Category Archives: Silliness

The Cowardly Cavy Caper

Since Kathy and the kids have been away, it has fallen to me to serve as primary caregiver for Martin, our Guinea Pig. Martin lives in a cage in the mud room, and looks up hopefully whenever anyone passes by (it is actually a fairly heavy-traffic area). Now that the family is away, his days are a bit quieter, and I expect he gets a little bored.

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Don’t let that innocent expression fool you.

Guinea pigs are strange creatures, driven almost exclusively by the twin passions of consuming and eliminating food. Not far beneath the surface, however, lurks a strong desire to explore the world through the art of nibbling. I worry about Martin sometimes, thinking he doesn’t taste enough of his surroundings … he’s sort of a homebody in that way. And so, when it came time for me to mow the lawn (again), I guessed that he might enjoy being outside in the grass and bright sunshine. Our backyard is fenced and Martin is hardly a long-distance sprinter. “What could possibly go wrong?” I wondered.

It turns out that the cavy (the shortened form of Cavia porcellus, the scientific name of a Guinea Pig) and the modern lawnmower don’t mix. Don’t panic … I didn’t hit him with the mower; this is not that kind of blog. I took great care to keep at least 30 feet away from him … I didn’t bring him out until I had mowed a wide swath of the backyard. Even though I was quite some distance away, Martin cowered away from the noise of the mower and sought shelter by pressing himself up against a small vent in the foundation. “Fine,” I thought, “when I’m done cutting the grass, he’ll get over it and maybe he can enjoy some clover.” The next time I passed by, Martin was gone without so much as a squeak. I felt sure I would have noticed any large birds of prey descending on him, and the yard was empty of small furry things. “Now where has that rascal gotten to?” I fumed.

Close examination revealed that the wire mesh in the crawlspace vent was not firmly fixed. I deduced that Martin, in curiosity or panic or sheer contrariness, had pushed on the mesh and forced entry into the crawlspace below the house. What possessed him to do it, I don’t know, but he seems to have jumped down at least two feet into the dark, damp space between the house and the ground. Personally, I would have taken my chances with the lawnmower, but I guess it takes all kinds. Looking through the vent, I could see his beady little eyes looking back at me from the dubious safety of the crawlspace … he seemed a little smug, I thought.

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Here’s a picture of the time Martin cleverly hid himself in my shoe, and then couldn’t get out. The kids had a hard time freeing him — Guinea Pigs don’t cooperate well when they are panicking.

I stuck my arm down through the hole (barely large enough for someone with biceps like mine) and waggled it about hopefully, determined that if I caught even a whisker, Martin was coming out. Sensing this, the wily Guinea Pig kept just out of reach, and I managed to scratch up my arm quite badly on the sharp edges of the wire mesh. I thought I heard him snicker. You’ve reached a new low point in life when a Guinea Pig snickers at you.

Visions of tetanus dancing in my head, I sat back and pondered. Although Martin is a bit of a bother, he is well-loved by the children, especially Rachel. It seemed that I had only a few options:

  1. Let Martin starve to death under the house.
  2. Try to entice him out with blandishments and carrots.
  3. Establish an official policy such that Martin’s new home is under the house.
  4. Go in and get him.

A member of the rodent order, cavies (rhymes with ‘rabies’, now I wonder why that popped into my mind?) will tend to favor dark, tight places. When permitted, Martin will hide under anything, the darker and more screened from sight, the better. Not too long ago, he escaped Rachel and hid between the backyard fence and an old dog house left by our landlord. The kids tried various enticements to get him out (including lettuce and clover) but he craftily seized their offerings and scuttled back into his newfound lair. Eventually, they managed to catch him, but I felt that my prospects were poor, matching wits against him in this manner.

So, how to get him out of there? I am an extreme claustrophobe, and the entrance to the crawlspace, although technically large enough for my bulk, was comparatively tiny. “Maybe he would crawl out on his own”, I speculated, somewhat plaintively. Taking two five-foot fence boards, I laid them down, one through the vent and one at the entrance to the crawlspace, forming cute little ramps or walkways that he could use to crawl out, if the mood struck him.

