Mitchell Way
The animated version of the Disney movie, Peter Pan, was released in 1953. Disneyland theme park opened in 1955. I was born in 1955. Are you seeing the connection? I grew up in the era of Wonderland, of the lost boys, of never wanting to grow up, of wanting to fly . . . and sometimes occasionally wearing green tights.
The Boy Scout motto, which we all had to memorize to earn the Scout Rank is: Be prepared. So, I memorized it and said it to my Scout Master so I could begin earning my Tenderfoot rank. At the time, two words was about the extent of my ability to memorize.
But no one really explained to us what we were supposed to be prepared for. Did it have anything to do with bears coming into our camp? If we were indeed responsible for being prepared for any situation which would arise, I would have to spend considerably more time in the library speedreading books on every topic to get a general knowledge of what to do when a situation needed a solution, and in the fifth grade I was lucky to read through one book a year.
It was not until this year that I found out that Robert Baden-Powell, the founder of Scouts, had intended the boys to be ready for anything from a sudden accident to the defense of their country. When he was asked what they should be prepared for, he replied, “Any old thing.”
The motto has awakened me at 4:30 many mornings as I lie in bed wondering, “What am I not prepared for today?”
This was something that I brought up with my best friend, Chuck, as we stood out on a sandbar, river fishing for Silver Salmon. He was about twenty feet upriver, fishing with his nine-foot rod which was now eight foot, six inches long since he chopped six inches off the tip by dropping his tailgate closed before he got his pole completely out of the back of his SUV.
“Here’s something I was thinking about,” I said as I lifted my boonie hat and swabbed the sweat from my forehead. “What would you do if I grabbed my chest and fell over on the beach?”
“You mean dead, or just fell over like you sometimes do?”
“I mean a heart attack.”
“Well, if you were dead anyway, I might swap my pole with yours and check in your tackle box to see if there’s anything I need.”
“You mean that you wouldn’t start CPR?”
“Hypothetically speaking, what if I had a fish on?”
“Would you call, 911?”
“When I got the fish on the beach.”
“You know, this is something we need to be thinking about. Neither one of us is getting any younger.”
“You are actually six months older than me.”
“When was the last time you took a CPR class? I haven’t taken one for about 15 years.”
“How old were we when we were working on our First Aid merit badges in Scouts?” he asked.
“Well, cripes! I’m signing us up for a class.”
And immediately after I had lost another three lures to a snag in the river, I went to the local fire hall and inquired about their next CPR class.
“We don’t get many men your age signing up for the class, a buff looking 20-something firefighter told me. Mostly, we get older women who are running daycares, or young kids who need it for a college class requirement. Are you physically up for it?”
“Hey,” I said, obviously offended. “If I can still use my bicycle pump to inflate my lawnmower tire, I think I can push on a chest for two minutes.”
“Yeah,” he said, slowly eyeing my out of shape muscles. “I’ll put you down for this Saturday.”
“Oh, I’ve been put down before. And put down my buddy, Chuck too. I’m relying on him to be the one to kick start me if I keel over.”
So, Saturday came, and I drug the reluctant Charles to the 9am CPR class. Just as the fireman had warned us, we were the only two “Older” men in a group of mature women and college girls.
“Thank you for attending Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation training,” the instructor said. “Let’s go around the room and tell us your first name and why you are taking the training.”
As was predicted when I enquired about the class, the older women were daycare owners or workers, and the college age attenders were taking CPR as one of the requirements for a Community College class. When it got to us, we had the classes’ attention because no one understood why two old broken down men were interested in CPR.
“My name is Marty and I worry about my partner, here. He could shut down at any time.”
“My name is Chuck and I’m six months younger than him. I doubt that I would jump start him because look at that face. I’m not blowing air into that mouth.”
Sometimes the truth hurts.
There were three adult Resusci-Anne mannequins lying on the floor and three infant Anne dolls on a table. The instructor began giving us scenarios about finding an unresponsive person and what to do if you were by yourself, or with other people helping. He showed us proper hand placement on the sternum and how deep to compress. He then produced some alcohol swabs and wiped the mouth of Anne and showed us how to tilt the head, lift the jaw, pinch the nose, and blow in, raising Anne’s chest.
