“How I almost murdered Dennis
”
ROOFTOP -- The stupidest thing I ever did was try to kill my big brother Dennis. I’ve seen the incident play out a hundred times in my mind, but here and now I can see it more clearly. I’m pretty sure it’s the roof doing that to me.
My attempt at homicide took pace when I was just a kid and we were living on Pinewood Street in Pasadena. Till now, the only good that’s come from the incident is that it caused me to put to memory the words of an ancient poet who wrote of life’s costly mistakes.
When I was a kid, Dennis was my best friend. We built forts together, camped out together, played football and baseball together, and even slept in the same bed. Back then, a lot of kids had to do did that. Take my word. Please.
I would do practically anything for my big brother. Still will. But when we were kids, there were times when I hated him. I wouldn’t say it out loud, ‘cause “hate” was a curse word back then.
Dennis was faster, more agile and just all around better than me in so many ways. That’s what nearly led to his death. We were playing outside with all our friends when Dennis started taunting me. He’d hit me and then run off a few feet and try to get me to chase him. Just showing off.
I’d take a lunge at him, but he’d jump back before I could reach him. My friends started laughing at me. Each time Dennis struck, he’d give me his sly grin. I hated that grin.
Finally, I took off after him. There was no way I could catch Dennis in a race. He was so much faster than I was that he could run backward faster than I could run forward. And, that’s what he started doing, all the while giving me that stupid grin. I’d stop to catch my breath and he’d walk over and slap me again. I bawled my head off as I chased him from yard to yard.
The routine finally ended when I spied a chunk of wood at the curb. It was more of a club. I picked that thing up, and with Dennis about 15 feet from me, still wearing that taunting grin, I threw it at him as hard as I could.
I missed his head by about two feet. The scary thing was, I do not remember feeling relief that I’d missed. What I do remember was screaming, “I wish that had knocked your head off!”
When I turned to run back to the house, I saw the parents of one of my friends sitting in their lawn chairs taking in the whole spectacle. I could almost hear what they were thinking. -- “ Those Hayter kids. Whatta buncha brats.”
About 20 years ago, Jill asked if I had a favorite saying that she could sew on a plastic frame for me. She was big into stitching yarn onto those plastic grid things. Asked if she could stitch some treasured words for me. I love Jill.
I wrote down THE poem for her… the very words that are now displayed on the wall just to my left. It’s from a famous 12th century mathematician and poet by the name of Omar Khayyam. In a “Rubaiyat” (one of his lengthy works) he wrote:
“The moving finger writes and having writ, moves on:
Nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all thy tears washout a word of it.”
Kayyam borrowed the notion from an Old Testament story told in the fifth chapter of Daniel. A fascinating read. For me, Omar’s words meant that the minute that chunk of wood left my hand, THE finger began to write the outcome. Had the club landed where I had aimed it, the life of an entire family would’ve changed drastically. Nothing I could do to bring that moment back. I don’t see how I could’ve lived with that.
There are not all that many happy thoughts in the message of Omar’s Rubaiyat. It’s a warning, and warnings are not all that uplifting. However, after many rooftop moments, I’ve managed to find some better words concerning the crazy things we’ve done in our youth. Found ‘em in another bit of scripture.
In one of his parables, Jesus mentioned that the angels of children “constantly see the face of My Father who is in heaven.” (Matthew 18: 10)
That notion, no doubt, silly to many, is cause for my belief that an angel diverted the trajectory of that chunk of wood… an angel on a mission to look over two of the “Hayter brats.”
In her waning years, my mother told me that she prayed for each of her kids every day of our lives. The names of all seven of us reached God everyday. And everyday, God heard my mom ask that He look after her kids.
What better gift could parents possibly give their children? I can’t help but believe that the seven Hayter kids kept some angels pretty busy. What a joy to have faith that they were there. Are there.
End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com
 |
Dennis is far right and I'm far left. |
ROOFTOP -- The stupidest thing I ever did was try to kill my big brother Dennis. I’ve seen the incident play out a hundred times in my mind, but here and now I can see it more clearly. I’m pretty sure it’s the roof doing that to me.
