Act Your Age!

By Kenneth Harris

Act Your Age! A command in these or similar words was heard by most of us soon after we learned to walk and often heard repeated as we trekked our way through childhood. As adulthood arrived perhaps you, like the author, have occasionally heard again that early exhortation ringing softly in your ears, "Now, don't forget to act your age."

The author presents stories from his life as a suburban Oklahoma boy, time-study engineer, financial analyst, safety engineer, police officer, father of four, grandfather of fourteen and pastor that provide an intimate, candid, lively and imaginative chronology from his youth up to the present day of his retirement in the panhandle of northern Idaho. Emotions run the gamut from the deep sadness and vacuum of tragic loss to the joyful and raucous laughter found only in families. Occasionally rational explanation eludes all efforts and he is forced to fall back on divine intervention. Many were the opportunities that seemed to say Act Your Age! In some he did. In some he didn't. You be the judge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098058036

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Act Your Age!

Kenneth Harris

Copyright © 2020 by Kenneth Harris

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

All Scripture quotations are taken from the New King James Version

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Stories from My Childhood

Stories from My Adulthood

The Diane Years, 1964–1980

The Gail Years or My Rebekah

Introduction

For the first several years of my life, I thought my name was Ackchurage Don or Don Ackchurage. Then one day, I heard the words Kenneth Don and realized that Ackchurage was really act your age. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t know this earlier, or I might have said, "But, Mom, I’m four. I am acting my age." Then I would have really been in trouble.

You will be reading the anecdotal descriptions of some of the events, experiences, incidents, encounters, and happenings of my life divided into two sections; my childhood and my adulthood. When combined they make up, with what grace of God I allowed to have sway, my present state of being. As for the title, most of us heard it repeated as we moved from toddler into puberty (and some of us as the last words from our parents as we left home). And, of course, for those of us who were privileged to bring more human beings into this world, it often fell from our own lips without thinking as naturally as breathing. And if you’re like me, you often wonder why you still fail to act your age.

The stories from my adulthood are in two sections, The Diane Years and The Gail Years. From October 3, 1964 till July 2, 1980, it was my happy and glorious blessing to be the husband of the former Miss Diane Mae Phillips. This union was and is blessed by the birth and lives of three children, Kimberly, Jason, and Jim. As the providence of God would have it, Diane’s life on this earth was ended by cancer after only sixteen years of marriage at her young age of thirty-five.

In 1981 God’s providence was again active as he brought into our then lonely lives a second glorious blessing in the person of the former Miss Gail Louise Hull. We were married on June 20, 1981 in a ceremony that was in itself unique in that it included a loving exchange of vows between Gail and each of the children, then aged fifteen, thirteen and eleven as we all recognized and happily committed ourselves to our new roles. Our little church in Placerville, California knew no dry eye in that service.

Hopefully the reader will glean from that which follows the unavoidable observation that the author has been abundantly and undeservedly blessed in more ways than can be recounted. The anecdotes herein form only a minute portion of that which must remain untold due simply to the limits of normal life expectancy.

When I was a child I understood as a child,

I thought as a child.

—1 Corinthians 13:11a

Stories from My Childhood

It was April 20, 1938 when my father, Kenneth Edgar Harris, married his sweetheart, Helen Iris Summers in the southwestern town of Willow, Oklahoma. They each had twelve siblings and were born into cotton-farming families that had not been untouched by the infamous Dust Bowl destruction of that era.

In December of that year my father-to-be found work in Elk City, Oklahoma some forty or so miles north of Ocina where his wife of a mere seven months, now pregnant with yours truly, had remained with her folks while he hunted for employment. On December 8 at twelve thirty in the afternoon, two months exactly before I would be born in Elk City, he mailed a penny(!) postcard to her which has survived the years. It sports the following address which, in itself, reveals the newness of their marriage:

Mrs. Helen Summers [sic] Harris

c/o J. Summers, Route 1

Willow, Oklahoma

"My darling sweetheart, they didn’t start picking turkeys till today. I went to Sayre last nite [sic] and stayed with Grace and Otis [his sister and brother-in-law]. I got here about ten o’clock this A.M. and picked five turkeys by noon. Honey, I don’t know how long this will last so I’ll pick on today and find out and write you again tomorrow or next day. They pay 6 cents a turkey. I saw Barney yesterday. He went home today.

OXOXOXOX All my love, Ken OX"

Whenever I sense the idol of materialism creeping up on me, I look at this postcard now framed and sitting on my bookshelf.

I was born to this wealthy couple two months later, February 5, 1939.

