as this, it seems important to work in a “my dad always said” line. But, it has always seemed to me that such quotes usually are first uttered by famous people, with dads across the ages later latching on to them as their very own.)
THANKFULLY, HOPE SPRINGS eternal in freshmen. My hope? There was still time in the freshman year for one more litter…Time seemed an ally. Near year’s end, my doe presented me with ten baby bunnies. Again, dollar signs floated in my head. Hey, it was near Easter; no telling what the bunnies would bring at the feed store, in a pen right next to the colored chicks! Why, youngsters would choose rabbits about every time. I shared my excitement with my teacher. He congratulated me.
Hours later, he took the congratulations back. At evening’s feed time, I was below crest-fallen. The doe, perhaps seeing the cat peering through the new hail screen, probably panicked. It appeared she chose to eat the litter before the cat had a chance to do so! My teacher, ever compassionate, told me that sometimes when screwy things happen to the first litter, the doe becomes “mentally warped,” and she does strange things to the second litter.… (Critical error number three: When time is of the essence and final grades are close by, always ask the teacher, “Is there anything else I need to watch out for?” I would gladly have stood guard over both litters, by night and by day, if I had even suspected such a dreadful thing might happen.)
Guess what? I made a “B” in agriculture. (I told you the teacher was compassionate.) He also loved funny stories, and didn’t we decide the true ones are funniest? The teacher told me he was not going to grade me down for not increasing the rabbit count. But, he warned me to be sure to take care of the buck and doe. (Following the second litter, the doe seemed to have zero interest in having a third bunch of bunnies….)
HOW GRATEFUL I was! A “B” is just short of an “A,” and plenty “okay” in my book of school life. I was grateful for the chance to prove my worth by really taking care of the old rabbits. I “smooshed” their pellets, made sure their water was fresh and begged my mom for leaves of lettuce every chance I got. I was determined to keep mom and pop rabbit healthy! Of course, the rabbit saga continued….What’s this? Foreign stuff in poppa rabbit’s ear? What is it? Will it spread? Can humans catch it?
It was the last week of school, and I ran, first thing that morning, to file the latest rabbit report with Mr. Wheeler. “Not to worry,” he answered. “Sometimes rabbits get ear canker. It isn’t serious; it can be treated with mineral oil a couple of times a day.”
Mineral oil? Why couldn’t it be olive oil, machine oil, 30-weight oil, or any other oil we had around the house? No, the teacher spoke slowly, seeming to carve out each syllable, MIN-ER-AL OIL. Clearly, it had to be this specific oil, one I knew little about, except that it was a remedy people depended on to treat constipation. Wouldn’t you know it? We were all out of mineral oil. I told my mother I needed some to treat my rabbits’ ears, explaining that Mr. Wheeler insisted that it was the best home remedy. Despite limited medical knowledge, I didn’t admit to Mom that I figured mineral oil was used exclusively as a laxative—it’s just not a topic a kid broaches with his mother. No sense embarrassing both of us.…
Time to ride my bike to Williams Store, five miles away. (It was two miles on the dirt road and then three more up the state highway.) A freshman has to do what a freshman has to do. I checked my bike tires, knowing that if I wasn’t careful, I would run right over a burr patch, and the next thing I’d hear would be the sickening sound of air spewing out of a punctured tire. Would such an incident make me late to the store? Of course it would, and might delay treatment by a couple of hours. Skillfully, I maneuvered my bike on the country road with nary a puncture. What a relief it was to reach the highway and guide my bike to the edge of the hardtop. I peddled madly, with dust flying as I skidded to a stop in front of the store. “There is a God,” I thought.
UPON ARRIVAL, I whispered a two-part prayer--actually, three. First, I thanked the Almighty for safe arrival and deliverance through the burr patches. The other two parts? One was that Mr. Williams, not Mrs. Williams, would be working that day. Mrs. Williams was terribly hard of hearing, and I wasn’t eager to yell out that I needed a bottle of MINERAL OIL. My face reddened at the thought that ANYONE would hear my request; I only wanted to say “mineral oil” once. Surely anyone hearing me would assume me to be in a state of constipation. The end of the prayer was that there would be NO OTHER customers in the store, particularly if Mrs. Williams was on duty.
Okay, maybe for just the briefest of seconds, I thought that MAYBE there’s not a God. I struck out on parts two and three of my prayer. Mr. Williams had gone into town to fetch the mail, and there were four shoppers in the store—all women. “Jeepers,” I thought. “Just my luck, having to buy a laxative with five women listening—if Mrs. Williams’ efforts could be considered ‘listening.’”
Lingering in my mind was my teacher’s haunting admonition, “Take good care of your buck and doe.” Failing that, I wondered if my prized “B” might melt downward into a “D,” or maybe a dreaded “F.” It was a serious situation, and again, I realized that a freshman must do what a freshman must do. I walked straight up to Mrs. Williams, whispering and shuffling feet before meekly asking, “Do you have any mineral oil?”
“Have any what?” she answered, leaning over the counter, hoping to hear my plea a little better. “Mineral oil,” I repeated. “What kind of oil?” she questioned. Finally, I gutted up with about as much courage as I ever had. Opening my mouth wide, in full surrender, I was determined to speak crisply and with full volume. To heck with it; the syllables could hang out as they would. I said them the just the way I remembered my teacher did: “MIN-ER-AL OIL,” I fairly bellowed.
Mrs. Williams, serious as church, finally understood. “No, we’re all out of mineral oil….” Pausing, she added, as if through a megaphone, “But we’ve got Ex-Lax, and that’s an awful good laxative….” My face felt as if it were on fire. I raced from the store, riding my bike home at warp speed, hang the burrs. As I rode within one hundred yards of the house, I even thought of ringing the stupid bell on my bike. “You can use it for emergencies,” my mother had said when my granddad—her dad—handed the bell to me as a twelfth birthday present. What a “sicko” gift; it was one of those bells pre-schoolers had on their tricycles. It helped them learn to use their thumbs to produce the “brrrrrrrng, brrrrrng” that may seem loud inside, but is little more than a tinkle outdoors. What was my granddad thinking? It was like getting an ugly painting from a relative. Hideous as the work might be, it still had to be on the wall when they visited. It was that way with the bell on my bike. My friends would have rolled on the ground laughing if they ever saw the wimpy bell clamped on my bike. Granddad had visited the day before, so the bell was in place, and I rang it feverishly as I rolled up to the back door. As I had hoped, Mom met me on the porch.
IN TEARS, I spilled out a detailed version of what had happened. Mothers are so sympathetic. She understood completely and didn’t laugh at the incident—at least not in my presence—until years later.
Calmly, we got in the car. She drove the dozen miles to Brownwood, and Mom, not about to run the risk of embarrassing me twice in the same day with delicate requests for mineral oil to store clerks, suggested that I stay in the car. Ah, that’s the very place I wanted to be! Mom marched into the Piggly-Wiggly and returned to the car with a small brown bag. It contained the item so critically needed to perhaps save
