Do not mock the huckleberry

We huckleberry hounds take the sport of huckleberrying very seriously. (By the way, the "sport" includes every aspect, including the hunt, the preservation, the prepartion, the consumption and -- grudgingly -- the sharing.) Take this recent email to my co-workers, for example:

Subject line: Cheesecake!

And not just any cheesecake, my lucky co-workers. This is homemade Lindy’s-style cheesecake with huckleberry topping! Yes, finally, and after much cajoling and entreating on your part, I have been persuaded to bring you all an indulgence made with real, hand-picked-from-the-Idaho-forests huckleberries.

The cheesecake is chilling in the fridge and will be ready for consumption by lunch time!

A word of caution: Please understand that huckleberry aficionados like me can be easily offended if, when they share their purple gold, the recipients do not simply RAVE about the superiority of huckleberry flavor. We spend countless hours in the mountains hunting down these precious beauties, after all. So even if you do have inferior-quality taste buds and do not think huckleberries are the world’s most amazing berry, and favored by the gods, you’d darn well better convince me otherwise, or you will be cut off from future huckleberry offerings for all time. No forgiving. No forgetting.

I have bcc’d certain members of my family, and at a moment’s notice they can be called upon to give you examples of how friends, neighbors and even in-laws have been “black-listed” from ever again receiving so much as a single huckleberry. Even the most innocuous-sounding comments such as, “Hmm. Not bad.” or “These are pretty good.” can land you on that dreaded list. Tread carefully; you have been warned.

Now, enjoy!

-Bruce

You see, this is a serious business, and to prove my point, I am going to call upon my family members to provide stories of their black-listed friends in the form of comments to this blog. Check back soon.

A few short days... A whole new life

The events of just a few days can completely can your life. On October 7th, Christy gave birth to little Calvin Henry, our fourth boy, at home. Yes, by choice but not without the assistance of a certified nurse midwife.

When Christy went into labor at 3:30 in the morning, it was close to the pattern of our previous three boys, all of whom were born around mid-morning after eight or nine hours of labor. So when our midwife arrived, just after 5:15 a.m., I was just beginning to settle in for a solid four or five hours of labor. And then Calvin was born. At 5:35 a.m.

His birth, of course, changed our lives as all births do. The usual routine changed, but the change was by now itself routine, since we'd gone through this three times previously. Naming him took a little longer than last time (he was "Gus Gus" to his brothers for the first two days before we settled on Calvin.

Not long before Calvin was born, we began to notice that Riley was exhibiting some unusual behavior. His mood swings were noticeable to Christy, who has to deal with the boys all day long, but even I took notice of how frequently he had the urge to pee, and how he had suddenly reverting to night-time bed-wetting, which had been a very rare occurrence for him before.

On Monday night, Oct. 18th, I took the three oldest boys to Chuck E' Cheese for Sammy's soccer team party. And of course, all three boys ate pizza and drank a lot of punch and soda. By the time I got them home and in bed, it was 9:30pm. An hour later, I went to get Riley up to use the bathroom (which I'd been doing for several nights in a row, to prevent him from wetting the bed). But it was already too late -- his sheets, pajamas and even bedspread were thoroughly soaked. I got him up anyway, led him to the toilet, and was shocked to see how much he still peed. Something was definitely wrong. Christy and I agreed we'd try to get him into the doctor the next day, but the night didn't pass without Riley getting up at least twice more (that we know of) to use the bathroom.

It was four o' clock on Oct. 19th, the first available appointment, that Christy got Riley in to see Dr. Cook, our family practitioner. I was home with Sammy and Zeke, when Christy finally called. Riley was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes, with a blood sugar level so high their meter (which tops out at 600) couldn't read it. We were told we had to take him immediately to Primary Children's Medical Center for admission.

My heart broke. Our little Riley. Diabetes... an incurable, lifelong disease. It wasn't fair. He didn't deserve this. But it was happening, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.

Riley's endocrinologist, Dr. Rob Lindsay, was waiting the moment we stepped off the elevator on the third floor of Primary Children's Medical Center. At first he seemed a bit gruff, but that impression soon changed. His manner with Riley, and with us, was simply perfect, as he calmly explained the facts of the disease, answered questions, and talked us through our agenda for the next two days at the hospital. With his longish white hair and beard, glasses and eyes, I couldn't help thinking that with a red suit and hat, he could pass as Santa Claus -- not a jolly Santa -- but a wise and compassionate one with a twinkle of humor behind those narrow spectacles.

I stayed with Riley that night, but couldn't get to sleep, and so I began an email to my co-workers and some key campaign people to explain why I wouldn't be in for the next two days. As I wrote, I began to see more clearly the blessings of God in our experience, and my pain and fear slowly evaporated as rays of gratitude began to shine through the dark clouds. Here is an excerpt:


"Today our 5-year-old son Riley was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. I am writing this from Primary Children's Medical Center, where he admitted this evening. The good news is that we caught fairly and he's doing well, although discouraged that he faces lifetime of daily insulin shots and an abrupt curtailing of sugar. (And Halloween just around the corner, poor guy!)