“For your information, Anne holds the record for being the most kissed doll in the world. We will apply two blasts of air and then start compressions at a rate of 100-120 beats per minute. Try to think of a song that has a beat of 120 beats per minute, like Row, Row, Row Your Boat. You will alternate between two breaths and 30 compressions. Since we only have three Annes, while one person is practicing, the rest will watch and critique.”
The college age kids seemed eager to get practicing, so they gathered around one mannequin and one of the kids began. Chuck and I, and the older women were a little more hesitant to be the first to begin, so one of the women volunteered. She was a rather large woman in her late 50’s. With a little help, she lowered herself to the floor and sat on her knees next to Anne. After attempting to wake the patient, she concluded that Anne was not breathing and had no pulse. She told one of us to call 911, then, having previously swabbed the dolls mouth area, she tilted Anne’s head, brought her jaw up, pinched her nose, took a deep breath and came down on Anne’s mouth to give her the first breath of air, and . . .
“Frapp!”
Those standing around critiquing took a step back and looked at each other, not knowing what to do. In all fairness, she was able to fill Anne’s lungs also.
The next woman up was a thin woman also in her late 50’s. She took the position on the floor and after concluding that Anne was not just sleeping, she filled the doll with two blasts of air and began the chest compressions. After cycling through the process twice, she stood to let the next person in the group try. She faced the group with a smile on her face, as if to say, “That wasn’t so hard.”
The group’s reaction was, “Whoa!” She had blown so hard into Anne’s mouth that she broke a blood vessel in her right eye and the white of that eye was dark red.
“The old group ain’t doing so good,” Chuck mumbled.
“The next thing we are going to introduce into the mix is the AED unit,” the instructor announced. “The acronym AED stands for Automated External Defibrillator. More and more businesses, churches, and schools are buying them, so you should be familiar with how to use them.”
He went through the attaching process, which included removing the clothing from the chest area where the electrodes would be placed.
“Using an AED requires no previous training because the pads are marked to show you where to place them and an audio voice will give you instructions. Chuck and Marty haven’t done their CPR practice yet, so you guys get on the floor. One of you will be doing the CPR and the other will apply the AED pads, then you will switch.”
Using a chair, we lowered ourselves onto our knees. The crackling of the joints made me worry that we might not be getting up again. I was in position for the CPR. We ascertained that our victim had no heartbeat and was not breathing.
“Okay, call 911 and see if you can find an AED,” I told him, “but first take her shirt off.”
“Whoa, hold on! I’m not taking any female’s top off. My wife would kill me.”
“As soon as the paramedics arrive, her top is coming off anyway,” the instructor commented.
There was much grumbling as we removed her sweatshirt. I then began CPR as Chuck applied the shock pads to her chest and we followed the instructions given to us by the AED box. After swapping out positions, we had reached the limit of our ability to sit on our knees on the floor and both needed chairs to pull ourselves up to a standing position.
The last demonstration of the morning was dislodging obstructions in infant and adult windpipes. The J-Stroke, or Heimlich Maneuver, to be used on an adult, was done by pairing up the class. One person stood behind the other, made a fist, and visualized the upward thrust from a spot above the navel to the breastbone.
When I placed my arms around Chuck and made a fist in the center of his belly I asked, “Should I try one thrust so you can see what it feels like?”
“Not unless you want a wad of tobacco in that woman’s hair,” he said.
“This is a lot like giving the Heimlich to a very pregnant woman.”
He ground my foot lightly into the carpet with the heel of his steel-toed work boot.
Dislodging an obstacle from a baby required holding the baby in one arm face down, and hitting it between the shoulder blades, five times. If you can’t then see the obstacle in its mouth, lay the baby on its back on one of your arms and slap its chest five times. If that doesn’t dislodge it, start again on the back. This seemed like excessive beating of the baby and because our doll was old, its head kept falling off.
At 11:30, the instructor was satisfied that we could all perform CPR, and he said that our certification cards would be in the mail within the week. Returning once again to the sandbar, Chuck cast his lure out into the center of the river. I watched as he stepped deeper and deeper into the swiftly flowing current. He was still complaining about the morning of fishing lost to a CPR class.
