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Story Toes

November 23, 2016

WORDS FROM W.W.                                                            November 23, 2016

                                             

I sat down on the couch to survey the crew. The crew consisted of our three grandkids: eight year old Jesse involved in a game of Super Mario Brothers; Corin (Rennie) scampering around the room as fast as a 20 month old body can go; and five year old Reagan whose attention was focused on the fact that her grandfather thought he was going to relax for a couple of minutes.

“Tell me a story, Granddad!”, she demanded as she plopped down on the couch beside me and draped her feet over my lap. “Tell me a story using my toes!”

A few weeks ago I was telling a story to her and Jesse from the same couch seat and I grabbed their feet as a visual aid to help me tell it. She giggled and giggled as I told the made up story about little piggies.

And Reagan never forgets! Her enjoyment in something translates into it becoming a tradition…thus two feet staring up at me with their multi-colored striped outfits!

“What story should I tell you? How about a story about a little worm named Squiggly?”

“Yes! Tell me a story about Squiggly!” Her toes wiggled in anticipation.

“Once upon a time there was a worm named Squiggly who decided he was a big enough worm to leave his Mommy Worm and crawl around by himself.”
“And did he have brothers and sisters?” Reagan likes to know all the details in any story I tell that I happen to be making up on the fly!

“Yes, he had many brothers and sisters, but he was the oldest worm child, so all of his worm siblings were still at home with Mommy Worm. So Squiggly said goodbye to his mom, they wrapped themselves around each other in one final worm hug, and off he went crawling through the dirt to discover what was on the other side of the mud patch.

“His mom probably missed him.”

“I’m sure she did. Your mom would miss you if you moved away, wouldn’t she?”

“I’m only five, Granddad!”, she informed me as she did the eye roll thing.

“Yes, I know…well, anyway, back to the story! Squiggly slowly crawled away, whistling his favorite worm song, “Way Up High In An Apple Tree.” He was all wiggly with excitement about the new places he was going to discover.”

“He probably misses his mommy.”

“Probably! After he had crawled across the mud patch and into the weed forest on the other side he got to thinking to himself, “I’d better find some place to sleep before nightfall.” He thought about the warmth of his mommy and remembered that he had left his worm blanket back at home. He got to thinking about the chilly darkness that would soon be upon him with no mom or snug covering to keep him warm.”

“He didn’t plan very well.”

“So he looked all around and around and finally…finally…he found a nice place that looked like it would be cozy and warm and almost like home.”

“Where was it?”
“It was right between two toes of a little girl named Reagan.” I burrowed one of my fingers between two of her toes and she squealed with tickling laughter. “Yes, it was right between two little toes,” I explained as she quivered with giggling. She pulled her feet off of my lap and hopped down to the floor. Her sister stared at her with a smile on her face.

About the time I took my next breath she was back on the couch, settling her feet into their place across my lap once again.

“And then what, Granddad?” For Reagan “story toes” have many chapters and episodes…and giggles!

Categories: children, Grandchildren, Humor, love, Parenting, Story, Uncategorized
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Writing A Book

August 14, 2016

WORDS FROM W.W.                                                              August 13, 2016

                                           

I’m trying to write a book!

If James Patterson can spin out about a book a month I should be able to write one in a year…or two…okay, maybe three!

I, however, am not a mystery writer. I did read a lot of Agatha Christie novels in my earlier years. They were always intriguing. I often felt compelled to have a spot of tea as I read them. Murder On the Orient Express, Three Blind Mice, Death On the Nile…I enjoyed them all. But in terms of writing a mystery novel…not me!

I did write Lassie stories when I was in the third grade…longhand, and almost legible! I can’t remember what the plots of those Lassie stories were, but I’m sure I had him leaping over fences and saving chickens from foxes.

When I was in my forties I wrote two books of mini-dramas that got published by my denomination’s publishing branch. They did not make the New York Time’s Best-Sellers List. In fact, they didn’t make any list, but it was pretty cool to see my name on the covers!

Now I’m trying to write a feel good story that combines high school basketball, innocent teenage romance, an unlikely friendship, and the admirable qualities of integrity, honesty, and fairness. It’s a good story, but some days I feel like the words are coming to me about like a “Sally, Dick, and Jane” first grade primer!
See Sally run. Dick, see Sally run. Spot, run like Sally. Run, run, run!

Other times it seems like the words flow through my mind like a fine culinary recipe progressing without a hitch.

Some days I get constantly interrupted, other days I wish I would be interrupted.

And all this for the very, very, very real probability that no one will be remotely interested in publishing the end result. Unlike James Patterson, I do not have someone who has advanced me a million. But I sit in front of my laptop and peck on with two fingers on my left hand and one on my right…and the word count keeps climbing as the story slowly unfolds, characters get further developed, the past gets illuminated and the possibilities of the present get played out. I read a Harlan Coben mystery at night and write about a red-headed pastor’s kid named Randy Bowman during the day.

Writing is my release, as well as what grips me. It’s something I can’t seem to not do…all those years of writing sermons for Sunday mornings at church, but then having so many other things to write about that never seemed to fit into a Sunday message.

Today I sit at my perch in Starbucks with the question, “Well, Randy, where will our story take us today?”

Categories: children, Humor, Pastor, Story, Teamwork, Uncategorized, Youth
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Storytelling Lunch

June 16, 2016

WORDS FROM W.W.                                                            June 15, 2016

                                 

Telling stories is a devalued treasure. People are too jumpy to hear, too hurried to tell. When we stop and listen to the remembrances, the memorable moments, we realize how special the experiences is.