My attempt at homicide took pace when I was just a kid and we were living on Pinewood Street in Pasadena. Till now, the only good that’s come from the incident is that it caused me to put to memory the words of an ancient poet who wrote of life’s costly mistakes.
When I was a kid, Dennis was my best friend. We built forts together, camped out together, played football and baseball together, and even slept in the same bed. Back then, a lot of kids had to do did that. Take my word. Please.
I would do practically anything for my big brother. Still will. But when we were kids, there were times when I hated him. I wouldn’t say it out loud, ‘cause “hate” was a curse word back then.
Dennis was faster, more agile and just all around better than me in so many ways. That’s what nearly led to his death. We were playing outside with all our friends when Dennis started taunting me. He’d hit me and then run off a few feet and try to get me to chase him. Just showing off.
I’d take a lunge at him, but he’d jump back before I could reach him. My friends started laughing at me. Each time Dennis struck, he’d give me his sly grin. I hated that grin.
Finally, I took off after him. There was no way I could catch Dennis in a race. He was so much faster than I was that he could run backward faster than I could run forward. And, that’s what he started doing, all the while giving me that stupid grin. I’d stop to catch my breath and he’d walk over and slap me again. I bawled my head off as I chased him from yard to yard.
The routine finally ended when I spied a chunk of wood at the curb. It was more of a club. I picked that thing up, and with Dennis about 15 feet from me, still wearing that taunting grin, I threw it at him as hard as I could.
I missed his head by about two feet. The scary thing was, I do not remember feeling relief that I’d missed. What I do remember was screaming, “I wish that had knocked your head off!”
When I turned to run back to the house, I saw the parents of one of my friends sitting in their lawn chairs taking in the whole spectacle. I could almost hear what they were thinking. -- “ Those Hayter kids. Whatta buncha brats.”
About 20 years ago, Jill asked if I had a favorite saying that she could sew on a plastic frame for me. She was big into stitching yarn onto those plastic grid things. Asked if she could stitch some treasured words for me. I love Jill.
I wrote down THE poem for her… the very words that are now displayed on the wall just to my left. It’s from a famous 12th century mathematician and poet by the name of Omar Khayyam. In a “Rubaiyat” (one of his lengthy works) he wrote:
“The moving finger writes and having writ, moves on:
Nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all thy tears washout a word of it.”
Kayyam borrowed the notion from an Old Testament story told in the fifth chapter of Daniel. A fascinating read. For me, Omar’s words meant that the minute that chunk of wood left my hand, THE finger began to write the outcome. Had the club landed where I had aimed it, the life of an entire family would’ve changed drastically. Nothing I could do to bring that moment back. I don’t see how I could’ve lived with that.
There are not all that many happy thoughts in the message of Omar’s Rubaiyat. It’s a warning, and warnings are not all that uplifting. However, after many rooftop moments, I’ve managed to find some better words concerning the crazy things we’ve done in our youth. Found ‘em in another bit of scripture.
In one of his parables, Jesus mentioned that the angels of children “constantly see the face of My Father who is in heaven.” (Matthew 18: 10)
That notion, no doubt, silly to many, is cause for my belief that an angel diverted the trajectory of that chunk of wood… an angel on a mission to look over two of the “Hayter brats.”
In her waning years, my mother told me that she prayed for each of her kids every day of our lives. The names of all seven of us reached God everyday. And everyday, God heard my mom ask that He look after her kids.
What better gift could parents possibly give their children? I can’t help but believe that the seven Hayter kids kept some angels pretty busy. What a joy to have faith that they were there. Are there.
End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com
Such an awesome article, Moke. Brought a tear to my eyes. I know we're not supposed to worship angels, but I do love 'em and how they look out for us. And Elsie Geneva was a very good Mom to all her 7. -- I love you, jilly --
ReplyDeleteElsie was the bestest Mom ever. So grateful for all her prayers for me and my family. Sorry Dennis was such a meanie to you, Mark. But, I'm so glad you missed hitting him. I'm sure we have kept angels busy watching over us and still do, I'm so grateful they do their jobs so well on our behalf. Love you, Mark.
ReplyDelete