To Grandma's House I'll Go

I grew up in the country. I mean, down multiple gravel and/or dirt roads to get home 'in the country'. Fortunately, my Granny Arnold lived about a quarter of a mile down the road from us.  My brother and I spent many of our free days with granny and built a very special bond with her over the years.

So, when my mom was on an important phone call one day and too busy to stop and tie my shoe, it was an easy decision for my five year old mind what I would do.  I would make the quarter mile trek to granny's house.  I'd never made the trip on my own, but I knew granny would be more than happy to tie my shoe.

Granny lived in a decent sized mobile home surrounded by 40 acres of farm land that my uncle farmed.  She had a large garden in the front and a chicken house in the back.  A sandy driveway stretched about 100 yards off the main road down to granny's house.

So, I hopped on my little black and yellow bike and started pedaling. I don't remember any details from that trip over to grandma's.  I seem to remember an old truck rolling slowly past at one point, but I think that is a detail my brain has added over the years to make the story more sensational.

When I finally made it up granny's long driveway, I saw granny coming around the corner of the house. She had just been out checking the chicken house when she noticed me.  The look of surprise on her face would only be matched by the look of fear on mine when my mom realized I was gone and figured out that I had made the trip alone.  I knew better and she would remind me that I knew better!

Grandma tied my shoe and we went inside and waited for my mom to show up. This is the end of my recollection of this event.  Legend has it that mom swatted my butt the whole quarter mile trip back home. I sent her a text today to fact check the story and here is one of her responses: "I'll bet your butt still hurts.  My hand does!"

Being a parent myself now, I can imagine the fear that gripped my mom in that moment; the horrific realization that your child is gone and you have no idea where they are.  I'd probably respond the same way she did.  I can tell you this much: I learned my lesson and never made the same mistake again!

Granny passed away during my first year of PT school. She had battled with dementia and was on Coumadin. Family helped to monitor her medication at home. She had recently spent a few nights in the hospital and had her Coumadin dosage altered, if I recall correctly. Somehow her levels got off and she was found unresponsive and passed away shortly thereafter.   

I place no blame for her passing; neither on family or her physician. I was and continue to be disappointed that she didn't receive further services when released from the hospital. There are so many home health companies that would have been more than happy to make the trip to Granny's house. But, God's timing is perfect, whether we understand it or not.  I draw comfort from Isaiah 57:1-2:

The righteous perish, and no one takes it to heart; the devout are taken away,and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil.  Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death.

At the time, it was painful not being able to be there for her as she had been there for me when I needed help.  I'm frequently reminded of my granny when I go out into the country to see an elderly woman living alone. These patient's hold a special place in my heart and take me back to riding down that sandy lane and seeing the comforting sight of my granny there to make everything alright.

What's in a Name

I've toyed with the notion of starting a blog for quite some time now. My wonderful wife recently started one to share her memories with our daughter and I thought it would be a good idea to do something similar myself.  My take is going to be a bit different, however.  I often feel like I don't recall my own memories from my younger years very well, so I am going to regale you with tales of my youth as I recall them; hence the name.  I'll give a bonus prize to the first person to identify the source of the blog's name. 

I'd also like to thank Brandon Crook for the motivation to start this blog.  He and I play a little softball together and at our last game he asked why the guys call me Scooter. I didn't feel like my feeble attempt at an explanation sufficed to answer the question, so I felt the need to start an entire blog to explain it.

Scooter. Scoot. Scooty. Most of you have called me one or more of these names on multiple occasions (to some of you, one of these is the only name you know me by), but do you have any idea how I acquired this nickname?  Sure, it's just a simple derivation of my first name, but why the need to "simplify" a one syllable name by, in some instances, making it longer?

It started my freshman year of high school.  If memory serves me correctly, I started high school somewhere around 5'2" to 5'4" and rail thin.  My smaller stature made me an easy target for upper classmen, especially in sports. There was a certain individual that felt a special need to target me. He was a year older than me and played the same positions as me in both basketball and baseball.  His disdain for me was not necessary as I posed little threat to him in either sport.  You see he was the big shot athlete, and, well I've already shared my size with you. 

It was some time during fall baseball season that this guy took to calling me Scooter and it stuck.  At first it was uttered with a hateful tone, however as I earned playing time and respect, the tone faded.  But I don't think it ever completely went away. Since Scooter is a name often associated with baseball players, most famously with Hall of Famer Phil Rizzuto, it spread quickly with my teammates.

As I got older and taller (but no thicker), the name grew with me. Also as I grew, the control that the name gave the older guy faded. The name became a source of motivation, pushing me to be "better" than the other guy.  He went on to go to the same JUCO I would eventually go to, but had shoulder surgery in his first year and was unable to make it through the rehabilitation process.  I had my own (more difficult) shoulder surgery the same year as a senior in high school. My arm strength never fully returned, but my motivation to continue playing and continue getting better remained. The surgery also lead to my eventual career choice.  Last I heard he was driving a dump truck (not that there's anything wrong with that).

Throughout the years, the name has been twisted and shortened into its other forms. I was able to escape the name for periods during my time in college, but it has always popped back up.  Let me make something clear: I don't hate the name.  Would I have chosen it?  No.  Would most people choose their own nickname if given the chance?  Probably not.  I would hope that they would find a way to embrace it and make it a positive impact on their life. 

*I'm glad that this form of bullying was all I had to deal with.  It was nothing compared to the cyber bullying teens are faced with today.