They Say It Comes in Threes

They say it comes in threes. First of all, let me say for the record that I have had a lifelong obsession with trying to figure out who “they” are. And why does what “they” say matter so much. I know this isn’t an original idea, as many people have asked over the years who “they” are, but I feel the need to join in on the fray. Anyway, if they are correct, and it comes in threes, then my next curiosity is to determine exactly what “it” is. Recently I did a google search of “They say it comes in threes” and discovered much. One of the things that comes in threes is death- especially celebrity deaths. What did everyone say this past summer when Farrah, MJ, and Ed all left us within a day or two? “It comes in threes,” said many. My search also informed me that bad luck comes in threes as well. Such as when three appliances in your house decide to break down at the same instant. They never malfunction one at a time in a timely spaced out fashion. They misbehave in threes. And one “It comes in threes” complainer on the internet pointed out that to be safe, you have to get three flu shots this season- one for the regular flu and two other rounds for the pig-related type. I’ve never believed in that sorta superstition- until two weeks ago. First let me say that none of my trio of rambunctious boys had ever been to the emergency room for an injury. A streak that was destined to end. The first incident involved the oldest and occurred when a small piece of metal found its way into his eye while he was doing something or other without his safety glasses on. Sounds more painful than it was but it certainly wasn’t pleasant. Within a couple days, the middle son called from wrestling practice claiming his finger might be broken. A trip to the doctor confirmed a strained ligament but the kid had to wear a splint for a week and had to stay off the mat for a while. But the most dramatic injury occurred a day or two later when the youngest Stroupe, fully conscious, fell off his parent’s bed onto a glass frame around 10 p.m. on a school night. At first we didn’t notice or think much of it because he didn’t cry but just moaned a little. Suddenly Mom screamed out when she saw the gaping gash on his right foot. I flew into first aid respondent mode and started barking orders to everyone. My main goal was to keep the kid calm and pretend like it wasn’t that bad. When we arrived at the emergency room a little later, the oldest son carried his little brother to the reception desk while I held the door. Again, I reminded everyone to stay cool. As he entered the ER, the oldest son loudly announced, “Hey, we need help! We have a deep laceration here!” So much for minimizing the severity of the situation. Eight stitches later, all was well and we were home around midnight. And the last thing I told my wife before we finally fell asleep was- you guessed it- “Maybe they’re right- it does come in threes.”

I never really understood why it was there in the first place. It was an ugly eyesore. It was twenty-eight years old when it met its demise. Ten per cent of the population where it existed wishes it were still there. I’m all for the underdog, but in this case, I’m going with the 90% majority. John F. Kennedy once stood before it and referred to it as a disgrace to humanity. Later Ronald Reagan, while standing near it, boldly declared it should be destroyed. They tried at times to dress it up and make it look pretty by painting flowers and such on it. But it reeked of repulsiveness, if that’s a word. No need to keep you in suspense. You’ve probably figured out by now that it’s the Berlin Wall. And I grew up with it. Even though it was 4533 miles away, it was real. Teachers talked about it in class and politicians referred to it in speeches. Some speculated it would be there forever, separating East Germany from West Germany. It was the most visible symbol of the Cold War between the Soviet Union and the United States. Dictatorship versus Democracy. And the youth of my generation existed with the threat that someone important on one side or the other would drink a bad cup of coffee one morning and we would all be annihilated by the loaded weapons our countries were pointing at each other. Oh, it’s not like we obsessed on it or it interfered with our lunch breaks, sporting events, or Saturday night dates. But the threat was ever present. And so was that stupid wall. A few years ago, on a visit to California, I saw a piece of that wall at the Ronald Reagan Library. Nearby, a taped recording of the President’s voice kept shouting over and over, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” A request Mr. G. politely obliged a couple years afterward. Kinda funny how it all went down. After years of oppression, an East German spokesman stepped up to the microphone at a press conference and read a little speech. At the end of the speech- almost as an afterthought and with no fanfare- he declared that citizens could travel back and forth between the borders despite the wall. When a reporter asked when this would be allowed, he stammered a little, shrugged his shoulders and said something to the effect of, “I’m not sure but I guess it can start now.” Oh happy day! To Germans it meant freedom and eventual unification. To me it meant the Cold War was over and the good guys had won. It took a few more years to confirm that fact, but I think we all knew it that night as we watched our televisions. Most folks in the younger generation have no clue what a Berlin Wall is. And they think a Cold War is something you declare on germs during flu season. But I remember well. And I know I don’t want the wall or the war to rear their ugly heads ever again. Twenty years ago this past week, that ugly wall came tumblin’ down. I shall never forget the night I watched on TV as the world celebrated its extinction. And 90% of us have been happy ever since.