The Nickname

My middle name is Don, formerly Donny as my Mom, God rest her soul, insisted on calling me and for far too many years, or so I thought. On one occasion Mom was trying her best to corral the nine or ten of us youngsters comprising her Vacation Bible School class. She was intent on taking a photo of us all sitting in order on the back stoop of the church. And when my Mom was intent on something it happened! As we sat there just as she directed she peered down into her Brownie box camera. I could see the frown before she raised her head. Her son’s face was much different than usual, although she had seen similar, and she was not favorably impressed. Like most boys, as I often rationalized, I could be a handful for my dear Mother! After chiding me verbally, thus giving me the attention in front of my peers which was of course exactly what I sought, she looked down again into the camera and yes, once again, her eyes were assaulted by her son’s grotesque expression. Mere words would not suffice this time. Briskly covering the few feet between us, she took hold of my right ear which instantly felt as if it no longer belonged to me but would be her possession for eternity to do with whatever she wished. It felt for sure like my warm blood was running down my neck!

I ran across that old photo a few years after my Mom joined our Lord and received her long-deserved reward, mainly because of all she put up with. There in the photo is her rebel son on the top row, still sporting his stupid look in spite of the throbbing ear! I won that one, and I’m still sorry.

On some later day, at the age of sixteen or seventeen, I was with my Mom in a store or someplace where other people were milling around. My Mom and I were a few yards apart. Wanting my attention, she called out, Donny.

I instantly responded in a high-pitched juvenile voice noticeably louder than necessary, Yes, Mommy, embarrassing us both but her the more so I’m sure.

After moving away from home I began using my first name, Kenneth, which I had avoided using to prevent confusion with my Dad’s same first name. Now that Mom is with her Lord, I would be most joyful to hear her call Donny anywhere, anytime, as loudly and often as she might wish.

The Stomper

Idon’t recall the particular act that resulted in stomping my feet at Mom that day. But I do recall that it was the same day I learned that stomping my feet at her raised the level of my infraction from a misdemeanor to a felony. Her remedy? You like stomping your feet? Okay mister, you stand right over there in that corner and you stomp those feet till I say stop.

The minutes soon turned into hours, or so it seemed. I never realized my legs were actually made of rubber. Whenever my stomping pace started slowing down and it looked like I was getting ready to quit, Mom would stop whatever she happened to be doing and reach toward the magic elm wand (a small thin branch she had broken from one of our many elm trees). However, the threat of the switch notwithstanding, there did come the point at which my legs became noodles and no longer able to support my body. I slid reluctantly and completely humble down the wall to the floor.

In spite of such creative disciplinary interludes, my Adamic tendency continued to occasionally manifest itself. However, the one thing I never did again was stomp my feet at my Mother.

You’re This Close, Mister!

When Mom had reached the limit of her tolerance with her sometimes obstinate son, she would hold up her thumb and middle finger with the fingernails clicking together and say, with clenched teeth, You’re this close, mister! I knew what would happen if I didn’t change my behavior immediately! One more step in the same direction and I would be cast into outer darkness. Utter and complete demolition and an eternity in the abyss awaited any fool who dared to go past the clicking of the fingernails! At least that’s the image she portrayed. I confess that I never ventured to go there. I wasn’t even tempted! Thus, I am still among the living.

My Sister’s Baptism

I’m not sure when it was exactly that my oldest younger sister, Karolyn (yes, spelled with a K so our initials would be the same) began to adopt an attitude of skepticism toward my motives. But I suspect it could have been on that hot Oklahoma afternoon when she ran in excited trust to fill with water the empty bucket her older brother had handed her from his perch on the tree limb. Returning hurriedly, she strained her tiny muscles to their utmost in order to lift with both hands the now sloshing bucket to my down-stretched hand. Her expression revealed her curious innocence as to what I could possibly want with a bucket of water in the tree.

As the little innocent ran soaked and screaming for the protection of our ever-vigilant mother, I knew I was in for it. But like all nine-year-old boys, I knew that my momentary rush of adrenaline was worth the worst she could dish out. As I think back on my cunning trickery, I gain new insight on that most ancient of all tricks. How that evil serpent’s heart must have raced within his demonic breast as he sat there, coiled in the Edenic tree, knowing his evil intent for our primal Mother.

Test Drive

The new tricycle Karolyn got for Christmas that morning was something to behold. At the age of three, she was ecstatic. Later that afternoon I asked if I could take it on a test drive. I chalked up her reluctance to her previous experiences with her five-year-old brother. But she finally said okay. Wearing my new overcoat, I climbed onto the trike and started pedaling my way up the street. It had snowed several hours before and the road was icy in places. As I pedaled my way back down the street my hands were getting very cold. Then I had another one of the bright ideas for which I was becoming known—just slip the handlebars up the sleeves of my overcoat, bring my hands together where the bars meet, sticking them up my sleeves. I was making great time pedaling away with warm hands. I had never really understood what they call providence , but it seemed like it was always happening to me! I landed on my chin after the front wheel encountered a small chunk of ice frozen to the road and stopped abruptly, catapulting me onto my face. Sliding on the ice does a number on your chin and the blood began to flow. Untangling my arms from the handlebars, I quickly got to my feet, pulled up my coat to cover my bleeding chin and pedaled my way back home. The new overcoat was now under coated with my blood. I gave up my dream of being a test pilot.

Juicy Fruit

Another new pair of glasses! I had been wearing glasses since