Figure the odds of that happening. I finished mowing the lawn, and still, no Martin appeared. I put his little house in view of the top of one of the ramps, hoping that if he did crawl up the ramp, he would see his beloved home and scuttle into it. I placed his food dish nearby, and rolled some of his food pellets down the ramp hopefully. I looked at the diminutive crawlspace access panel again, and shuddered.

Some years ago, a friend offered to help me install phone lines in my new house in the Duckabush. Using my nearly-forgotten Army low-crawl skills, I spent a few entertaining minutes ‘helping’ to run the lines beneath the house. What had seemed a modest-sized house from above became a mansion below … it gave me a new perspective on the generous proportions of our home. Whenever I would begin to feel panicked by a sense of the house falling down and trapping me beneath (which was most of the time), I would look over my shoulder at the comforting bright rectangle of light framed by the access panel for reassurance.

At some point my friend left a pair of wire cutters at the furthest corner under the house. Not wishing to abandon them, even though we had already crawled out and dusted ourselves off, he prepared to re-enter the crawlspace. Feeling responsible and grateful for his help, I gathered my courage and insisted that I be allowed to retrieve them.

As I traversed the space under the house, I began to imagine all kinds of terrible things. How well did I know this guy, anyway? Suppose he is actually a diabolical fiend, and this is his chance to trap and bury me alive? What if the house is unstable on its foundation, and suddenly settles, pinning me under some massive beam? Suppose I have a seizure or heart attack, and cannot be retrieved? Is it really true that there are no poisonous snakes on the Olympic Peninsula? I had not yet reached the halfway point before the panic overwhelmed me, and I scurried for the exit like a terrified Guinea Pig escaping, say, a mower (except in the opposite direction). “I’ll buy you new wire cutters!” I glibly promised in horror, as I extricated myself from the darkness and savored the feel of sunshine on my face. My poor friend had to crawl the 60′ under the house to retrieve the wire cutters himself.

As the afternoon waned, the idea of leaving Martin in his new habitat began to seem more attractive. “Maybe he could live down there,” I mused. “We could put food and water down through the crawlspace door, and I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about letting him starve to death.” But I wasn’t sure that the floor of the crawlspace was flat … for all I knew, he had fallen into some cavy-sized pit and couldn’t get out. I imagined my oldest daughter’s shock and condemnation when she returned from Michigan and discovered that I had permitted her beloved pet to starve to death … Rachel can be quite stern when she thinks she holds the moral high ground.

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Would you want to go up against this girl if your conscience wasn’t easy?

“Maybe I could get another Guinea Pig …” I speculated resourcefully, remembering a similar ploy in the Steve Martin movie, My Blue Heaven. But Martin (our Guinea Pig, not Steve) is a fairly unique specimen, and is just cheeky enough to come wandering out once I had committed myself to the dishonest course of passing off the new cavy as the genuine article. I imagined facing the tribunal of my older three children:

Joshua: “So, this is Martin, but this is also Martin?”
Me: “Umm, well, er, isn’t it possible they are both named Martin?”
Rachel: “Daddy, are you telling a lie?”
Daniel: “How can you punish us for telling a lie if you tell them?”

Daniel is often alert for those little inconsistencies. OK, maybe some other plan would be better. I racked my brains, but came up empty.

There was nothing for it … someone was going to have to go in and fetch that varmint, or at least give it the old ‘college try’. Maybe it wouldn’t have to be a four-year college? What about the less well-known ’3rd grade try’ or the ever-popular ‘halfhearted parent-that-doesn’t-want-to-die-trapped-under-the-house try’?

By this time I was engaged in one of my favorite pastimes, which is moving boxes from one side of the garage to the other.

(Parenthetically, I feel that my boxes are occasionally bored by their immovable state, and so I like to air them and give them a new perspective on life … sort of like helping them to ‘think out of the box’, as it were.)

