Keeping Secrets

It was a long time ago, but I can still clearly remember the first time I experienced a school fire drill. Apparently some of us didn't understand that "drill" meant “practice”, and when that screaming buzzer assaulted our ears, several of us grade one students were petrified because we thought the school really was burning down.
It was nerve-wracking when real fire fighters came to our school during Fire Prevention Week, especially when they came over on the fire truck. I remember shaking in terror as they showed us their equipment and told us what number to dial if we ever saw a fire in our house.
I must have been in grade two or three after one particularly invigorating presentation. When I got home that night, the fire phone number kept popping into my head. These were the days before 9-1-1; in fact, the number for the fire department was even easier to remember: it was 1-0-0.
I began to wonder how they would really respond if someone called that special number, and then I did the unthinkable. I dialed it.
A soft but clear female voice said, “Kindersley Fire Department.” Startled, I slammed down the receiver. It was supposed to be a man, a fireMAN. Then it occurred to me how calm she sounded, like maybe she should have screamed out, “Fire Department! Get on your belly and crawl out! Where’s your house? WHERE ARE YOU??!!” or something similar.
No one traced that call back to our house to check if there really was an emergency. Although I was relieved that I didn’t get into trouble, still I often wondered about that poor lady, and what she did about my call.
The nuns who taught us Catechism were never too clear on whether or not something like this should be dealt with in Confession, and I couldn’t really ask them outright without giving myself up, so it was quite a burden I carried around in my blackened heart and soul for a few years.
While we're sharing secrets here, let me tell you about another temporary moral lapse which brought recurring flashes of guilt. It involved the fish net my Dad received as a Father’s Day gift. He didn't ever seem to have time to go fishing, so the net just sat there. Tempting or what? I felt it should be acknowledged in some way, and one day when I could stand it no longer I took it out to the chicken house, and tried to bag myself a chicken.
Have you noticed what excitable creatures they are? If you make a sudden movement they’re squawking loudly and flapping their wings. Just try to throw a fish net over their heads, and see what happens. The one I trapped reacted so negatively, she hurt herself. As soon as she was caught, it was apparent immediately that I must let her go – but how? Her wings, her head, her beak, and her sharp, twisted claws – everything was tangled in that net, and she was most resistant to my efforts to release her. Somehow, I freed her. Then I grabbed the net, picked the feathers off, and furtively returned it to its corner by the deep freeze.
I waited for my mother to notice, but she didn’t – ever. Dad mentioned at the supper table that one of the chickens was hobbling around, and blamed it on some other aggressive leghorn. Years passed. Using a fishing net to chase chickens never came up in the conversation, which is unfortunate – because I’m sure the unburdening would have done me some good.
Until this moment, I don't think anyone really knew about these childhood misdemeanors.
Eventually, my younger brother came along and anything I had ever done became quite insignificant, compared with the things he tried to pull off. It wasn’t talked about much, but there was an incident involving an old bale stack and a harmless fire. That time, no one hung up when the fire department was called.

Answering Questions

This morning as I was running around Jessie Lake, I was flagged down by an older man out for a walk.
"How far around this lake?" he inquired.
I told him it was five miles, but by the look on his face I know he chose not to believe me.
I hope that by the time he got to the third mile his shoes started to pinch; by then he'd be too far gone to turn around and come back. And when he finished he'd be really tired and say, "Wow! That woman was right! It really was five miles!"
Don't ask, if you don't want to know.

Odd on So Many Levels

Allendale, S.C.

What a story! James Hines, an albino black man, 300 lbs, 6 ft 7 in tall. A preacher and funk musician!

Hines belonged to a band "J Hines and the Boys" playing such original compositions as "Funky Funk" and " "Can't Think of Nothing (Blank Mind)." He considered his guitar an instrument of sin, and gave it up when he found Jesus in the early 1990s. However, his pastor, who'd heard the music and knew how talented Hines was, convinced him to share his gift. Eventually, Hines became a minister in Allendale, about 75 miles southwest of the capital, Columbia. He bought a new guitar, playing it during services at the church he built and on a nearby Christian radio station no doubt altering the lyrics to something like "Funky Mary" or "Can't Think of Nothing Only Jesus".

But that's not where the story ends. Oh, no.

James Hines died of skin cancer in 2004. Just one little thing -- when he was buried, the coffin was too small so someone cut off his legs between the ankle and the calf, and placed them inside the casket. Only the top was open for the funeral, so no one noticed and no one said anything -- although you can't really say that. Some of the immediate family were, shall we say, puzzled at how he suddenly seemed smaller in death, and rumors buzzed around for awhile, started some say by a former funeral home worker. For some reason, the whispering persisted, and finally the body was exhumed just the other day, with the coroner's office reporting it had found "undesirable evidence".

Here's another little bit of info you maybe didn't know. Funeral directors sometimes pull up the knees or shift the padding in the coffin to make sure the body fits. In South Carolina, desecrating human remains is punishable by 1-10 years in prison. One wonders at what point expedience becomes desecration.
Hines's widow and the funeral home settled out of court.

It just doesn't stop! Today a couple months later it was announced that the funeral director's licence was revoked. His name? Michael Cave. His business? Cave Funeral Services. I don't know, with Easter just passed, it's fresh in my mind that Jesus was buried in a cave. Just another oddity about this story, wouldn't you say?