Opening the Vault

Not long ago I was actually having a deeper conversation with my son and daughter. One of those rare occassions when I realized that both of them could actually talk about life and their feelings and some of their goals. In the course of this conversation my son asked me, "Dad, do you remember when you used to write stories and read them to us?"

"Yes," I said, "But I was a lot younger then."

"Do you still have any of that stuff?" my daughter asked. "How about that book of poems with all the funny drawings?"

Wow, I'd forgotten all about that one. So last night, I sat down and began riffling through my filing cabinets and was astounded to discover drawer after drawer of material I'd written over the past thirty-five years. Some of it was pre-seminary work: writing I had produced when I was late teens, early-twenties (pre-marriage, pre-children). I thought I'd burned those files a long time ago, and maybe I should have.

A lot of these files contain stories I'd written when the kids were young. And yes, I did manage to find the book my daughter remembered. I'd entitled the book, One Strange World. Here are a couple of the weird poems (less the drawings):

FRIENDS WITH YOU

I've got friends named Sally and David,
Mark and Mertle and Sue.
And there are friends you can name by name
Because they are friends with you.

I've got friends who are kind and funny,
Loving and playful and true.
And there are friends who can make you laugh
Because they are friends with you.

Do you think if my friends and your friends met
They could help us to be friends, too?
Then your friends and my friends would know each other
And I would be friends with you.

CHELSEY

My daughter's name is Chelsey
And she is quite a treat.
She drinks her milk and spins her toy
And plays with Daddy's feet.

And if I live to be a hundred
And act the way I ought'r,
I'll always love the little girl
Named Chelsey, who's my daughter.