They're going to keep him here for a couple of days but anticipate releasing him Thursday morning. Christy and I will need to be here because there is a thorough education process they need to take us through, and of course we both want to be here with him as we start this journey together.

I hope this doesn't sound perverse, but amid all my sadness and trepidation for Riley, I also feel a strong sense of gratitude--not that he has to suffer through this difficult disease, of course, but that the medical care and treatment for diabetes has come such a long, long way.

I'm grateful for a world-class facility and practitioners who treat children with life-threatening conditions and help them to overcome, in most cases... and it's right here in our backyard! (Little did I know when I posted the Facebook submission for Primary Children's Medical Center on the Intermountain CFC page this morning that our own family would be relying on PCMC the very same night!) Most of all, I'm grateful that I have the opportunity to work for a cause that provides services like this to the community, because you never know--I certainly didn't-- when you may need them yourself.

True, I have medical insurance and a job, but to me that's hardly the point. The point is these services only exist in the first place because of caring people who give, and give generously, and repeatedly, from the heart. Even if we couldn't pay, we'd still be cared for. If people hadn't given over the years, if they had all stopped believing in good causes, if they had allowed skepticism and cynicism to override the "better angels of their nature" as Lincoln put it, I have to wonder,
would we be saying farewell to Riley tonight instead of planning a future where he has every prospect of leading a very normal and active life?

Okay, it's late and maybe I'm a little sentimental, but I can't help but believe that untold thousands, millions of people have incrementally made our son's future possible. I wish I could thank every one of them tonight. Thank YOU for believing."


Riley's home now. He still hates his shots and finger pokes, and will for quite some time to come. Christy and I are slowly adjusting to life as parents of a diabetic little boy (our first night included three trips to Walgreens and frantic calls to the on-call diabetic nurse when Riley's blood sugar dropped dangerously low) but the blessings haven't stopped, and we take joy in counting them.

Here are just a few:

--We have four fabulous boys who are helpful, kind, polite, and cheerful. They are even responsible when they know they need to be.
--My parents came home from a trip to Washington state hours before we needed them to watch our other boys so we could take Riley to the hospital.
--We have each other.
--Calvin was born and I was mostly recovered by the time we found out about Riley.
--We have a wonderful, comfortable home whee we can relax and feel the Spirit
--God listens to our prayers.
--We have testimonies of God's love for us.
--We have the best doctors, nurses, and kid-friendly hospital in the state. And we don't live all that far away from it.
--We have a strong extended family support system
--Neighbors and church friends who will drop everything for the chance to serve
--We are already benefiting from the countless hours/years of research and hard work to provide treatment and help for diabetes

I know in the long run this experience will be a big blessing to me and my family. It won't be easy, but it's going to do us a world of good.

The Parable of the Trumpet Case

Written for United Way and the Combined Federal Campaign (CFC):

So I'm sitting at the computer reading email when a news link titled Astronomers Discover Oldest Supernova to Date lures me away from the page. The story gets me thinking about space, and before I know it I'm at hubblesite.org, browsing through the amazing photos taken from the Hubble telescope that orbits the Earth. Wow. The pictures are beyond beautiful, but the sheer size and distance of our expanding universe start making me feel dizzy. When I try to comprehend the distance of a galaxy "100 million light years away" and "50,000" light years across, I feel insignificant. I start thinking maybe my meager efforts to do something important -- leave my mark in the world -- don't mean much after all.

Even on our dust-speck of a planet, I'm little more than a molecule. How can anything I do matter in the long run? I can't change the world. If I feed one hungry person, ten more step in line behind him, and guess what? I just ran out of soup. Fresh paint ages, blisters, then finally cracks and peels. The universe is expanding, cooling and will eventually end up dead and iced-over, if it doesn't collapse back into itself first. "What is the point of it all?" I think.

Then I remember the parable of the trumpet case. It's an especially meaningful story, because it happened to me. Picture me, a skinny seventh grader fresh out of grade school and now the littlest fish in the big pond known as junior high. I'm in the band, and I play the trumpet. It's a really cool, silver-plated Olds model I have inherited from my uncle, but it's got one major drawback: the case. Unlike most easily identifiable instrument cases, my trumpet case is slim, tall and brown. It looks exactly like a briefcase -- the last thing you'd ever want to be seen carrying down the school hall. ("Hey look guys, there goes the nerd!)

So one day after school I'm already late for the bus when I remember I left my trumpet case in the band room. I'm carrying a bunch of books, notebooks stuffed with loose papers, homework etc. So when I get to the band room, I cram it all in with my trumpet and start running to catch the bus. But I forget one important detail: my trumpet case has the habit of popping open when too full.

As I emerge out of the building, I see my bus getting ready to depart the bus zone. With a burst of speed, I leap from the top of the steps down to the loading area. That's when my trumpet case explodes... vomiting books, papers, valve oil and trumpet parts at the feet of the entire student body. As I frantically gather up the mess, I am aware of loud laughter, searing heat in my face, and a pack of ultra-cool ninth graders standing nearby. And then something unexpected happens. One of those ninth-graders steps away from the crowd, bends over, and starts helping me get everything back in the case so I can catch the bus.