I began to watch for passing children whom I might bribe to go under my house and fetch Martin, although I wasn’t sure how I could explain that to their parents:

Me: “So, [long explanation involving much hand-waving], what do you say? Five bucks for trying, ten bucks if you get him.”
Neighbor child’s parent: “So let me get this straight. You want to send my child to crawl around in a dark, potentially glass, nail or rat-infested crawlspace, under a house that you don’t own, to retrieve a stupid Guinea Pig that you’re afraid to go and get?”
Me: “Um, well, not afraid exactly, it’s just that I am kinda big to be crawling around under there …”
Neighbor: “Let’s go home, Johnny. Maybe next year we’ll get a good neighbor.”

As the shadows lengthened, I began to panic. How could I face my children, who had trustingly committed Martin into my care? (Practically Rachel’s last words to me had been, “Take good care of Martin, Daddy!”) I gathered my determination and changed into my least-favorite pair of jeans, all the time imagining the variety of terrible fates that awaited me under the house. As a precaution, I called Kathy’s friend Julee with instructions to send her husband over to rescue me if I didn’t call back in 15 minutes. She said she would set her timer, which I found encouraging on several levels.

Armed with a flashlight and a plastic bag, I wedged myself through the access door and began crawling along under the house. “Martin! Martin!” I called, trying to keep the rasping menace from my voice. I figured he would back into some narrow pipe and taunt me with his whiskers, after forcing me to crawl the full length and breadth of the house. Surprisingly, he was curious about my flashlight, and sauntered toward me, until he was just out of reach. Showing his true colors, he leapt away when I reached for him, staying just outside my grasp. His plan was obviously to tease me in this way until he could retreat into the aforementioned narrow pipe or other sanctuary.

It turns out that I am smarter than the average Guinea Pig (or perhaps Martin is substantially below-average). The fence board that I had shoved down through the vent was right there in front of me, and I seized it with glee. Now my reach was extended by five feet, and Martin was not prepared for this sudden technological advance. Remembering the scriptural injunction about not letting the right hand know what the left hand was doing, I craftily used the board in my right hand to scoop Martin toward the questing fingers of my left hand. Dropping the flashlight and pinning him to the ground, I stuffed him into the plastic bag and low-crawled laboriously for the access panel, chortling evilly for effect. Martin thrashed dramatically, but his heart wasn’t really in it … he was beaten, and he knew it.

Emerging mud-smeared but victorious, I put Martin in his cage and changed my clothes, flush with the heady triumph of my accomplishment, and relieved that I could face my children again. I called Julee to let her know that I required no rescue, and treated myself to a Caffeine-free Diet Coke.

Today I was thinking, maybe I should bring Martin into the garage with me while I am working there. “What could possibly go wrong?” I mused.

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Shaving with Grandad

Grandad has always been a big favorite with all the grandchildren. This began with Joshua and continues on with each child. Daniel was particularly close to my dad before we moved to Washington. I remember picking up my folks from the airport when they first came to visit us in Seattle. Daniel took one look at my dad and burst into tears. I think he hadn’t realized until then how much he missed him.

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He’s not crying now!

Often my mom will be on the phone with the children and before they even say hello they ask her, “Where’s Granddad?”. Ah, to be so adored.

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For some, a razor is optional

At some point Daniel caught on to the fact that he could have some one on one time with my dad during Shaving Time. Granddad lathers them both up with shaving cream in front of the bathroom mirror and they “shave.” Daniel thinks this is great fun. Not to fear–he uses a razor with a cover on it. After they get a clean shave both Grandad and Daniel put on a splash of aftershave.

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Expecting an endorsement call from shaving cream companies any moment, now.

They’ve been doing this for years now. This summer in Texas, David caught on to the fun of the moment and joined the Men. So of course, during our Michigan visit this October they had to make sure to get in some shaving time with Grandad. It wasn’t until some time had passed and I noticed a strange quiet around the house that I realized the Men had an extra person joining them in the Shave Time. Oh dear!