“Here’s something I was thinking about,” I said. “What if I fell into the river and was being carried downstream. When was the last time you took a junior lifesaving class?
His next cast swung wide over my head and his lure snagged my boonie hat and carried it out and into the far side of the river.
He did that on purpose. I’ll be checking into Lifesaving classes at the YMCA tomorrow.
Faith Family Life Getting Older Growing Up Misadventures Music Patriotism Pets or Pests? Snips Tributes
Inner tube rolling
The act of wedging oneself in the inside diameter of a tractor inner tube and vertically rolling.
Although I had proven the idea ineffective for long distance travel, I was curious if it could become a competitive competition.
“Dave! Did you hear that? Can you feel the earth shaking?”
“It sounds like a spooked, slobbering horse,” Dave remarked nervously as he looked around the edge of the building we were standing next to. “Cripes! It’s getting louder. It’s coming this way!”
“Hey kid.”
“Me?”
“Yeah you. Come here!”
It was my first day as a Freshman at Bellingham High School. I was in much fear and dread of being in a new school and having no idea where I was, I stumbled into the Senior Hall. The guy who was calling out to me looked like a shady character, but I walked over to him anyway.
It was dark and I had just returned from a long soak in the campground hot tub. The park that weekend was packed with campers and our tent was one of many in the overflow field. Cheryl was sitting by the fire reading as I walked by and grabbed the lantern.
My schedule is always the same on a working morning: up at four and out the door at four thirty. Every morning as I step outside, the motion sensor light comes on shining directly into the bedroom window of Leo, the farmer who lives next door. Leo is the protector of the neighborhood and every morning when my light comes on, he gets out of bed to look out his window to see if someone is stealing my gas again.
“He was buck-rut loco; I tell you Don! Buck-rut loco! And he ruined everything too!”
I was speaking to one of my friends from the class of 73 who lived across the street. We were both 18 at the time. The conversation centered around his younger brother, Stanley.
Football is won based on perfectly timed, high-speed plays. If everyone does their job effectively and is in the correct spot or reaches for the ball at the exact planned second, the play will be made. Anything less than perfect results in failure or a play made on luck. The same holds true for all ball sports.
It has been quite a few years since I have been to the mall, and I believe that it’s safe to go back since the statute of limitations has run out. For a while there, my photo was on the wall as a wanted fugitive in the mall cop’s office. Well, the only photographic evidence is of a man looking like Daddy Warbucks running through the crowd.
Mr. Alan Watts was an English teacher at Bellingham High School during the 70s. He was a timid and fun-loving man who was not at all like the coach-teachers who would sharpen axes on their grinding wheels and thump their chests during class. The requirements for Mr. Watts’ Class included your pencil, a notebook, the English book, and a tetanus shot.
My mother told me that after I was born, they threw away the mold. I’m not accusing her of neglect, but why did she allow me to mold?
Ricky Dandelion stood in the fullness of his shop admiring his treasures. Hand tools were piled high on his work benches, and every square inch of wall space was covered by treasures hanging from nails. He walked sideways through the narrow passageways between old lawnmowers, car ramps, coffee cans full of nails, nuts and bolts, and everything else that couldn’t hang from the wall or lay on the workbench. You see, Ricky is a garage sale junkie — a purchaser of interesting tools, camping and fishing gear, and nick-nacks which he may need someday.
Every Saturday in the spring through summer, for the last 45 years, Ricky, with the classified newspaper in his hand and his lovely wife Venice by his side, gets up at the crack of dawn to jump into the old Subaru to be the first couple at a garage sale to find the best bargains. It is not uncommon for him to be told, “It says in the paper, no early birds!”
Methodically, he looks over each item for sale, picks up what looks interesting, and ignoring the price sticker, goes to the owner and asks if he or she will take less for it. Venice shakes her head and mouths the word, “Sorry” to the homeowner. Then it is quickly off to the next garage sale in the classifies.