Just an insignificant thing, really -- stepping away from the laughing crowd, picking up a couple of books. I don't know his name. I don't remember his face, or if I managed to say thanks. I do know one thing -- he didn't save the world that day. But that day, he saved me... and it meant the world. It had nothing to do with the number of books he picked up. It had everything to do with restoring my dignity as a human being. He stepped away from the crowd. He shared my burden, and made sure I wasn't alone that day.

The world's a big place. The galaxy is huge. And the universe is enormous beyond comprehension. But the worth of a single person dwarfs them all. That unknown ninth grader taught me, is still teaching me, to step away from the crowd... because to the world I may be just one person, but to one person I may be the world.

Review of Listening Woman (by Tony Hillerman)

You know you've found a good writer when you get a cultural education along with a good mystery, yet the education doesn't bother you because it's tightly interwoven with the fabric of the narrative itself. Though he doesn't write in first-person, Hillerman tells the story so believably from Joe Leaphorn's (the police detective protagonist) point of view that you almost feel like you're in the mind of the "slow-talking" Navajo as his story unfolds. You'll like the battle of wits between Leaphorn and the bad guy ("Gold Rims") in this one. Definitely a good read.

(Pasted from my Goodreads.com review)

My argument with a soft drink

Bruce's Head: Way to go, genius. I warned you not to have another diet soft drink and now you feel like crap for the third time in a row.

Bruce's Mouth: Sorry, I just felt like a soda, and...

Head: And now I can't tell my left brain from my right, thanks. The sodium in that beverage has sucked three-fourths of the water content out of our system, and I feel like someone is trying to squeeze me through the pupil of our right eye.

Mouth: It just tastes so good. I had this craving, you know?

Head: You had a craving? A craving! For a CAFFEINE-FREE diet Coke?? No sugar, AND no caffeine?!!?. What exactly is the POINT of that?

Mouth: Er...

Empty Coke can: Pardon me, and do excuse the interruption but I cannot help but feel somewhat responsible for the present predicament in which you find yourselves.

Head: I'm the only one in a predicament here. If mouth weren't so dry right now, he'd be whistling. How can you be responsible? Let me guess, you wriggled your way out of the fridge, hopped up onto the desk, opened and poured yourself down our protesting mouth and throat, right?

Coke can: Not quite, but I do come in an attractive package of crimson and gold.

Head: Wait 'til I get my hands on you... as soon as I can control them again... you won't be so attractive after we squeeze you into a twisted scrap of bent aluminum!

Headache: Hey, remember me? Still here! Party's been going on for three hours now! YEAH baby. Feel that beat! It's quite a job to throb!

Head: Ow. Go away.

Can: Perhaps I can help. You are obviously under-hydrated at present. Perhaps one of my brethren, this time poured in a glass container over three or four cubes of fresh, clear ice with that delightful spider-web cloud at the center. Our liquid refreshment does cause those cubes to pop and tinkle every so delightfully!

Mouth: Ooh ooh! Yeah, good idea!

Head: No!! Shut up! And definitely no tinkling in any glasses! Diet soda is not as nice as it sounds -- it's really on HIS side.

Mouth: Whose side?

Headache: Mine. YEAH baby! Still going strong! Boom boom boom buh-BAM a lamma ding dong...!!

Can: You might try taking me with a tablet or two of ibuprofen?

Head: (Shouting) What's that? Speak up! Pills, you say? Well, I was considering that option but I don't like to become too indebted to those things...

Headache: Wait! No, no -- bad idea. We don't need those guys. I'm doing great on my own, really. HEYYY JUUUUDE, let's make it bad...!!

Can: If I may...

Head: Ughh! How can I think straight with you two around? Let's see now...

Eyes: Sorry, no can do. Kinda busy here. You're squeezing us shut at the moment.

Headache: Heh heh heh.

Mouth: Mr. Can has a point - our friend Advil might want to help out.

Head: Save it. You just want more of... more of HIM! I'll never, never allow this to happen again, do you hear me!!?? NEVER!

Mouth to can: (Whispers) See you tomorrow morning? Say, 10 a.m.?

Can: Delighted, dear chap. I'd be simply fizzled!

Headache: Go, baby GO!!

Review of "America Alone" by Mark Steyn

Mark Steyn does not pull punches. In a world of self-effacing PC mumbo jumbo, this book isn't just a breath of fresh air -- it's an icy gale blowing from the Land of Common Sense. Icy, because the truth of what's happening in the world is chilling. Why have we forgotten that Islamic terrorists flew planes into our buildings and killed thousands of innocent Americans? These days we're all too busy apologizing for our existence and celebrating "multi-culturalism" to stand up to the threat of radical Muslims who are determined to exterminate us infidels.

The point of the book is basically that, by the time the world does wake up (if it does), there will be too few of left to do anything about the takeover of radical Islam. Europeans are reproducing at the average rate of 1.5 kids per couple, and their countries are shrinking. Meanwhile, Muslims are having 4.5 kids per couple. It doesn't take a math genius to figure out what's going to happen. America is barely at the sustainable rate of 2.1 kids per couple, but if we keep following the European trend we'll start to disappear as well. In its haste to abandon Christianity in favor of "post-Christian rationalism," Europe and many other liberals have, ironically, abandoned reason and common sense at the same time.

