Trophies, Accomplishments and a Birthday Gift

I’m in trouble……big trouble.
Not as bad as Royce Reagan is.  Today at the Memorial Day observance several folks complimented me on winning my first 5k event.  Royce, ever eager to draw attention  away from his knobby knees, came out loud and clear proclaiming that I’m three years older than I had stated and, what’s more (and this is his big trouble) “The Runner” is also three years older than I had indicated.  I can accept being eighty three, but he should know that you never add to a lady’s age.  If he gets his wheel chair tires slit, don’t blame me. As the Book of Nicodemus says:  “Hell has no fury like a Runner lied about”.
My trouble does not stem from my age, but my references to trophies and my two daughters’ recognitions throughout their lives.  If you recall, in a recent column I stated: “I live in a house filled with trophies”.  I went on to tell of Meredith the Baseball Coach and her athletic attainments, and how Ashlee the Nutritionist garnered one basketball letter and many cheerleading awards, and looked pretty while doing it.
All this sounded harmless until someone who signed himself “anonymous” suggested that my son also had a few trophies and many accomplishments, and why did I not write about them.  I am certain that Mark himself did not do this, since he is modest and retiring and never calls attention to himself, but it could be from one, or maybe both, of his friends.  And “anonymous” is correct.  I just don’t like having topics suggested, except during two hour breakfasts at the Gazebo.
Before I proceed, though, you should know something about my family.
Theresa and I found that we could not have children, so we decided to adopt.  Our first contact with the Children’s Home Society in Tallahassee led to a beautiful little red headed girl coming into our home.  This was “Meredith the Baseball Coach”, although she was not a coach at the time.  A couple of years later we went to Tallahassee and picked up “Ashlee the Nutritionist”.  These worked out so well that we felt it would be appropriate for us to seek a hard-to-place child, a boy this time.
My wife had been a Presbyterian until we got married and I lied to her about how long my family had been Methodists.  She changed denominations but always held to predestination as an abiding belief.  On June 13 we talked and decided to approach our caseworker about our feelings.  A few weeks later the lady came over to our home with four files, and one was of a little boy who had been born on June 13!  Predestination came through; Methodism fell behind!
On Labor Day Theresa and I went to Fort Myers and picked up our son.  Mark had been born with one hand, a problem that we figured we could cope with.  After an operation we put him in with the other two children and sat back to watch.  Mark was eager to please; his two sisters looked on him as a butt for their pranks.  Somewhere there is a picture of him dressed in Ashlee’s dance class tutu. This was all right with him, since he figured he had a long life to even up.
We named each child appropriately.  Meredith’s first name is Glenda, for Theresa’s sister.  The Meredith came from “Dandy Don” Meredith, an athlete and sportscaster.  Ashlee’s middle name is Ione, for another of Theresa’s sisters.  The “Lee” part is for Robert E. Lee, who else?  Mark came with the name “Mark” firmly attached, so we inserted “Stuart” into the middle, since we were able to afford a middle name for him, and Stuart was General Lee’s cavalry commander, one of the best ever.
Theresa felt that we should make each child proud to be adopted, so she would tell each one an “adoption” story.  Meredith heard about our trip to Miami and it being the coldest day in twenty five years in that tropical paradise.  Ashlee learned that she was bald, and somewhat ugly (at least in my opinion) and had a propensity for soiling her diapers, which meant she had to be changed often, just as we should change elected officials often, and for the same reason.

And Mark, in his eagerness, would plead: “Tell me my adoption story”.  Theresa would use some license and tell him that we got him from Monkey Jungle and that when we went into a café for coffee, the waitress asked: “And can I bring you a banana for your monkey?”  His comment was usually “OH, Mother!”  This stood as a joke until two years ago, when Mark and his son and I actually went through Monkey Jungle, and on the way out we saw a sign that said “Adopt a Primate”.  He looked at me and I just smiled.
Mark’s “handicap” did not hold him back. His teachers were instructed to let him try everything, and if he failed, then so be it.  He played football, and the trumpet, and rode a bicycle and at age twelve would sneak my car out at midnight.  His two sisters took piano from Mrs. Charolett Bailey in Chattahoochee, and once while I was talking with her after the girl’s lessons I heard someone swinging out with “When the Saints Go Marching In” on the organ. When I inquired who it was, she shrugged and said “Oh, that’s just your son”.
Accomplishments?  He had many.  He managed to get through Sneads High School without reading a book until his senior year.  Mrs. Pam Rentz demanded that he read a book from the senior list and write a review.  He conned her into letting him select one from my library, and his report was on “Young Stonewall Jackson”.  He got an F for his effort.  I felt that he should have gotten an F+.
One summer while Theresa was visiting her sister in Maryland, Mark talked me into building a deck as a surprise for her.  We did not use a kit.  My cuts were ragged; his were square.  I bent nails right and left; he drove his straight and true.  We even constructed a fire pit from concrete blocks.
I did go down to the school office once on his behalf.  In the ninth grade he wanted to take a computer class, but was told he could not since he had not had typing and he could not take typing because he had only one hand.  The principal relented, and before the year was out he had found his calling, and today he is a contractor with an outfit called National High Intensity Drug Trafficking Area, and gets big awards from them, including something that looked suspiciously like a trophy to me.
Mark took ten years, working off and on, to acquire his bachelor’s degree.  He progressed better after I cut him off and his Ford Probe wore out.  During this process he got married and divorced, but ended up with a fine son who is now sixteen and falls for my jokes and likes Civil War battlefields and aircraft carriers and destroyers and can program my I-Pod with our kind of music.
Mark and I seldom agreed on anything.  We are different, but very much alike.  We are both stubborn.  We are both left handed.  He plays tennis and softball and scuba dives.  I play none of these sports, but I did win a ribbon in a 5k.  So what if it took me eighty years!
 Some years ago I hit on giving a dollar for every year of age to my children and grandchildren for their birthday.  I will be sending Mark a check soon, and also this column about his accomplishments.
The U. S. Navy’s highest accolade is just two words.  I send them to my son:  Well Done, Mark Stuart Hirt!