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Who gets to clean this up, I wonder?

Some moments have to be captured on film.

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Always dainty even in “manly” pursuits

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Train Conceit

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A view of the “Quiet Car” after everyone has detrained.

The last several weeks I have begun to ride the train to and from Seattle, now that we are (nearly) moved-in to the Lakewood house.

If I get up at crack-o-dawn (5:10 am), I can beat the traffic and be at work in about 50 minutes. Similarly, if I wait until after 7 pm, I can get home in as little as 46 minutes (it might be time for a blog on speeding). The problem is, I don’t really want to work from 6:20 am until 7 pm at night, every day. What is the point of moving to this side of the water if I’m only going to work longer hours, and see my family no more than I did before?

Some would argue that at this point in my career, especially considering the experience I had being laid off, that I should invest long hours as a way to regain my technological skills and to improve my chances for promotions and raises. I’m of two minds about that.

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The Sounder in the early morning mist.

But in any case, I do very much like riding the train. It isn’t particularly quiet … unlike European trains, the cars rattle and squeak almost constantly, every switch or irregularity in the track is communicated in no uncertain terms.

I do, however, patronize the ‘Quiet Coach’ … a special southernmost passenger car where conversation is taboo and phones & pagers are to be turned off. I usually stake out a table so that I can use my laptop comfortably (as, in fact, I am doing now). The scenery ranges widely between junkyard- industrial and rural-picturesque, with Mount Rainier looming to the southwest throughout much of the journey. There are two levels in the center part of each coach … so far I haven’t yet sat in the upper deck, but I plan to do so today, if only to broaden my horizons. I think I’ll wait until the hordesfolk detrain in Kent and Auburn before I venture into the unknown upper regions.

As a full-circuit Sounder rider, I look down my nose at the penny-ante Tukwila commuters, here today, gone tomorrow. Their pathetic 15-minute commute doesn’t really make them worthy of the train, but we let them ride anyway, if only for their tax dollars. A true Sounder veteran is able and willing to commit to the full hour between Tacoma and Seattle … he doesn’t put his hand to the plow only for a few measly stops, like those folks from Kent, Auburn, Sumner and even Puyallup.

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The afternoon sun gleams off the sleek contours of this mighty train, arrived in Tacoma.

It is hard to imagine, but I may even prefer the train to the ferry. There is a certain charm to the fact that I have only a 20-minute drive at the other end of this train-ride, unlike the 90+ minutes of bus- and car-ride that I formerly faced at the conclusion of my Bainbridge Island ferry ride. And of course I have a deep-seated genetic predilection for trains, inherited from my father. My Dad used to schedule entire family vacations around the train schedules of Europe, so that we visited ‘historic’ train stations with remarkable regularity. He had the ability to time his rate of travel so that any time a highway crossed a train-line, there would be an engine chugging along beneath us just as we crossed. His passion for trains continues unabated … there are those who believe that this whole ‘Refuge’ retreat center thing is just an elaborate front for a gargantuan model railroad (to be constructed in the basement). My Dad might tell you that the dreams are not necessarily incompatible.

Today was a banner day for another reason; today they actually asked me for my ticket or pass. I’ve been riding a number of weeks, but I have never (until today) seen a conductor, let alone been asked for my ticket.

One of the perquisites my employer offers is an annual FlexPass. This covers the cost of a bus ride or a train ride up to $4.00 each way, which, coincidentally, is the cost of a one-way Sounder ticket. I can ride pretty much any bus or train in King County, as well as any of the Express buses that connect between Tacoma and Seattle, for free. It is nice to never have to worry about paying … I wonder if it would be a better model for cities and states to offer public transport free of charge to anyone who has any kind of a job. I can understand the desire to assign the cost of the service to those who actually use it … but I wonder if those who don’t use public transport wouldn’t be glad to pay a little extra if only it would reduce the congestion on the roadways. And of course there is the whole question of how much it costs to collect the money and to maintain the machines that sell tickets and validate passes.

