Pinball and Daydreams

I was ten years old and I had captured the silver ball with my left flipper. 

I held it firmly as I surveyed the surface of the table below the glass. I checked to see if the “special” light was on. It was. I could let the ball roll to just the right point near the middle of the flipper and then tap the button hard hooking it left and down the drain that crossed the trigger for the “special.” It meant sacrificing my last ball to get a new game and five more balls to play. Suspended, I weighed my options. Free game or keep the ball in play, go for the spinners, rack up some points, and go for a new high score.

I was addicted to pinball. I wasn’t a pinball wizard; I was a pinball junkie. The owners of The Game-room were my pushers. I remember the first marked quarters handed out like candy. I felt a rush of adrenaline the first time I drew back the spring-loaded launcher and sent the ball rocketing up ramps, through spinners, and bouncing off light-up bumpers. Ding-ding-ding it danced and then shot like a bullet straight down the middle drain. Now this had my attention.  The next ball in play had my complete focus. Hyper-focus. My eyes were lasers. The machine’s cacophonous sounds and flashing lights were some sort of magic magnet. I was mesmerized. Spellbound. Hooked.

Normally I daydreamed. My mind wandered. But now I was back at the Pinball machine. I was playing the new Captain Fantastic machine; Crowds had gathered as I racked up a new high score. I could hear The Who, “He’s a pinball wizard, there has to be a……LeGette!” The game room dissolved. “LeGette!”’ Mrs. Turner, my 5^th grade teacher was barking my name. “LeGette! Are you daydreaming again?” I was sitting at my desk surrounded by rows of classmates. They were all staring at me. Their eyes signaled,” What is wrong with you?” I wanted to be back at that pinball machine. I wanted to be anywhere but here with my name being barked and a bunch of kids looking at me like I was some sort of alien.

Mrs. Turner confirmed their suspicion, “Now that you have come back to earth, Mr. LeGette, could you please come to the board and solve this problem?” I looked at the blackboard and saw hieroglyphics. Everyone called it math, but it was just a jumble of numbers and meaningless symbols. Mrs. Turner certainly knew I could not solve the problem. It was written in secret code. The room was sweltering as Mrs. Turner stared at me. She wore a tank top shirt that showed off her hairy armpits. The giant fan was blowing hot air in my direction. I was feeling sick to my stomach. I could not move. 

Sheila, a neighbor who talked to me at the bus stop, but never at school, raised her hand. She spoke up, “I can solve it, Mrs. Turner.” Phew. Pressure was off. Sheila went to the board and scrawled  numbers and lines and tapped out dots with the chalk. She finished it off by drawing a circle around her final answer. I had no idea what she had just done, but Mrs. Turner was pleased for a moment before turning to me and scowling, “You should pay attention instead of daydreaming if you want to get anywhere in this world!”

As the teacher returned to droning on about dividing fractions, I gave my undivided attention back to staring out the window and dreaming that I was being hoisted up on the shoulders of my fans who were chanting, “High Score! High Score!” They carried me to the game-room counter where I was handed a large trophy and awarded free games for life.

The fleeting nature of transcendent perception or how I know that life is eternal...

Yesterday I attended the funeral of my father's life-long best friend. His funeral was exactly one year from my own mother's funeral. 

This past Monday we had a small family gathering on the one year anniversary of my mother's passing. We met at the columbarium where my mother and my niece are interred and memorialized. I decided to mark the occasion by sharing an experience and a statement about my beliefs concerning the nature of our existence. My thoughts on this subject are always changing and my mind and heart are open to new perspectives and possibilities. I structured my thoughts for this occasion in theological

terms. I could have easily substituted secular language and used words like psyche or consciousness instead of soul. The infinite instead of God. But all of the possible uses of language fall short when attempting to describe the reality that remains hidden from us. Our brain is encased in bone. We only have five measly senses to make sense of everything. Think about how the tiny slits in our eyes let in just enough light to build our entire vision of the universe right in our own heads. It's one miracle in a host of miracles that give rise to our very existence. Here are the words that I read at the memorial:

God gave us five senses. Five senses that allow us to witness the magic of a sunset, to be moved by the beauty of a single note on a violin as a bow makes its way across a perfectly tuned string, to taste the lingering sweetness of ice cream as it melts on our tongue, to breathe in the smell of Thanksgiving at Mom and Dad’s house, and to feel the embrace of those we love.

And as wondrous as those five senses are, they are woefully inadequate to interpret the nature of life and God.

