Dwight Myfelt's Blogging Life

An Oldie But Goodie - Updated

Here is a movie I took at the mall about three years ago. I have shared it with some before, but now that I have discovered Movie Maker, I have juiced it up a little. It's worth re-watching. About 5 min. I'd like to think the live commentary is what makes it really click along.

Jackson Royce Myfelt, I Apologize!

     Tonight we went to the Easter Pageant at our church.
     It was quite the production, very impressive, and to be honest with you, well, kind of graphic.
     They had Jesus walk in with a real cross on his back while being whipped by Roman Centurians. Then they nailed him to the cross and hoisted it up on top of a rock, where Jesus hung, moaning and covered in blood.
     This was followed by a sound effects-lightshow storm the likes of which I have never witnessed in the real world, much less in a church auditorium.
     All of this was a bit much for Jack, who finally turned to me and begged, "No more Jesus on the cross, Daddy".
     I agreed and took him out into the hallway, where we listened but did not watch.
     After awhile, after Jesus had finally been taken down from the cross and placed in the tomb, I  convinced Jack to return to the sanctuary with my solemn promise there would be no more loud noises or bright lights.
     With great trepidation he finally agreed to return, holding tightly to my hand. We quietly took our seats and settled in for the triumphant conclusion of the Easter story.
     Unfortunately, I had failed to factor into my calculations the director's previously revealed penchant for the dramatic. One final surprise lay in wait for poor Jack.
     To the right of the Golgatha Rock on the stage was a very large tomb in which Jesus' body had been placed.
     As the choir began to softly sing Up From the Grave He Arose, the loudest explosion and flash of white light that I have ever experienced while inside a building, and even perhaps while outside one, erupted in front of the tomb.
    And then the stone in front of the tomb rolled away and Jesus, bathed in the glow of a radiant light, emerged to the tumultuous applause of the choir and the audience.
     Except, of course, for Jackson Royce Myfelt, who, hands over his ears, eyes wide in terror, sat trembling on my lap like a leaf in a torrential wind.
     Heaven only knows how long it's going to take before he trusts me about anything again, though I know this much--it certainly won't be tomorrow!

Eleven Times Eleven

     Tonight Jack and I decided to spend some time sitting on the front steps, looking at the moon, which was three-quarters full and shining brightly.
     As we sat there, necks craned upwards, Jack decided that it would be a good idea to count the stars in the sky, to see just how many there were of them.
     A great idea, though a bit of a challenge, given the fact that Jack's counting skills are limited.
     "Do you think we can count them all?" I asked. "There are an awful lot of them."
     "Sure," Jack said happily. He held his middle finger up in front of his eye (I can't get him to point with his index finger for anything), scrunched up his face, and carefully began to count.
     When he got to eleven, though, he stopped, unclear as to how to proceed.
     "What comes after eleven?" I asked.
     "One," he said.
     "Are you sure?"
     "Uh-hunh."
     "Positive?"
     "Uh-hunh."
     Not wanting to ruin the moment, I told him to go ahead and count from one again. Which he was more than happy to do. And so, he cataloged the stars in the sky, eleven at a time.
     We'll have to work on twelve and up another day. Tonight I was just happy to sit by him in the dark and listen to the sound of his voice.
     Ten . . . eleven . . . one . . . two . . .

Grandpa Becomes an Object lesson

     When my father was a very small child, less than a year old, he was stuck his left hand pinkie into the nail hole in the handle of a large pan and, long story short, succeeded in losing his finger from the middle knuckle to the tip.
     All of my life this stunted pinkie of his has been a point of fascination for me, as though he were a pirate with a large hook at the end of his arm in the place of a hand, lost most probably to a shark or in an incredible sword fight.
     Recently, I caught Lauren kicking her bedroom door closed when Jack was trying to enter her room uninvited, very nearly chopping off a couple of his intruding fingers in the process.
     Thereafter ensued a tirade from me that, after a full five minutes of yelling, concluded with the question, Haven't you seen Grandpa's finger? Do you want Jack to go through the rest of his life without a finger, just like Grandpa?"
     Both kids just stared at me like a couple of cows, oblivious to the missing digit to which I referred.   
     Incredulous that they had never noticed it, I promised to show them exactly what I was talking about the next we saw Grandpa.
     No sooner had we arrived at my parents and settled in for our visit yesterday, than I promptly produced my father's hand for inspection.
     After duly examining my father's finger from a safe distance, Jack turned with a look of horror on his face and shouted to no one in particular, "Wow! That just freaked me out!"

Is It My Ears or His Lips?

   On the way home from the store the other day Jack (4) told me that he wanted to watch the butt movie when we got home.
    "The butt movie?" I asked.
    "Uh-huh."
    "We have a butt movie?"
    "Sure."
    "At our house we have a butt movie?"
    "Uh-huh."
    "What's it about?"
    "Butts."
    "We do not," I said, thinking he might be messin' with me, though he did seem rather serious.
    "We do too!" he protested.
    "Have you watched this movie?"
    "Uh-huh."
    "Did Mommy know you watched this movie?"
    "Uh-huh."
    I had no clue what he was talking about so I let it drop, knowing full well he would prove me wrong when we got to the house.
    Sure enough, we had not been in the house three minutes when he shoved me The Butt Movie box.