Old Man and the Son

I can never get my oldest son, who is now 17, to admit that I am in fact, cool. Supposedly I’m out of touch, old-fashioned, over the hill, and worthy of being referred to as “old man.” He texted me recently to let me know he was in for the night at his friend’s house. After my reply text reminded him that I loved him, he signed off that night with- “Love you, too, old man.” (At least he’ll still admit he loves me, especially when he needs money.) A few months back I made a decision to allow him to cut my hair. He got a little carried away and even became worried at one point that I was going to assault him once I was able to see myself in the mirror. “I trust you, boy,” I assured him, “And I did ask you to cut it short.” When I was afforded a look in the mirror a few minutes later, I became aware of two things: 1) My son is not a barber and 2) I am officially old. The grown child reminded me of my thinning topside a few moments later as I chased him around the yard. By the way, I can still outrun him. Not long ago this same kid of mine completely put me in my place in front of a group of folks I highly respect and who, up until that point, respected me. The boy looked handsome in his getup that night so I publicly commented to him that he should appreciate coming from such good genes. Without hesitation, he snapped, “Yeah, thanks for the genes. I’m really looking forward to being short and bald someday.” Ouch. And so it continues. He’s constantly trying to remind me how old I am and I’m attempting just as fervently to convince him I am still cool (assuming I ever was in the first place) and that I have more hair on my head than most men my age. Yes, my back is stiff in the mornings when I wake up. And I have to take six different kinds of pills each day for cholesterol, reflux, and healthy heart maintenance. But by golly, I’m still young in my own eyes and this kid was due a hands-on lesson to demonstrate that fact. Quite by accident, a hands-on lesson indeed occurred recently. The son and I were riding along in my truck and he asked if he could pop in a Jimmy Buffett CD. “Of course,” I replied, hardly able to contain myself. Before you start sending me mean emails, the Buffett song we listened to was mellow and thought-provoking, not raunchy and disrespectful like a small portion of his older stuff. The boy was amazed when I knew every word to the song. And I flaunted that fact by singing at the top of my lungs while he listened in stunned amazement. Eventually he joined in and a chorus of manly howling ensued. I care not if it was ear pleasing because it was certainly generationally uniting. When the song ended, I asked if he would be willing to hit the replay button and do it all over again. Obviously impressed, the kid reached for the controls and said, “Sure thing, old man.”

Close Call Reminds Me There Are Many Ways To Go

The event described in this column took place on one of the mission trips I went on this past summer but it has taken me until now to be able to write about it. The truck carrying the roof shingles I was unloading that day had to park at the bottom of an uphill driveway. Though the truck was partially protruding into the street, it was a relatively quiet stretch of road with only a few cars passing by each hour. The routine required me to step up into the enclosed U-Haul type truck, hoist a rather heavy bundled pack of shingles over my shoulder, blindly step off the back of the truck into the road, and trudge my way up the hill to the stacked pile near the house. I did this 15-20 times without incident. On my final trip, I followed the normal procedure and hopped down onto the street as usual without the benefit of being able to view oncoming traffic. The moment my feet hit the pavement, a car zoomed past me, missing me by inches. They never saw me. The only thing I can remember seeing was the flash of a front bumper barely missing my leg. The speeding car had swerved over to my side of the street to avoid something or other and was actually on the wrong side of the road- the side occupied by my 45-year-old body. The impact of what happened didn’t hit me for about thirty seconds. But as I walked up the hill with my load, I noticed my legs turned to Jello and my knees began to wobble. My spine tingled, my ears rang, and my stomach twisted itself into knots. I stopped dead in my tracks and realized I had narrowly escaped what would have been certain death. I whispered mean things to myself like, “You’re an absolute idiot” and “Way to go, moron.” Then anger gave way to relief and I thanked God that I was alive. No one else had witnessed the incident- so after a minute or two of trying to convince my bladder not to moisturize my underwear, I continued my journey as if nothing had happened. But something had happened. I had gained a deeper appreciation for life. I now realize I can go at any moment. I could get bitten by one of those brown recluse spiders or a poisonous snake, both of which have at one time or another taken up residence in the crawl space under my house. I could accidentally eat a Brazil nut, which would quickly do me in if I didn’t have some Benadryl on hand. The Drop Tower ride at Carowinds could malfunction with me strapped inside it. I could explode after eating an entire loaf of liver mush in one sitting. A meteorite could crash into my house. Or I could be an accidental stowaway on a runaway helium balloon contraption one of my family members created as a publicity stunt to get on reality television. Or I could die of shock if my beloved and pathetic Pittsburgh Pirates made the baseball playoffs anytime in the foreseeable future. So many ways to go. Makes me want to stop and appreciate every precious moment I’ve been given. I think that’s what I’ll do. And I’ll also start looking both ways before crossing.