The Right Words

The art of talking, or not

By Renee Phile

Lately I have been trying to keep my boys talking, you know, to keep the conversations going. With Kevin, who is 8, it’s absolutely no problem, but the older one, the 13-year-old, well, his word count has decreased in the past year. Sometimes he will excitedly chat about wrestling or football, or a teacher who he thinks is funny, but all too often his answers are just a few words.

“My day was fine.”

“I learned about prepositions.”

“Yes, I ate the lunch you sent. Yes, the carrots, too.”

Fair enough, but sometimes I just really want a conversation, so I ask the question, “Do either of you have anything you want to talk about?” Most of the time a topic is not given, but comments are.

“We need to get Chinese food.”

“Can we get Little Caesars tonight?”

“Did you get a video of me pinning that guy at my wrestling match?”

Sometimes conversations begin about 5-7 minutes after the boys are supposed to be in bed for the night. Ironically, this is the time frame when suddenly more meaningful topics emerge.

“Mom, do you know what I’ve been thinking about? God. Is He real or not?”

“Mom, you know. I have been wondering. How did I get here? Like, really?”

“Mom, there is a kid at school who is mean to me.”

Yes, of course there will also be the occasional urgent, “Mom, I forgot to tell you that you need to sign this permission slip before tomorrow. Yes, I know I have had it in my book bag for two weeks, but I just remembered. At least I remembered before tomorrow!”

“Mom, I forgot to tell you about the solar system project due tomorrow. I have everything I need except I need help painting Neptune. We didn’t have the shade of green I need for the rings. Can we run to Walmart real quick?

Sometime, though, mornings are when I like to talk. After all, we have a 15-minute drive to school and yesterday morning I asked a question, and here is what I got.

“Does anyone want to talk about anything while we’re driving to school?”

David: “NO.”

Kevin: “Oh! I do!”

David: “No, Kevin, I can’t handle it.”

Kevin: “But I need to tell you something!”

Me: “Go ahead, Kevin.”

David: “UGH!”

Kevin: “David, stop with your attitude!”

David: “Be quiet.”

Me: “What do you need to tell us, Kevin?”

David: (makes disapproving grunts, sighs, and other 13-year-old noises.)

Kevin: “I really want to talk about why quesadillas are better than tacos.”

I mean, what else is there to say? Best topic ever.  PS

Renee Phile teaches English composition at Sandhills Community College.

Who Gives a Flip?

Yours truly — until I tried it myself

By Renee Phile

“Flip that water bottle one more time and see what happens!” I heard myself declare. On this particular day, I was so totally done with all the nonsense. I had let it go on for far too long. After all, objects flying across the room and through the halls are not uncommon occurrences in our house. On any given day, there may be Nerf gun bullets, footballs, socks, juggling balls, or even varieties of produce whizzing by. Whatevs. I’m to the point where I ignore a lot of it. Choose your battles, my mom says. Nerf gun wars and juggling oranges in the kitchen are not battles I want to tackle, unless of course, David bruises all my oranges, which he has done, and yes, then I will fight.

So when the boys continuously flipped the half-full bottles of water so they rotated in the air and then landed on the table and then rolled to the floor, I frowned. The sloshes and then the thuds messed with my sanity. Over the next few days though, they kept flipping, and not just half-full water bottles. They flipped bottles of Sunkist, and I even caught Kevin trying to flip a half-full milk jug! The lid was not on properly, and milk sloshed from the jug, all over the kitchen floor.

“Enough with the flipping!” I demanded.

“But Mom, it’s fun!” he said.

“It’s stupid, and it makes no sense.”

“Stupid isn’t a nice word to say, Mom.”

I sighed. “Can’t you play with something else?”

The next day in my own classroom, before class started, a student sat at his desk with a half-full water bottle in front of him. With no warning whatsoever, he picked up the bottle and would you believe this, he flipped it. The bottle rotated once, tumbled to the side, and rolled to the edge of the desk. He grabbed the bottle before it fell to the ground and then started over.

The girl next to him looked annoyed. Three minutes until class started.

“Um, could you please stop?” I finally asked, after four flips.

“Sorry,” he said as he steadied his water bottle on his desk.

“Wait, why do you do that? First tell me why you do that, flip the water bottles, I mean.”

His eyes brightened and he pulled his phone from his pocket and quickly looked up a video and handed me the device. The video showed him flipping a water bottle with one quick wrist flick. The bottle rotated once and then landed straight up on a table.