The problem with Ricky’s treasures being all second hand, is that most of them don’t work or must be fixed to work properly. This is how he occupies his time during the mid-week: repairing a switch on one tool, sharpening the blade on another, fixing the short in a cut-up extension cord.
“There’s nothing the matter with this that I can’t fix,” he says to Venice as she tries desperately to pull a plated brass chandelier from his hands to give back to the seller. His shop of burgeoning junk and his insatiable addiction to garage sale bargains has created more than one heated argument between the two.
“If you die before me, do you know how much it is going to cost me to pack all this junk to the dump?” she asked.
“Now, now, Venice. I find your tone a little bit offensive,” he answered. “Let me just remind you that it was at a garage sale that I was able to find the 12-foot fiberglass open-top lake boat, trailer, and outboard trolling motor.
“Which you can’t fit into the shop and has to sit out under the fruit trees in the cow field,” she bellowed.
“And I will be pulling it out of the field because Vern called me just yesterday with the news that he has reserved a week at the lake for this year’s fishing trip, so you need to start stocking the RV while I prepare the boat and trailer.”
“You didn’t ask me if I wanted to go again this year. You are assuming a lot, Ricky.”
She stormed off into the living room and sat in her recliner. Pulling her Walkman earphones onto her head, she listened to her CD of the melodious songs of Marvelous Hollis Quince and the Yodel Aires, while reading the romance novel entitled, He Wore A Yellow Rose On His Polka Vest.
It was an annual event for Ricky, Venice, and several other friends to travel the day-long journey in their RVs up the Canadian Highways and unmaintained gravel roads to the lake and the private ranch which allowed them to group park in the field by the water. This fishing trip was always a delight to Ricky and was tolerated by Venice only because having Ricky out on the lake all day allowed her to take long undisturbed soaks in the wood heated, cow trough hot tub.
Ricky looked through the kitchen window at his boat and trailer out under the fruit trees in the cow field.
I’d better go get it cleaned up and ready to go, he thought. I’m sure that the tires need air, and the motor hasn’t run for eleven months.
One side of the fiberglass bow had the oxidation buffed from it by the cows who were rubbing the flies off their backsides all summer. The rest of the boat body was heavily oxidized and some of the canvas was fading badly. The trailer, which Ricky had planned to repaint, was rusting in spots and there was an inch of rainwater which needed to be bailed from under the floorboards. He went back to the shop to find a rag and the can of oxidation remover he had negotiated for at a garage sale a few weeks back. He would work on the boat in the field since there was no great hurry to pull it out right away.
As luck would have it, the national weather service forecasted strong wind warnings for that night through the next day. Lying in bed that night, Ricky listened to the wind whistle through his unsealed bedroom window, which always sounded different than the air which whistled through Venice’s nostrils. He could also hear the metal on the shop roof lifting and slapping back down which caused him to worry.
The next morning, wearing his barn boots and wool coat, he walked the perimeter of the property to assess the wind damage. The house and the shop appeared to be fine, but looking out at the boat he was shocked to see that in the night a large limb had broken from the apple tree and was now lying on top of his boat.
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” he muttered. Walking out to the boat to survey the damage, he was relieved to see that the limb had not damaged the fiberglass, but it was too heavy to lift off and would have to be cut into pieces.
This was indeed a boil on his bottom of happiness, but he had the necessary equipment in his shop to do the job.
During one of his garage sale expeditions, Ricky found an electric chain saw which he purchased so he would never have to mix gasoline for a gas chainsaw again. He had plenty of long lengths of repaired extension cords which he could plug in, end to end to reach almost anywhere on the property and this was exactly the tool he needed to remove the limb.
Going to the shop, Ricky located the chain saw under a pile of shop rags. He also removed three extension cords from nails hanging on the shop walls. He then began laying the cord from the shop, out to the boat in the field. The wind was still blowing quite strongly as Ricky climbed into the boat with the chainsaw in hand. Taking and plugging the extension cord into the saw, he pulled on the trigger. Nothing happened.
The wind quickly carried the words coming from his mouth in a direction away from the house which saved him from Venice hearing, but at the same time, may have caused the chickens to quit laying.
