Age 17: The Surprise Party

By Cal Evans

Sundays were always an event in our house. Each Sunday morning was a variation on a theme; get up, wander into the kitchen for breakfast, be told that you got up too late for breakfast, whine about not getting breakfast, stop whining a second before Dad walked into earshot, slink back to your room and ready for church. So it went, every Sunday morning.

One particular Sunday, I had just turned 17, or was about to turn 17, the memories are a little fuzzy now but I know it was in December and I know it was a Sunday and that’s enough for our story.

It was the usual fight to get ready. Fight with Mom over the lack of quality breakfast options. (This was before I was informed that I was too late for breakfast anyhow.) Fight with my sister for a precious few moments in the bathroom. Another fight with my sister because…well, because she started it. Fight with my brother because he was trying to make peace between me and my sister. (If we wanted peace Ashley, we wouldn’t be fighting!) It was a regular smack-down and I was in the cage swinging a folding chair!

And so on it when until finally we were off. We lived just beyond the edge of the world. For most of my adolescence, my address was “Just past the end of ‘65”. Anywhere we went was into town. In a simpler time, the family would have stayed overnight if they had to travel this far but not us. Dad loved the peace and quite of the suburbs even if it meant 45 minutes of listening to my sister and I fight to have it. Not that Dad got much of a chance to hear it. Dad always found an excuse to have to be at the church early. Since there was no way we were going to be there early, he made the journey alone, in sweet, peaceful, bliss. I was of driving age at this point so my main chore (my reason for existence) was to chauffer my brother and sister to an endless line of inane events…and church. But this week, mom would not hear of it. The four of us, mom, me and the two urchins that kept insisting they were related to me all piled into the car.

Upon arriving, the morning church ritual came and went as usual with one important exception. My mother, the rock that the Sanctuary Choir was built upon, slipped out after the main choir number. She had positioned herself on the edge of the choir this week instead of her usual place – in the middle of the front row – directly in front of Dad as he directed. Quietly she slipped out, not to be seen again until after the service.

Ah yes, the end of the service, the time when all good church-going boys would scope out the church-going girls and hope to be able to hook-up with one during youth choir rehearsal that evening. It was a time-honored ritual that you dare not miss if you wanted a date for the next youth banquet or lock-in.
The crowd began to thin and all of us church-going boys were left standing around trying to get up the nerve to talk to the church-going girls (who had by now given up on us and migrated en-mass to the restrooms). As if from no-where, my mother appeared and started leading me out of the sanctuary. I now knew she had taken leave of her senses and may be a danger to herself and others, especially me.

Everyone knew the New Years Eve lock-in was coming up and this was the week to make sure you had someone to sit with during the movie. If you didn’t hook-up this week you ran the risk of sitting with ‘the guys’ or with your best friend’s younger sister. (Which I’m told by one of my best friends, is not all bad, he being ‘in the know’ as he dated my sister once. Of course it was after the proper ritual of asking my permission…to which I laughed until I cried. Upon realizing that he was serious, I sobered up, looked deeply into his eyes and with the love only an older brother can have for his sister, I said “whatever dude,” and then bust into laughter again…But I digress.)

I was horrified, not only was my mother here in the youth section (also known as the far back corner of the sanctuary) but she was once again doing her best to ruin my social life. It took many years of soul searching and grudge-holding to realize that this really wasn’t a passion of hers so much as it was a 6 year long string of coincidences.

“C’mon, we’ve got to go. We’ve got to get home.” She kept saying. “I’ve got to get dinner started.”
That clue should have stopped me in my tracks! My mother is a lot of things, she is a wonderful mother, she is a godly woman, and she is a grandmother as only found in fairytales. Did I mention that she was a great cook? No, I didn’t, did I.

Those who know my family know that my mother’s favorite kitchen utensil is the telephone. By the time I was 14 family dinners had all but disappeared. Our family opted out of meaningful dialog with each other and chose instead to share the camaraderie and companionship of the television. On special occasions, we would even all watch the same one. So telling me that she needed to get dinner started should have thrown up red flags. But I was 17, I didn’t care, I just wanted to be left alone. So off we went.

