Tigers Against Teasers

Erie Elementary School tacked anti-bullying student artwork on the wall outside of the library in mid January. Andy, 7, placed third in the contest called "Tigers Against Teasers" with the poster featured here. A tiger is the school's mascot.

Erie Elementary School tacked
anti-bullying student artwork on the wall
outside of the library in mid January. Andy, 7,
placed third in the contest called “Tigers
Against Teasers” with the poster featured
here. A tiger is the school’s mascot.

AS THEY TIPTOE FROM THE bedsides of their half-asleep children, parents get last calls — usually bids for a glass of water or one more story.

But a few days ago, my first grader said something unexpected from his place on the bottom bunk in the dark bedroom as I gently pulled the door shut.

“Mama? Guess what? I got third place in the Tigers against Teasers poster contest,” Andy, 7, said.

Anti-bullying posters tacked to hallway walls at Erie Elementary School where a tiger is the mascot spell out the players in this story –who is a bully, who is a target, and who is a bystander — and choices each one can make.

The contest aims to enrich learning by challenging students to make their own poster, to draw and write about what good they could do as bystanders.

Perhaps it is no coincidence that the Tigers against Teasers poster contest coincides with the Jan. 15 birthday celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. observed this year on Jan. 19.

Students get a G-rated version of what black people suffered and still suffer at the hands of white bullies through an MLK unit.

Teachers spare them the details of his last days — the bomb threat that delayed his plane from leaving Atlanta for the sanitation workers strike in Memphis; the bullet that ripped through his right cheek as he stood on the second floor balcony of the Lorraine Motel; the hatred he weathered for rallying targets and bystanders to resist bullies without violence.

Yet, they get the point.

Everyone has a playground, and not everyone on that playground plays nice.

Andy’s poster, with its cave wall-like drawings, reflects that understanding.

He drew a red circle and slash across a bully stick figure thrusting some sort of weapon at a target stick figure gushing tears from a submissive position on the ground.

Andy listed the word “No” in the left column under this illustration and wrote, “No teasing. No being mean. No pushing.”

In the next frame, he drew a bystander stick figure reaching down to the crying person to give the target of bullying a hand up.

A list of the word “Yes” — as in, “Yes, you should help. Yes, you should be nice.” — stacks up under this illustration.

When I was in first grade in the mid 1970s, MLK had been dead just seven years, and it would take until 2000 for all 50 states to recognize the federal holiday honoring him on his birthday.

I am uncertain as to when elementary school textbooks wove his life and legacy into the curriculum.

But this addition, along with projects such as the poster contest to raise awareness, heartens me– makes me feel the press of progress as our youngest citizens learn about MLK’s message and good fight.

That is especially true since his work remains unfinished across discrimination’s waterfront, and bullying continues to rock our boat.

MLK wrote as much from his Birmingham jail cell: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

Pam Mellskog can be reached at p.mellskog@gmail.com or at 303-746-0942.

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Looking Past Christmas Kitsch


WHEN “SHIRLEY” JOINED US FOR dinner last December, our house suddenly felt like a den of Christmas kitsch, a regular truck stop full of holiday whatnot for all traveling passerby.

In the living room, a fake, pre-lit Christmas tree — a store floor model we bought 75 percent off full price in late December 2007 — glowed, but with dark patches of burned out bulbs.

On the half wall sat a cutout of the word “Peace” with a stylized Mary and Joseph touching foreheads over a baby to form the letter “a,” a letter topped with a yellow-painted coil sprouting a star.

A nativity cast in ceramic by my former first grade teacher, the late Marge Grossinger, cluttered the mantel above our gas fireplace.

My husband’s coworker, a Chinese native stateside to visit the company’s Colorado office, blinked in the midst of it before telling us the story of China’s relatively newfound infatuation with Christmas.

Turns out that since the 1990s the Chinese government has allowed a bit of Christmas into its communist public spaces.

After all, the Chinese like the idea of spending money on the things they manufacture for the rest of the world to wrap and unwrap in December.

And while controversy dogs the holiday — some Chinese consider it western imperialism — Christmas continues gaining popularity precisely because the story comes to the masses sterilized of its religious beginnings.

Even Americans familiar with the nativity scene and Christian religion often overlook the shepherds to emulate the wise men bearing expensive gifts.

My first grade teacher painted them with two-toned metallic colors and glued rhinestones on their fancy hats and robe hems. She adorned the camel blankets the same way.

But at my church earlier this month, our pastor reminded us that the first ones invited to celebrate the birth of Christ were not the the well-educated astrologers, the wise men of regal bearing and high social standing.

The angel and its choir first fluttered to the shepherds, a nomadic people working the graveyard shift guarding animals, who could bring nothing more than themselves to the manger.

For fresh perspective, some of us in the congregation met with the pastor after the sermon to picture the Christmas story rolling out in modern day Boulder County.

We figured Jesus would have been born in Ward, perhaps in the back seat of a car or in someone’s garage, before growing up in Nederland.

A modern day shepherd might be an over-the-road trucker sharing the wheel with a spouse or a homeless person watching over his buddies sleeping overnight.

The wise men could be technology mavens driving BMWs to Ward from their mountain homes in Estes Park.

Ultimately, this story shows us that God welcomes all to perceive this manger behind an army of Santas and a forest of Christmas trees, that he prompts folks across social classes to move from their usual spots for a closer look.

As the kids and I unpacked our kitschy Christmas decorations again this year, I remembered our dinner in late 2013 with Shirley — our Chinese friend who picked that office name to spare English-speaking coworkers from stuttering over her birth name.

