Ain't no foolin'; it's all things Willie today

Happy birthday, William E. Love III. You're 29 today, and it's hard to believe. Your dad and I send you our very best wishes for a wonderful day. I'm going to indulge today and provide a few items of interest where you are involved.

First, the nice letter that arrived in my in-box yesterday morning from out of the blue. It was from your buddy Keith Chaiet, who now teaches middle school music in Bend, Oregon. He shared some memories of the days when he and you were pals:

I couldn't sleep a few nights ago, so I grabbed my trusty laptop
computer and started "googling" folks from years past. After
searching for some time I stumbled across your daily blog "Slight
Detour." I read some of your posts and my brain started thinking back
to my time spent at your house.

Your home (and barn) where such a
huge part of my life when I was kid. I have more memories of your
home than my own, perhaps because I lived in 5 different house
between the 8th and 12th grades (dad was into real estate even then).

I recall raiding your pantry with Joel Martin and Willie because "my
own mother wouldn't feed me." I remember playing basketball upstairs
in the barn and Rambo's desire to nip you in the butt if you weren't
paying attention.

One of the best memories I have is laying in your
field all night long during the meteor shower with Willie and Joel.
I'm sure there are other things you remember, but those are the
memories that stand out for me.

I must admit writing a email to my former English teacher (or was it
Language Arts?) feels a little like writing a short essay I have to
turn in for English class. I keep reading and rereading to double
check for grammar and punctuation mistakes (of which I'm sure there
are many).

Anyhow, just thought I would say "Hi" and thanks for the childhood
memories, I always felt welcomed in the Love residence (or is that
welcome?) :)

Then, after I sent you Keith's letter, you shared some memories with him:

One of my best memories was when we rigged the barn up for night basketball.
Keith, you took a jump shot and fell through one of the strategically placed
holes to send hay downstairs. I remember one second we were shooting hoops,
and the next second the lights were out and Keith was on the first floor of
the barn. It seems you cracked a rib or two if I remember correctly.

The barn played a defense that would probably scare Michael Jordan or now,
Adam Morrison.

Keith, we will have to get together next time you are in Boise. It seems
like Erin's sister lived around here.

Drop me a letter. I don't care about no stinkin' grammar.

Will

And, because it's your birthday, and folks might find it enjoyable, I'm going to also include a segment from the story you've written for Lessons with Love. Before inserting it, I must tell you that just thinking about you and Annie and Debbie when I sit here at the computer brings tears to my eyes. Your birthdays signify the true gifts of our lives!

Happy Birthday, Willie, and much love to Annie and Debbie on this family-wide celebration day. Here goes with a work from William E. Love III on his birthday, April Fool's Day, 2006. Every word that follows is TRUE:

When I was in eighth grade at Stidwell Junior High School, I was awakened from my sleep early one morning with the urgency that I knew in those days before high school was not a good thing. That morning started with Mom asking if I realized what I had done. Still waking up on that first day of winter vacation with a full interrogation, sleepy-eyed I honestly did not know what I had done.

“You were lucky he didn’t put your name in the paper,” she said of the Spokesman-Review reporter, Kevin Keating, who had written a story for the regional paper’s “Idaho Handle” edition on the afternoon assembly my school held at the start of the first Persian Gulf War. It was an emotional situation, especially for a group of junior high students who were coming to grips with the idea of war and the possibilities for some and the realities for others of their family members going off to the desert to fight Saddam.

After taking some lower-level education classes, I understood the assembly presented an appropriate venue for junior high school students to discuss their feelings on a serious matter. But being the intuitive person I was at the time in my life, I recognized the situation would call for a lighter moment and who better to give the class of eighth graders a laugh than me?

At some point, I had been to the small novelty shop All Smiles located near the Cedar Street Bridge – a shopping mall that crosses Sand Creek and now home to Sandpoint’s Coldwater Creek retail store. The store had shelves full of gag gifts and cards that would pique the interest of any future comedian, and I could spend hours in there devising my next comedy routine.

With the war brewing in Iraq and the American public learning that there were a number of ways to spell “Hussein,” I spent what little money I had on a roll of toilet paper with the text “Wipe out Saddam” surrounding a caricature of the now-deposed leader. The toilet paper was the type of bathroom humor that is my forte and something that was always a hit at home.

During the assembly I waited to share my thoughts with my friends and teachers until most of the sad stories had been told and the tears were shed. I have to say my purchase was a hit at the assembly when I lifted the spirits of the somber crowd with the help of another classmate. With toilet paper in hand and a captive crowd, we took the moment to share what the TP summed up so well, “Wipe out Saddam!”

It got the laugh I was looking for to solidify my goal of the class funny man, but what I did not notice at the time was whether or not the reporter from The Spokesman-Review – the regional paper covering North Idaho and Eastern Washington – quoted me correctly in his notebook. The next morning, during her daily “devour the newspaper before anyone else is allowed to lay hands on it” period, my mother found out that Kevin did, indeed, quote me accurately.

“The only reason he didn’t put your name in the paper is because he knew who you were,” which would not be the first or last time I would earn some advantage because of my last name. But Mom informed me Keating’s decision not to put my name in the paper was fortunate for me because I could have really embarrassed the family – a lesson she has had to continually remind me during my nearly three decades as the son of a teacher woman.

That morning some of my classmates were dealing with the possibilities of their relatives going off to war, but I was trying to defend an early-morning assault of my own from a one-person army in the form of an upset mother whom even the most vicious of despot would not want to confront.

Life did go on for me after this incident, and I learned not to make jokes about world issues with a newspaper reporter around. But I am pretty sure Mom did not keep that Spokesman-Review article in the scrap book.