An interesting feature of the train ride is the regular appearance of a uniformed guard, who makes a circuit of the entire train at least twice during each trip. There seems to be at least one guard at each station, as well as a guard assigned to each train. Several days ago I brought my camera onto the train and snapped a few pictures of the train as it prepared for departure in the early morning mist. I neglected to turn off my flash, and within two minutes I was interviewed by a security officer as to my reason or intention for taking the pictures. It is a strange world we live in, post 9/11. I must say, I was impressed by the speed and efficiency with which they identified and confronted me. Somewhat sheepishly I admitted that I took the pictures for this weblog, wondering if he would know what a blog was. The officer was courteous and did not seem disposed to search my bag or otherwise harass me — he seemed to accept my explanation. Perhaps I am only one of many people who write about their commuting experience.

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The hallowed heights of the Sounder car.

Well, it turns out that there are tables on the upper deck as well, a fact that I had not realized, viewing from below. There is a certain satisfaction in riding an extra eight feet above the track … the vista is much more expansive. I feel a little like Lucy van Pelt, of Peanuts, riding in her imaginary coach, waving at all the people, as she enjoys her fantasy Queendom. Except I’m not quite as sure of myself as is Lucy … I’m too embarrassed to wave at the golfers on the course we just passed.

I can’t believe how much I was missing, riding downstairs all these weeks on the claustrophobic, lowly first floor of the train car. Sure, we of the upper deck have no bathrooms; we leave such mundane concerns to the peasants below. Even the train stations are transformed as I look down with lofty disdain. The tiny passengers disembark beneath my feet as they scurry off to their ant-like cars, pursuing their insignificant insect lives.

Or maybe I’m getting a little carried away. After all, all too soon I will be forced to descend from my majestic chariot and do some scurrying of my own. Ah, well, it was good to be on top of the world, even if only for a few sweet moments.

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Pantless in Seattle

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Today I went to work in my boxer shorts. Don’t worry, I won’t be posting a picture of my pasty white legs … some things just shouldn’t be visualized, even on the internet.

I had intended to dress a little more conservatively, but I couldn’t find any shorts in the bedroom. I had already slammed several cupboard doors in the bathroom, and I feared that any further noise would bring me to Kathy’s negative attention. I threw on a shirt from the bulging dirty-clothes hamper, velcro-ed on my sandals, and was out the door.

Even in Seattle, such attire would raise an eyebrow or two (even if the eyebrow was pierced) … but I do have an explanation. Well, sort of.

Over the Independence Day weekend our well stopped pumping. It had grumbled for some weeks … low pressure, failure to restart when we have power outages, that kind of passive-aggressive behavior. But for the last four years we have come to expect (at least when we have power) a reliable and plentiful source of clear, cold Duckabush water.

On Monday, in a flash of prescience, I took my shower early, and thus missed out on the subsequent outage. By the time my sweet wife made it to the shower, the water supply had become intermittent at best, and required a steady hand on the switch down at the pump house. (Sadly, my hand was less than steady, since I was still trying to figure out how to make the pump work.)

We called in a local well guy (I suppose he is actually called a “water system specialist” or something a little more impressive than ‘well guy’) … he made a brief call Monday night & concluded that they would need to ‘pull the pump’ (a non-trivial task, since our well is 220+ feet deep). By evening Tuesday, we heard the fateful news: our pump was cracked and would require replacement — $500 in parts alone, I fear.

As it turns out, we are very much used to running water. Without flushing toilets, working dishwashers or washing machines, without water from the tap, our household is slowly grinding to a halt. I’m only keeping it all together by reading the tips on unclutterer and on here and there on the internet. Rachel said to me last night, “I don’t think I’ll ever have clean pajamas again. (She’s prone to a bit of exaggeration, I’m afraid … I’ll bet she gets new pajamas for Christmas, at least!) We brush our teeth with water from a 2-liter bottle and we lug in scores of milk-jugs of water for the toilets which David flushes with wild abandon.