This is a good read, but sobering. Now get out there and have some kids so we don't enter into the second Dark Ages.

Zeke Zooter - Chapter 3

I sat there doing my best to listen to Janowski’s lecture, and tried hard not to think about the chalk throwing itself at her head.

Yes, things were going just fine. And then I noticed a girl two rows over looking at me.

First of all, I’m not used to girls looking at me (as you know by now). But secondly, it was the way she was looking at me. Not really at me, but kind of right next to me, like her eyes couldn’t focus properly. She also had a weird expression on her face, as if she were trying to figure out why I was sitting in class.

I tried to remember her name. Jenny or Penny or something. Then she saw me looking back at her and suddenly her eyes knew how to focus again and she mouthed something to me with a quizzical expression on her face.

“What?” I mouthed back.

She pointed at me and mouthed again. Now, I’m a pretty accomplished mouther: Dex and I were both well practiced at reading lips. We used to carry on entire conversations in Mr. Bratfill’s fifth grade class (man, was that guy boring!). So I could’ve sworn that, while pointing at me, she mouthed, “Who is that?”

I sort of half-shrugged and opened my hands palm up, giving her my best look of, “huh?”

“Perhaps Ezekiel Zooter and Daphne Pennyweather would be so kind as to share with the class their delightful conversation,” Janowski’s voice suddenly broke in. “Doubtless it contains many lucid insights into the rise of Chinese communism.”

I felt myself go instantly red. It wasn’t because I’d been caught “talking” in class, but for being called Ezekiel and because I’d been trying to mind my own business and keep a low profile after last week.

“No wish to share?” Janowski purred. I could tell she was going to milk it this time, and I braced myself.

“Come now, what were you so eager to tell Miss Pennyweather about Ezekiel?”

“Nothing,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Ms. Janowski, it wasn’t…”

“Be quiet, Daphne. I am not addressing you. Well Ezekiel? No doubt you were trying to persuade Miss Pennyweather that today is Saturday. Or perhaps it isn’t day at all but night-time and there is a raging blizzard outside?”

One or two students snickered but most of the class was silent.

“No? I’m sure it was nothing so mundane as a wink and a smile—because that wouldn’t be dramatic enough for you, would it Ezekiel?”

I’ve heard about people seeing red or being blinded by rage but I always thought it was a metaphor until then. I really did see the color red, and my head and face burned hot. She was going to pay for this, and suddenly I knew how. I jumped to my feet, pointed at her and yelled triumphantly, “I wish you were an ugly old toad!”

An awful hush fell over the classroom. I stared hard at Janowski, concentrating – willing her to transform into the world’s ugliest toad.

Nothing happened.

I began to sweat.

“I said,” I repeated loudly and firmly, “I wish you were an UGLY… OLD… TOAD.”

Tick, tick, tick. The classroom clock began to count down until the explosion.

But Janowski appeared to be in shock.

I gulped. This was going to be bad. I had just lit the fuse of an old, sweaty stick of dynamite and it could blow up at any time.

Somewhere in the class a student tittered and that seemed to snap Janowski out of disbelief. She collected herself, and slowly formed a menacing smile.

“Well, Ezekiel, it would appear your wish has NOT been granted.”

And then from the back of the class, with flawless timing, came Dex’s drawling voice.

“He sure came close, though. Ugly and old — two out of three ain’t bad.”
The classroom erupted in cheers and applause. A spontaneous chant broke out as students pounded on their desks in rhythm.

“Ugly old toad! Ugly old toad! Ugly old toad! Ugly old…”

“SILENCE!!!”

The chanting froze so quickly I half expected the words to drop out of the air and shatter on the ground. Each student cringed behind his or her desk, taking safety in the fact that everyone was an accomplice. For those few seconds of glory, the entire class had freed itself from Janowski’s evil grasp.

I became aware of three things simultaneously. First, that I was still standing. Second, that my wish had completely failed me. Third, that I had, without meaning to, just become a school legend. Dex, too. Somehow, that strengthened me for what was about to come.

Janowski stood there, breathing heavily and twitching with rage. The look she gave me was so venomous that it reminded me of grandma’s story about “the evil eye.” I could tell she was trying to decide on the most severe punishment she could get away with.

“Mister Zooter, your display has earned you and the ENTIRE CLASS a five-page essay, single spaced, on the downfall of the Ming Dinasty. It shall have at least five sources. It is due tomorrow. Any student who does not turn in the full assignment will fail the class. In addition, you and Dexter will each receive detention for the remainder of the week. Oh, and you too, Miss Pennyweather.”

I nodded somberly and carefully avoided looking at Dex because I knew we’d both start laughing at this stroke of good luck. Teachers really should talk to each other about who’s given which students detention and how long. I knew Janowski would have made it two weeks if she’d known about Barthorn. A five-page essay in one day, though! I knew I was going to be up past midnight working on that one.

Janowski was in no mood to go on lecturing. Instead she gave the class a reading assignment and warned that any talking would result in a visit to the principal’s office. She spent the rest of the period stealing glances at herself in the window and straightening her hair.