Now the question was, “Does this chain saw not work, or does one of my repaired extension cords still have a short?”
Muttering to himself, he carried the chainsaw back to the shop. Unplugging the long extension cord from the outlet, he took a shorter cord, plugged it in to the outlet and into the saw. Pulling the trigger, nothing happened. The trigger switch on his bargain garage sale chain saw was broken.
But this is where Ricky really shined. He would just replace the switch and although he did not have a trigger switch made for the saw, he did have some toggle switches which came off the instrument panel of a junk yard Cessna airplane. A switch is a switch, he thought.
Only a mere half hour had passed before Ricky had jury-rigged a toggle switch onto his electric chain saw. He had a smile as he admired his workmanship.
“Try to get the best of Ricky Dandelion,” he muttered, and he carried the saw out through the field to the boat again. After again climbing inside, he plugged the extension cord into the plug on the chain saw and holding the blade of the saw into the air, he flipped the toggle power switch.
Nothing happened.
“What the heck?” he yelled, and he flipped the switch back and forth. “It’s got to be one of these extension cords.”
He tried once again to lift the limb off the boat but the length and weight of it made it too heavy for a man of 82 to move. He laid the saw down with the chain bar resting on the floor of the boat.
“Dag nabbit. Stupid chainsaw!” he yelled with such volume that Venice heard it through the Walkman headphones. She looked out the kitchen window just in time to see Ricky climbing out of the boat. He had one boot on the ground and one boot hanging from the gunwale. His pants had dropped far below his hips, and he appeared to be mooning the neighborhood. Cussing up a storm, he followed the extension cord back across the field to the shop and upon entering, he realized that after he had used the shorter extension cord to test the toggle power switch on the chain saw, he had forgotten to reattach the cords going out to the boat.
“Well dog-gonnit, Dandelion! Use your brain,” he grumbled as he plugged the cord into the outlet again.
Heading back out of the shop, Venice opened the back door of the house and yelled, “Lunch is ready, Ricky. Come and eat while it’s warm.”
She stood in her cotton farm dress with knit green socks, wearing yellow Crocs. The bonnet on her head added to her outfit giving her the look of an Amish housewife. Still grumbling and hot under the collar, Ricky entered the back door and sat down for lunch at the breakfast table.
Somewhere in the neighborhood, the hum of a motor could be heard.
“Sounds like one of the neighbors is using a weed eater today,” she commented.
“A weed eater, or maybe a chain saw,” he mumbled. And then with his fork halfway to his mouth, he stopped eating and jumped up from the table. Running to the kitchen window, he looked out at his boat. The bar of his chain saw was hanging straight down from the bottom of the boat and was shaking back and forth sending fiberglass dust into the air.
“My boat!” he yelled, and he ran out the back door to unplug the extension cord.
To summarize the damage: In the process of flipping the toggle switch on the chain saw back and forth, he left it in the “On” position. Upon plugging the extension cord in at the shop, the motor started the cutting chain and because the chain bar was resting on the floorboards of the boat, the saw cut through the floor and the hull, leaving an eight-inch gash next to the keel.
“Gol-darnit, Venice,” he moaned.
Venice couldn’t help but giggle.
In the days following, Ricky was able to find some fiberglass patching material in his shop which he had purchased from a garage sale and lying under the boat, he covered over the eight-inch slash making it almost invisible and almost a waterproof seal.
Ricky and Venice were able to pull the boat up to the lake in Canada for a week of fishing with Vern and the other friends. Venice spent her mid-day hours lying in the wood heated, cow trough hot tub listening to her Howard Quince CDs through her Walkman headphones while Ricky sat in his boat out on the lake bailing water from the bilge while he watched his bobber float on the surface.
“Gol-darnit, Venice,” he yelled from the lake.
Venice couldn’t help but giggle.
Faith Family Life Getting Older Growing Up Misadventures Music Patriotism Pets or Pests? Snips Tributes
“Three weeks left in August. Then I go to my college, and you go to yours. Where did the summer go?” I griped.
My best friend, Chuck, and I were lying on the carpet of the TV room waiting for my mom to make us some sandwiches.