Our mother connected in a special way with Myers Park Baptist’s covenant which says that we are a people on a journey of faith. These words buoyed our mother when the ocean, called cancer, insisted that she swim in its perilous waves. Her steadfast belief in her journey of faith lead her to moments of calm and tranquility in the midst of the crashing waves of chemo treatment and the rip currents of recurring cancer. In those moments of calm, I like to believe that Mom tapped into a transcendent power that lies within each of us. A power to tap into a sixth sense. A sense that allows us to catch fleeting glimpses of God’s world. God’s world is eternal and brings us comfort in the face of our own mortality.

Ten years ago I stood only a few yards from where we are right now. The family had gathered on the grass, beneath the shade of the large oaks that surround us now. The occasion was Anna’s funeral. I can remember the scene as Dr. Shoemaker calmly talked us through the planned order of the celebration of Anna’s life. The breezes that were blowing around us were unusual. Shifting direction and intensity. The sun was breaking in and out through the boughs of the oaks as the winds parted them here, and then there. I could feel the shifting wind on my skin and I closed my eyes to soak up the feeling of the breezy sensation and I tuned all my attention to that feeling of the air on my skin. It was at that moment that I felt myself tap into that sixth sense of transcendent perception.

For a fleeting moment, time stood still and I was instantly connected to everything. The true nature of God and the universe touched me in a way that I had not expected. The divine embrace I felt gave me an awareness of our connectedness to everything and therefore to God and then swirled off with the breeze. The brief experience was a milestone in my own journey of faith. It marked the moment that doubt about the eternal nature of our soul was erased from my worldview. I was overcome with gratitude to God for allowing this to happen at just the time when I needed it most. All this happened as all of you stood around me. I wondered if you felt it too.

I take comfort in the knowledge that Mom is still with us. And I don’t mean as a memory, although those are sweet to have. And certainly we miss seeing her eyes light up when she talks about the Moravian Love Feast. We miss her lovely singing voice, but even more we miss the voice of insistence and persistence imploring us that being part of a family was the most important of all things. We miss the smell of her smoke alarm style cooking of green beans. But mostly we miss her touch, her embrace, and the warmth of her hugs.

Yet the warmth of her spirit is alive and well and within us all. The true essence of who she is never dies. Her true essence is love. Love permeates all things. Love surrounds us and dwells within us. The loving soul that we call Margaret, Mom, and Nana has never gone anywhere. She would never leave us and she never has. Love never dies.

Storms Part 1 - The Tornado

We were in the basement. The T.V. had sent out that alarm that would usually say, “This has been a test, only a test of the Emergency Broadcast System.” But instead, the voice had warned that a tornado had been spotted and had touched down in Southeast part of town.” We looked outside and it was eerily calm and still. And yellowish.  I was only 10 years old, but recognized an ominous scene when I saw one. Then we heard the train whistle noise. We had been warned about that in school.  It meant a tornado was very close by.

So, now we were huddled together. My father had grabbed the mattress off of my brother’s bed in the basement. (His hippie dream room, beaded curtains and all) All four children and my Mom and Dad crouched behind the mattress. We could hear the sounds of tree limbs cracking and falling, hard rain, wind, and unpleasant crunching of metal and wood. I was scared. My sister suddenly remembered that our cat, Scooter, was upstairs and vulnerable if the giant Oak in our front yard were to fall on the house. My Dad sprinted up the steps to make a rescue. He was back down with Scooter in record time. He said the limbs from the Oak tree were brushing against the bay window of the house. That means that the mighty Oak was in a battle for its life if it was being bent that far by the wind. And a few minutes later it was over. The rain stopped. The sun came out. And it was quiet, but the normal kind of quiet. Birds started chirping.

We came out from behind the mattress and made our way up the steep basement steps.  My father was a photographer for the local newspaper, so we knew he would immediately be outside to take photos of the damage. We all went outside to get a first-hand look at the situation. Our big Oak tree was fine and standing upright. Some little branches were scattered across the yard. Then an exclaim from my mother got our attention, “Oh, my word. Look at the Maddert’s house!” First I saw that an entire tree had been ripped from the ground roots and all. I couldn’t believe that wind, nothing more than  moving air, could have so much power as to actually pull a tree out of the ground like a plucked carrot. Even more convincing of the storms power was that this trees roots laid beneath an asphalt driveway and the storm had pulled the roots right through the asphalt. As my eyes followed the trunk of the tree that ran at about a 45-degree angle, instead of straight up, I saw that it had landed squarely on top of the Maddert’s house. We knew they were OK, because they were already out surveying the damage themselves.