Arriving home, I did what I always did, headed to my room. The peaceful solitude of my room, my personal sanctuary, just me and the laundry hamper that vomited clothes every night while I was sleeping.

As was the custom of the day, I stripped out of my church cloths and neatly wadded them into a ball and gently placed them in the middle of the room. At this point, for some reason lost to the ages, I did NOT re-dress in my normal blue-jeans and t-shirt. Instead I sat, in my BVDs at my desk and started examining a project I was working on.

It was an engrossing work of art whose true nature is irrelevant to the story and embarrassingly trivial. I became so engrossed in my work that I lost all track of time. Happy was I, busily working away and communing with the great masters when I was jarred back into reality by Mother yelling at me to come help her. Perturbed that my artistic ‘moment’ had been broken, I started toward the door. I caught myself with my hand on the door knob. It dawned upon me that the artist had no clothes. I briefly toyed with the idea of striding out into the den in just my BVDs boldly rebelling against societies conventions and staking out my claim as a rebel and an independent thinker. (I think I saw it on an episode of “James at 15’)” Dismissing the idea reluctantly, I grabbed whatever would cover me the quickest, donned it and headed out the door.

I was out of my room and almost into the den when I heard the most horrifying sound I had ever heard. My blood ran cold at its sound. My mind froze. It grew from a faint wisp of a beginning to a horrific roar, crescendoing as I momentarily blacked out. I had strode from my room into the den, deep in thought about ways I could rebel against my parents without actually getting into trouble, only to face 20 of my friends from church yelling, “SURPRISE!” Boy was I ever.

The blood ran from my face. Everyone in the room watched its progress as it drained down to my feet, passing briefly beneath the clothing I had almost donned. You see, there I stood in the entrance of the den, facing my closest friends and well wishers wearing only a pair of cut-offs that showed my complete name AND address (if you know what I mean).

I came to sometime later wearing my jeans and T-shirt. I’m still not sure how I got them on and never got up the nerve to ask who dressed me.


Age 6: The Humpty-Clause

By Cal Evans

Cal’s First Law of Nature:
Mothers are the most precious of all the natural resources we have.

I can’t recall many memories of my childhood that my mother was not a part of. In some way, shape, form or fashion, Mom was always there, the ever-present guardian of beauty, truth and wisdom.

Mom taught me to read but more than that, she taught me to love to read. She taught me that there are things beyond my imagination and that’s ok as long as I continue to expand my imagination. She taught me that biscuits need not be foodstuff but could be paving stones or, in time of national emergency, weapons.

She taught me the 100 reasons shopping should be considered as an Olympic event. And that age old piece of wisdom handed down from mothers to their children since time immemorial; “When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.” But one of the greatest gifts my mother gave me was the memory of my 6th birthday.

I attended kindergarten at a small church school in a suburb of Mobile, Alabama. I will confess that I do not remember much about the school, my peers, the teachers or even Mobile at that time. But I do remember my mother explaining to me that for my birthday, she had arranged to have a party for me at school with all my friends. She prepared the goodies and even a special treat. For my birthday that year, we were going to have a piñata!

My birthday, being in December, usually has somewhat of a Christmas theme. Usually it’s not overt, but let’s face it, that time of the year, where do you find anything but red and green napkins and plates. This year was no different. We had the room decorated up for Christmas, were served red Punch-Aid in festive Christmas cups and everything was a red and green wonderland.

My piñatas was no different. Shaped, for all the world, like a 3 foot high egg, it was painted to look like Santa Clause. Actually, it more closely resembled Humpty Dumpty if Humpty had cotton balls glued all around him and was hanging from a stick.

And so we had a party. After cake and goodies, Mom brought him out to the squealing delight of 10+ kindergartners. There she stood, beaming with delight as we all squealed happily starring up into the smiling face of Humpty-Clause. Mom and the teacher tried to calm us down to explain to us what a piñata was and the part we were to play in this ritual.