Like yesterday when I enjoyed lunch with my dad and his new friend Carl. They’ve only known each other for about three months, even though they were born just four miles apart from each other in the hills of eastern Kentucky.

I sat and was still listening long after all the food had been eaten. Story after story was told about their Navy experiences. I learned that my “Granny Wolfe” had to go with my dad to sign up for military service since he was still only seventeen. I found out he had flat feet, a dis-qualifier for the infantry, but according to the man doing inspections, good enough for the Navy! Carl and my father talked about their “lodging accommodations”, and other “luxuries” of their experiences.

I sat and was mesmerized by their humor, their remembering of conversations and details, their stories of being tested in shooting a gun. Since they were Navy they were told that they had passed…although both of them doubted the truth of that…but one of the two Marines who was being tested didn’t pass.

Our lunch table was punctuated with knee-slapping laughter. Richness in the moment can not be confined to a length of time. Like a fine steak it is to be savored and enjoyed. “Rush” is not a word that gives any value to it.

As I sat and soaked I thought of our addiction to movement. We move from morning tasks to lunch, and from lunch to afternoon responsibilities. We seldom have time just to sit and listen…and in getting things done we miss the opportunities of stories that live on long after the afternoon agenda gets accomplished.

Dad and Carl strolled through history, visiting Carl’s entertaining pursuit of family genealogy to discover the grandfather he never knew. His search brought him to a choice. His grandfather  could have been either a thief shot and killed in a barroom gun fight…or the captain of a riverboat.

He and his siblings chose the stream that pointed towards the riverboat captain. It becomes easier to talk to the next generations about a captain making sure a riverboat safely navigated the Ohio River, rather than telling the little ones that their ancestor was scoundrel who was also slow in the draw.

From there my dad talked about a certain river barge company that would name each of its boats after a woman…Abigail, Esther, and such.

Like two checker players they jumped from one story square to another. Each move began with words like “That reminds me of…” or “Well, let me tell you something!” Chuckles abounded and their faces lit up as they recalled the moments, lost in the reliving.

At the end of that day I realized that the storytelling luncheon was the most important thing that had happened to me. It was my biggest accomplishment…and I had just sat and listened!

Categories: children, Grandchildren, Humor, Parenting, Story, Uncategorized
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Deacon Emeritus Laurence Wolfe

April 13, 2015

WORDS FROM W.W.                                                                      April 13, 2015

                                           

I sat beside my dad in worship yesterday at Beulah Baptist Church in Proctorville, Ohio. It’s the church he’s been a part of for the past several years after moving up-river from Ironton, Ohio. The pastor of Beulah asked Dad to give the closing prayer for the service, and he referred to him as Deacon Emeritus.

I was surprised because Dad had never said anything about it. In fact, my first thought was that Pastor Rob was recognizing Dad’s age, but wasn’t really serious about the title…kind of like calling our Regional Executive Minister the Baptist Pope. A fitting title, but not one he is going to put on his business card.

Later on that day I asked my dad about it just to make sure I heard the pastor correctly. Yes, he said, he had been given that distinction a few months before that. I wanted to say, “And you never said anything to me about it?”, but it occurred to me that my dad never would.

You see, titles and awards have never been what his life is about. He has never put much stock in things you can hang on the wall behind your desk. Humbleness doesn’t dwell on accomplishments. It doesn’t go with “bragadocious!”

Sometimes, as sons and daughters, we fail to observe our parents long enough to be able to identify their qualities and characteristics. We’re absorbed in our own lives and what we’re doing too much to take a look. Perhaps we still see our parents as those supervisory figures who don’t really have lives of their own. They’ve just always been Mom and Dad!

And then a pastor refers to your Pops as “Deacon Emeritus” and you go “Huh?”

There is not a plaque on his wall to let visitors to his apartment know. The church didn’t give him a name tag for visitors to know that he is highly-valued. He is still content to be who he has been and who he is and who he will always be until Glory calls.

A person of wisdom who thinks before he speaks.

A storyteller of family history…and just as the Israelites tell the Passover story over and over again, my dad retells the family stories that I never get tired of hearing.

A person of convictions. He still believes that certain things aren’t right, no matter what public opinion says, but he has never forced his beliefs on someone else.

An organizer…chaos does not set well with him. My oldest daughter inherited this from my dad…he folds his clothes a certain way and everything is to be in place. I did not receive that gene in my list of passed on traits!

A person of the Word. His Bible is a bit tattered…but it’s organized tattering!

A person who is personal. I’ve noticed this week at his new senior apartment complex that people come to him to talk just as he initiates conversation with anyone who might be sitting in a front porch rocking chair. One night I noticed there were two people sitting in rocking chairs when I dropped him off at his building. I watched as I slowly drove away. He stopped to talk to them. I proceeded to the end of the parking lot and made the turn to come back towards the exit. He was still engaged in conversation and the two rockers seemed to be enjoying the moments just as much as him.

A person of integrity, which means he lives life with consistency and truth, but recognizes and admits the errors of his humanness.

A great-grandfather who my granddaughter gravitated to, even though she has spent less than two weeks with him in her first four years of life. A grandfather that my three kids love dearly even though they all live five states away.

A great dad!

So, even though he would never say so, and never say it is so, there is not a more qualified person to be designated “Deacon Emeritus”, and, without a doubt, will never bring up the subject again!

Categories: Bible, children, Christianity, Community, Grace, Humor, Jesus, love, Parenting, Pastor, Story, The Church, Uncategorized, Youth
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