My Life in a Hole

The first time I was told I was a "little differnt," as my mother used to say about people who were a little differnt (she said it the way I wrote it, it's not a typo, thank you for your help) was when I was playing with my train one day. It was a train that just went on an oval track, no switches, no sidings, like Blair's, my friend. But I made up imaginary sidings and villages and all the stuff that real players have on their toy trains.

And my mother walked into the room and said, "Didn't you hear me call you for lunch? Why didn't you come?" Her tone was scolding. She was a kind mother, but ignoring her meals was not something she cared for.

And I was baffled. I hadn't heard her. "No," I said.

And she said, "I stood right here and called you for lunch." She was about five feet away.

So I went into the kitchen and ate my sandwich, drank my milk, and went back to my train.

Sometime later, or not so later, my sister said to me, "I heard Mom and Dad talking about you. They are worried you are so shy."

This came as a real shocker. I didn't think I was shy. I played with Blair down the street, and sometimes with Tommy up the street. How far was I supposed to reach for friends? Not off the block, surely. Or what did she mean that I was shy? It was long before Garrison Keillor began talking about "shy people" who should eat "powdermilk biscuits to get up and do what needs to be done." Did they mean I was like Bashful, the dwarf? Did I make that silly laugh of his and say "gawsh"?

But I didn't know what shy meant, and I didn't spend a lot of time worrying about it, because, hey, we didn't talk about lost-in-your-headedness in my family. There was no analysis. Things were just the way they were. And I was shy. I guess.

The third awakening was more rude. I was sitting in Mrs. Wilcox's science class in eighth grade. I know where I was sitting, because it is burned into my mind. A woman from the Salt Lake City Board of Education was visiting the class that day, and she sat directly across the aisle from me, 2.75 feet away. near the back, left side of the room. She was a friendly lady, smiled at me, and I probably smiled a shy smile back.

Mrs. Wilcox was talking about something to do with stars, and I was, apparently, drifting into my innermost world, where I liked to be. Then, in order to make a contribution, and to make Mrs. Wilcox look like a good teacher, I raised my hand. Mrs. Wilcox gave me the all clear sign to speak, and I said, "I've heard that if you're standing in a well, you can see the stars. At that moment, Mrs. Wilcox, without saying a word, pointed to her diagram on the board, which looked something like this:

I was once again dumbfounded. And this time embarrassed. I looked over at the lady from the SALT LAKE CITY BOARD OF EDUCATION, and moaned and hit my head with my hand. She was smiling and most likely thinking, "Another little introverted professor in the making." 

And she was right. Introverted, shy, happy to be in my head, even if it is scrambled. When our kids were young they made up a song with the words, "We're the absent-minded sons of the absent-minded professor."