Once again, our faithful pool saves us … what luck that we have a huge reservoir of water just outside our back door! It doesn’t do for drinking water, but that is graciously provided by our faithful “foul-weather” friends and neighbors.

Sadly, we lack the one thing that separates civilized man from his savage counterpart: hot showers. A hot shower is very important to me … I think perhaps that is why I was born in this modern milieu in spite of my medieval mind-set. On Tuesday I had a series of job interviews and I wanted to be clean and reasonably fresh. So I had Joshua go down to the pump house Monday night and hold the control switch on while I took a shower. He amused himself by showing Rachel how it worked, turning it on and off with gleeful abandon, not realising the havoc that this would play with the shower temperature and pressure. (There was a certain poetic justice in this, since I had done much the same to Kathy.)

In the morning I stuck my head in the pool and (after a few minutes’ chipping ice out of my hair) declared myself reasonably clean and passably fresh. The interviews went OK … no one commented negatively on my personal hygiene, which is always a good sign in an interview.

The wily Kathy managed to wheedle a shower out of our “foul weather” neighbors (the Bringhams) — and there was much flushing of toilets by the children who missed such civilized niceties.

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This little girl didn’t get a shower or a bath.

By Tuesday night the pump had been dismantled, with the vague promise of a new pump to be installed on Wednesday. Perhaps in dread of my incessant whining, Kathy solicitously arranged access to the nearby Wilderness Northwest Training Center shower through our neighbor and camp director, Jody Weed.

As more and more people flee the cities and seek to scratch out an existence in rural communities, there has grown up a need for the mentoring of urban tenderfeet, as we find ourselves dealing with arcane mysteries like “septic field maintenance” and “the safe and lawful operation of a chainsaw”. In a cooperative program with State and local governments, Jody was appointed as our benevolent guardian. He takes his mentoring duties seriously, and can be relied upon to steer us away from costly mistakes and dangerous practices. His casual oversight of our property is a source of frequent and considerable relief to me. Working in the city, I was unable to observe the progress of the water system repair or otherwise ensure that I ended up with a working well.

So I headed out this morning with my clothes in a knapsack, intending to shower at the nearby Training Center. Unfortunately, I am a bit absent-minded and habit-driven, especially before I’ve gulped my first Diet Coke of the day. Imagine the driver’s surprise when I boarded the bus in Poulsbo, still fetchingly attired in my sandals and boxer shorts! As it turns out, they have city ordinances against that sort of thing in this conservative Scandinavian bedroom community. How convenient that the State Police have a branch office directly adjacent to the Park ‘n Ride where I catch my bus!

What luck for me that one of my fellow passengers happened to be a lawyer for the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU). With his masterful grasp of logic and political correctness, he convinced the bus driver and investigating police officer that they were infringing on my right to freely express myself and encouraged them to go pantless in support of my bold stance. The passengers all followed suit, showing that they were hip, tolerant people as well.

Or maybe that isn’t what happened. Truth be told, I did drive past the Camp facility, but remembered my undressed condition before I got to the foot of the valley. I turned my car around, enjoyed a hot shower with excellent water pressure, and made it to Poulsbo in time to catch the bus, fully clothed. (I was clothed, not the bus.)

I wonder if I could have pulled it off? This is a crazy town … people wear the strangest things. One guy that rides my bus, wears winter camouflage pants and swimming-goggle sunglasses pretty much every day, rain or shine. Another long-haired guy wears a full-length, dark green trenchcoat even in the warmest weather. I had two meetings today … it is probably best that I wore pants. Maybe I should adopt that as my new motto — “When in doubt, wear pants.” It’s catchy, succinct and achievable … I like it.

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Later in the day I heard the good news … the well is repaired and Kathy has water again. No more scrubbing clothes on a washboard down at the river … her solidarity with the pioneer women is ended. It is probably just as well … we were getting tired of those cornmeal flatcakes and that dubious rabbit goulash.

