STORY TIME

The other day I was mowing the grass. We own a quarter acre of land. Too small for a riding mower, so I make do with a push mower. My typical pattern is I mow outside the perimeter fence around back yard, then the front, saving the back yard for the last. As I came around to the west side gate to the back yard, I hear Roman yell out something. Roman is my 7 1/2 year-old grandson. Stevie, who was named after me, will be five in September.

I was a bit irritated with the interruption as I let go of the safety bar on the mower. It shut off. “What?” I snapped.

Roman pointed at the play set. “Stevie is stuck!”

I turned to look and, sure enough, Stevie was in a pickle. He had climbed up under the canopy, I’m assuming to get onto the swing crossbar, like he’s seen his big brother repeatedly do. He got one leg outside, and froze. He wasn’t stuck, he had just lost his nerve. He sat there, one leg out, one leg in, whimpering.

What he wanted, more than anything, was for Peepaw to grab him, bring him down, hug him, and tell him everything was OK. He don’t know Peepaw too well. Peepaw is Old School. Stevie got himself into this mess, Stevie was going to get himself out. Peepaw would provide assistance and moral support, but he’s too old to be climbing up into children’s play sets. It was bad enough when he had to do it to paint it this past spring.

Now, just in case I have any readers who doubt otherwise, if Stevie had been in any danger, I’d have been up there, back pain be damned, to get that boy to safety. As a matter of fact, part of my back issues resulted from my oldest daughter Jessica, who got near the top of some stairs, and started to fall. I leapt forward, scooped her up, twisted so she was on top and slid down the stairs on my back. When I crashed into the bottom, she popped out, giggling, and wedged herself between two balusters. Lying on my back in pain, with my feet up the stairs, I saw her predicament and jackknifed up, grabbed her, and ended up on the floor. She giggled the whole way, and was undoubtedly learning her first curse words. I ended up in the emergency room.

I’ll sacrifice my body for my family. I know, I’ve seen me do it.

So there I was, standing under Stevie. He’s above me whimpering. I try the simple approach first. “Stevie, Pull your leg in, buddy.”

“I can’t! I’m scared!”

Time for some Peepaw wisdom. “Just because you’re scared, doesn’t mean you can’t.” I felt proud of that one. Thought it up all be myself, right on the spot. And as usual when my head gets a little big, the Good Lord arranges the cure.

Roman, with all the wisdom 7 1/2 years of life experience can bring, says, “I don’t think that’s true.”

“Shut up, Roman.”

I proceeded to coach Stevie on what he needed to do. After a few moments of Stevie whimpering, without responding to my verbal prompts, I began having visions of tipping the play set over. Then I would have to explain that to his mother and father, Meemaw, and Child Protective Services, so I took a deep breath, reached up and tapped the foot that was outside. “Stevie, you’ll need to raise this foot over the bar you’re sitting on. Do you understand?”

Whimpering. No movement. “Buddy? You’re gonna have move this foot over the bar.”

More whimpering. I move his foot up toward the board he was sitting on. The whimpering intensified, getting louder the higher I listed his foot. I suppressed a brief image of me roaring like a monster as I pulled him down, as my daughter and son-in-law did not currently have the means to pay for Stevie’s subsequent therapy.

I placed his foot on top of the board he was sitting on. “Now buddy, all you have to do is bring that foot down, and you’ll be OK.”

More whimpering. He had his arms clamped so tight around the board that it was a wonder hadn’t splintered it yet. “Come on, buddy! Just bring your foot down.”

“I can’t, I’m scared!”

I still had the back yard to mow. It was hot, and my patience had worn thin. I reached up and pushed his knee over the board. His foot followed the knee. The minute his foot hit the floor, he stood up and smiled. I smiled back. “Look at you, buddy! You did it!”

He beamed back at me. “I did it!” Roman echoed his brother, “You did it!”

Stevie climbed down, and he and Roman ran into the house to play Minecraft. I finished mowing the back yard and went into the house. Jessica was in the kitchen, making the boys some lunch. I walked over to her.

“So Stevie got himself stuck on the play set. I’m going to explain what really happened, then I’m going to give you the official story.

Jessica laughed and said, “Alright.”

I explained everything to her, just as described above.

She shook her head. “Typical. So what’s the official story?”

I deadpanned, “Stevie got himself stuck. Peepaw came over to make sure he was ok, and watched as Stevie got his foot back over the board. Stevie was a big boy, overcame his fear and got himself down!”

Jessica laughed, sarcastically. “OK. We’ll go with that.” She went over to Stevie and said, “I heard you got yourself out of trouble! That’s my big boy!”

Honesty is a wonderful thing, but it isn’t always the best thing. Stevie was traumatized. Nothing that would create PTS, but the fear was real. If I had just lifted him up off of the play set, the problem would have been solved, and Stevie’s lesson would be; if he got in trouble, someone would come and help him out. A retooling of the story planted a seed in his head that he could get himself out of trouble, and his family was nearby if he needed them.

A small incident, but hopefully in his future, in a dark moment, he’ll remember that his Peepaw and his mother were impressed that he got himself out of trouble.

Just because you’re scared, doesn’t mean you can’t.