I Want a Bidet Today

I’ve been fascinated with bathrooms since I was child. As a five year old, I’d convince Ross, my four-year-old brother, it’d be fun to swing from our Aunt Audrey’s and Uncle Ron’s bathroom towel racks like monkeys, even though doing this pulled the racks out of the walls by their screws. On another occasion, I told Ross to help me gather apricots from Aunt Audrey’s and Uncle Ron’s backyard to fill their toilet with the apricots and watch them go down, which they didn’t. 

On family road trips, I caused delays at the gas station bathrooms. On one occasion, my family waited in the Winnebago for me to come out of the gas station bathroom, however, I was engaged in conversation with another 10-year-old girl. My frustrated mother marched into the bathroom and even though my hands were still covered with powdered soap, she yanked me out by my shirt collar while I waved good-bye to my newfound friend.

As I grew into adulthood, I always made sure my bathrooms were clean while proudly displaying beautiful towels in blues and greens. At 35, I became engaged and joined my fiancé on one of his business trips abroad. He’d been traveling abroad since he was a young child to visit relatives and therefore, was accustomed to every custom, however, I’d only traveled from one end of California to the other. My sense of being an ignorant American was about to be replaced with a fresh outlook on life. 

We landed in Paris, France and headed for our hotel. I was delirious with exhaustion to the point of nausea and thought only about the comfort of a soft pillow. Even though I could barely see straight, I spied the bathroom door and instinctively made a beeline to see what Europe’s facility offered. I walked in and noticed an odd-shaped toilet. It had different handles, was lower to the floor and there was no toilet seat cover. I figured it must be their version of a men’s urinal, however, I was perplexed as to why a men’s public toilet was in this luxury hotel. To make matters more mind-boggling, there was a hand towel draped over the side of this men’s urinal with soap balanced on the towel!

I walked over to the urinal and peered into the bowl, noticing there was no water in it. Yes, there was water in it. All of a sudden, I heard a knock on the bathroom door and my fiancé asking, “Are you okay? You’ve been in there quite a while.” I bolted upright and said, “Um, there’s a weird toilet in here. Come take a look.” I opened the door so he could see the oddity of my discovery.

He walked in and while I pointed to the funny-shaped urinal, he paused in silence. With furrowed eyebrows, my naturally-quiet and extremely proper fiancé thoughtfully gazed into my anxiously-awaiting, perplexed, blue eyes. With obvious discomfort, he found the words to say, “That’s a bidet.” I asked, “Is it for men?” He said, "It's for both men and women. It's a cleaning device." I asked, “Is there supposed to be a lid and toilet seat?” He shook his head from left to right. I said, “I don’t understand then, what this thing is or why it’s here.” He explained its purpose in as few words as possible and then, said he needed to head to his business meeting.

I couldn’t wait for him to leave so I could begin the investigation and experimentation, free from interruption or distraction. I noticed a variety of soaps from which to choose. “Oh”, I thought, “lavender would be nice, however, there’s also rose, honeysuckle or jasmine.” I decided to try them all. I straddled the bidet this way and then that. I made the temperature this and that while enjoying this new-found bathroom gadget. After 30 minutes of flushing the ignorant American aspect of myself and feeling fresh as a daisy, I was rejuvenated. Instead of conking out, I decided to walk along the Champs-Élysées and become one with the French.

It’s been 20 years since the experience with my best bidet friend. I’ve researched on-line to see how to have one of my own. I told Aunt Audrey my desire and she said to absolutely have a Toto bidet. I haven’t figured out how I’d get my current facility out of my bathroom to have the Toto one installed therefore, I’ve attempted make-shift bidets all these years. Water goes everywhere and it’s not the same as having the real deal. Too, sometimes I apply self-tanning lotion onto my legs to camouflage my jiggling thighs therefore, I can’t get water splashed on them. In these middle-aged years since my pheromones dried up, I put extra effort into my beauty regime making sure I feel as youthful as possible. In the wise words of Katy Cochrane, a trusted and knowing friend, “Tanned fat is better than white fat any day of the year.”

At the tender age of 56, I continue learning all life offers, however, one thing’s for sure: I want a bidet and I want one today.