   

From Carpenter to King

Click on Photos for Larger Images

  This morning we went to Jack's school for his Christmas Program.
    Originally, Jack was slated to play the part of Joseph, but through a series of events to which we were not privy, he switched to the role of one of the three kings.
    I wouldn't be surprised if getting to wear a crown didn't have something to do with it.
     He did well though he spent much of his time on stage messin' with his crown. Seems it was a bit too large for his head and required some effort to keep it balanced on top of his head rather than falling down around his neck.
    Like a dork I walked out of the house without the camera so I had to use the camera on my phone, which has the resolution of, well, of a camera phone.
    Thank goodness these pictures at least give you a glimpse of his costume. We are going to try to pawn a video of the program off one of the other responsible parents who actually showed up with their cameras.
    The last picture at the right is all I got of the program itself. Looks like three wise men lost in the forrest.
    Or maybe three ghosts. Were there ghosts in Bethlehem? Maybe one of them is actually a mummy, the one all the way to the right? I just can't tell.

Dust in the Wind

   Although this story is not about Lauren, it could very well be, given her propensity for mishearing words (click for link). Last night we had roast beef for dinner and I was reminded of the fact that she used to call it roast beast, yet another example of how she hears it wrong but still gets it right. It is, when you think about it, a special kind of gift . . . fake believe . . .  Dark Vader. Anyway, here's the post.   

   Not long ago, a minister stood up in church, raised his hands up to the sky, and offered a prayer before the offertory. "Our Father," he began, "without you, we are but dust . . ." at which point a six-year old in the congregation turned to his mother and asked, "what is butt dust?"

Beam Me Up Jesus!

    Sunday morning Jack insisted on sitting with us in the main service at church.
    During the sermon the pastor flashed a picture of the Starship Enterprise from Star Trek on the screen as part of an illustration.
    Upon seeing the picture, Jack  leaned over to me and whispered, "is that where Jesus sleeps?"

Cracker Barbie

     This weekend I am driving to Cleveland to meet my parents and retrieve Jack, who has been at their house for the past week. The thought of going reminds me of a similar trip Lauren made with my father a couple of years ago.
    Normally, my mother or sister accompanies my father on these trips to exchange the kids since my father has trouble hearing the kids while driving.
    On this particular trip, however, no one else could come so my father  made the trip by himself. On the way from Cleveland to New York, Lauren was sitting on the bench seat in the middle of my parents' van, watching movies on the built-in TV screen that drops down from the ceiling.
    The VCR is in a compartment between the front seats of the van so the tapes had to be changed by my father while he drove. When the first movie ended, Lauren, who is soft spoken, politely asked my father to put Nutcracker Barbie (See Crack Barbie - click for link) into the tape player.
    Upon hearing this request, my father reached over into the front passenger seat and opened one of the baggies of treats that had been stashed there by my mother in case Lauren got hungry on the trip, extracted a cracker, and handed it back to Lauren.
    Lauren, who had already eaten lunch and was not hungry, politely took the cracker and placed it on the seat beside her.
    Ten minutes later, she asked again. "Grandpa?"
    "Yes," my father answered.
    "Nutcracker Barbie please."
    "Can do," my father replied, and reached over into the seat next to him, extracted another cracker, and handed it back to her. Lauren politely took the cracker and carefully placed it on top of the first cracker he had handed back.
    By the time they arrived in New York, Lauren had a neat little stack of crackers on the seat beside her and the baggie in the seat next to my father was completely empty.
    "Whew!" my Father reported to my mother upon pulling into the driveway, "she was one hungry kid!"
    My mother opened the side door of the van and was greeted by Lauren, who had a huge grin on her face. Lauren pointed to my father and then to the stack of crackers on the seat beside her.
    "Grandpa's funny," she said to my mother, clearly amused. And to this day, that story still cracks her up.

The Trouble With Boys

     One Sunday we were riding home from church when Lauren, who was four at the time, reported that a boy had punched her in the face during Sunday School.
    This struck me as odd, though I am by no means suggesting it was not a possibility - four year old boys are given to strange behavior which often includes the unprovoked whalloping of girls, as evidenced by Exhibit A: Jackson Royce Myfelt.
    When grilled regarding the events leading up to the alleged assault, Lauren adamantly maintained that she had done absolutely nothing to provoke this boy--he had simply punched her for no good reason.   Eventually, getting no answer which satisfied us, we let it go.
    Later in the afternoon, Michelle was reading in the living room when Lauren sidled up to her chair, leaned against her, chin in hand, and asked the following question:
    "Momma, why do boys get so mad when you try to kiss 'em?"
    I can only hope this reaction from the boys is a trend that continues over the next fifteen years. Unfortunately, I fear that it will not.