“Oh, cool,” I muttered. And it was cool.

Then he showed me another video of a kid from Charlotte who flipped a water bottle for a talent show and it landed upright. The crowd roared its approval. He explained to me that kids all over the world are now flipping water bottles, the goal to land them upright. It’s an art that takes so much practice, but sometimes, just sometimes, with the perfect amount of luck and skill, the bottle rotates once and lands upright.

Later that day, both of my boys and their neighbor friend were all sitting around the kitchen table, taking turns flipping their bottles. I watched for a few minutes before I, too, emptied out some of the water from my water bottle and tried. (The water bottle should be 1/2 to 1/4 full, or so I’ve heard.) I tried several times, but no successful landing.

I guess at this point, I have changed my attitude about the flipping subject. The noise is obnoxious, but my boys can entertain themselves for hours and they aren’t fighting with each other or zoned out watching TV or playing video games.

Every now and then, I will discreetly practice my own flip (to this day, I have not succeeded in the perfect landing, but I am still working on it).

Flip. Slosh. Thud. Roll. Repeat.  PS

Renee Phile teaches at Sandhills Community College and is happy to announce that, since writing this story, she has flipped a water bottle and it landed perfectly. 

A Delicious Mystery

What’s really in the basement of the Amish house we rent every Christmas?

By Sara Phile

A three-story white renovated 19th century farmhouse sits on over 100 acres of rolling hills in Geauga County, Ohio. When you walk into the entryway of the farmhouse, you will see around six pairs of assorted snow boots to the left, a closet on the right, and a small bathroom straight ahead. Walk a few more feet and you will turn left into a small kitchen with deep white sinks. After walking through the kitchen you will enter the dining room, with a large Amish-style table, not with chairs, but benches, lined on each side, a bedroom straight ahead, and a narrow set of wooden stairs that lead to three additional bedrooms and another bathroom. My favorite room, the glassed-in porch, complete with a porch swing, is to the right, and faces the front of the house. A large piano and fireplace decorate the living room. Its assorted bookshelves with a hodgepodge of books line various walls. Murder mysteries, gardening books, histories of the First World War, and even a three-ring binder with around 40 typed pages of the history of the farmhouse all contribute to the quaint, cozy place.

The last two Christmases my husband, boys and I spent a week in the farmhouse, just a few miles from where my in-laws live. We rented the house, and my in-laws came over to eat, play board games, eat, watch movies, eat, open presents, and eat some more. My husband grew up among the Amish, so he is used to the horses and buggies on the roads, the large Amish farms, and the Pennsylvania Dutch language. I, on the other hand, along with my boys, remain fascinated.

When my youngest son was around 3, he would yell out, “Look! Cowboys!” whenever he saw Amish men. Over the years our interest in the Amish people and their lifestyle hasn’t waned. The farmhouse is maintained by an Amish family across the road, and during our holiday stays at the house, they have checked in with us periodically. The first time they appeared at the front door, I was so startled that when my sister-in-law asked who it was, I just motioned for her to come quickly. She scurried over, opened the door, laughed at me, and Fanny and Jeremiah stomped snow off their boots on the entryway rug and said they needed to get something out of the basement. The door to the basement is on the left side of the kitchen. After disappearing for a few minutes, they trudged back up the creaky stairs with a few gallons of Neapolitan ice cream.

“Thank you! Enjoy your stay!” they said, as they smiled and left.

It was then that I noticed the sign.  It was handwritten in black Sharpie on a piece of white printer paper and taped to the door to the basement. “Don’t go downstairs, private.”

David, my oldest son, and I saw it at the same time. His eyes widened, and I knew what he was thinking.

“You want to go down there, Mom, don’t you?”

“Yes. Do you?” 

“Yes, can we?”

“I don’t know. We may get in trouble.”

“What do you think is down there?”

“I don’t know. Ice cream, for sure. But I don’t know what else.”

“Can we see?”

We discussed the ramifications. What if there were people actually living down there? Now that we thought about it, we had been hearing strange sounds in the farmhouse. Some scuffling around and it sounded like it was coming from downstairs. Hmmmm . . . What if there were dead bodies down there? What if what we found scared us forever?  Or maybe there was nothing but freezers of ice cream. But if that was the case, why the sign? Maybe the Amish family was comprised of ice cream addicts who just needed a place for their stash and didn’t want anyone else eating it. Or, maybe there was a whole new world down there.

Maybe . . . Maybe . . . Maybe . . .