The bell finally rang and the students shuffled out of class silently. The funny thing was, nobody seemed to mind about the essay. Kids kept coming up and slapping me and Dex on the back. “Great show, Zeke. That was classic, Dex. I thought Janowski’s wig was going to slip off, she built up so much steam.”

“Well, see you in detention, I guess,” Dex grinned, ambling off to science while I went in the opposite direction toward English.

At any other time I would have been elated to flummox Janowski in world history, but I couldn’t help stewing about the wish not working properly. Had I done something wrong? Maybe everything else was just a coincidence. Maybe I didn’t have any wishing gift. But if that was true, why didn’t I have any memory of last Thursday? I am completely losing it, I thought.

“Zeke!”

I turned around to find Daphne walking fast to catch up with me.

“What?” I said, more irritably than I meant.

“I’m sorry about getting us all in trouble with Janowski,” she said. “I mean, I tried to tell her it was my fault but she wouldn’t listen.”

“I guess I’m just her favorite target,” I said, and turned to keep going.
She kept walking beside me.

“Anyway, I just wanted to know who your friend was.”

I stopped. So that was it. More humiliation and a five-page essay just because she had a crush on Dex? I looked at her. She didn’t seem like the kind of girl Dex would go for. She wasn’t especially pretty, but not ugly either. Average height, kind of twiggy, with dark black hair weaved into braids on both sides. She did have big, dark eyes… but what was up with those braids?”

“So, are you gonna tell me who he is?” she persisted.

“His name’s Dexter, OK?”

I don’t know why I put the ‘er’ at the end of Dex’s name when I said it. I knew he hated “Dexter” almost as much as I hated “Ezekiel.”

Daphne laughed.

“No, not Dex,” she said. “I mean that really short, older guy with the pointy beard and the weird hat who’s been following you around. Is he like a counselor who’s been assigned to you or something?”

I stared at her. Pointy beard? Hat? At least I wasn’t the only nut job in the school. There’s way too much lead in our drinking fountain water, I thought.

“What are you talking about? Nobody’s following me around.”

She looked confused, then kind of half-smiled. “Oh, well you don’t have to tell me who he is if it’s personal or something.”

I couldn’t help myself. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was there. Nothing but middle school students hurrying to get to class before the bell rang.
I suddenly smelled a rat.

“Oh very funny, Daphne. Ha ha. Is this about last Friday, because I’m not crazy, OK? You’re not going to make me believe somebody’s there when they’re not! Now if you don’t mind I’d rather not be late to English.”

And I stormed off, leaving her looking really confused.

After the exciting events of world history, I was ready for the rest of the day to be normal. The trouble was, a normal rest of the day wasn’t ready for me.

I’d wanted to use the bathroom between classes but my little conversation with Daphne was going to make me late. So mid-way through English I was forced to raise my hand and get Mrs. Walters’ attention.

“Mrs. Walters, can I be excused please?”

“I’m not sure, Zeke, can you?”

“Oh, uh, I mean, may I?” Mrs. Walters always insisted on her students using proper grammar or she wouldn’t acknowledge the question. She was kind of a snob, that way, but otherwise nice. She excused me.

Now if you’re like me, you don’t look for strange and wacky things to happen in bathrooms. You walk in, you take care of business, you walk out. I mean, it’s pretty straightforward stuff. On this particular occasion my bathroom experience was proceeding normally—that is, until a toilet flushed in one of the stalls to my left. I’d thought I was in the room alone, so the flush surprised me a little, but not much. But then the other toilet flushed right after the first one, followed by the third one. Then they all started flushing over and over.

Our school had finally got with the times a couple of weeks earlier and installed automatic sensors on all the toilets in the building. So even though the flushing was weird, I figured the new sensors had malfunctioned.

The flushing finally stopped as I headed to the sink to wash my hands. I put my hands in front of the sensor to start the water. The water in the sink to my right rushed out; nothing came from my sink. I pulled my hands back. The water in the adjacent sink stopped running. Moving to the middle sink, I put my hands forward. The water ran in the sink I’d just left, but not in mine. So I moved down to the last sink and tried again. This time the other two started.

“What the crap is going on?” I said out loud.

Over the sound of the water, I thought I heard a faint snicker. Slowly, I pulled my hands away from the sink. Both the water and the laughing stopped. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I stood there, my mouth open, listening.

Finally, I turned back to the middle sink. This time the water started, but so did the automatic paper towel dispensers.

“This place has gone haywire!” I said out loud. But at least the water was running in my sink so I pumped some soap into my hands and quickly washed them. As I finished, I glanced up into the mirror.

An ugly, bearded face was peering over my shoulder, smiling at me.

“AAAARRRGH!” I yelled and spun around …only to find an empty room. With my heart in my throat and my stomach somewhere around my ankles, I looked around wildly, then dropped to my knees to peer under the stalls.

Nothing.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, gulped and opened them again.

Nobody.

Nervously, I looked over my shoulder at the mirror but all I saw were my own bugged-out eyes. I leaned in closer over the sink to examine the reflection. It looked normal enough. I reached up to give it a tap.

