"The Thanksgiving Train Incident"

“The Thanksgiving Train Incident”"

by

Michael P. Nickels

“...Out of the mouths of babes..." reads the Bible. I always thought this meant that children, like drunks and yoga pants, never lie, but one Thanksgiving I learned  that a toddler can also pass along wisdom with just a few short words or maybe even just one.

About twelve years ago I made one of my better decisions. My wife and I decided that we wanted to stay home for Thanksgiving. Several events prompted this decision. Firstly, the  overall stress of  loading up our very young sons and carting them across town to spend time with loved ones had become quite stressful.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my family  very much, but my wife and I felt we had reached a point where we wanted to establish our own holiday traditions. We tried to make it clear that anyone and everyone was welcome to come to our house, but we had decided that we were going to spend Thanksgiving at home. Another contributing factor was the fact I had purchased a turkey fryer and wanted to break it in. Thankfully my parents were very understanding.

In fact, the conversation I had feared the most was the one that was the most enlightening. Pop, as I call him, had been hosting Thanksgiving for a while and I really expected that he might be upset or at least a little disappointed. It turned out to be a very pleasant phone call.

“Hey, Pop, how are you?” I began.

He always answers the same cheery way. “Hey, Mike! What's up?”

“I’m good, thanks, but I have to tell you something and I hope it doesn’t upset you.”

“Well, let’s hear it,” he said in a pleasant tone.

“Well,” I drawled , “Beth and I are planning to stay home this Thanksgiving. We bought a turkey fryer, Ashley and the boys are getting older and we just want to spend the day at home. I hope you understand.”

There was a long pause and I felt for sure he was upset. After waiting a few more seconds there was an unexpected noise coming from the phone.

“Pop, are you laughing?”

“I am indeed,” he told me still chuckling.

“What’s so funny?”

“I have been waiting for you to tell me this for the last 3 or 4 years,” he said with a laugh.

“Really?”

“Oh my God, yes,” he affirmed. “I had this same conversation with your grandfather about 25 or 30 years ago.”

“You did?” 

“Yep, I did and he reacted just as I did today.”

“Did he now?”

“Yes, and I completely understand. You need to start your own traditions.”

“Well, uh, thanks for understanding, Pop.”

“No problem, son. Enjoy the day.”

I had expected that conversation to be the most challenging part of staying home on Thanksgiving.  Do you believe I actually thought to myself that this Thanksgiving will be perfectly easy and stress free.

Thanksgiving morning arrived crisp and clear. Like any public school teacher, Mr. Nickels was in a state of blissful happiness. I woke up early and made a pot of coffee. Every morning I make a cup of coffee for my wife and give it to her while she’s still in bed. After that, I attacked the crossword puzzle in the Star and then read for a while. Beth came downstairs to freshen up her coffee.  Our two boys, who were very young at this time, slept late that morning.

Around 10:00 Beth suggested that I start getting  the turkey fryer ready. She reminded  me that our daughter, Ashley, and her boyfriend (at the time), Chuck, were supposed to arrive around 12:30. Have I mentioned yet that reminding me about things is something my wife does very well?

“Don’t forget they have to be at his parents by 4:00 so we need to be on schedule,” Beth said.

“Okay,” I replied, “but aren’t  you glad we don’t have that issue this year?”
“I am,” Beth said as she gave me a hug, “but we need to hurry and get things ready.”

This was Beth’s subtle way of telling me to get my @$$ in gear. This I did. A wise man learns to listen to the tone of his wife’s voice. In other words, a happy man knows that "if mama ain’t happy then nobody’s happy."

So I went into the garage and hauled all my shiny new turkey fryer equipment out to the patio. This included the peanut oil, the pot/tub for the turkey, the propane tank, the lighter, and all the cooking utensils needed for lowering the bird in and out of  the boiling oil. I made one more trip back to the garage to grab the fire extinguisher. I’ve never had to use it, but it’s good to have it  nearby just in case.

The fryer assembly went well and I had all the equipment and utensils that I would need. After pouring the jug of peanut oil into the tub I noticed the oil level was about 4 inches below the fill-line. I went back into the garage thinking I forgot to bring out the extra gallon of  oil I asked Beth to get from the store. There was no extra jug of  oil in the garage. So I went into the kitchen to ask Beth about it.

