Kith & Kin

“Steven, would you please go downstairs and get the clinics box for me?” The request came from aged Mrs. White, a tiny white-haired Southern belle. Cindy and I, early in our marriage, were working for her in exchange for free rent in the apartment above her garage. As the lazy afternoon Southern sun drifted through the gauzy windows, illuminating dust motes floating in the air, Cindy and I were vacuuming the floors and wiping down her antiques—in a futile effort to conquer those same motes when they came to rest. Mrs. White was an easy person to work for. She wasn’t demanding or demeaning or unreasonable. Her wants were generally few. “Steven, would you please go downstairs and get the clinics box for me?” “Sure, Mrs. White. What kind of box did you say?” “Clinics. A clinics box.” She seemed a bit frustrated, which was unusual for her, so I didn’t press it any further. Clearly a clinics box must be some kind of first-aid kit, filled with items you might find at doctors’ ...

NOTE: The story below is very loosely based on actual events—so loosely, in fact, that if it tried to take a step forward, its pants would fall to the floor and it would tumble down a long concrete staircase. Therefore, I’ve turned it into a (mostly) fictional short story. ___________________________________________________________________________________ It is 3:30 pm. The park closes at 5:00. The sign says the queue length is 85 minutes. But I am determined. . . . Wendy and I are coming to the end of our day at Animal Kingdom. We are both 62. That’s a total of 124 years. As a result, we have difficulty navigating the place, even though we have a good, old-fashioned printed map. Me: “So are we in Africa or Asia?” Wendy: “I don’t know. Look for a sign.” Me: “What’s that one say?” Wendy: “‘Dim Sum and Den Sum.’” Me, after a pause: “Ohhh-kayyy, is that supposed to communicate anything?” Wendy: “I think they sell shoes. Let’s look at the map.” We do so, and then...

In June of 1996 Mom, who was almost sixty years old, crawled into her dying father’s bed so she could be as close to him as possible and talk to him and hear him talk to her. Grandpa was dying of sarcoidosis, and he had reached that final stage of life where one sleeps more and more and where times of lucid conversation happen less and less. “Daddy,” she whispered, “I just need to know. Are you trusting the Lord?” He didn’t open his eyes, but he nodded and said, “I talk to Him all the time!” Amy Brinkerhoff and Grandpa Swartz, Dec. 1991. When I picture my maternal grandfather, Byron Joseph Swartz, in my mind, he is sitting in “his chair” in his and Grandma’s living room, one leg crossed over the other at the knee, bouncing his foot up and down. He is wearing unshined black leather shoes and white socks. His shirt and pants match exactly—both are what I would call a “military green.” He is holding his eyeglasses by one of the temples, twirling them back and forth. He is listening ...

Author’s Note: I wrote this story over twenty years ago. As I often do, I’ve taken an actual event and related it, I hope, with some humor. Is every fact strictly true? No, but at least 90% of it is. Or maybe 80%. Either way, I hope you enjoy it! So my brother Eric and his wife, Aimee, want us all to go to Acres of Fun to let the kids play and for a game of Laser Tag. I am almost forty years old; I do not want to play Laser Tag. It is stupid and pointless. It is beneath my dignity . . . way beneath it. But I do not tell anyone that I am feeling this way. I do not want to be petty. So we get to Acres of Fun. It takes about three hours for the guy at the desk to figure out how to charge us for six kids and four adults. You’d think they’d never had a group this big come in before. So then Eric gets us all paid for (he and Aimee are paying for this, which is another reason I have vowed not to grouse), and the kids go over to the “Soft Play” zone. You know, that’s like a McDo...