Whoosh!! The water in all three sinks exploded out of the faucets and drenched my shirt and hair.

Screaming, I bolted from the bathroom, raced down the hall, turned the corner and stood with my back to the wall, breathing heavily. Across the hall and behind the classroom door I could hear Mrs. Walters explaining how to diagram sentences.

I didn’t know what to do. I’d never been attacked by a bathroom before. Who was going to believe me? The upper half of my body was soaked and even my shoes were soggy. I weighed my options. I could go back to class and try to explain my condition, but I had no gift of B.S. like Dex. I could go to the office and report a malfunction of the new bathroom equipment, but given my recent history, I doubted anyone would believe me. Chances were I’d get in more trouble. I could try a different bathroom to get some paper towels…

“No way!” I said to myself out loud. I vowed to hold it for the rest of school that day.

What I needed was a nice big towel. Why not wish for one? the thought suddenly occurred to me. Couldn’t hurt…

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and concentrated. “I wish I had a great big fluffy towel,” I whispered. Suddenly, I felt something soft in my hand and opened my eyes excitedly.

I was holding a handkerchief. A green one.

“Aargh!” I growled. “I can’t do anything right!”

There was only one thing to do. Wiping my hair, face and neck with the handkerchief as best I could, I opened the classroom door and walked inside.

“And in this case,” Mrs. Walters was saying to the bored class, “the noun ‘fire hydrant’ is the object of the sen…” she broke off, seeing me walk in all wet.

“Why, Zeke!” she flustered. “What…what on earth happened to you?”

“It looks like he was the object of the fire hydrant if you ask me,” a student chimed out.

Everyone laughed except me and Mrs. Walters.

“Zeke, what happened?” she repeated as I sat down.

“Something’s wrong with the new sinks,” I muttered.

“Are you alright? Do you need to go dry off?”

“I’m OK.”

She stared at me for another moment and then, amazingly, let it drop and went on with the lesson. If there was one class and teacher I’d have picked for something like this to happen in, it was Mrs. Walters’ English class. I guess she figured if a student wants to douse himself thoroughly during a bathroom break, it must be his business—as long as he didn’t interrupt the lesson.

My pride smarted a little, but now that I realized I wasn’t getting into extra trouble, I began to wonder what had happened in the bathroom, exactly? I’d seen a face in the mirror—an older, leathery, weather-beaten face of a little man with a strange red hat and a little tuft of beard… a pointy beard! Isn’t that what Daphne had said to me in the hall? It that who she’d seen following me around?

I looked over my shoulder, then to the left and right, but all I saw were students with glazed-over eyes as they listened to Walters droning on about past participles. I took out a pencil and began to sketch. Drawing was something I wasn’t half-bad at, actually, and before long I had drawn a face that was pretty similar to the one I’d seen.

Out of the blue, I got this creepy feeling someone was looking over my shoulder. I glanced around but still saw nothing strange. In fact, the desk next to me was empty. I kept working on the drawing but strained my other senses for a hint of anything out of the ordinary. I can’t explain it but somehow I knew someone was there, and I had an idea who it was. For some reason, maybe all the people around, I didn’t feel afraid anymore. If he’d wanted to hurt me, he could easily have done it by now.

There was a soft noise to my right. I glanced quickly in that direction without moving my head. Was it my imagination or was the empty desk next to me a little closer than before?

I got an idea. Still drawing, I enlarged the nose and put one of the eyes off center, giving the character a loony expression.

There! I’d definitely heard the desk scrape a little closer that time! And there was another sound, like the soft shuffling of a body in a chair and someone muttering under his breath.

Smiling to myself, I moved the paper toward my left, away from the sound. I intentionally exaggerated the size of the ears and drew some hair growing on them. The muttering grew louder and I thought I heard the word “shoddy.”

Bending over the paper and encircling it with my arms, I hastily added warts, a smile with missing and crooked teeth, and a finger going into the nose. Then I abruptly sat up and moved my arms back to reveal the masterpiece.

There was a gasp, followed by … CRASH! The desk and chair on my right had fallen over sideways. A few girls in the class screamed and then there was shouting.

“WHY YOU MISERABLE WRETCH OF A ROTTEN POTATO, I’LL CAIRSE YOU WITH HUMPS ON YER BACK AND BURSTING BOILS ON YER BOTTOM!”

And there he was. Red-faced and seething, he’d suddenly appeared, pinned under the desk and writhing to free himself and stand up.

The class erupted in shrieks and chaos to find a little old man in green pants, brown tunic and a red hat writhing under the fallen desk and shouting threats to (seemingly) nobody in particular. A moment later, the little fellow had freed himself and jumped to his feet. Immediately he snapped his fingers with an odd little wave of his hand. The next moment everything slowed down and the air grew warm and heavy—not like a muggy kind of heavy, but heavy with something alive that made a soft humming noise that instantly made you drowsy.

Students all over the room quietly slipped back into their chairs and put their heads down, in slow motion, like in a dream. I felt like I was watching it all underwater. I felt drowsy too, but (maybe because I was still wet) I was able to stay awake until the air began to grow thin and cool again and things began to speed up.