“Hey, Hon?” I called as I walked through the mud-room and into our kitchen. “Where did you put that extra gallon of peanut oil I asked you to get from the grocery store?”

“You never asked me to do that?”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

There was a clear note of finality in her voice. Nothing productive was going to be gained from arguing about whether or not I had actually made the request in question. Recognizing things like this is one of the reasons that I have been married to the same person for nearly 24 years.

“Any kind of cooking oil will work won’t it?” Beth asked.

“I dunno?” was my eloquent reply.

Beth shot a rumpled grin at me and I thought I heard her sigh. We then walked over to the kitchen pantry and found a quart size bottle of  vegetable oil. It was only half full. It’s good to be optimistic especially on Thanksgiving.

“Will that work?” I asked. “I mean can you mix the oils?”

“Of course you can,” she said while looking at me in a way that made me feel stupid.

I took it out to the patio and poured the remaining oil into the tub. It barely raised the oil level. It became obvious to me that a Wal-Mart run was necessary. I went ahead and connected the fuel line to the propane tank and lit the burner, making sure the flame was turned down really low. I went back into the kitchen to tell Beth that we need more oil.

“Hey, Beth, I’m going to have to go to Wal-Mart to get some more oil.”

“You better hurry up,” she replied. Her voice sounded urgent. “Ashley and Chuck will be here in an hour.”

“Okay, I’ll hurry.”

Just as I grabbed my keys we heard a clunk from upstairs. We both knew what the sound was. It was our youngest son, Carson. He had a habit of throwing toys out of his bed when he woke up.

“You’ll have to take Carson,” Beth told me. “I can’t get him and Griffin dressed and ready, watch the stove and the oven, now the turkey fryer too, and straighten up the downstairs and the upstairs!”

Her stress level seemed to increase with each and every word. For a moment I almost protested, but my intelligence got the better of me.

“No problem,” I told my frantic bride.

I went upstairs and got Carson out of bed. Fortunately for me he was drowsy, but not grouchy.

“You’re going to the store with me, Kit,” I told him. I called him ‘Kit’ after the famous scout, ‘Kit’ Carson. After changing him and getting him dressed I carried him downstairs  where Beth was waiting. She gave me  my wallet , the diaper bag, and a bottle for Carson.

“Please hurry,” she whined.

“Don’t need the extra stress, thanks,” I thought to myself.

“Okay,”  was my sole reply.

After loading Carson into the car, I drove out of Kensington Farms as quickly as safety would permit. We turned right  onto Sunnyside Road. I accelerated toward the railroad crossing, but slowed down just enough to pause at the tracks. Just as I looked to my left I heard a clanging sound followed by the wail of a train's whistle, I saw the red blinking lights, and I saw the black and white striped arm slowly descend.

Before I could say, “Oh shit!” Carson spoke his first words of the day.

“Cool! Daddy, we get to see the whole thing!”

It made me smile and then it made me laugh. I looked into the rearview  mirror and I could see my little boy grinning from ear to ear.

Can you guess the one word he uttered that made the difference? Can you guess the one word that was dripping with joy, wisdom and gratitude?

The word was “we.” My son taught me the simple significance and the value of being together. I’m sorry to say that over the years I periodically forget this, but every Thanksgiving this memory returns. I smile gratefully and say a quiet humble thanks for that train and the cooking oil I forgot to buy.

Happy Thanksgiving to one and all!

A younger version of my now 16 year old son would like to wish you a very safe, happy & politically correct Thanksgiving.

"10 School Teachers & a Moment of Life's Perfection"

     Thrilling is a word that I don't use very often, but when I do I reserve it for those singular moments in life when you experience something you've never experienced before. 

     I've had a few moments like this. The kind of moment that resonates within you and the joy of the occasion comes flooding back to you. The memory of it forces you to feel it all over again. A kind of positive PTSD if you will. Being an urban school teacher this sort of thing doesn't happen very often and that's more than okay. No one has a life totally filled joy and satisfaction. We just aren't wired that way and even if we were we would find something to gripe about.

       Two occasions that thrilled me to my core involved two of  the founding fathers, George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. I was chaperoning an 8th grade trip to Washington D.C. and we went to Mount Vernon. I almost missed getting on the bus with my group because I was so enraptured by a very old key encased in plexiglas. My friend and colleague Bruce Houston came back to get me. He was little huffed because he had a schedule to keep.

