When the Porch Light's On. . .Stories of People, Popcorn, and Parasails. Don Ph.D. Newbury PhD

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      UPON ARRIVAL, I whispered a two-part prayer--actually, three. First, I thanked the Almighty for safe arrival and deliverance through the burr patches. The other two parts? One was that Mr. Williams, not Mrs. Williams, would be working that day. Mrs. Williams was terribly hard of hearing, and I wasn’t eager to yell out that I needed a bottle of MINERAL OIL. My face reddened at the thought that ANYONE would hear my request; I only wanted to say “mineral oil” once. Surely anyone hearing me would assume me to be in a state of constipation. The end of the prayer was that there would be NO OTHER customers in the store, particularly if Mrs. Williams was on duty.

      Okay, maybe for just the briefest of seconds, I thought that MAYBE there’s not a God. I struck out on parts two and three of my prayer. Mr. Williams had gone into town to fetch the mail, and there were four shoppers in the store—all women. “Jeepers,” I thought. “Just my luck, having to buy a laxative with five women listening—if Mrs. Williams’ efforts could be considered ‘listening.’”

      Lingering in my mind was my teacher’s haunting admonition, “Take good care of your buck and doe.” Failing that, I wondered if my prized “B” might melt downward into a “D,” or maybe a dreaded “F.” It was a serious situation, and again, I realized that a freshman must do what a freshman must do. I walked straight up to Mrs. Williams, whispering and shuffling feet before meekly asking, “Do you have any mineral oil?”

      “Have any what?” she answered, leaning over the counter, hoping to hear my plea a little better. “Mineral oil,” I repeated. “What kind of oil?” she questioned. Finally, I gutted up with about as much courage as I ever had. Opening my mouth wide, in full surrender, I was determined to speak crisply and with full volume. To heck with it; the syllables could hang out as they would. I said them the just the way I remembered my teacher did: “MIN-ER-AL OIL,” I fairly bellowed.

      Mrs. Williams, serious as church, finally understood. “No, we’re all out of mineral oil….” Pausing, she added, as if through a megaphone, “But we’ve got Ex-Lax, and that’s an awful good laxative….” My face felt as if it were on fire. I raced from the store, riding my bike home at warp speed, hang the burrs. As I rode within one hundred yards of the house, I even thought of ringing the stupid bell on my bike. “You can use it for emergencies,” my mother had said when my granddad—her dad—handed the bell to me as a twelfth birthday present. What a “sicko” gift; it was one of those bells pre-schoolers had on their tricycles. It helped them learn to use their thumbs to produce the “brrrrrrrng, brrrrrng” that may seem loud inside, but is little more than a tinkle outdoors. What was my granddad thinking? It was like getting an ugly painting from a relative. Hideous as the work might be, it still had to be on the wall when they visited. It was that way with the bell on my bike. My friends would have rolled on the ground laughing if they ever saw the wimpy bell clamped on my bike. Granddad had visited the day before, so the bell was in place, and I rang it feverishly as I rolled up to the back door. As I had hoped, Mom met me on the porch.