Charles, Jr. ~ The Drowning of a Toddler

Our family was on a road trip to Disneyland in a rented RV. It was a vacation, including six teen-agers, two of who were Ross, my deceased brother’s, kids. Spencer, our son, was two-and-half years old at the time. I remember my mother telling me, I ought to have my head examined for attempting such an excursion. As it turned out, this journey was a memorable one.

            We made several stops along the way to various sites, such as Hearst Castle. We rode horses at a dude ranch and spent the night at a hot springs “resort” for RV drivers. Did you know the smelly waters of hot springs could turn even your most precious jewelry a greenish black?

            At last, we arrived at Disneyland and checked into the Disneyland Hotel. The teen-agers were excited to get onto the rides. They were given their passes and off they ran. I stayed with Spencer, while my husband caught up to the others to enjoy big-kid rides. It was early in the afternoon when Spencer and I took the tram to Disneyland.

The intense Southern California sun was relentless. I pushed Spencer’s covered stroller to a water fountain, lifting him out so we could splash water on our faces. We were at the fountain approximately 10 minutes when a tall, blond, handsome fellow in his early 30’s, approached. He commented on how much fun we were having, watching us with envy and sadness. I looked closely at this man’s face and could see an empty, faraway look in his eyes. What was he thinking at this moment? What happened to this gentle-faced young man? I took the time to listen.

Holding Spencer’s hand, I asked this man why he approached. He said he had a son, Charles Jr., who was also two-years old, with blond hair and blue eyes. I told him I was enjoying my life with my son, feeling blessed having him. Charles Sr. pulled out of his wallet a well-worn photograph. A smiling boy, sitting next to the edge of his swimming pool, was wearing only a diaper. It was then the man began his story.

Charles Sr. was from Mariner’s Cove, the Hawaii Kai side of Oahu, Hawaii. I told him I lived on Oahu eight years, having attended the University of Hawaii. I spent a majority of my time in Mariner’s Cove with a family who accepted me as their calabash, or adopted daughter. I knew Hawaii Kai very well and even knew of the street on which he lived. What a twist of fate he and I should meet today.

One day, Charles Sr., and his young son were in their fenced backyard, sitting by the pool, playing. Thirsty for water, Dad carried Charles Jr., outside the pool area, setting him down near the gate. Dad had an eight-foot high, security-alarmed gate surrounding the pool, with a lock on the gate. After a mere two minutes, Dad returned to the pool area, calling his son. No answer. As Dad rounded the corner, to his horror he discovered Charles Jr., face down in the swimming pool, with his water-filled diaper visible.

Dad dove into the pool, pulled his son out of the water and administered CPR. With his portable telephone nearby, he dialed 911. The paramedics arrived, also administered CPR, only to deliver the most shocking news to Charles Sr., “I am sorry, Sir, we are unable to revive your son.”

Spencer and I stood quietly.  Charles Sr. broke the silence by telling me no matter how much security I think I have; never turn my back on my young son when he is near water. I nodded in agreement. I thanked this man for approaching and sharing his story. He told me the likeness of my son to Charles Jr., was so overwhelming, he felt compelled to talk with me. To this day, when Spencer is near water, I look back into the eyes of Charles Sr., and am reminded of his beautiful young son.

Charles Sr. has a gorgeous blond daughter now, whom we met. He displays a tremendous amount of devotion to his young daughter.

We do not know what awaits us around the corners of our lives.  We can, however, recognize and acknowledge the precious treasures we are given. When I look into Spencer’s eyes, I know I do. 

As the Crow Flies ~ Sex Education Was a Nightmare

Sex education is never a joy-ride for a 13-year-old. I especially scoffed at the fact one even had a body, let alone certain parts. I dealt with the birds and the bees by covering my ears hollering at my mother, “I don’t want to hear it!”  

I began my new school in early September as an 8^th grade student at Parsons Junior High. I saw my class list and instantly became horrified when I read in bold letters, “Sex Education, Period 3, Mr. Crow.” Racing home, I told my mother she needed to sign a paper to get me out of this class. She waived her arm in the air and said, “Honey, you’re 13 now and the time is right.” I exclaimed, “But, Mom! I barely even have anything yet – it’s too soon!”