Dad snapped some shots and then he was off to drive around town and find more damage. Then it would be hours in the darkroom picking the best shots in time to make the afternoon deadline and get the scoop on the morning paper which wouldn’t be out until the following day.  Some neighborhood kids came down the street and said they were going to check out the woods. We joined them in the walk just across the next street where we always cut through a neighbor’s large yard and down the sloping hillside to the woods that I knew like the back of my hand. I can still vividly see an entire 3-D image of those woods in my head 45 years later. At the bottom of the slope was a split rail fence that we would go through or over. To the right was the only waterfall that I knew of in town. It cascaded over a dam, down a steep rocky path and then poured into the fast moving tributary creek that ran through the several acres of woods that I regularly played in .

At first it looked like the woods had remained undisturbed. But then one of the kids said, “Look at that tree.” Unlike the plucked tree in my neighbor’s yard, this tree was still standing up straight, but the top of the tree was gone. All that remained was a twisted spike at the top. It looked like the twister had hovered over this tree and turned the top like children twist the stem on an apple until it breaks free. I wondered if the tornado had counted the twists it took using the alphabet in order to discern the letter of the name of the boy or girl it would marry in the future. As we made our way down to the bridge that crossed the creek, we saw more damage. And then we realized the bridge was gone as well. Posts with chains dangling from them remained. And if we looked further down the creek we could see fragments of the wooden footbridge snagged on rocks holding fast against the unusually strong currents that the excessive rainfall had caused. On the other side of the creek there was a large sandy area where I often spent much of my time collecting mica and playing in the sand. Right in that spot, three trees had fallen into a perfect triangle across each other.  We would later name the framed in spot “sand circle.”

This part of the woods had been devastated and the storm had thinned the tree cover so much that we could see houses on the other side of the woods that had not been visible before.  We rock-hopped across the creek since the bridge was gone.  We followed the familiar paths to the various cool spots. Through the gully to the abandoned rock quarry. The damage was limited here. Then down the path to the left to check out skipper’s island. Not named for a ship’s Captain, but as a refuge for truants.  This part of the woods seemed fine. And then the opposite direction down the path that hugged the bank of the creek. My favorite part of this route was where the trail wound close to about a twenty foot drop off. A natural sort of damn lay at the bottom of that part of the creek and produced a deep mini-lake. This is the spot I would come to from the other side of the creek and sail boats made of sticks and leaves. 

Then on up a slope along the trail that brought us to the top of the waterfall on the other side from where we started. It seemed that the tornado had skipped around. It yanked hard on the tree just two doors down from my house. It twisted the top off a tree near the waterfall and must have carried it and dropped it somewhere else. It had decided to do most of the damage near the sandy bank at the turn in the creek near the old bridge. It had created a geometric piece of art using tree trunks and sand as its medium.

We couldn’t cross at the top of the dam that day. There was too much water rushing over. So, we made our way back to an easier crossing point. And then back home. Dad called when he was back at the paper to print what he had photographed. There had been lots of damage around the neighborhoods that I roamed freely about in those carefree days. Trees even fell on the rich people’s houses along Queens Road and throughout Eastover and Myers Park.  Most people would see the photos in the paper later that afternoon, but Dad brought home prints and contact sheets for us to look at.

Storms like this are momentous events that get branded into our memories in a way that is recallable with much more clarity than other memories from around the same time. Most of the days of my tenth year are completely buried in the recesses of my brain. This was the first of many literal and figurative storms to come. This storm was probably the first event I can remember that had a fundamental impact on my worldview. I gained respect for the power of the natural world. I saw how a few minutes could rearrange my world and alter it into something completely new. 

I don’t recall that anyone was hurt or killed by this storm. I remember it in a nostalgic way. It seems important in a symbolic sense. It’s as if the storm was perfectly timed to shake me from my childhood innocence and prepare me for the world that we all eventually realize can be a harsh place to live at times. It also provided me with context in which to value the normalcy of everyday life. And it perhaps it planted a seed in my psyche that change is inevitable and what may seem like a terrible event at the time can become an awesome memory that never goes away. If the storm had not happened, that entire year would now only exist as a blur of routine days lacking any clarity at all.

There would be more storms and they always seem to have a way of sweeping away one reality and replacing it with a new one.