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Figure the Odds

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A strange thing happened when I first started my new job in Seattle. I keep meaning to write about it, and it has finally bubbled to the top of my consciousness, so here it is.

Earlier in the Spring I agreed to serve as assistant director for a local one-act play, focusing on a meeting between a Confederate and a Union soldier during the Civil War. Although I was away in Michigan for much of the time immediately before the play, I took my duties as assistant director somewhat seriously and tried hard to direct and encourage the two young actors in the short time that I had just before the play was performed.

For some reason I was not asked to handle the lighting this season.

Last season I was in charge of the lights for a Christmas play, and we had a lot of trouble getting the wiring set up in advance. On the fateful day of the dress rehearsal, everything was plugged in and ready. I flipped the switch on the control box and three of the four stage lights blew out. Apparently the box had been mis-wired, and I had not thought to make sure the lights were off before turning on the controls … perhaps we could have blown only one of the lights if I had been more careful. In any case, they did not ask me to “help out” in that way again.

The first day of my new job was also the last performance of this season’s play. Due to my commuting schedule, I couldn’t be at the theater in time. Later that evening, the real director brought by my gifts … both he and the two young actors had remembered to give me a gift, in stark contrast to my own failure to remember gifts for them. I felt pretty lame, and yet have done nothing about it in the intervening weeks, although yesterday I did manage to at least say “Thank you.”

Due to my habitual use of caffeine to prop up my flagging energies, I am rarely seen at a rehearsal without a Diet Coke in my hand. The young actors noted this, and gave me a six-pack of the new Lime-flavored Diet Cokes (a choice I favor) as well as a generous supply of Pop-Tarts for my daily commute.

The director who had graciously covered for me during those last weeks before the play gave me a 1-liter Diet Coke bottle … just the thing to get me through the morning. I noticed that the bottle cap advertised a “1 in 4 Wins!” game that Coca-Cola was offering. “Figure the odds,” I thought grumpily.

Let me tell you right now that I do not win games like that. While I routinely win board games and computer games (and even, occasionally, card games), as soon as there is any stake involved, I lose. Perhaps this is God’s way of protecting me from a predilection for gambling … but it gets a little discouraging at times. Odds of 1 in 4 for most people average out to, well, 1 in 4. But for me, I can pretty much count on 1 in 16 or perhaps 1 in 32.

As I drove along on my second day of work, rubbing the sand out of my eyes and considering the day from the bleak perspective of a man without much sleep, I opened up that 1-liter Diet Coke and glanced at the bottle cap indifferently. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that I had won a free 1-liter Diet Coke! For some reason this really warmed my spirit … I felt somehow that God had not forgotten me and was watching over me, even to the extent of providing free caffeine.

(My mom, who for many years drank 5 cups of coffee before most people wake up, disapproves of this ‘beastly habit’. Now that she has reformed herself, she seeks to proseletyze others, and I’m sure that she would have difficulty seeing the hand of God in this matter. Nevertheless, I persist stubbornly in feeling that God was taking care of me.)

This went on for a week. Each day I would open the 1-liter bottle and glance with increasing hope at the bottle-cap … five times in a row I ‘won’ the free 1-liter pop before that fateful day when I was relegated back into the ranks of ‘not a winner’. I began to feel rather sheepish as I redeemed the prize at local stores along my route … but the sense of being in the eye of God continued. Those of you with a mathematical background can calculate the likelihood of this occurring … 1 in 4 odds extrapolated over five times. Roughly, assuming that Coca-Cola replaces each bottle I win, that is 1/4 * 1/4 * 1/4 * 1/4 * 1/4, or 1 in 1024! (Those of you who were not asleep in Probabilities and Statistics 101 can correct me on this.)

I know a lady who used to pray for parking spots … and her prayers were frequently answered! We serve a God who is Lord of the little things, as well as the sweeping events of history.

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