Happy Father’s Day
By David Myers
In honor of Father’s Day, I’ve decided this
week to present my column space to my dad, who, ever since writing his memoirs
of his adventures in
Dad’s in his 80s now, and still enjoys
taking pencil to paper. Looking back, I’m glad I haven’t been able to convince
him to sit down at the computer to write. Something tells me that in
this ever-increasing digital age, picking up and reading those stories written
in his own hand – always with a mechanical pencil, always on a legal pad – will
mean ever so much more. Here’s one of my favorites, written just last year.
Store-Bought Teeth
By Jim Myers
The other night I learned one thing for
sure, and that is to never ever try to whistle through store-bought teeth.
I’m
a member of a community band whose members come from all walks of life. Now and
then we’ll give a concert at one of the local churches.
The
other night we were giving a concert at the old Methodist church up on the
hill. We had a pretty good audience, all be it that most were members of the
church.
Part
way through one of the songs it called for band members to whistle. Along with
the rest of the band, I did my best to let out with a mighty whistle.
Unfortunately, I had forgotten about my
store-bought teeth.
All of a sudden the flute player sitting in
front of me started to hoot, holler and yell. She jumped up and I noticed my
teeth sitting on her chair in a
Everyone was confused as to what was going on.
Someone thought the girl must have seen a mouse, so he hollered out asking if
any one had seen the little critter.
All the girls in the band panicked. The audience
panicked. And all the men began looking for clubs to kill the mouse.
People were scrambling everywhere. Chairs were
falling over. As the conductor tried to keep the band playing, music stands
toppled and sheet music scattered. It was pandemonium!
Someone called 911, and minutes later the
local sheriff and his posse showed up. Medics appeared, and several fire
engines roared in.
Finally things began to settle down. Medics
took care of the bumps and bruises; the fire men left; and the sheriff and his
posse went home.
I’ll
tell you one thing for sure: I’ll never, ever again try to whistle through my
store- bought teeth.
• • •
Having read that, you probably didn’t need
to be told he was my dad to guess that we come from the same family.
On a more serious
note, here is a snippet from his 1977 memoir, “Assignment Sudan.” The following
is true, by the way:
“Jim, one of your bases has been occupied
by a Dinka war party.”
Apparently some of my Arab workers at the
base had stolen a hundred head of Dinka cattle. An
act like this was enough to start off a major war. And I had been feeling so
good that morning.
So out to the bush we went. Sure enough,
there were 20 or 30 very tall, grim-faced men without a stitch of clothing on,
each carrying 20 razor-sharp spears. I counted them.
My interpreter looked at me and said, “One
wrong word and we all die.” That was comforting. All I had to do was avoid that
one wrong word. For the first time in my life, my knees started to knock like
bongo drums.
Just then, like in a story book, a Dinka military officer with a squad of soldiers came over
the hill and saved the day. I had met him early on. He was a fine young man. At
that moment I could have kissed him, but I thought better of it.
...Close to finalizing my assignment, I
visited another bush outpost. By then, a mosquito infected with malaria had
zapped me. As I lay on a cot at the camp, a young Sudanese Arab sat on the foot
of my cot and began singing and playing his home-made instrument. He was singing
to comfort me. It was truly a scene out of the Old Testament. I felt that I
knew how King Saul felt when young David sang to him.
I learned that the song was a love ballad.
The dialect was so ancient that to this day, I have found no Arab who could
interpret it for me.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thank you
for inspiring me to write and to laugh, and often at the same time.