A Buddy Story...
I had lunch with my pops today. For those of you who don’t know, my dad has recently relocated to Colorado Springs to start a new ministry. He is back and forth between here and there for a few weeks, tying up loose ends at the church. So today we met for lunch.
Now the thing about my time as a college student at the prestigious Biola University, was that I managed to periodically land myself in quite a bit of hot water for various shenanigans. There were quite a few times when, tail tucked between my legs, I had to call my dad and break the news that I was in some pretty serious trouble, and needed either A) money for a fine B) a place to crash for a week or two/a car to get around C) a phone call to the President of the school to try to get me re-admitted.
The surprising thing was, my dad was never really that upset. He always supported me, and was willing to do anything to help me out, covered up as much as he could from my mother (whom I fear more then death itself) and honestly, always seemed to be more amused then upset. I never quite understood why, but wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth if you know what I’m saying. I think I must have just assumed that it was his way of making up for having to work so much while I was growing up.
Today, during the course of our lunch, some light was shed. Prior to today, the most I knew of my father’s younger years was that he grew up on a farm, played ball, and President of the Future Farmers of America, Oregon Division. That’s really it. But for some reason, today over lunch, he just started telling stories. Stories I have never heard. Stories of wild times at Western Baptist College.
My personal favorite was a sequence, where he stole a mattress from his RA and dammed up a water drainage culvert during a rainstorm. When he woke up the next morning, there was about 3 feet of water covering that section of campus. His RA turned him in, and he got nailed for it, got suspended from a couple of basketball games, and had to do 50 hours of community service. In retaliation, he went back to his dad’s (my grandpa’s) farm and removed the truck horn out of one of his dad’s milk trucks (think big-ass fog horn type horn). He set it up in the attic, directly above his RA’s room, over his bed. He ran wires along the attic floor, down into his own room, concealed behind a big basketball poster where he set up a switch, next to his bed. At night, after lights-out, he would hit the switch, and BAM, fog horn. When the RA ran up and down demanding to know what the sound was, everyone on the floor pretended they didn’t hear anything. Every time the RA calmed down and went back to bed, fog horn. Just genius. Oh, and about that 50 hours of community service, he went to a freshman class auction, bought 5 freshman, and had them do 10 hours each and get his form signed off. He got caught for that, too, gave the form to his basketball coach, who pushed it through. Sound familiar to anyone?
All this to say, I think my mischievous nature is an inherited trait. Although if my dad had actually opened up the vault and shared this stuff 10 years ago, I probably would have been a hell of a lot smarter and not gotten caught, oh, 100% of the time.
Raise up a cold one to Dr. Martin. Colorado is gaining one hell of a good guy.
posted by drew @ 8:18 PM
3 comments
3 Comments:
This is the kinda crap that blogs were made for. In addition to hot germans and stuff. Obviously.
Andrew P. Martin you get home RIGHT NOW!!!!!!
okay there weren't any hot germans with big mugs... of beer on there but good post. i will say that we all know you well enough that if your dad had told you those stories prior to college bechtel would be floating in a mattress-dammed pool with a fog horn going off every 5 minutes. yes just imagine him bobbing there in that cesspool... just bobbing.
Post a Comment
<< Home