concerns.

We have to devote ourselves to learning the language of soul, and coming to know soul.

For example, soul doesn’t care a thing about computer passwords. Passwords belong to a world Soul inhabits, but does not belong to. We may struggle to remember passwords, install software, and backup our computer, but these are not things of soul.

Soul cares about beauty, mystery, poetry, music and dancing.

Soul cares about symbol and metaphor, pathos and love.

Money and due dates are not soulful things. Soul cares more about sandlot football than Super Bowl games. And drama? Oh, please!

Soul is into beach walks and meditation, and yoga that doesn’t go off on what pants you wear.

Soul is all over babies, and anything that has life about it.

What’s trending and fashionable isn’t soulful.

Slow is soulful. Fast is not.

Thunder is soulful. Loud and noisy is not.

Horses are soulful when they are not wearing roses.

Houses are soulful when they are homes and not showcases.

Natural is soulful. Pretentious is not.

Profit, exploitation, wealth and privilege are their own rewards, but they are not soulful.

The list goes on. Pay attention! Make your own list of things that are soulful and things that are not.

We have to make a covenant with one another to move from soulless living to soulful living, and to do so consciously, mindfully, relentlessly, daily.

We are changing the thrust and direction of our life—living with a new purpose and a new orientation—living consciously in light of what is important, essential, to us, because we say so, because we know so.

As we do this, we will be living counter-culturally, and we will not be good for the economy. But, the culture and the economy are killing soul. This is evident by the symptomatic nature of life in the world around us—and it is up to us to get things moving back toward the unconscious source of life and being.

To do so, we have to consciously redefine the sacred for ourselves.

Sacred is soulful. We have to live lives that honor what we hold to be sacred.

Plastic is not sacred. Sports are not sacred. Fast and loud are not sacred. Are not soulful. We have to do less of these things.

Each of us has to make our own list of things that are soulful/sacred, and devote ourselves to the service of the things on our list.

Our lists don’t have to agree. We will transform the world if we live out of our own list of sacred, soulful things—consciously, mindfully, dependably, religiously!

We don’t have to compare lists, defend our list, explain our list, justify our list, ask if our list is sacred/soulful enough. We only have to make a list—and live in ways which reflect its central place in our life.

Make a list of sacred, soulful things, and live from it. Honor it. Devote yourself to it. Live with the list in mind. Live in its service.

We have to make the sacred real in our life, but it has to be what we say is sacred to us, not what someone else tells us is supposed to be sacred. We say so!

We have to live to identify the sacred, and make it holy unto us in ways that are apparent by the way we live our life.

We live to make what is holy, sacred, soulful to us apparent in our life.

Buy into this. Talk your friends into buying into it. You aren’t selling them what you say is sacred, you are selling them on what they say is sacred.

Books are on my sacred/soulful list. I read every day. Music is on my list. I listen to music every day.

Make your list! Tend your list!

Don’t hang out with people who can’t tell you what is sacred to them, or who are not serving it in their life.

If someone tells you something that is sacred to them, ask them how they serve it in their life, and how often they work it into their life.

Work what is sacred to you into your life often. Daily is not too often. See how many things are sacred to you, and how often you can serve them.

The world is dying for people who live in ways that serve and honor soul. They are seeds in the earth, yeast in the dough, lights in the darkness, the hope of the world.

The Stone of Life

Find a stone that attracts you. Claim it as a sacred (to you, anyway) object of meditation. You are the stone carrier, the stonemason, the stone. You activate the power of the stone through reflection and realization. Spend time with the stone on a regular basis, cultivating a ritual of recognition and reorientation, with the stone without connecting you with the stone within.

One stone to contain them all.

The Foundation Stone—What is important/meaningful to you? What did you do today that was meaningful? What did you do last week that was meaningful? Where are the meaningful places for you in each week? What do you do to incorporate meaningful times/experiences into each week? You have to live out of your connection with what is important to you, meaningful to you. Establish that connection, nurture it, nourish it, tend it with time and attention. You cannot live your life accidentally, mindlessly. You live your life in relation to what is meaningful to you. You have to intentionally, mindfully, place yourself in the service of what is meaningful to you throughout your life. Your foundation stone is the heart of what is most meaningful in your life—live grounded in it, mindful of it, every day!

The Cornerstone—“The stone the builders reject becomes the chief cornerstone.” What is rejected by the culture, and hence by the people of the culture is our personal, individual, connection with our Heart, Soul, Mind and Body. With the culture, it is all about the Head. In the culture, feeling is subservient to thinking. This is to reverse the proper order of things. In the natural world, thinking is subservient to feeling–and the invisible world is the foundation of the visible world. In the natural world, we feel, sense, what is right in a situation—what needs to be done there—and then think out how it is best to do it.  We feel, sense, where we want to go, and think of the best way to get there.  We have to work to establish, and maintain, right relationship with Heart, Soul, Mind and Body. We do that by thinking about our connection to these deeper, older, aspect of ourselves, and tending our relationship with them by opening ourselves to what we are feeling/sensing/intuiting, in the time and place of our living and reflecting on our experience with “more than words can say” (or thoughts can think). We have to practice regularly “getting a feel” for our situation, and sensing what needs to be done about it, and then thinking how best to do it.

The Boundary Stone—Your boundary stone is what makes you, you—what sets you apart, identifies you as unique, individual and irreplaceable. It marks where you start and everyone else stops. It establishes what is your business, your work, your perspective, your view point, your personality, your character, your standards, your values, your traits, your preferences, etc.–and not someone else’s. You are here to live your own life–to be who you are. Carl Jung said, “You are who you always have been, and who you will be.” Let the stone remind you of you, connect you with you, and call you to live out of who you are and what you have to offer in each situation as it unfolds before you.

The Grave Stone—We only have a certain amount of time in which to bring ourselves forth in meeting our life, and expressing the gift, art, genius that are ours to present to the world through the way we live in it. Because we die, the life we live in service to The Stone of Life, is essential and irreplaceable. The stone is a symbol of the sacred nature of our life—of ourselves.  Therefore, we must not die before our time. Our commitment is to The Stone of Life. We must not hurry the time of our dying, but live our life in full service to the stone that we hold, and to the stone that we are.

You are the stone carrier, the stonemason, the stone. Live in ways that honor this truth and make it so.

The Foundation of Good Religion

The foundation of all good religion,
world-wide
(Universal, should there prove
to be religions in other parts
of the universe)
is expressed in the four primary symbols
of Christianity–
devoid of the theology surrounding them:
Bread, Wine, Water, Cross.
The Water is the amniotic fluid of birth.
Every birth is birth by “water (and blood) and spirit,”
with the “spirit” being the spirit of life and being.
We are all united by the water of birth
and the spirit of life.
We are all alive,
but we have no idea what that means,
where life comes from
and where it goes.
We are awash in mystery from the first–
the foundational fact of good religion.
The Bread reminds us that the bread of affliction
is the bread of life.
The Wine declares that the cup of suffering
is the cup of salvation.
And the Cross does not represent
a vehicle of execution,
but the burden of growing up
and bearing the opposites,
the contradictions
and polarities of our life–
and it encompasses all of the initiation rites,
and rites of passage,
of the species,
as well as evidencing
the primary place
that trials and ordeals
hold in the life of all people,
serving everyone as the
impetus for growth and maturation,
and enabling us to discover
the hero who resides unknown within.
These symbols unite us all.
Everyone knows out of
our own experience
the validity of each one
and their place in our life.
They are the ground on which we stand,
the source from which we proceed
to form,
shape,
and define the life we are living.
And we need no theology
to tell us something we already know
by having lived it.