You don’t often hear about these blunders in the news. Even our media mavens shy away from exposing this sort of bungling. I, on the other hand, don’t mind at all. In fact, I would very much like to slip into the good old American habit of suing the pants off the responsible blundering, bungling party. I have, instead, tried to be forgiving. It hasn’t always gone well.
The party in question? The Stork – the ignominious one who, 65 years ago, made his drop at a farm three miles from a booming metropolis of a 1,000 people and a good forty miles from our state’s capital, Indianapolis. He overshot a city of around 400,000 by FORTY miles. It boggles the mind.
- Were his geography professors incompetent?
- Were they competent, but he wasn’t paying attention during geography classes?
- Had the Stork School entry exam done a shoddy job of screening out a direction-challenged stork?
- Had he passed his prime, needed vision correction, and was flying blind?
- Was he just not paying attention?
That last one seems the only logical choice. I just can’t comprehend how Stork School Supervisors, knowing full well the grave responsibility of training storks for such impactful delivery jobs, could allow any of the other possibilities to occur.
(I’d just like to re-emphasize my profound restraint right here. I don’t have to tell you this is the stuff of which malpractice suits are made.)
When did I know?
By six or seven, I realized something was amiss. By age eight, I was fairly sure things were not as they should be, though my family seemed blissfully ignorant.
By age ten, I realized my concerns weren’t just a little girl’s naive speculations but instead, an undeniably well-founded assessment. I can tell you the exact time of my epiphany. I was sitting in the back of my parents’ ’50 Ford, gazing out the window as Old 40 snaked east through Plainfield and on into Indianapolis. (This was well before I-70 had wantonly cut its four-lane concrete swath across the state.)
We were nearing the Indianapolis city center after a four-month hiatus, and it felt so right, so like home. But, wait, we’d just left “home” 30 minutes ago. No, I argued inside my little-girl head, the city – ANY city, maybe even THIS city – is my home, the place where I truly belong. It was 1958, and it was an aha! pay-attention moment if ever there was one – the unequivocal knowledge that the stork, clearly, had made a mistake. Ever since, I have been sorely tempted to lay the blame for the origins of my stupendous oddity at his pointy-clawed feet.
What’s the pay-attention lesson here?
I am not alone, alas. Plenty of us go through life not having been dealt the hand of cards we think we should have. Suing the pants off The Stork won’t help me. Going through the rest of your life feeling shortchanged about your beginnings on this earth won’t help you either.
The logical choice? Get over it and get on with it. Laugh along with me, as I show you what I mean in Odd #3. (This quote should give you a little hint of what’s to come.)
© 2014, Teresa Bennett