LITMIR.BIZ

      UPON ARRIVAL, I whispered a two-part prayer--actually, three. First, I thanked the Almighty for safe arrival and deliverance through the burr patches. The other two parts? One was that Mr. Williams, not Mrs. Williams, would be working that day. Mrs. Williams was terribly hard of hearing, and I wasn’t eager to yell out that I needed a bottle of MINERAL OIL. My face reddened at the thought that ANYONE would hear my request; I only wanted to say “mineral oil” once. Surely anyone hearing me would assume me to be in a state of constipation. The end of the prayer was that there would be NO OTHER customers in the store, particularly if Mrs. Williams was on duty.

      Okay, maybe for just the briefest of seconds, I thought that MAYBE there’s not a God. I struck out on parts two and three of my prayer. Mr. Williams had gone into town to fetch the mail, and there were four shoppers in the store—all women. “Jeepers,” I thought. “Just my luck, having to buy a laxative with five women listening—if Mrs. Williams’ efforts could be considered ‘listening.’”

      Lingering in my mind was my teacher’s haunting admonition, “Take good care of your buck and doe.” Failing that, I wondered if my prized “B” might melt downward into a “D,” or maybe a dreaded “F.” It was a serious situation, and again, I realized that a freshman must do what a freshman must do. I walked straight up to Mrs. Williams, whispering and shuffling feet before meekly asking, “Do you have any mineral oil?”

      “Have any what?” she answered, leaning over the counter, hoping to hear my plea a little better. “Mineral oil,” I repeated. “What kind of oil?” she questioned. Finally, I gutted up with about as much courage as I ever had. Opening my mouth wide, in full surrender, I was determined to speak crisply and with full volume. To heck with it; the syllables could hang out as they would. I said them the just the way I remembered my teacher did: “MIN-ER-AL OIL,” I fairly bellowed.

      Mrs. Williams, serious as church, finally understood. “No, we’re all out of mineral oil….” Pausing, she added, as if through a megaphone, “But we’ve got Ex-Lax, and that’s an awful good laxative….” My face felt as if it were on fire. I raced from the store, riding my bike home at warp speed, hang the burrs. As I rode within one hundred yards of the house, I even thought of ringing the stupid bell on my bike. “You can use it for emergencies,” my mother had said when my granddad—her dad—handed the bell to me as a twelfth birthday present. What a “sicko” gift; it was one of those bells pre-schoolers had on their tricycles. It helped them learn to use their thumbs to produce the “brrrrrrrng, brrrrrng” that may seem loud inside, but is little more than a tinkle outdoors. What was my granddad thinking? It was like getting an ugly painting from a relative. Hideous as the work might be, it still had to be on the wall when they visited. It was that way with the bell on my bike. My friends would have rolled on the ground laughing if they ever saw the wimpy bell clamped on my bike. Granddad had visited the day before, so the bell was in place, and I rang it feverishly as I rolled up to the back door. As I had hoped, Mom met me on the porch.

      IN TEARS, I spilled out a detailed version of what had happened. Mothers are so sympathetic. She understood completely and didn’t laugh at the incident—at least not in my presence—until years later.

      Calmly, we got in the car. She drove the dozen miles to Brownwood, and Mom, not about to run the risk of embarrassing me twice in the same day with delicate requests for mineral oil to store clerks, suggested that I stay in the car. Ah, that’s the very place I wanted to be! Mom marched into the Piggly-Wiggly and returned to the car with a small brown bag. It contained the item so critically needed to perhaps save the life of my rabbit, but, more importantly, to preserve my “B” in agriculture.

      Again, God was on His throne; much was right with the world. All’s okay, I guess, that ends okay. That’s how my freshman year ended. Some kids showed wonderful cattle, even fetching big bucks at the Fat Stock Show in Fort Worth. Same for those showing sheep. And hogs. Me? I started with two rabbits, and finished with two rabbits--healthy fat rabbits I let play on the lawn. Life was sunny side up! There was much to be glad about. I didn’t have to wrestle with good-byes to animals I knew soon would be slaughtered and served on restaurant plates. I gagged at the thought of eating my own prized animals. I had those rabbits for several more years. We never even thought of having them as a change from chicken for Sunday dinner. And, rabbit feed wasn’t all that expensive.

      I LEARNED A lot that year....But so did my teacher. The next year, Mr. Wheeler handed out mimeographed sheets telling kids just about everything that could happen to their livestock projects—even step-by-step instructions for building rabbit cages—I mean, hutches. He also learned that grading could be based pretty much on sincere effort, because that’s all I had to show for rabbit-raising. Oh, and the livestock judge. Dick claims to have learned a major lesson: Never pretend to be someone you’re not. He said that was the only rabbit competition he ever judged. For years afterward, he confessed to having nightmares about asking kids to “reverse their rabbits.”

      Oh, I learned another mighty important lesson! It was that most things are not worth being embarrassed about. In the years since, many is the time I’ve entered stores, head held high, to buy mineral oil or whatever, not caring if Mrs. Williams was the clerk, or who might be listening.…(I draw the line, though, on going to a woman doctor, unless I’m really sick, and she’s the only doctor around.)

      ONE LAST THOUGHT: When I told my teacher about my efforts to buy a bottle of mineral oil, he reddened. His face was beyond red. His eyes filled with tears—the kind you get when you laugh until you can’t catch your breath. We thought he was going to have a smothering spell for sure. After several minutes, he closed his book and tried vainly to control himself. He couldn’t, so he dismissed the class twenty minutes early. It was the only time I ever remember getting out of class early, except maybe for PE. I still prize that “B” on my freshman report card and consider it something of a gift. And I am thankful for a compassionate teacher who loved life, and kids, and jokes, and was a full-fledged

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