fine offstage when he was relaxed, but I was afraid that once we got on stage, he’d freeze. I was prepared though: if he froze, I’d kneel down beside him and bail him out. If nothing else, my friends would know who was the hero and who was the goat.
The play went on and we watched as the innkeeper turned Joseph and Mary away, they shacked up in the stable, and the sheep and goats and cows gathered around. Mike Walston and I went over his lines once more while the shepherds did their thing, and then it was time for our big entrance.
Mike Walston led us across the stage toward the Star of Bethlehem and the manger. With Mary and Joseph looking on, Mike knelt in front of the baby Jesus and—didn’t say a word. He froze. I was about to kneel down to help him, but just then, he glanced up at me and smiled a big smile. Then he turned, looked at Mary, and spat out his lines in the same matter - of - fact tone he used when he told us about breakfast: “We are the three wise men. I bring you gold.”
I was stunned. There was a fairly long pause before Joey Amback gave me a nudge. Then I remembered where I was. I knelt down next to Mike Walston, turned to Mary, and said, “And I bring you gold.”
I couldn’t believe my own words. I was the frankincense guy, but I had said, plain as day, “I bring you gold.” There was a shocked hush over the entire church basement audience—broken only by a few nervous coughs—until Joey Amback knelt next to me and said, “Yeah, I bring you gold, too.”
Then the whole audience roared. The third wise man had bailed me out. Life in the second grade would go on. I would not have to spend my remaining days standing against the fence during recess. And Mike Walston would receive kudos for his fine performance.
The lesson stuck with me. Years later, when my boss was having trouble and there was talk of replacing him, I remembered the Christmas play and lent him a hand. Sure, I wanted to move up, but not at all costs. I know firsthand that the wisest of wise men stumble once in a while. And when that happens, it’s nice to have somebody around who will cover your rear.
Snow Ice Cream
The first snowfall. When I was little, new snow meant one thing: we’d get to make snow ice cream.
As soon as enough snow had accumulated on the ground, my mother would send my brothers and sisters and me out to collect the new snow in mixing bowls, drinking glasses, soup cans—anything we could find. Then we’d bring all of the containers back to the kitchen.
While Mom dumped the snow into a big glass mixing bowl, we kids would take off our coats, hats, and gloves, and spread them throughout the rest of the house to dry over any available furnace vent. Then we gathered in the kitchen where we’d take turns warming our feet over the vent next to the oven.
Mom would take the big bowl of snow, add some sugar, milk, and vanilla extract, and mix it all up. Then she gave us each a bowl full, and we sat around the kitchen table—me with my little brothers and sisters at a time before we were old enough to know pain or worry—eating snow ice cream while Mom took care of everything else.
Those were rare, beautiful moments…frozen in time, frozen in memory…and I’d give anything to go back to that kitchen with my mother, brothers, and sisters for just five minutes.
I haven’t had snow ice cream in a lot of years. And there are probably many reasons not to eat snow ice cream nowadays. Even though new fallen snow may look pure and white, there are probably lots of impurities in the stuff. It’s just a matter of time before somebody sounds the alarm about the harmful effects of acid snow.
Even so, snow ice cream still sounds pretty good to me. It sounds like kids warming their cold little toes over the furnace vent. It sounds like Mom mixing up a batch of something cold and sweet in the kitchen. And in the middle of shopping for presents, sending out Christmas cards, decorating the tree,
The play went on and we watched as the innkeeper turned Joseph and Mary away, they shacked up in the stable, and the sheep and goats and cows gathered around. Mike Walston and I went over his lines once more while the shepherds did their thing, and then it was time for our big entrance.
Mike Walston led us across the stage toward the Star of Bethlehem and the manger. With Mary and Joseph looking on, Mike knelt in front of the baby Jesus and—didn’t say a word. He froze. I was about to kneel down to help him, but just then, he glanced up at me and smiled a big smile. Then he turned, looked at Mary, and spat out his lines in the same matter - of - fact tone he used when he told us about breakfast: “We are the three wise men. I bring you gold.”
I was stunned. There was a fairly long pause before Joey Amback gave me a nudge. Then I remembered where I was. I knelt down next to Mike Walston, turned to Mary, and said, “And I bring you gold.”
I couldn’t believe my own words. I was the frankincense guy, but I had said, plain as day, “I bring you gold.” There was a shocked hush over the entire church basement audience—broken only by a few nervous coughs—until Joey Amback knelt next to me and said, “Yeah, I bring you gold, too.”
Then the whole audience roared. The third wise man had bailed me out. Life in the second grade would go on. I would not have to spend my remaining days standing against the fence during recess. And Mike Walston would receive kudos for his fine performance.
The lesson stuck with me. Years later, when my boss was having trouble and there was talk of replacing him, I remembered the Christmas play and lent him a hand. Sure, I wanted to move up, but not at all costs. I know firsthand that the wisest of wise men stumble once in a while. And when that happens, it’s nice to have somebody around who will cover your rear.
Snow Ice Cream
The first snowfall. When I was little, new snow meant one thing: we’d get to make snow ice cream.
As soon as enough snow had accumulated on the ground, my mother would send my brothers and sisters and me out to collect the new snow in mixing bowls, drinking glasses, soup cans—anything we could find. Then we’d bring all of the containers back to the kitchen.
While Mom dumped the snow into a big glass mixing bowl, we kids would take off our coats, hats, and gloves, and spread them throughout the rest of the house to dry over any available furnace vent. Then we gathered in the kitchen where we’d take turns warming our feet over the vent next to the oven.
Mom would take the big bowl of snow, add some sugar, milk, and vanilla extract, and mix it all up. Then she gave us each a bowl full, and we sat around the kitchen table—me with my little brothers and sisters at a time before we were old enough to know pain or worry—eating snow ice cream while Mom took care of everything else.
Those were rare, beautiful moments…frozen in time, frozen in memory…and I’d give anything to go back to that kitchen with my mother, brothers, and sisters for just five minutes.
I haven’t had snow ice cream in a lot of years. And there are probably many reasons not to eat snow ice cream nowadays. Even though new fallen snow may look pure and white, there are probably lots of impurities in the stuff. It’s just a matter of time before somebody sounds the alarm about the harmful effects of acid snow.
Even so, snow ice cream still sounds pretty good to me. It sounds like kids warming their cold little toes over the furnace vent. It sounds like Mom mixing up a batch of something cold and sweet in the kitchen. And in the middle of shopping for presents, sending out Christmas cards, decorating the tree,
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