Edan's Christmas Letter

Two stories from my recent life

Greetings!

 

This Christmas I planned to cheer you up by telling you that, despite the dire happenings all over the planet, things are really not so bad.  Worldwide, poverty and hunger are but a small fraction of what they were when I was a child.  Violence, too, worldwide, is at an all-time low for humankind.   But I know you won’t believe me, and it would take a lot of convincing.  And you and I don’t have the patience.

I had planned to do that, but I won’t.   Perhaps another time. 

Then, like many others, I thought about a Christmas letter, telling you all the fun things our family did this past year, stressing on the adventure and skipping the trauma and tragedy. 

I thought about it, but I won’t.   You’d simply be jealous.  

Instead, I am going to tell you two short, true stories.  Maybe they will cheer you up a bit, or perhaps annoy you.  Either way, I’m good. 

This is a two-storied letter. Story one is next, followed by story two. 

And a Merry Christmas to you too!

 

 

Working with the Boss

 

The main characters in this story are my daughter Andie and me. 

Me:  I am 74 years old, comfortably grouchy, willing to lend an occasional hand, ready to criticize anybody just for the hell of it, and opinionated as ever.  I’ve retired several times over, but can’t seem to stay down.  I’ve a deep need to interfere, which keeps me busy.  I work from time to time with special-needs children in schools and through the courts. 

Andie:  Andie is 25.62 years old give or take a few, and now helps run the YMCA’s Camp Oakes (https://www.facebook.com/CampOakes/) in the Big Bear Mountains three hours east of Los Angeles.  The camp is a slice of heaven at 7,300 feet, accommodates some 400 people, and has lots of trees, cabins, kitchens, a lake, a pool, and several activities for kids of all ages.  She lives in her own little house at camp.  Groups of kids and adults come in all summer and most weekends the rest of the year.  They have snakes and bears and misfits.  It’s like a hotel on steroids.  And it is in the wild, far from anything.

I volunteer to help Andie at camp when the need arises.  It satisfies my penchant for interfering.  This September I cooked a vegetarian meal for 150 yogis and yoginis at the Los Angeles Yoga Festival.  I may or may not have sneaked some pork fat into the dal.  I did receive several compliments on how delicious it was.  No one complained about it, so no harm, no foul.  And there was no fowl, I assure you. In any case, pigs eat vegetables anyway, so people who eat pork are really secondary vegetarians.

I also spent two days as a volunteer when a YMCA group was at camp.  One of the jobs I was given was to run the “Mine Chutes”.  Two very large tubes, each about 400 feet long, tucked into a mountain slope.  A kid puts on a helmet, gets on a runner at the top, and speeds through a tube to the bottom, where he or she is slowed down by carpeting and bales of hay.  Or, in the winter, by snow.  Some people go right through the barrier and head towards the lake.  See for yourself: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g8AMuq_3fBw .  

My job:  stand at the top of the chute, check to make sure the helmets are on right, make sure the runner is in good shape, and wait until one kid clears the runway before launching the next one.  

Not too hard. 

Except.

Except that for the first time in my life, I was working for my daughter.  She was boss; I was worker.    Andie and I would communicate using two-way radios, so I could find her at any time in as she made her rounds through camp.  Most of the twenty or so staff at camp also carried two-way radios, so everyone could hear our conversations. 

I entered the shed where the safety helmets and runners were stored.  The helmets were in good shape.  The runners were flimsy, made of thin plastic, and most were shredded beyond repair.   Perhaps three or four were barely salvageable, but would not last through the day.  I radioed my boss. 

“Andie”, I said, “the runners are in terrible shape.  Do you know if there are others I can use?”

This was the first time I asked my new boss for help.  She replied, “Dad, I’m busy.  That’s all we got.  Deal with it!” 

What??  My first day on the job, my first problem, with kids lined up waiting to ride, runners in tatters, and she dumps the problem squarely on my shoulders!  What was I to do?  It would take an hour or two to drive down to Big Bear to pick up new runners, assuming that Big Bear had any.  Was this the way a boss should treat an employee, a new unpaid employee at that, dad or not, daughter or not?  Everyone at camp had heard our conversation over the radio.  Everyone.  Were they snickering over the pathetic cry and the put-down?

I shrugged it off.  I can handle this, I told myself.  I picked up the best of the runners, checked the helmets on a couple of kids, and marched up the hill.  I sent a couple of kids down the chute.  They survived.  I sent a couple more down.  They made it too without injury.  But the runners were disintegrating.   I flipped the runners around so that the kids rode them backwards, because they seemed sturdier that way.  Somehow we managed. 

Then a group came up to the chutes with a bunch of surprisingly good, sturdy runners.  I asked the dad where he found them.  

He said, “Oh, we brought our own.   We don’t like to take chances with faulty equipment.” 

My own supply was dangerously low, and here was another source!   I’ve been a successful businessman, always been quick to seize an opportunity.  

I asked the dad, “When your kids are done, would it be possible for us to buy your runners?  We’ll pay whatever you paid for them.” 

He saw the trashy runners the other kids were using and said that he would get back to me.  After a few minutes he came to me and said:

“Tell you what:  we will donate our runners to you.  Enjoy!” 