Terror. The feeling of helplessness or hopelessness. It causes some people to freeze, unable to make decisions. In others, who have the tendency to panic, it activates their “fight or flight” response, not necessarily reacting in actions which make any sense. This is sometimes described as mental dysregulation.
Turn on the TV news any day or read it from the feed on your phone. Somewhere in the world, someone or some large population group is experiencing the feeling of terror. In recent years, the stock market has crashed, there have been wars, fires, floods, active shooters in churches, schools, and malls. When you are involved, your stress hormones such as adrenaline and cortisol are released into the body which will determine how you specifically will react. Though, during my lifetime, I have reacted many ways to the feeling of terror, both personal and mass, my wife and I were not prepared for the note that my daughter brought home from her second-grade class teacher at elementary school. It stated very clearly in large block letters: Head Lice Infestation In Your Child’s Classroom.
As I read the flyer, my beautiful daughter stood at my feet looking up into my eyes. I gazed down at her thick long head of hair as the adrenaline and cortisol shot through my body and the first thought that came into my mind was, “Oh, icky.” As she reached up for a hug, I reacted like any dad who was just handed a baby with a poopy diaper, I gave her a long-arm hug.
Naturally, like any parent, I was in denial. “Not my daughter! We live in a very clean home. She showers regularly. Cheryl, would you come in here for a moment!”
As my wife came into the kitchen seeing me holding my daughter at arm’s length she asked, “What’s going on? I haven’t seen you hold her off like that since she had poopy diapers.”
“Could you get the flashlight and check Kalene’s hair for head lice?”
“Oh my gosh,” she exclaimed, the adrenaline and cortisol shooting through her body. “Let me put my shower cap on first.”
She ran into the bathroom and emerged with a shower cap on. To anyone driving by looking into our kitchen window, it now looked like both of Kalene’s parents were bald. She took the flashlight and began spreading Kalene’s hair apart to see the scalp.
“Oh no! No, no, no!” she moaned.
“Does this mean, no lice?” I asked.
So now we reacted in our own ways to terror. I stood dumbfounded not knowing what to do and Cheryl spun in circles with her hands flailing above her head.
“She has nit eggs all through her hair and I can see the adult lice on her scalp. What do we do? What does the paper tell us to do?”
I read down the page.
“Well, it says that there are many lice treatment shampoos on the market, or we could shave her head bald.”
“Always the funny guy in an emergency,” she growled.
“Dad. I don’t want you to shave my hair off.” Kalene started to cry.
“Your dad is being funny again, Kalene. We would never do that.”
“That would be a kick having three bald people in the house. We could just tell everyone that we have temporary alopecia. Let’s see what else the paper says. Hmm, bedding, clothing and hats should be laundered in very hot water on the same day that your child is treated. Nits should be removed from the hair shafts with a nit comb. Boil all combs and brushes that might possibly be shared with other family members. Do not share hats. All members of the household need to be checked when there is one case of head lice in the family.”
Isn’t it weird that just the thought of head lice in your hair makes your scalp itch? Cheryl started scratching her shower cap.
“OK, you go to the drug store and get some of that lice killer and I will start stripping her bed. I’m going to have to put her pillows in plastic garbage bags to starve out any lice that are on them.
Hopping into the car, I drove into town to the drug store. The line of parents stretched out into the parking lot. The pharmacist inside was busily emptying lice killing remedies off his shelves. Luckily, I was able to return home with a kit of the name brand lice killer. Inside of the house, the washing machine was running.
“Okay. Here is the lice killer. It says to put it all through her hair while she is standing in the shower and let it sit, then rinse it out. When the rinsing is done, use the nit comb and remove the nits from the hair.”
While the process was going on, I went to Kalene’s bedroom and scanned it for other possible lice nests. There at the head of the bed lay her two favorite companions which she had slept with since she was a baby, Mr. Monkey and the Wolley Bear. Mr. Monkey was a handmade sock monkey given to her by her aunt. Her uncle forever complained that he was now one sock short. The Wolley Bear, was a collectable store bought bear which was given to her by one of the relatives as a baby gift. His long brown hair and the look on his face, like Poo or Paddington, made him extra snuggly. Both of her bedmates slept next to her head at night.