      "What are you doing?" he asked me.

      "That's a key to the Bastille, man," I told him.

      "Yeah, that's cool," he said or words to that effect. "We got a lot to see, you know?"

      "That's a key to the fucking Bastille!" I whisper-yelled. "Lafayette gave it to him."

      "You're killing me, Nickels," Bruce sighed. 

      So we got on the bus, but I've relived seeing that key a thousand times. Part of what made it so thrilling is that it was such a profoundly personal thing to be that close to a real piece of history. As a boy, I had loved learning about the American Revolution and read books about Washington and Lafayette--my favorite French person if it's not too weird to have one of those.

       On another occasion, while vacationing with the family in Virginia, I drove to Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson, my favorite president. He was a writer, a thinker, a farmer, an inventor and  a statesman. Like Washington, he was also a friend to Lafayette.

      The Monticello tour guide  described him by saying, "It was said that Thomas Jefferson stood 6'3" and he was straight as a gun barrel...he was up before the Sun every day of his life."  He has always been an American Renaissance man to me and it was thrilling for me to walk where he walked. 

      Any way, those two solitary experiences rank among some of the most significant moments of my life, but they were solitary moments for the most part. You see, last night was different.  I accompanied 9 of my colleagues to Cincinnati to watch a baseball game. 

       The idea for the trip came about because we didn't have school today (Friday 4/22). This was due to the fact that we had not had a snow day this winter. A rare occurrence in Indiana to be sure and if we had just gone to the game it would have been a memorable experience.                 

      We loaded up into a large passenger van that Tim Barthel had arranged to rent for us. Steve Gretencord  ordered the tickets and we went there just to watch a ball game and have fun. We had no idea that the "bang we got for our buck" was going to take a quantum leap. You, see last night Jake Arrieta of the Chicago Cubs threw a no hitter and it was in a word ...thrilling. You had to be there--it's part of the thrill.

        Unlike the previously mentioned thrilling moments this was a collective experience. What a privilege to have shared it with 9 men that I profoundly respect. Our ages ranged from 49 to 65. Like they say, "Age is just a number." There was only one math teacher among us so we didn't really dwell on it too long.

       Obviously, I'm biased, but teachers are really special people. There is nothing in the world like having fun with a bunch of guys that do the same thing you do. Guys that  know what it's  like to endure the shared experience of what Hemingway called "quiet desperation." If you're a regular reader, then this is a familiar gripe of mine. Please forgive the digression, but teachers need to vent on occasion and it's a privilege to be able to vent to these guys.

         I will honor the words of my friend, Chris Meguschar, "What's said in the van stays in the van!" 

        That van was more like a magic bus or  a time machine because it turned a bunch of tired-old-into the last grading period-teachers into college boys. The laughter was constant, the teasing was all good-natured, and we let a soothing, cathartic  fellowship soak into our bones. We ate salty snacks and washed them down in the way that people over the age of 21 are allowed to do. 

           The game itself was great and for the most part we were all hoping the Cubs would win. There were multiple home runs and the Cubs had the game well in hand by the end of the 5th inning. They added 8 more runs by the top of the 7th inning and at the middle of the 7th my friend Steve turned to me.

       "He's 9 outs away."

       "Yeah, he is," was my response.

       That was when it really hit me and the others that we were in rarified air. The announcer said there were 16,497 people in attendance. There weren't that many in the 42,319 seat Great American Ballpark. Shakespeare wrote, "We few, we happy few..."

        We all seemed to begin to watch the game more intently. I don't remember a single past ball. The Chicago infielders and outfielders were locked in and you could hear their communal thought.

        "I'll be damned if I'm going to be the one to fuck this thing up."

        There was no doubt they were trying their best to help Jake Arrieta do this wonderful amazing thing.

        I've seen championships, been to a lot of big games, but this was different. With every pitch, strike, ball, catch and throw the night intensified. 

        "C'mon, kid. Bust 'em up!" I yelled as Arrieta took the mound as the bottom of the 9th inning began. 

       Finally at the bottom of the 9th with 2 outs and a 2-2 count Jake Arrieta threw his 119th pitch and the ball popped up for the final out. We all high-fived one another and let the out-and-out rarity of what we had just seen soak in.

        "You can't write that shit," I thought to my self. 

        And to my colleagues, I say, "Thanks for a great evening, boys!"