The first day of the deeply-dreaded class, I chose to sit as far from Mr. Crow as possible because he was the teacher of that class. I hoped to get through this year without being noticed, surrounded by my classmates.

Mr. Crow began by asking the class various questions about our summer. I remained silent,  however, we had to introduce ourselves and raise our hand if we were new to the school. My hand went up and so did the bottom of my white sleeveless top with tiny embroidered strawberries. Mr. Crow made an immediate bee-line through the desks to be at my side. He hollered, “Debbie Patterson, if I see your belly button one more time, I’ll put masking tape over it!” Admittedly, my favorite shirt was becoming too small, however, I adored this gift from my mother. When I defiantly said, “You touch me and you’re in big trouble, Mister”, he marched me to the front of the class and slapped a piece of masking tape over my belly button!

Sitting quietly at my desk one day in Mr. Crow’s class, he began frantically tapping his pointer on the chalk board. “Can anyone tell me the meaning of Cooper’s Droop?” From the blank stares of the students, it was clear none of us knew the term. Mr. Crow explained it was droopy breasts. He thundered, “It’s what happens when girls don’t wear a bra!” Snickering to my friends, I told them he had horrible handwriting and it appeared he’d written, “Cooper’s Poop.”

As if by magic, he was standing next to me again! Fearful he would grab me, I leaned far away, fell out of my desk chair and crashed to the floor. The class was in hysterics while Mr. Crow pointed his stick for me to stand next to the chalk board and give my explanation of Cooper’s Droop. I crawled to my feet and slowly walked to the front of the class with steam pouring out my ears. I boldly announced, “Class, I don’t believe Cooper’s Poop is even in the dictionary.” The class screamed in laughter while Mr. Crow aimed his pointer at the door. When I asked, “What for this time?” he told me to go to the principal’s office. When I protested, he said, “Tell your mother to get you a training bra or I’ll wrap them with tape!”

The principal called my mother at work and she picked me up. In silence we headed to Sears for my first training bra and she handed me six boxes of size AAA teeny-weeny training bras. She told me to go into a dressing room and get the tightest one. I continued slinging the items over the door and finally marched out with one. I begged, “Oh, Mom. Please don’t make me wear this ugly thing! It looks like two Doritos with strings.” She said, “Just get through school, Honey. What you wear at home is your business.” My Raisenettes and I moped behind my mother to the cash register. The next afternoon I was walking down our dirt road when I heard the sing-song of Greg, the 15-year-old neighbor boy, “Debbie’s getting boobies, Debbie’s getting boobies.” Horrified, I turned around and raced back home to put on my trusty new training bra.

Recently I emailed Bernice, one of my sweetest classmates, from Parsons Junior High. I asked whether she remembered my adventures in Mr. Crow’s class. She responded, “Hi Debbie, you were my first friend at Parsons from the first day of school. I will never forget having my first rebellious friend I ever experienced, who refused to wear a bra. Mr. Crow threatened to wrap them up with tape. It is amazing Mr. Crow touched you so much.” 

Today I won’t go outside without my trusty support system, keeping Cooper’s Droop at bay. My shirts are long enough to cover my midriff. As for the crow and how he flies, I now take the sensible route to my destinations.

Debbie, 1973

Wearing the Infamous White Top

Posted to Facebook:

Terri Christensen Tracy I too have a few pretty horrific memories of Mr. Crow...I wasn't quite as confident in my independence....Funny the things we never forget... 

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Deborah Gilson I remember you back then, Terri Christensen Tracy, as if it were yesterday and yes, some memories stay with us forever, it seems. 

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Roxanne Loerzel He would never make it in today's class room!

Ann Dunbar Sison What a classless CREEP

Bernice McHale Corey Debbie I just love your writings. Yes we will never forget those days with mr. Crow and his inappropriate ways.

Leslie Lel Guddat Munn

This is rather hilarious as I read this!! Debbie, the minute I saw your class picture, I immediately recognized you. Did you transfer to Sequoia Jr Hi or Shasta High at some point?

Leslie Lel Guddat Munn 

Yes, a creepy teacher, but your way with words is funny!

Deborah Gilson @ Leslie Lel Guddat Munn ~ After junior high, I attended Nova and then Enterprise High School, graduating in 1978! 

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Leslie Lel Guddat Munn 

So it just must've been Nova... I graduated from Shasta in 78'. 

