Good Deeds

I try to live my life by two creeds—of sorts. One is the Golden Rule, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” The second is a life list that I created a few years ago; enjoy the day, travel the globe, write the stories. I never dreamed that both would ultimately lead me to a path of humiliation and shame. To spare others and to tell the stories before Shelley, my sister-in-law, does, here goes.

One morning not too long ago, Shelley texted “Burton’s mother died, and we are going to the visitation tonight.”

Poor guy! I knew exactly how it felt to lose your mother. I couldn’t make it to Huntsville in time for the funeral, so I did the next best thing—I sent a sympathy card. I wrote a sweet and tender note to Beirne about the relationship between mothers and sons.

A few days later, I happened to be in Huntsville at Shelley’s and answered the phone when Beirne called.

“Tim and I are so very sorry about your mother,” I told him with all the heartfelt sympathy one could muster.

“It was Burton,” he replied.

“What was Burton?” I asked.

“It was Burton’s mother who died,” Beirne explained as though talking to a complete dimwit.

I nearly fainted. The sympathy card had arrived in the day’s mail, and Beirne was more than a little surprised. He promptly requested a casserole; and, if I really wanted to make it up to him, I could take his very much alive mother to the doctor the following afternoon. My brother, Ted, suggested to Beirne that, with the aid of some White Out, he send the card on to Burton.

Oh, good grief. This will be one story that will get better with each retelling.

I had barely recovered from the humiliation of sending a sympathy card to the wrong person before I was at it again. This time I had “traveled the globe” to the Great Wolf Lodge in Concord, NC, and was “enjoying the day” with my two-year-old granddaughter, Anna Lauren, who clearly wanted to play in the wave pool instead being supervised by her grandmother in the baby pool. Suddenly and without warning, a bucket dumped water on me. I immediately felt colder than the cool water. My swim suit top had not survived in place. The row of fathers standing along the fence seemed startled at first, and then broke out in ear-to-ear smiles, and finally chuckles.

Oh, good grief. Another good story that will get better with each retelling.

For those of you who are Shrek fans, perhaps you recall the Christmas movie in which Puss-in-Boots shames himself. In the voice of Antonio Banderas, Puss begins telling a Christmas tale but soon becomes fixated on a pair of Christmas baubles. Before he comes to his senses, he begins playfully swatting the balls back and forth and back and forth. Realizing what he has done, Puss declares, “I have shamed myself.”

Well, I spent a week shaming myself, and now I have dutifully reported it. Shelley, who, according to her, is often the subject of my stories that are rarely flattering, threatened me. Either I wrote the story or she would.
Now I have one more principle to live by. “No good deed ever goes unpunished.”