The kids just adore "teacher Debbie". They have been attending the pre-school she was the director of for over a year, however, she recently left to take a position doing similar work in an on-site facility at a large silicon valley company. So, they were very surprised when she showed up at one of the student's birthday parties this week. "Teacher Debbie" gave the kids a wrapped up little gift which, it turned out, was treasure. "Treasure" to them means small circular glass pebbles that are different colors, and very glossy. They'd get them from school on occasion, but these were special because they came directly from her. My daughter was very happy to get them and extremely excited as she opened them while sitting at the dining room table, only to have one of the three she received roll off the table, hit the floor, and bounce directly through the grate of the heater vent on the floor.
So what's any decent father to do? Well, they'd do as I did: they'd break out the long, metal flexible grabber thingy [That is the name for it... look it up] and a flashlight, then they'd get down on their knees, lift out the grate, brush away the cobwebs, and search for the pebble amongst the collection of dirt, dust, granola, cheerios and numerous other items that's been intentionally stuffed down there by them on prior occasions. Only to find that locating the treasure and navigating the opened grabber thingy into position proved far easier than actually keeping them at bay and out of my way or actually grabbing and extracting a round smooth piece of glass with four randomly positioned and twisted metal prongs.
And she proceeded to lose it.
She's on her way to being a professional 'hysteric'. She's slowly mastering the tantrum skills required to drive the most patient person up the wall. It's embarrassing as hell when she does this in public, and we're working on getting her out of this habit as quickly as possible, and by all means possible beyond "giving in". But in this case, she wasn't using her high pitched whines as a means to an end. She was sincerely upset to have lost what she just opened as a gift from her favorite teacher.
The next option: The vacuum cleaner. Just sending one of the twins off to retrieve it helped break the suspense and gave me a chance to rethink the next step. It was either suck it out using the hose on the upright or affix a wad of inverted masking tape on a long stick and extract it that way.
As I recall it, when I was about 6 or 7 years old, I'd decided that I was too old for the stuffed animals I'd had as toys from being a toddler. No self-respecting child of my age still had stuffed animals. So, I'd gathered them up into a box and I told my mom and dad that I wanted to get rid of them. They asked if I was sure, and I insisted I was. We went through the box together, looking at each, and the only one I kept was a stuffed dog that'd been my primary toy as an infant. Even when it came to the big floppy blue bear, the other of the two I'd clung to as a baby, I said no, I didn't want to keep it. But it was said with a lump in my throat.
After going through them they said okay. I could donate them so somebody else might be able to use them. And my father drove me, with the box, to a nearby Goodwill drop off bin. These were big, yellow, metal containers, much like a large dumpster, but one with a "mailbox" style slot through which you could insert items, yet not sift through or extract them.
One by one, I put the toys into the bing, yet went it came to putting in the blue bear, as I let go and he tumbled into the darkness, I felt a pang of regret like I had just thrown away my best friend. But I was trying to be all grown up, and I pushed back the tears in order to be the big boy I wanted to be.
When I got back in the car, my lip was quivering, my eyes were welling, and my father detected my despair. He didn't hesitate to address it. He put his hand on my shoulder and he said: "do you want to go get your blue bear back"? I burst into tears, sobbing, saying yes, I actually did. So what's any decent father to do? Well, they'd do as he did: he lifted me up and holding the pull-back door, he lowered me into the large container, held open the slot in order to ensure I had enough light to find the bear, and once I did he helped me ease my way back out and into the car, to return home with my bear, which I kept for many, many years to come. I think it might still be packed away somewhere in the attic of my mom's house.
My son returned with the vacuum and I went about the effort, lowered the hose directly onto the translucent green treasure, and turned on the suction. I listened as the piece rattled it's way up through the hose and into the vacuum bag where I heard it rattling around. I took the bag out to the garbage, sifted through the dust, dirt, and lint until I found it. I returned inside, washed it and gave it to my daughter. Her face lit up, a huge smile appeared, and a loving "thank you" was extended my way.
It's difficult to imagine that, in 30 or 40 years, she will have any memory of these jewels or this event. But I could not help reflecting on my own father making that effort in my childhood, and what it's meant to me all these years. It felt great to see her reaction, and to remember how the little gestures or efforts can stay with us far longer then we might imagine at the time.