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Ryan McHale

Don't remember Sex Ed class's ladies, but I have to say, I agree, sounds like a serious creep, would and should of been busted for sexual harassment if it was today.

Rhonda Platt This made me laugh out loud Deb, as I do remember Mr. Perverted Crow, and I STILL think if he thought he could have got away with grabbing your girls, he would have went for it! He is lucky he's too old or ....dead now to teach, jail would be where he would land! Much Love and Hugs to you D Lou. I will in box you soon. I'm heading to NY next week to finally meet my new little grand daughter....SO EXCITED! XOXO

Deborah Gilson Author Interview YouTube

Thank you, Shara Esbenshade, Wes and the entire Stanford University movie crew for schlepping all your equipment to Lone Pine Ranch, the former home to my rescued farm animals. You made and continue making us proud.

Deborah Gilson Author Interview YouTube

Howard, My Rescued Pig, and Me

Long may you run, my love

Murder on Hillview Road

          Witnessing a murder is only something you read about. My girlfriends and I were on our way home from an enjoyable evening. It was 2:10 in the morning. As a 32-year-old, it still felt great to be single and carefree. Lynn, my good friend since we were young teenagers, was driving her two-door Honda hatchback. Marie, our other childhood friend, fell asleep in the backseat. I dozed off in the front passenger seat.

Suddenly, I felt Lynn anxiously tapping my arm. She urged me to wake up and take a look at the scene on the corner. We stopped at a signal at the corner of Hillview Road and Connecticut Avenue. Several young men, appearing to be in their early 20’s, were involved in a fight with two other young men at the bank on the corner. I told Lynn we needed to help.

        When we rolled down our windows and started yelling, several of the men ran away. In spite of our hollering, two of the assailants continued to attack the other two and now threaten us.  Lynn and I responded with more shouting and screaming. As the victims attempted to back away, one of the assailants stabbed each of them several times. The two victims landed flat on their backs, on the street near my door. One assailant fell to his knees and continued stabbing.

I jumped out of the car and stretched my body across the two victims. With my head facing the ground and the bodies under me, I could clearly see an assailant’s shoes. He swiftly moved around me, proceeding to violently kick each of the two victims. Fortunately, he did not touch me. All of a sudden, he stopped his attack. Lynn jumped out of her car, grabbed her baseball bat from the trunk and chased the two assailants away. Marie, too terrified to move, stayed in the car.

            With the assailants out of the picture, I asked the two young men their names. They responded, “Bobby,” and “Scott.” As I kneeled between them, holding one hand in each of each my own, I continued talking with them in an effort to determine exactly why the attack happened.

Bobby and Scott were drinking heavily at a pub across the street near the bank. They ran out of cash and went to the bank for more drinking money. As it turned out another young man, of African American and Caucasian descent, was also at the ATM. Apparently, Bobby and Scott, both white males 23 years old, began shouting racial insults at him. They were unaware he was accompanied by several friends waiting for him in the car.

        Observing Bobby and Scott’s bloodied clothing revealed the severity of their wounds. I requested someone to call an ambulance and the police. Several cars drove over the sidewalk around us, quickly speeding away. A young woman with long blond hair came running up, pleading with me not to let Bobby die. I told her to get away; shortly thereafter another friend came to her assistance.

Scott repeated, “Please don’t let me die.” All at once, Bobby’s hand felt less firm in mine. I looked into his eyes, watching as he gazed into the distance. I wondered, “What is he watching?” His handsome young face became less drawn, somewhat softer. A slight smile curved his lips in an upward direction. I laid my head on his chest, feeling one final beat of his heart. Lynn came running up and as I pointed to Bobby, I told her he just died. In the background, I heard screams of the young woman with long blond hair. Later, we learned she was Bobby’s girlfriend, the mother of their infant child.

         The ambulance and police arrived shortly thereafter. The entire area, including Lynn’s car, was taped off. The sleeping bag, Lynn provided to cover Bobby and Scott, was confiscated as evidence. Detective Kathryn Anderson escorted us to the police station. There, we were asked to detail our story several times and finally, at 6:00 a.m., Lynn, Marie and I were allowed to return home. The night was long and cold. As I sat in a hot bath, the events of the entire evening played over and over in my head. I kept asking myself, “Did this incident of racially driven violence really happen?”