        Thanks for stopping by and staying to the end. 

     

"Bloom Where You're Planted"

      I will be 52 this year and so far I have learned that there are only two really absolute and constant truths that you can count on. The first one is that hindsight is always 20/20 and the second is that life will change.

     Back in late 2013 I wrote a blog to announce my retirement as an educator--almost sounds important don't it? Any way, I was really proud of that blog and what I said in it ("Will Write for Food"). Feel free to go back and take a look at it. 

    Guess what? My life changed. In early 2014 we learned that Beth had cancer ("Cancer, Conversation, Corners, & Infinite Space"). Obviously that kind of news can profoundly affect your perspective,  and while it was an experience that I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy I'm grateful for it. It taught me a great deal about myself.

     For starters, while I'm capable of very good things I can also be a selfish bastard with powerful demons that often shout down my better angels. 

     It was hard to see Beth so sick and to be so powerless. To this day, I don't know why God chose us for that test, but we were blessed to survive it. Perhaps I needed to feel his strength in my humility? Maybe, there's a third truth that I've heard a million times, but never bought into. That famous quote containing the "F" word.

     

     "Life's not fair."   

     It's really not, you know. It's hard too, but it's also very good. 

    Take teaching for instance, it's hard. I've never felt like I was really all that good at it. Some things I did well. Reading literature, discussing it, and breaking it down for kids are all strengths. Other things I struggle with. Teaching kids to write and express themselves is a nasty challenge for me. Their collective apathy seems to exacerbate my ineptitude. It's an area of my personal pedagogy that I can hopefully improve upon. For some reason, Providence has seen fit to put me in a place that affords me that opportunity.

     "If you say so, God, then I shall bloom where I'm planted, but I'm gonna do it under protest. I was really hoping to finish that novel."

    "Yes, I know, but this is good practice for it don't you think?"

    "Yes, sir, I suppose so. I am about 75% done you know?"

    "Of course I know. That's when it gets hard."

    "Really?"

    "Oh, Myself, yes. You should have seen Dickens and Twain when they got to that point."

     "No, kidding."

    "Absolutely, and I'll tell you something else. Hemingway and Salinger were much, much worse."

    "I can believe that."

    "Interesting word choice there."

    "Which one?"

    "Why, 'believe' of course."

    "How so?"

    "Because you believe in so much."

    "I do?"

    "You know you do. And like so many, you forget so easily. Me and Santa Claus for example. You still believe in both of us don't you?"

    "I do. It's just--"

   "The unbelief thing, right?"

   "Right.'I do believe; help my unbelief.' Mark 9:24. The doubt is part and parcel with the faith. Isn't it, Father?"

   "It always has been, Michael. That and the fact that no small part of having faith is remembering that I have faith in you. When you maintain hope in those children that seem so ungrateful, so rude, so apathetic and so disrespectful you mimic me. And when you help the one's that don't deserve your help or even a modicum of your compassion you mimic Him, my son. Can't you feel our pleasure?"

     "At times, yes, Father I can, but it's hard."

   "What? Being ignored and unappreciated? I wouldn't know anything about that, but you can handle it. When you were a child you once thought your name was boring. Do you remember?"

   "Yes, I remember." 

   "Then remember this. You bear the name of my bravest and fiercest Archangel. That is not a coincidence. Those don't exist."

   "Do you really think some of them need me?"

   "We, meaning you and I, know that many of them need you. I'm sorry that many of them will never know or appreciate all that you do."

   "Do you still like Greek mythology?"

   "Yes, Father, I do."

   "What was in the bottom of Pandora's box?"

   "Hope."

   "One of my favorite words, my son. I like it better than Amen."

    Teaching is what I do and being a teacher is who I am. Sadly, I don't always feel great about it, but the time I took off to be with Beth helped me to see that it's not a bad life. My dad once told me, "They don't pay you for good days." I was looking at the job all wrong. For a long time all I thought about was the impossibility of doing it for another decade. The semester and a half away helped me to shift my focus and contemplate the potential of the people I might be able to help in a decade. I also had no idea how much I would miss my colleagues. That and the fact that Carson is entertaining the idea of going to college in a couple of years.  I really do love that kid even though he can be a selfish little bastard. I can't imagine where he gets that from?

    As always, thanks for stopping by and staying till the end.