Mrs. Walters was still standing at the front of the class, her chin resting on her neck. The humming sound faded away and she gave a little start and immediately began teaching again as if nothing had happened. Students’ heads began popping up all over and I noticed that they looked around furtively as if checking to see who’d seen them napping.

I blinked hard and shook myself. Had I been dreaming, too? But there was the desk next to me, lying on its side.

I noticed that my shirt was now completely dry. There was no sign of the little man.

I sat in detention that afternoon, wondering who my mysterious little follower was, and why Daphne Pennyweather could see him and not me. I tried to catch Daphne’s eye, but she was sitting at the back of the classroom, staring sulkily out the window. Detention was probably a new experience for her.

I looked at Dex. He was sleeping with his head on the desk.

Mr. Tuck, the teacher on duty, sat reading a paperback as usual, one hand in a bag of chips and his enormous sweaty belly propped on the desk in front of him. Occasionally he would snort and chuckle to himself. He didn’t care much what students did in detention, as long as it was quiet. Every now and then, if he heard a noise, he would bark out, “Quiet!” whether it was a student whispering or the sound of the furnace coming on. Sometimes he did it when there was no sound at all.

The hour dragged on. I looked at things in a daze…a group of ninth graders playing cards… Mr. Tuck chewing on his chips and turning pages… Dex drooling on his desk… Daphne staring out the window…

I followed her gaze, and there, sitting on the lowest branch of the tree by the flagpole, sat the little old fellow in the green pants and red hat. I gave a start and a little gasp.

Daphne glanced over.

I looked away.

The ninth graders shuffled their cards.

Dex snorted.

Mr. Tuck barked, “Quiet!”

By the time I looked back, the little fellow was gone.

At 3 o’ clock, without a word from Mr. Tuck, the students all got up and started filing toward the door. Mr. Tuck glanced up at the clock and growled, “Right. Class dismissed. Think twice before you act up next time.”

For once, I left Dex sitting there asleep. I wanted to see if I could get a word with the little man, and I was afraid it might be too much for Dex if he saw me talking to the air.

When I got outside, however, I was disappointed. He was nowhere in sight.

Taking my usual route home, I crossed the road in front of our school, took the wooden bridge over Johnson’s Slough, crossed Farnsworth Avenue and entered the city park. It was cloudy and damp outside, from an earlier sprinkle. I took the path that cut across the southwest corner of the park, which had the most trees. I hadn’t gone far when I heard footsteps behind me. Was it him? I looked over my shoulder, but instead of an impish old man I saw Dirk Camacho walking quickly to catch up. He didn’t live in this part of town, and I knew he was coming to pick a fight.

I walked faster. I wasn’t afraid of Dirk, even though he was a stuck up jock who thought he was cooler and tougher than everyone else. I was pretty sure I could hold my own if I had to fight him. But I was afraid of facing my mom. She didn’t put up with that kind of thing. If I got in a fight with Dirk I’d have her to deal with, and I’d rather face 10 Dirk Camachos than disappoint my mom again….

Suddenly, from behind the trees in front of me, Felix, Andrew and Clyde stepped out, blocking my path. It was a trap.

I stopped and let Dirk catch up. Standing sideways so I could see all of them at once, I grinned at Dirk.

“How’s it going, Dirt? Oops, I mean, Dirk. What brings you and your henchmen out here this afternoon?”

It sounded brave, but I knew I was in trouble. My only chance was to stall them and look for an opportunity to escape.

“We thought we’d come have some fun in the park today, didn’t we guys?” Dirk sneered. “It’s too bad your little friend Dex couldn’t join us. We were hoping both of you would want to play.”

He took a step forward and the others crowded in.

“Wow. Four on one. Really brave of you, Dirt. I thought you were the toughest guy in school? Not to mention the coolest, fastest, handsomest… let’s see, what am I leaving off the list? Smartest is definitely out….”

“Shut up you freckle-faced pansy! You’re gonna pay for gym class last week.”
“It’s a public school, Dirt, we don’t have to pay for classes.”

“You know what I mean. You and your skinny friend put… you know…in my… you know.” He obviously couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Now, you might think I had this coming to me. It is pretty rotten to line a fellow’s jock-strap with super-glue, after all. But you wouldn’t think so if you knew Dirk Camacho. The guy would never shut his trap about how tough he was, and to prove it he would pick on smaller kids who had no friends or means of defense. The week before we’d decided to make Dirk more acquainted with his gym underwear, he had thrown Edwin Poodle’s clothes into the shower after tying them in knots. Edwin was about the shyest, mildest kid there was—really nice, too. But Dirk and his gang didn’t care. They’d lined up on both sides of the bathroom snapping their wet towels at Edwin as he tried to get his clothes back. By the time he did, he was covered in welts and crying.

That was the kind of creep Dirk Camacho was.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but whatever you got, you deserved,” I said to him coolly.

“Well now you’re gonna get what you deserve. C’mon guys.”

Dirk’s three cronies tried to lunge at me, but instead they did a simultaneous face plant into the dirt. I didn’t pause to find out why, because Dirk was already on top of me. Instead of throwing a punch, he tried to tackle me. He put me in a choke hold but I managed to squirm out of it, grab the back of his jacket and pull it over his head.