          A tremendous feeling of stress fell heavily on the shoulders of Lynn, Marie and me. We feared the assailants would not be captured, allowing them to be free after committing such a crime. Detective Anderson was able to piece together enough evidence to identify and apprehend the alleged stabber. She tracked the activity at the ATM that night, which led to his identification.

Despite his youth, he was 17 years old; Detective Anderson was familiar with his long-standing criminal record. Shortly after he was picked up, we were asked to identify him in a police line-up. The line-up at the juvenile detention center was disturbing.

A two-way mirror was not provided and the young men could clearly see us. In fact, one winked at Lynn. Lynn quickly and accurately identified the perpetrator, thereby confirming Detective Anderson’s findings. When the assailant was identified, the young men in the line-up were brought through the lobby, where the three of us were sitting. Naturally, we were the objects of their attention.

Lynn, Marie and I, provided a most admirable scenario for the police who acknowledged our contributions in bringing a criminal to justice. “Three young women came to the aid of victims whom they never met.” In the end, a murderer was sent to prison.

Each of us was honored with a letter from the Chief of Police, a Certificate of Valor, and a poster-sized acknowledgment, from the Office of the Attorney General, Department of Justice, and the State. This was for outstanding service to the community and state and for heroic action in support of criminal justice. We were also presented with a Resolution Award from the mayor, commending us for our exemplary and heroic citizenship.

            Lynn, Marie and I have known each other since 1973. Our families are very close. We were raised with the same set of values, adopting a sense of responsibility, motivating us to aid and assist when necessary. If given another opportunity, I am certain each of us would once again help someone in need. This incident helped shape me. I am privileged to be an integral part of life, understanding the domino effect we have on one another. 

Tootsie ~ Her Babies Were Killed Before My Young Eyes

I was seven years old, when my mother remarried and her new husband legally adopted Ross, my six-year-old brother, and me. A year later, we moved out in the country to a 165-acre ranch. The following summer, I was walking through our alfalfa hay pasture alone to swim in the creek. I’d just reached the water’s edge when I noticed a downed black sheep on its side, breathing rapidly.

Not wanting to scare her, I slowly walked closer. I was horrified to see bloodied wool from deep puncture wounds around her neck. I told her I would get my “Dad” and we would help. Racing back home, I told my Dad about the hurt sheep, knowing he’d help as I believed fathers do.

My Dad told me to show him where the injured sheep was located. We raced through our alfalfa pasture to the creek side to the dying sheep. I cried, “Look, Dad!” She’s hurt and we can help her get better.” My father was a large, well-built man who stood 6 feet 2 inches tall.

Without hesitation, he leaned his massive frame over the sheep, grabbed it by a front leg and dragged it to the creek. While I stood in horror, my Dad held the sheep under water. After several minutes, he dragged the drowned sheep out of the water and onto the bank of the creek. I collapsed onto the dead sheep’s body and cried hysterically. Without a word, my Dad turned and walked away. My trust for that man was forever broken.

By the time I was 10 years old, I’d collected 16 cats, however, it was with Tootsie, my orange and white barn cat, I’d formed an especially tight bond. Many of the calves Ross and I raised were taken away and slaughtered while we were at school. Tootsie gave birth to six gray and white kittens and I was overjoyed with my newly expanded family. I didn’t want my Dad to know they’d been born, however. I couldn’t bear to have anymore of my animals killed. Therefore, I secretly moved Tootsie and her babies from under the house to the second story of our barn.

To maintain Tootsie’s strength, I  woke up earlier than my family and quietly took fresh milk upstairs to the barn every morning. Not seeing any of my family members as I made my way, I believed I was alone on my secret missions. Tootsie and her newborn babies rested in the hay bed I’d made for them.

            Tootsie’s kittens were now 10 days old and still their eyes were naturally closed. I made it a point to hold each close to my heart, all the while making sure not to pay too much attention to one in particular. My babies were equally special to me.

