I was asked to write a narrative about an experience in my life that had taught me an unexpected life lesson. While the particular lesson in this story didn't truly become "learned" until I had kids of my own, I hope you enjoy the tale from my childhood ....
The life lessons that we teach our children are, sometimes, crystal clear for their meaning and worth, but sometimes those lessons come across about as clear as swamp water. We as parents attempt to teach these lessons purposefully through both words and examples in our own behaviors, we ultimately teach them unintentionally through that which we ourselves say and do on a daily basis, and, upon occasion, we impart lessons through sheer unadulterated accident. The “accidental” lessons tend to have the most muddled meaning to a child initially, even though we may have thought ourselves clear as day.
In the summer of 1976 I was a headstrong, precocious, tomboy of a five year old. I was not a bad child, and I did listen to and respect my parents, but I had my own ideas about doing things and tended to be fiercely independent, which tended to drive my parents nuts. At that time we lived in a quiet little neighborhood near the local college on a cul-de-sac street called Nottingham Drive. Things were not as they are today. It was normal to be outside playing with friends from sunup to sundown, and even at five, although I was not allowed to roam about completely alone, I could walk across the street or down the a few houses to a friend's home without worry. I had learned to look both ways, then look both ways again, before crossing the street. I knew that riding my bicycle on the side of the road was okay on our street, but that big wheels were only allowed to be ridden on the sidewalk, as cars will see bikes in their way but not necessarily a low-to-the-ground big wheel. Hopscotch was a favorite game, but the boards were only to be drawn on the sidewalks and driveways, never in the middle of the road. Playing games in the middle of the road was forbidden. I loved animals, but I should only pet and play with the domesticated ones that belonged to people as pets, not the wild birds, squirrels, racoons or rabbits that fascinated me completely, and under no circumstance was I ever to touch a dead wild animal. Period.
One morning I was playing with the twin boys that lived a couple doors down my street. We had decided to go on a quest, and although I remember putting together a backpack and utilizing a walking stick I do not remember what we were looking for on our so-called quest that particular day. What I do remember vividly is finding the frog. It was a rather large frog that had, unfortunately, been flattened by some unsuspecting driver smack in the middle of the road between our houses. Talk about a dilemma! We discussed the grave situation at hand, and decided that the best thing to do would be to bury the frog right where it lay in the middle of the street. We were not allowed to touch it to move it, as touching dead animals was forbidden, and it was bigger than our sandbox shovels could handle picking up, even though initially we did attempt that option. This was not playing in the road. A proper burial for the poor animal was no game in our minds. Many bucketfuls of sand from our sandboxes later, the frog was properly covered. That mound of sand that could have rivaled sacred Indian burial mounds. We stood around the grave site, solemnly holding stems of leaves, clover and honeysuckle so as to properly give the frog his final send off. Just as we were beginning to place our offerings on the grave mound, I heard a yell that made me jump out of my skin. “Shannon Recole Wightman! Get out of that road and in this house NOW!” Uh oh. “Just wait till your father gets home!” Even worse. I searched my mind to attempt to figure out what I had done that was so wrong it would deserve the full name yell and the father threat, which filled me with dread as I hid in my room for the final hours until he arrived.
After what seemed like forever, my father opened the door to my room and sat down on my bed, belt in hand. “Do you understand why you're being punished?” he asked. “You're old enough to know better than to play in the middle of a street.” I was playing? No I was not. We were conducting a solemn ritual of death, not playing! I my mind, I knew I was right and this punishment was grossly unfair. As my father spanked me I began to cry, “But Daddy! I didn't touch the dead animal!” He finished, hugged me with what I now know to be suppressed laughter that shook him, and walked out my bedroom door.
In the mind of a child, what is considered “playing”, and what is considered an important, solemn event tend to be very different than what constitutes these in the mind of a grown up. Many times when my children were young, I thought back to that episode in my own life in an effort to make the parallel lessons clear to them. New lesson: if you can't dig a hole to place something in, it is not buried, therefore, do not conduct burials in the middle of a road, even though you may not have touched the dead frog.