“Going to have to do something with these,” I thought. I put them both into a plastic bag.
The shower being over, I said through the bathroom door, “How’s it going in there?”
“I left the chemical in her hair for the suggested amount of time, but it’s not killing the lice,” Cheryl called back. “They are still running all over her scalp.”
“Okay, I’ll get the hair clippers,” I said. There was more crying inside the bathroom followed by, “Would you stop saying that. It’s not funny!”
When the two girls left the bathroom, they were both worse for wear. Kalene stood in a bathrobe with her hair making her look like a troll doll. Cheryl was frustrated because this was not the type of trauma she wanted to face this late in the day. I parted the hair on Kalene’s scalp and could see that the store-bought chemical had done nothing. Not only were the lice still moving and biting her scalp, but soon the nits would hatch and there would be twice as many on her head. Instead of trying again, and putting more chemical into her hair, an idea came to mind. We had been using “Dr. Bronner’s 18-in-1 Pure Castile liquid Peppermint Magic Soap” in the shower lately because Cheryl said it wouldn’t leave a scum in the tub like bar soap.
Dr. Bronner’s is a concentrated peppermint oil that we put in a pump bottle. One pump into the palm will lather up a good portion of your body and leave you smelling like a Life Saver mint. I can attest to the fact that it leaves no soap residue in the tub. I can also attest to the fact that you do not want to get it into your eyes because it stings like acid. I thought about it for a moment. If it stings the eyes so bad, I wonder if it would kill the lice. Besides, it’s made to go on the skin and isn’t an insecticide.
“Oh, Kalene. Let’s try something new at the shower.”
She came into the bathroom in her robe. “Does this have anything to do with clippers?” she asked.
“Silly girl,” I laughed. “I want to try something. Get down on your knees and hang your head out over the tub. Keep your eyes closed tight and I am going to put this peppermint soap all through your hair and scalp and we’ll let it sit for a moment to see what it does to the lice. Keep your eyes closed tight.”
Reluctantly, she got on her knees on the bathmat and hung her head over the tub. I poured some of the Dr. Bronner’s into my palm and began running it through her hair and over her scalp. The concentrated liquid matted her hair and I made sure that every hair shaft was coated. Cheryl came to watch.
As I parted the hair, we could see the lice writhing from the burn of the peppermint oil. The oil was also going into the nit larva and frying them too. I was pleasantly surprised that her hair was not coming out in my hands also.
“Let’s give this a minute and then you get back in the shower and rinse the soap out of your hair really good. Then we will see how your head looks. Make sure to keep your eyes closed tight. Mom will help you with the water.”
Five minutes later, I heard the shower come on and Cheryl helped Kalene rinse the soap out of her hair completely. The bottom of the tub was covered with dead lice and nits. It worked and made her smell like a Life Saver mint.
Knowing that she would have a hard time sleeping the night without her two bedmates, I came up with another brilliant idea: I’ll coat Mr. Monkey and the Wooley Bear with Dr. Bronner’s which will kill any lice and then I’ll throw them in the washing machine. Oh, Mr. Mitchell, your brilliance amazes me!
With the monkey and bear lathered up, I tossed them into the wash. When they came out, the sock monkey was no worse for wear. The bears long fluffy coat was matted. Perhaps, I should have let them air dry, but bedtime was near, so I tossed them into the dryer. In thirty minutes, I pulled out the sock monkey who had the same smile on his face letting me know that he was just fine. Mr. Wooley Bear came out looking like a sheep. This shouldn’t have surprised me since I have also made many of Cheryl’s wool sweaters into doll clothes.
Now in a panic. I wondered if Kalene would believe me if I told her that I gave Wooley Bear a perm.
She is now 37 years old and has moved multiple times across the country with her husband. They have no children or pets, but they do have Mr. Monkey and the Wooley Bear who will follow her forever. And for guests who ask if Wooley is a sheep, she answers with, “No, he is a bear with a perm. I can thank my dad for that.”
Faith Family Life Getting Older Growing Up Misadventures Music Patriotism Pets or Pests? Snips Tributes