Chapter Seven
First Grade: Years of Decision
First Grade: Years of Decision
So often, it’s the values we learn in childhood that shape our lives as adults.
When I was just a lad of six or seven, I took my trusty hatchet and chopped down the cherry tree that stood in an undisclosed location in our backyard. My dad wasn’t pleased.
“Son,” he said, “I want you to tell me the truth. Did you chop down this tree?”
“Dad,” I answered honestly, “that information is classified.”
He thought about this for a moment, and that’s when I accidentally shot him in the face with my trusty shotgun. He lay there for a while, and I went back into the house.
Mom was baking apple pies. I asked if I could have one pie all to myself.
“Now, son,” she said, “I don’t want you to spoil your appetite.”
However, I immediately began to apply a series of enhanced whining techniques. At last, standing naked on a box, while my dog Buster snarled and nipped at her ankles, Mom relented.
“Oh, all right,” she said. “You can have all the pie you want.”
That’s when Dad walked through the door. I’d hit him pretty bad, I guess, and he looked a mess. Blood (my favorite flavor!) was streaming down his cheeks. Mom was upset.
“Son, did you know your father was injured?” she asked. “When were you going to tell me about this?”
“I had other priorities!” I said.
I couldn’t believe her attitude. Especially at a time when we were menaced by outside forces, the nature of which I could not reveal to her, I thought she was the most disloyal mother who ever lived.
But after I sent her to stay at her aunt’s house in Boise for a couple of weeks, she came back, full of remorse….
I was a happy, imaginative lad, and I loved to play dress-up.
Here I am at age 9, just before putting on one of my costumes.
When I was just a lad of six or seven, I took my trusty hatchet and chopped down the cherry tree that stood in an undisclosed location in our backyard. My dad wasn’t pleased.
“Son,” he said, “I want you to tell me the truth. Did you chop down this tree?”
“Dad,” I answered honestly, “that information is classified.”
He thought about this for a moment, and that’s when I accidentally shot him in the face with my trusty shotgun. He lay there for a while, and I went back into the house.
Mom was baking apple pies. I asked if I could have one pie all to myself.
“Now, son,” she said, “I don’t want you to spoil your appetite.”
However, I immediately began to apply a series of enhanced whining techniques. At last, standing naked on a box, while my dog Buster snarled and nipped at her ankles, Mom relented.
“Oh, all right,” she said. “You can have all the pie you want.”
That’s when Dad walked through the door. I’d hit him pretty bad, I guess, and he looked a mess. Blood (my favorite flavor!) was streaming down his cheeks. Mom was upset.
“Son, did you know your father was injured?” she asked. “When were you going to tell me about this?”
“I had other priorities!” I said.
I couldn’t believe her attitude. Especially at a time when we were menaced by outside forces, the nature of which I could not reveal to her, I thought she was the most disloyal mother who ever lived.
But after I sent her to stay at her aunt’s house in Boise for a couple of weeks, she came back, full of remorse….
I was a happy, imaginative lad, and I loved to play dress-up.Here I am at age 9, just before putting on one of my costumes.
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