We wanted to check it out when no one else was around because certainly others would disapprove of our plan. We made an appointment to meet in the kitchen one night after every one else went to bed. Except that particular night we both fell asleep early. We tried a few more times, but our plans were halted by nosy family members. We left the farmhouse that year with no answers.

As the following year passed, maybe once a month I thought of the farmhouse. I smiled at the fun memories we had there. But then that nagging question reappeared, what is in that basement?

I thought David had forgotten about it, but one night in June, as he was getting ready for bed, he asked, “What do you think is in the basement in that Amish house? Want to see next time we go?”

At the farmhouse last Christmas, the sign was still there, black letters formed into words: “Don’t go downstairs; private.” The sign looked more intense, more pronounced that year. Was it the same sign? Or did someone rewrite it? David’s and my discussion continued. Should we check it out or not? We debated. We planned. But we never actually followed through. Something kept coming up. 

A few days ago mom-in-law called and asked about our Christmas plans. There’s a really good chance this will be our third annual year at the Amish farmhouse.  When I told the boys, David smiled and his eyes twinkled.

“Mom, do you think . . . ?” he trailed off, but raised an eyebrow. 

“Maybe.”  PS

Sara Phile teaches English composition at Sandhills Community College.

The Forgotten Lunch

He may never remember it. But I won’t forget that smile

By Sara Phile

He did it again, yesterday.

He does it around 25 percent of the time. He strolls outside, armed with his book bag in one hand and his trumpet case in the other and hikes the .8 miles down the gravel road to the bus stop. Or, if he’s done fixing his hair by 6:55, his dad drives him the .8 miles to the bus stop. I’m typically taking a shower at this point, maybe working on my own hair when he calls. It’s usually five minutes after he leaves, sometimes 10.

“Mom, I forgot my lunch. Will you bring it to me?”

Only twice have I not taken it to him. Cruel, maybe, but I wanted him to learn the natural consequences of forgetting his lunch. He is, after all, one day shy of 13. It’s his job to remember.

The first time I said, “No, I can’t take you your lunch. I don’t have time.” He said OK and hung up, and all day I felt stings of guilt. I tried to will them away, but thought of him hungry, shriveling in a corner of the classroom, so hungry he couldn’t pay attention to fractions, integers, or even more dramatic, adverbs and prepositional phrases. (Gasp!) When I picked him up from school, he bebopped out to the car, looking his high-energy self. I was a little taken back.

“How was your day? I bet you’re hungry.”

“Oh, fine. I just ate lunch at school.”

“Oh, really.” (I had not put any money on his account in a while and was pretty sure he had a zero or negative balance.) “With what money?”

“I just charged it. No big deal. Every one charges lunch, Mom. Everyone.”

“Don’t charge your lunch again.”

The next time he called, while I was straight-ironing my hair and still had several sections to do, he said, “Mom, I left my lunch on the counter. Can you drive it to me?”

“Sorry, I don’t have time this morning. You are going to have to be more responsible. Do not charge your lunch.”

Again, all day I felt guilt. I told him not to charge his lunch, but what was he supposed to do? I willed away these guilt feelings when children who really are hungry came to mind. Neither of my boys has ever really missed a meal, not really. He would be fine, and he would learn.

When I picked him up, he was still alive. Very much alive, talking in the way he talks, that if it were written out, there would be no commas or periods. Just run-on sentence after run-on sentence punctuated with exclamation points, lots of them.

“How did you do?”

“Oh, fine. I just ate Ethan’s lunch.”

“Wait, what? David!”

“He shared, and then basically let me eat it all. Mom, it’s OK. He shares his lunch with me a lot.”

Great. Now I have to reimburse lunches to Ethan’s mom.

“Quit stealing other kids’ lunches!”

He continues to forget his lunch, maybe once every two weeks. Back to yesterday. He spent 17 minutes on his hair, and his lunch was simply an afterthought. He called around 12 minutes after he left the house. I grumbled that he was going to make me late for work. That this was the last time ever in the history of moms I was going to interrupt my getting-ready-for-work routine and drive down the hill just to take him his lunch. I stopped at the bottom of the hill and there he was, book bag and trumpet case on the grass and phone in hand, thumbs flying over the keys. He didn’t even look up. I rolled down the window and the thought to throw his lunch out and drive off passed through my mind. He looked up and a smile passed over his lips, the one that shifted to his eyes.

“Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

I obviously don’t know the solution; I’m not asking for advice here. All I know is, those words, coming from him, melted all my madness away. Just like that. It didn’t matter if he meant them or if he was just trying to soften the mood. I drove back up the hill thinking that taking him his lunch may not be so bad and maybe I should just start planning for it.

Until the next time . . .  PS

Sara Phile teaches English composition at Sandhills Community College.

The One That Got Away

A true (and only slight) fishie tale

By Sara Phile

A few years ago, when my boys were 8 and 3, we were renting a home in downtown Southern Pines. Since having a pet would have cost us more, we did not have any. Well, except a fish. “Fishie,” a blue beta, moved into our lives shortly after we moved into our house. The boys could not agree on a name for him. One wanted to name him Harold the Helicopter, the other wanted to name him Spiderman, and there was absolutely no room for compromise, so I made an executive decision and declared his name “Fishie.”

Well, after a few years, Fishie passed away.

I remember that day so clearly because when I found him lifeless under a plant, I was surprised that he lasted as long as he did, and here are a few reasons why.

One afternoon, a few months prior to Fishie’s death, I couldn’t find my phone anywhere, which wasn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence. I had called it numerous times and looked around for a few hours. Kevin, the 3-year-old, was notorious for “hiding it” in random places: under his bed, in his train sets, under the bathroom sink, in the dryer, just to name a few of his favorite hiding spots.

Suddenly, it clicked. I knew he knew. I waited until he was playing contently with his trains before I asked him.

“Kevin, where’s Mommy’s phone?”

“Ow, I don know, Mommy.” Sheepish grin.

“Kevin, where’s Mommy’s phone? I know you know.”

“I don know, Mommy.” His brown eyes darted to the left.

“Yes you do. Tell me now.”

“Well . . . Mommy. Fishie needed to call someone.”

Oh no. A quick glance into the fish tank confirmed that Fishie did indeed need to call someone. In fact, he had been “on the phone” for hours.

There was no reviving my phone, but Fishie was fine.

Another time, after dinner, I realized there was . . . uh . . . something abnormal about the fish tank. As I looked closer, I realized there were peas, yes peas, in there. Along with bread crust. And an entire banana. Sigh. So this was why Kevin had finished dinner unusually early that evening and declared he was “ready for dessert.”

One time the entire can of fish food was dumped into the tank. I caught him (Kevin) in the act of that one and was able to yank Fishie out and rescue him from the downpour.

After I realized Fishie had died, I unplugged the tank and carried it into the bathroom. I dropped Fishie into the toilet, but in the process accidentally dropped a few marbles in as well. I was attempting to retrieve the marbles with the fish floating around the commode when 8-year-old David peeked in the halfway open bathroom door and said, “Uh, Mom, what are you doing?”

“Oh, just trying to . . . uh . . . retrieve something.”

“What?” He blinked.

“Marbles,” I said, as if fishing marbles from the toilet bowl was the most normal activity.

“How did marbles get in the toilet?”

“Well, uh, the fish died this morning, so I am flushing him . . . that’s just what you do when a fish dies and I dropped some marbles in there too.”

David’s eyes widened and he yelled, “Kevin killed the fish!”

“No, Kevin did not kill the fish. Why would you even say that?”

“Yes, he did! Because of all the stuff he put in the tank!” David wailed.

At this point, Kevin, startled by the commotion, threw open the bathroom door and asked what had happened to Fishie.

“Fishie died this morning,” I said, bracing for the reaction.

“Oh no!” Kevin wailed. “I need to say good-bye to Fishie!”

“You killed him,” David said, matter of factly.

“I not kill Fishie! I need to say goodbye to Fishie!”

At this point I had retrieved the marbles and could still see Fishie’s blue fin under the toilet hole.

“OK, then let’s all say goodbye to Fishie.”

The boys, sullen, crowded around the toilet bowl. Fishie’s blue fin peeked out from the hole, but that was it. Kevin, tears slipping from his eyes, exclaimed, “Goodbye Fishie!” as I flushed our pet. David just glared at Kevin, convinced that this tragic event was his fault.

I mentally prepared for a conversation of where Fishie would go, and if we will see him in heaven, and could we get another fish, but after about five minutes both boys began playing with their trains and didn’t mention Fishie again. I cleaned the tank and put it away.

Since Fishie has left us, we have raised several more betas. Bradley, Thomas, Bubbles and Chuckles, to name a few. And in case you are wondering, Fishie was the only one of them who ever needed to make a call.  PS

Sara Phile teaches English composition at Sandhills Community College.