Old Shirts

It is a second day of trauma in the Call household. Yesterday, to the sound of the death march, and yielding to pressure from the matriarch of the family, I somberly carried my old favorite (but now worn out) shirt all the way from our bedroom to the trash can in the garage. In its blue and white window pane pattern were folded memories of excitement (when I first bought it about 15 years ago), fear (when for a moment I was out of control and partially flexed before I realized that if I fully flexed I would have shredded my shirt altogether), and satisfaction (when I carefully stitched up the holes so that the repair was essentially invisible to the naked eye). It had been a good shirt. It was the kind that did not show wrinkles much at all and did not require ironing or any other special care after washing. It had been loyal to me through thick and thin (and it was more on the thin side of late) and it was comfortable to have around. The edges were worn and lacked the crisp texture of years ago and new holes had appeared because of the inadvertent strains of use. It was indeed with a heavy heart that I gently deposited it in the garbage bin knowing that I would never see it again.

Today the trauma continued. I had returned home from church wearing the last of my missionary white shirts. Although it was “permanent pressed” when Mom and Dad bought it, the treatment had long since left its fibers. The shoulder seams rode high on my shoulders as if from a different era when shirts were supposed to fit rather than drape. Although generally white, it was no longer as bright as it had been and the body of the fabric was limp and lifeless--some would even say it looked wrinkled. It had served me well as I walked from door to door to door in Italy. When my feet were sore and my socks worn out, my shirt was still strong and resilient. When it was soaked by the rains of fall, or steamed in the humidity of summer, there was no complaint, just silent resolve to keep doing its job. It was there when I offered to help a couple of young college students with their calculus and they thought they would humiliate me with the perplexity of the problem. It stayed with me when I calmly explained a trigonometric transform that led to the solution easily and quickly. And when my pride almost led me to say some haughty remark, it teamed up with my tie to choke away any untoward comment. After other shirts had long since given up because of stain or stress, this one had “hung in there” quietly in the closet ready at a moment’s notice to again come to my aid. Just moments ago, I gently laid it to rest beside its younger, casual brother in the silent darkness.

Watch out Penney’s here I come! Shopping Spree! Yippee!

An Open Letter to Michelle:

The long walk actually began in kindergarten. Indeed, the entire plan until now was unveiled and adopted before first grade. With a little encouragement (and noted lack of free agency), Michelle, you decided to proceed sequentially through elementary school from first through fifth grades. Then came middle school and you struggled against your urge to try seventh before sixth, and then go to eighth. Then of course came ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth just like clockwork-–boom, bam, bing, bong. Now did you stop there? No way, off you flew to thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth, fifteen and a hafth and then sixteenth. So now what? Graduation of course! And that is exactly what happened. On April 23 and 24, 2010, like a speck of pepper in a sea of dark blue robes, you distinguished yourself by wearing a cap and gown that looked exactly like everybody else. But we all saw you. We all recognized your beautiful shining hair, your captivating smile, and your energetic wave. (Thank goodness you called us on your cell phone to describe where you were seated.)

After all those years of school, Michelle, I am sure that you are a little nostalgic at the thought of not continuing with those late night studies, the cramming for the tests, the term papers and the challenging lectures. Gone are the days of guessing at the unknown test questions, rushing from class to class, grabbing a quick bite before heading to the library and worrying before the grades are posted. YOU DID IT. YOU GRADUATED FROM BYU! It is better than a trophy. It is something that is yours forever and nobody can ever take it away. It is now a part of who you are. We are all excited for you. In fact we take pride in our part that helped you succeed. (Maybe we even think that you could not have done it without our invaluable help.) But you did it. You could have quit, but you did not. You did it!

Oddly enough, now the real pressure begins. People actually expect you to remember what you learned and put it to good use. Imagine that! In fact some people think that graduation is just the beginning–-the commencement-–of a much larger life long quest. What are they thinking? We of course know better. If you try to put one more fact into that already crammed full brain, it is likely to explode and that would be a real mess--facts and information all over the place. So be very careful. Avoid learning like the plague. Never pick up a book or try to think again!

Congratulations! (Because graduation is only a single event, should I be saying, “Contratulation?” See, as a college graduate you need to know these things.) And . . . there are other rewards to graduating too.

Of course there are advantages to helping even if only a little bit.

Love you tons,

Dad and Mary Lee