Taking advantage of Dirk’s temporary blindness, I pushed him into Larry, Moe and Curly, who had just managed to get up.

The four of them fell down again and I took off running while they tried to disentangle themselves. I’m no chicken, but I know when I’m outnumbered. Sprinting around a bend in the path, I ran off the trail and dived behind a fallen log.

Trying hard to contain my heavy breathing, I heard Dirk running around the corner calling to the others, who were trying hard to keep up without their shoes on.

“Hurry, he’s getting away!” Dirk yelled, rounding the next bend.

I was about to jump up and go back in the opposite direction when I heard a voice behind me.

“Clever lad, gave ‘em the slip!”

I yelled, and wheeled around to find the little elf-guy standing there.

“Hush now, or they’ll hear yeh and double back,” he warned in a thick Irish brogue.

“Who are you?” I wheezed, still trying to catch my breath.

“In your tongue, I’m known as Grimwhistle.”

“But, what are you, and why are you following me?”

The little man clucked. “Now, Zeke, you surprise me. After all the stories yer grandmother’s told yeh over the years I’d ha’ though’ you’d recognize a leprechaun when yeh saw one.”

A leprechaun? I thought. Grimwhistle?

“Tha’s right, I said a leprechaun,” he said gruffly. “Sorta your guardian leprechaun, if yeh want to know—e’en though that’s mostly unheard of among my kind.”
I gaped. “Guarding leprechaun? Oh, so that’s why you attacked me in the bathroom this afternoon!?” I whispered.

“Jus’ havin’ a bit o’ fun with yeh lad. Never like to introduce me-self normally—it’s so dreary. Besides,” he chuckled, “I noticed yeh like to have some fun now and then yourself, or else why are these lads runnin’ arter you in the wood?”

He had a point.

Just then Dirk and his friends came back into view and we ducked down behind the log.
“Hey, now’s your chance, Mr. Guardian,” I whispered. “Those guys are out for blood. Are you gonna protect me or what?”

“I never do for a man what ‘e can’t do for himself,” Grimwhistle answered. “Besides, how do you think those three rascals got their laces crossed?” he chuckled.

My eyes widened. “That was you?”

He smiled wryly. “Whatever happened to shoe buckles I’d like to know? Much safer, they are.” He winked. “Can’t say much for the quality or style of their footwear, either,” he mused, peering over the log.

I peeked over too. Dirk and his friends had stopped and were arguing over what to do. His barefoot friends wanted to go back and get their shoes back on, but Dirk wanted to start looking in the forest.

“There’s no way he got away that fast,” he seethed. “He’s hiding around here somewhere.”

I looked at Grimwhistle but he just shrugged as if he were sure they’d give it up and go home soon.

“Grimm,” I said, “we can’t let them head back to the school. Dex is going to be coming along this way pretty soon and they’ll jump him for sure.”

“Jump him? Aren’t they more likely to box his ears?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Ah.” Grimm thought for a moment, then removed his odd red hat (revealing a nearly bald head) and handed it to me.

“Here,” he said. “Cup this over yer mouth and say something insulting into it -- something you’d like to say to those four.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I grabbed his hat, thought for a second, then cupped it over my mouth and mumbled a few choice words. To my surprise, the end of the hat bulged out like a balloon filling with air.

Grimm took it from me, holding it shut to prevent the air from escaping. He peeked over the top of the log for a second, then gave the bulging end of the hat four or five sharp squeezes. I looked at him, bewildered.

He raised his eyebrows at me and grinned wickedly. Holding the end of the hat over the top of the log, he suddenly released the hand that was clamped down over the skinny end. There was a slight whoosh and a hiss, and a moment later, from about 50 yards on the other side of the trail, I heard my own voice yelling, “Hey, manure piles!! There are some grubs and flies over here who want to know if you’re available!”

“There he is, come on!” Dirk shouted. And they tore into the underbrush, swearing and threatening to rip my limbs off.

I looked at Grimm. “Not bad,” I said.

“One reason leprechauns are so hard to catch,” he said, standing up and brushing leaves off his tunic. “Now, go find your friend. I’m off to find a nice place to light me pipe and put me feet up.”

“But, you still haven’t told me everything.”

“Everything? That’d be an awful long time in the tellin’”

“You know what I mean,” I said. “Everything as in, who you are, why you’re following me around, what’s been happening to me lately, how come I couldn’t see you at first, and why that one girl could, and…”

“Ay, the girl, now that is curious, that is,” he said, rubbing his beard. “Got the Sight, that one ‘as. Never would ha’ suspected it in a young Yankee gairl…”

“What’s the Sight?” I asked.

“Now’s not the time for questions, lad. You can ask me later, on the journey. Now you’d best be getting’ back and warning yer friend, the one they call the Moose Hugger.”

“Moosbrugg… Wait! Journey? Where are we…?”

“Hurry now, before your handsome friends come back. We’ll talk soon,” he said, slipping behind a tree. “When it’s time to leave,” I heard his voice say.

I hurried after him, but he’d disappeared. I hesitated for a moment, then ran back up the path toward school to find Dex.