As they explained, the room began to grow quiet. The squeals of delight faded as they explained that we were to take the stick, put on the blindfold and swing at the piñata. We missed the part about candy flowing from the broken piñata; all we could think of was that we’ve just been told to smack Santa upside the head with a stick. To a 6 year old mind, this is a concept to be grappled with for a moment. After all, if you were successful, you got candy, but what happens if you failed? Did Santa know you were out to split his skull open? How would this affect your gift this year? There were major issues that had to be carefully weighed here. I’m firmly convinced that years later several therapists have heard renditions of this story from patients.

Slowly, the groups split into 2 groups. There were those of us who, like myself knew that there was no Santa Clause or at least were willing to chance it for the candy. The other group, were the mortified ones. As the news of Humpty-Clause’s imminent demise sank in, they slowly began to tear up and cry.
So there we stood, our class of 10 raggedly divided into 2 groups, one group trying to claw their way into Humpty-Clause, the other working up a full-pitch wail at the atrocity that was about to be committed. In the middle were my mother and the teacher, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. And Humpty-Clause hovering scant feet above our heads on the pole Mom was carrying him on like a disembodied spirit of Christmas.

Then, passing the piñata to my teacher, Mom took me aside. Since I was the birthday boy, I was to have first shot at cracking Humpty-Clause’s head wide open with a sawed off broomstick. While this might sound fair and sweet, it occurred to my 6 year old mind that this would put me at a significant disadvantage. See if I actually did crack it open, I’m standing there with a blindfold on as candy pored out around me. If I’ve got a blindfold on I can’t see the candy to grab it. This was not to my liking at all but for Mom’s sake, I went along.

She placed me under the piñata, blindfolded, spun me around like a top for a minute or to and then began to wield my wooden broadsword to the urging shouts of my classmates, almost all who now wanted the candy, Humpty-Clause be damned.
THWAK! A good solid blow. I could feel the stick resonate in my hand like a bat after hitting one out of the park. I knew I was well on my way to busting that piñata open and into candy Nirvana. Well, I was half right, I had busted something. I took out a chair. Gotta swing higher.

POW! Yes, that felt different. It was up higher; it was a solid surface, a little more solid than I thought paper should be but still, I could tell I made first contact from the squeals of delights around me.

Energized by drawing first blood, I flailed about even harder. POP! BIF! BANG! ZOOM! On and on it went. Surely, by now candy must have been everywhere and Humpty-Clause would have been in tatters on the floor. Then I heard my mom say “Ok, Cal, let’s give someone else a turn.” Much to my surprise, as she took off my blindfold, Humpty-Clause was intact and still grinning at me. Grinning in defiance the paper surface not even scratched. I glowered back at it menacingly. There he hung, silently mocking me, laughing at me for my weakness.

I let the next child go, and then the next and the next…finally, my teacher mentioned to Mom that something had to be done because we were fast approaching nap time. Besides, after a while even watching someone whack the snot out of Santa gets old. We were getting restless and scouting out other targets. Still after all of us had taken a stab at him, there hung Humpty-Clause, grinning back at us, his treasure safe within his rotund, unscathed, shellacked belly.

Finally, her mother super senses tingling and sensing that things were going awry, Mom, in her infinite wisdom (which had obviously been set aside last night as she made a piñata out of newspaper and polyurethane) took a knife to Santa’s belly like she was gutting a fish. With a flick of her wrist, Humpty-Clause released his treasure trove.

Once again, squeals of delight came from my classmates as candy poured from the eviscerated Santa. Laugher as we innocently fed on the stuffing pouring out from him. I glanced up, he was still grinning at me but it was now a vacant stare I knew I had won. My eyes moved over to my mother, standing there with her piñata, her hair slightly disheveled. She was smiling down at us looking for all the world, like the most lovely angel in the world…who had just slain Humpty-Clause.

Love you Mom.