Since the three Derry daughters are older, and have been “all growed up” for a while, I’d forgotten. But it all came rushing back to me the other morning when, after I headed for the tool box, I recalled a Christmas Eve in high school when I became the hero of the day for a cute high school friend, Colleen, who baked me brownies and sang my praises for weeks.
Yep, I put together a Christmas present – I’m pretty sure it was a bicycle with training wheels – for her little brother so that shiny new thing would be all ready to go under the tree, not stuck in a box desperately seeking a human being who could interpret the instructions written by Martians and who could exhibit more patience than a parishioner sitting through an hour-long sermon.
It all came back to me when I looked at the Patriotic Big Wheel box that I’d bought on sale for 2-year-old grandson, Jackson, who has more energy than the road runner in the old cartoons. Big muscle exercise is imperative for this sharp cookie, otherwise you’ll be answering “Why?” questions far into the night.
When I took the box cutter and opened the task before us, Jackson had already uttered 14 “Why, Papa … ?” questions. So we made a few ground rules and, as I handed him the small hammer so he could help, I tried to explain to him that answering a whole bunch of questions while trying to read instructions written by Martians would surely lead to Patriotic Big Wheel parts being strewn all over the front yard and the roof or a contraption with upside down handlebars.
Jackson appeared to take this all in, contemplate how much fun it would be to throw all the parts all over the front yard, then of course, he asked, “Why Papa?” and I sputtered a “Not now,” while interpreting Step 1.
In between trying to determine which side of the plastic wheels the spokes were on, Jackson twirled about, hammered the empty box, picked up the handlebars, tried to make sense of how the pieces all fit together and then started hopping about. Since my antennae were up, it took less than a minute to figure out that it was high time for a quick trip to the restroom. Alas, I was a bit slow on the call and Jackson got an early shower.
The “spokes” on the plastic wheels looked like no spokes I’ve ever seen. Maybe they were made in Mars, too, not China like everything else.
Anyway, after that not-so-brief interruption, we went back to work, my motivation bolstered since the Rose Bowl game would be on in an hour’s time and I desperately wanted Jackson to work those big muscles before kickoff.
After the bathroom setback, I discovered that my eenie-meenie-miney-mo spoke-finding game would have been a better bet than Miss Jenny’s certain proclamation regarding the side of the wheels that were the “spoked” side. The Martians were giggling in their spacecraft overhead as I took the wheels off and turned them around.
Jackson got a lesson in holding the hammer with two hands and pounding the wheel cap after I got a couple of hammer-on-the-finger lessons. After one, I looked skyward, shook my hand and and blurted out, “God D…….” and got yet another lesson when Jackson said, “Why you say God D…… Papa?”
Vowing to use alien terminology if injured on the Big Wheels job again, I repeated, a “Holy Moley” mantra in my mind while trying to decipher the cruel braintwister known as Step 4. Yeah, the Martians drew the pictures, too, I figured. How else could you explain a pedal that looked like an upside down Roman Numeral?
Slowly we made progress, pounding the end caps on with the end cap tool while keeping the wood block underneath and answering the “Why?” questions. Jackson spun the half-together gadget around while I was taking my necessary breaks to get my knees off the concrete and the kickoff deadline drew ever closer.
It became apparent that this job was not going to get finished on time, so I kept talking and taking breaks while slyly talking myself into the notion that it’s all about the journey, not the destination. Yeah, it’s a hokey, trite, overused, hackneyed expression, but when you’re dealing with outer space instructions, 2-year-olds and a Big Wheel box of parts, it’s either that or throw in the proverbial towel.
And putting together that toy with Jackson was a sort of therapy after the eldest of the three Derry daughters, who is a Sheriff and the mother of Jackson, was involved in a bizarre, life-threatening accident. She was hit by a car while standing outside her patrol car on a stop.
She’s going to be OK, but a father’s worst nightmare and fears were still on the emotional surface while I put the finishing touches on the Big Wheel bike.
The decals, though, were too much. I called in the creative team – Miss Jenny and daughter No. 3 Mariah – and they helped the J man decorate the roadster. Jackson can’t quite turn the pedals, he’ll have to grow one more inch, but as he scooted along using those big muscles, I thanked the Man Upstairs. Mom’s OK and the Big Wheels turn.
Reach Editor Mark Derry at [email protected].