One Saturday morning after spending time with Tootsie and her babies, Dad surprised me by saying to bring the kittens to him. I wondered how he knew about them. I went inside the house and pulled the Easter basket off my book shelf. Nervously, I slowly walked passed him to the barn and gathered the kittens. I gently put them into my Easter basket lined with a tiny blanket so they would stay warm and continue sleeping. My stomach felt sick as I carried my babies down the stairs of the barn.

As I was close to the front porch, I noticed my father using the garden hose to fill a green five-gallon bucket to the brim with water. Once the bucket was filled, he told me to hand him a kitten. Gingerly, so I wouldn’t wake the baby, I gently lifted one out. Trembling with terror, I handed him one of my six kittens. Still, I didn’t know why he asked for them.

With his massive fingers, he held the kitten under water with a first finger and thumb firmly around its tiny neck. One by one, as I was forced to hand them over, he drowned each of my babies. Within minutes a pile of lifeless, wet kittens was on the sidewalk. Without a word, my father turned and walked away.

            I kneeled on the sidewalk and wrapped my scrawny arms around the dead, wet babies. Silently crying, I put the kittens back into my Easter basket and covered them with the tiny blanket. Carrying the basket in the crook of my left elbow, I walked to a burial site and lay down in the dirt doubled over in heart-breaking agony.

The loss of Tootsie’s kittens was the first of many disasters in her life. She loved to sleep in the wheel well of Big Red, our large tractor. One morning the tractor was fired up for work, however, this time Tootsie didn’t jump off at the sound of the engine. Instead, she remained unseen in her comfortable sleeping position. When the tractor rolled out of the barn, Tootsie’s hindquarters were crushed.

Locating her to say good-bye before heading to school, I lifted Tootsie’s mangled body to my chest and raced into the house. With his stern expression, my Dad flatly announced Tootsie needed to be destroyed at once. Noting the terror in my eyes, my mother told him she’d take care of it. As my Dad did every Monday morning, he left for his weeklong business trip to the Bay Area. Unfortunately, he returned late every Friday night.

            Heading down our long driveway, my Dad’s car faded from view. When I was certain he was gone, I asked my mother what she was going to do. I always trusted my mother as she, too, was an avid animal lover. She picked up the telephone and called the veterinarian in town. He told her he’d stop by later that afternoon.

Ross and I left to catch the school bus. I wondered what news I’d have when I returned later that day. Sadly, it turned out the vet said there wasn’t much he could do. I told my mother I’d take care of Tootsie. I knew I could help her recover from this injury.

A week later, Tootsie’s backend was infested with maggots. Once again, my mother called the vet. He said to flush the infected area with a rinse and keep Tootsie inside away from the flies. While my father was away on his weekly business trips, Tootsie was kept in the laundry room next to the kitchen. Before Dad returned home every Friday night, I moved Tootsie to the second floor of the barn.

She was unable to walk therefore, I brought her plenty of food and water. While my Dad was home, I didn’t visit Tootsie. One month later, Tootsie was healed, however, she lost her tail. This made no difference to me. Truly, a miracle had taken place. We never mentioned Tootsie’s outcome to my Dad.

The following year, Tootsie was pregnant again. Unfortunately, because her backend was so badly damaged in the tractor incident, she was no longer able to pass kittens through her birthing canal. Tootsie and her kittens died under the house and the smell is how I located them.

My Dad had to pull up the carpet in the office, cut a hole through the wood floor and gather their bodies to put into a plastic bag. I stood silently next to him as he removed the last of Tootsie and her babies and then carried them away. He didn’t realize it was Tootsie’s remains he was scooping out of the crawl space and I didn’t breathe a word about what I knew.

Many animals, and for that matter many people, don’t have a choice regarding where they live, with whom, and how they’re treated. Ones circumstances are often not their choosing, resulting in tragedy. As an adult, I’m the vital force for my family, our animals and myself. I vow to surround us with tender loving care. My life experiences taught me to accept nothing less.

Hi, My Name is Crystal

I was five years old attending nursery school in Richmond, California in 1965 along with Ross, my four-year-old brother. Except for the few hours a day, I went to kindergarten down the street, Ross and I spent the majority of our weekdays at nursery school. Our parents divorced earlier in the year and our mother worked full time. Being a year older than Ross, a chain link fence dividing the play yards of nursery school separated our age groups. In order to be together, we would stretch our fingers through the holes in the fencing. At nursery school, I wanted to be with no one else.