Success!  My first day on the job, my new boss abandons me, and I still pull off a minor coup!   These new runners would last for the next several months!  I swelled with pride.  Wait till I tell the boss! Until now the kids were riding practically on their backsides, but no longer.  Now we had high-quality runners without spending a penny!  We were having fun! 

One kid, who had ridden a tattered runner before (and had almost got stuck in the chute because a piece of the runner was sticking out) said to me:

“It’s so hard with those runners.  I think I’d be better off riding down without one.  Could I ride down without a runner?  Just me?  Just once?  Please?  Pleease?  Pleeeease?” 

I knew it would be fine, probably a lot safer than the crap he’d been riding, and said:

“Okay, just this once.  Be extra careful.  And when you’re done, you are done.  You don’t come back!”

“Fine!  Thanks!!” he said, and away he went.  

It was fine.  He made it to the bottom without incident, waved at me from the bottom, with a big smile.

I felt great.  I was resourceful, innovative, flexible on my first day at the job; basking in glory.

  And then I heard the radio. 

“Edan!” it called.  “Edan!” 

I replied, “Yes, this is Edan.” 

“We do not allow anyone to ride down the chute without a sled” said the voice.  “It is strictly forbidden.   Please do not do it again!”

Yes, it was Andie, my darling daughter, who happened to be walking by at exactly the wrong moment, and who was taking me, her employee, to task for breaking the rules…with the entire camp staff listening!  Success to humiliation can take but a fleeting second.   Caught!  Called out!  Public humiliation! 

I know what Miss Colombia must have felt when, after they crowned her Miss Universe, they called it a mistake and took the crown away to place it on Miss Philippines head.

That night we were gathered around the fireplace, toasting ourselves and reminiscing about the day.   I was asked, “How was camp?  How did your day go?”  I said, “Camp was wonderful.  I am so proud of my daughter and the way she handles things.  She takes charge, delegates effectively, is quick to discipline people.  She’s great.”

And then I added, “But I am really pissed at my boss.”

 

 

 

On Growing Older

 

 

There are also two main characters in this, the second story.  As with the first, one of them is me. The other is a seventeen-year old kid.  For this story, I shall simply call him Dude.  Let me explain.  I volunteer as a Court-Appointed Special Advocate, or CASA, in the local, Orange County Court system.   We CASAs are assigned to kids who are in the social services system, kids who do not have a home of their own.  The kids’ parental rights are assigned to a judge who determines what is best for them.  Each CASA, appointed by the judge, is assigned one kid, and our role as CASAs is to meet frequently with our kid, and to help make sure that his or her educational, social and emotional needs are addressed.  We work with teachers, foster parents, group homes, social workers, health personnel, law enforcement and others.  We periodically make recommendations to the court.

I’ve been Dude’s CASA for almost three years, and in that time we’ve become good friends.  During those three years he’s gone from fourteen to seventeen, a giant change.  I went from seventy-one to seventy-four, a minor adjustment.  Dude and I have conversations about this.  He’s about to become an adult, and my role is to help him become a responsible one. 

It’s an interesting relationship.  Not many 17 year-olds fancy hanging out with an old man, but as I said, we’re friends, and we meet and text and talk often.

The other day Dude and I were at lunch.   As usual, the focus tended to move towards adulthood and maturing.  He looked at me with a serious face. 

“Edan,” he said, “can I ask you for a big favor?  A really really big favor?” 

Oh, oh, I thought.  

“What are you thinking about?” I managed.  

“Don’t say no!”

“But I don’t know what you’re asking for!”

“As long as you say yes!”

“Tell me, Dude, what do you want?”

“In four years I will be twenty-one”. 

I nodded. 

“Will you do me a big favor?” 

I nodded again. 

“If you’re still alive then, would you take me to a bar and buy me a drink?”

I breathed a sigh of relief.  Whew!  Despite the presumption of longevity, it was a fair, thoughtful question.  Would I?  Should I? 

“Sure!” I said.  “It will be my privilege.  The day you turn twenty-one I will pick you up, take you to a nice bar and buy you the drink of your choice.  I will buy you two drinks!”

I continued, “In addition, I will take you to a liquor store and buy you a case of beer that you can take home fully legal and consume any time you want!   I am glad that you picked me to do the honor.”

“Thanks.”, he said.  “That means a lot to me.  I just didn’t want to go all by myself and get drunk.  I want someone who I would enjoy drinking with.”

We left it at that.  A simple, easy conversation.  About the future.

In the next three or four years he could find a whole bunch of friends with whom going out to buy that first drink would be a lot more fun.  And that would be all right by me. 

But it was nice to be asked.  It was nice to know that someone who has struggled so hard is looking forward to a happier, less sober future. 

It’s exciting.  When I’m seventy seven years old I may still be able to contribute to the dissolution of a fresh new adult?  Maybe it’s worth living that long.  Maybe I should start taking those statin drugs that I discarded several years ago.

 

Author's Note

Let me know what you think. Send any feedback to me at [email protected]

Reviews

[Edan Prabhu]

Looks pretty good if I say so myself!