~ The Girl In the Little Black Dress
The life lessons that we teach our children are, sometimes, crystal clear for their meaning and worth, but sometimes those lessons come across about as clear as swamp water. We as parents attempt to teach these lessons purposefully through both words and examples in our own behaviors, we ultimately teach them unintentionally through that which we ourselves say and do on a daily basis, and, upon occasion, we impart lessons through sheer unadulterated accident. The “accidental” lessons tend to have the most muddled meaning to a child initially, even though we may have thought ourselves clear as day.
In the summer of 1976 I was a headstrong, precocious, tomboy of a five year old. I was not a bad child, and I did listen to and respect my parents, but I had my own ideas about doing things and tended to be fiercely independent, which tended to drive my parents nuts. At that time we lived in a quiet little neighborhood near the local college on a cul-de-sac street called Nottingham Drive. Things were not as they are today. It was normal to be outside playing with friends from sunup to sundown, and even at five, although I was not allowed to roam about completely alone, I could walk across the street or down the a few houses to a friend's home without worry. I had learned to look both ways, then look both ways again, before crossing the street. I knew that riding my bicycle on the side of the road was okay on our street, but that big wheels were only allowed to be ridden on the sidewalk, as cars will see bikes in their way but not necessarily a low-to-the-ground big wheel. Hopscotch was a favorite game, but the boards were only to be drawn on the sidewalks and driveways, never in the middle of the road. Playing games in the middle of the road was forbidden. I loved animals, but I should only pet and play with the domesticated ones that belonged to people as pets, not the wild birds, squirrels, racoons or rabbits that fascinated me completely, and under no circumstance was I ever to touch a dead wild animal. Period.
One morning I was playing with the twin boys that lived a couple doors down my street. We had decided to go on a quest, and although I remember putting together a backpack and utilizing a walking stick I do not remember what we were looking for on our so-called quest that particular day. What I do remember vividly is finding the frog. It was a rather large frog that had, unfortunately, been flattened by some unsuspecting driver smack in the middle of the road between our houses. Talk about a dilemma! We discussed the grave situation at hand, and decided that the best thing to do would be to bury the frog right where it lay in the middle of the street. We were not allowed to touch it to move it, as touching dead animals was forbidden, and it was bigger than our sandbox shovels could handle picking up, even though initially we did attempt that option. This was not playing in the road. A proper burial for the poor animal was no game in our minds. Many bucketfuls of sand from our sandboxes later, the frog was properly covered. That mound of sand that could have rivaled sacred Indian burial mounds. We stood around the grave site, solemnly holding stems of leaves, clover and honeysuckle so as to properly give the frog his final send off. Just as we were beginning to place our offerings on the grave mound, I heard a yell that made me jump out of my skin. “Shannon Recole Wightman! Get out of that road and in this house NOW!” Uh oh. “Just wait till your father gets home!” Even worse. I searched my mind to attempt to figure out what I had done that was so wrong it would deserve the full name yell and the father threat, which filled me with dread as I hid in my room for the final hours until he arrived.
After what seemed like forever, my father opened the door to my room and sat down on my bed, belt in hand. “Do you understand why you're being punished?” he asked. “You're old enough to know better than to play in the middle of a street.” I was playing? No I was not. We were conducting a solemn ritual of death, not playing! I my mind, I knew I was right and this punishment was grossly unfair. As my father spanked me I began to cry, “But Daddy! I didn't touch the dead animal!” He finished, hugged me with what I now know to be suppressed laughter that shook him, and walked out my bedroom door.
In the mind of a child, what is considered “playing”, and what is considered an important, solemn event tend to be very different than what constitutes these in the mind of a grown up. Many times when my children were young, I thought back to that episode in my own life in an effort to make the parallel lessons clear to them. New lesson: if you can't dig a hole to place something in, it is not buried, therefore, do not conduct burials in the middle of a road, even though you may not have touched the dead frog.
~ The Girl In the Little Black Dress