Debbie & Ross Patterson, 1965

Courtesy of Frances Chapter, Our Mother

One day Ross’ class was called in from recess. I turned away from the fence and noticed sitting alone in the sandbox the most beautiful little black girl ever. I was taken with the brightly colored beads covering her braided hair. I walked over to the sandbox watching as she built sandcastles. “I’m Debbie,” I announced. Without looking up she replied, “Hi, my name is Crystal.” I sat down in the sandbox next to Crystal and we began creating a strongly bound friendship.

Photo Courtesy of SloDive

One night after school my mother was preparing dinner. I casually walked up to her and asked, “Mama, wha’ chall fixin’ for dinna?” She looked at me curiously and asked, “Honey, do you have a new friend at school?” I replied, “Yes, Mama, her name is Crystal.”

As days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, Crystal and I became inseparable. I was left-handed and she right handed. We sat in the sandbox, with Crystal always on my right. This way we could hold hands and still have our dominant hand free for other purposes, such as eating sand. I marveled at how incredible our fingers looked woven together, her brown with my white.

Photo Courtesy of The Times UK News

As we continued bonding, I introduced Crystal to the joys of eating Elmer’s Glue. I showed her how the application stick and lid were one unit. Twisting off the lid and scooping up some thick glue onto the stick, I enjoyed a mouthful of this tasty treat. Crystal followed suit, scooped up some glue onto the stick and she, too, delighted in all Elmer’s Glue offered.

Kindergarten began at 9:00 a.m. Supervisors walked our group several blocks from nursery school to the grade school. Crystal and I would protect one another from the bigger kids. One day, someone across the street threw a rock at us. It hit me in the head, causing me to bleed and cry. Crystal saw the boy who threw the rock, pointing him out to one of our supervisors.

Another day when we were walking back from kindergarten, I noticed someone deliberately set a cherry bomb on the sidewalk in front of us. Fortunately, I saw it, alerted Crystal and kicked it off the sidewalk. With Crystal always on my right, hand in hand, we walked to and from school.

One particular sunny afternoon, our group was walking back to nursery school. Crystal and I managed to dillydally behind the others and our supervisors. Suddenly, I looked up seeing an older black boy’s head peeking around a fence corner. I quickly recognized the tip of a gun. Our eyes locked and then, he immediately pulled himself back behind the fence.

I glanced at Crystal, seeing her eyes grow wide as saucers. Crystal placed her arms rigidly by her sides and opened her mouth preparing to scream. I put my hand over her mouth, dragging her back to our kindergarten classroom. I told our teacher what happened and she instantly notified the police.

Photo Courtesy of Vintage Police Cars

Two police cars arrived 10 minutes later. In one car they took Crystal back to nursery school and in the other car they took me to the “scene of the crime.”  The Caucasian police officer held my hand while we walked to the back door of a poorly constructed trailer home. Sitting on the officer’s lap, I was encouraged to tell an all black family what the boy with the gun was wearing. I could barely speak. 

As I finished describing his clothing, the strongest voice sitting next to me yelled, “Rodney, get yourself out here this minute!” Moments later, I was face to face with a 16-year-old young man wearing the same attire I described. After I identified Rodney, the officer carried me to his police car and then drove me back to nursery school. There, I was reunited with Crystal.

Unfortunately, I do not remember my last time with Crystal. Did I move away? Did she? How long were we together? My sense is my mother, brother and I moved again. Crystal and I were not given an opportunity to say good-bye.

I wonder about my special friend and envision seeing her again. I long for the opportunity to thank her for showing my blue eyes the beauty in her brown eyes and the mutual warmth in the different colors of our skin. Because of our compassionate and caring relationship, despite the differences in our physical appearance, I know we are one in the same people. Crystal, where are you? Are you still alive?

Several decades passed since 1965 when Crystal and I last shared a handful of sand and a stick of Elmer’s Glue. At age five, we taught each other everything we needed to know about life. The lessons I learned during the course of our short yet meaningful relationship serve as the foundation for my philosophy of life. These lessons depict my acceptance and respect for the diversity in the human race. To this day in my mind, heart and soul, Crystal and I continue building the sand castles of life.

Courtesy of ChooseYourMetaphor