I may never know how her understanding of Christmas evolves.

Yet, a timeless mystery swirls around the nativity and all those who step into the scene, and that mystery speaks in so many ways.

This month, for instance, I better appreciated that my nativity set — a Christmas gift from my parents in the late 1990s — includes shepherd doubles.

Did Mrs. Grossinger miscount?

Or, is this set just as it should be, with extra attention given to the ones God honored first with the news of his birth?

That question, at least, will not go back into the box with other holiday trimmings at the end of this month.

Merry Christmas!

Pam Mellskog can be reached at p.mellskog@gmail.com or at 303-746-0942.


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Rogue Secret Santas

David snuggles with our third son, then newborn Ray, at Longmont United Hospital's NICU on Dec. 12, 2009. It cheered us to receive a crocheted Santa hat from and anonymous giver.

David snuggles with our third son, then newborn Ray, at Longmont United Hospital’s NICU on Dec. 12, 2009. It cheered us to receive a crocheted Santa hat from and anonymous giver.

WHEN AN OLD COLLEGE BUDDY of mine in California burned through most of his savings during a career change, I figured he could always sell the house in Minnesota that he and his sister inherited when his mother died.

Instead, he explained that selling the house to claim his half would be out of the question for at least 18 years.

This stay keeps a roof over the heads of his estranged sister, a single mom, and her daughter — a girl benefiting from an uncle she knows not.

I view him as a secret Santa year ‘round and have been searching for more ways to share with mittened hands this month and into the New Year.

Ordinary secret Santas work on assignment at office parties and large family gatherings to give gifts — perhaps items suggested on smallish pieces of paper by an event planner.

But I take inspiration from leaks about rogue secret Santa activity.

These folks carry out their covert operations directed by their hearts alone and, I dare say, enjoy the thankless job the most.

After all, their work frees them from any sense of obligation as they consider the needs and wants of others.

Rogue secret Santas also strike me as people who pause. They pause in the midst of a season that jostles checkbooks, schedules and emotions to settle into a place quiet enough to focus on carrying out good intentions.

These rogue secret Santas come in every color and pattern because they do not tow the party line.

Anyone can wear these mittens.

Some come with a bank account that allows them to bridge significant financial gaps.

A doctor acquaintance of mine in the Twin Cities started secretly paying private school tuition for several of his children’s classmates after their father, the family’s breadwinner, died suddenly.

Other rogue secret Santas spend little to no money on their gifts.

One may put $20 bills in pockets and between pages when donating clothes and books.

Another shovels sidewalks before a neighbor gets home from work.

Rogue secret Santas may mail movie tickets with no return address from the post office to a family hard-pressed to enjoy a night out.

Another agent might leave poinsettias on a doorstep before scurrying off.

Whatever the item or service, these gifts appear to me as a Russian doll. Within the gift, the receiver finds goodwill, kindness and, perhaps, a wink at the heavens.

My buddy with the house in Minnesota figures that the most mysterious gift, that prayer, must explain how rogue secret Santas in every ZIP code to know just what to give to whom and when.

And unlike the presents from Christmas past that he tore into as a boy, that era’s secret Santa gestures — the shoveled walk and the bag of groceries left at the door — keep giving, keep feeding Christmas spirit from year to year.

Merry Christmas to you and yours!

Pam Mellskog can be reached at p.mellskog@gmail.com or at 303-746-0942.

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Goodbye Halloween, Hello Thanksgiving


WE NEARLY RAN OUT OF saltine’s, ginger ale and Lysol over Halloween weekend.

IMG_2634My youngest son vomited on my husband at a pre-sunset Halloween party; my oldest son vomited in our kitchen sink 5 minutes after he got home from trick-or-treating; and my middle son got the whole ordeal started 48 hours earlier by stumbling into the bathroom around 3:30 a.m. to do this nasty, splashy business 2 inches from the porcelain rim instead of 2 inches inside of it.

He then stepped in the mess.

“Ahhhhhh! Freeze, Andy!” I shouted, still half-asleep and bewildered by the bug’s first strike on our family.

This son, my first grader, then just shivered and wept uncontrollably.

“Mama? Do you still love me,” he sobbed as I stood in my nightgown wondering what to mop up first.


IMG_2534Like so many other parenting moments, this one overwhelmed me on multiple levels.

IMG_2554Then, just when my husband and I thought we could rest from our weekend of running a bucket from bedside to bathroom in the wee hours, the bug landed me in my own sick bed at 4 a.m. Monday.

There I curled up feeling wretched, racked, and worried about how I would ever take care of my three young boys and write my stories for work with my husband gone all week on a business trip.

I am not the only person to panic when health and wellness vanish.

Lots of people feel that way, feel that open-ended sense of being powerless and stuck — be it in illness, unemployment, a dead-end marriage, a checkered past.

Oh, what to do?


The black and white options include: a.) chronically panicking and complaining about challenging circumstances or b.) expressing thanksgiving for one thing and then moving on to more things.

Practicing thanksgiving may not buy robust health, financial stability, dreamy marriage or an expunged criminal record.

However, like rungs on a ladder, this discipline guides me out of the basement for a looksee at what else is going on besides my problem.

Perhaps this is why November’s flagship American holiday remains as uncontroversial as Arbor Day.


We need this fall celebration to ground us — people all subject to reversals of fortune — in the reality of what we can control.

IMG_2733Gratitude has a way of growing good things: faith and friendship, goodwill and humor, peace and generosity toward ourselves and others who struggling.

I would not wish our Halloween weekend on anyone.

But just before the pageantry of the holidays from Thanksgiving through New Year’s Day begins, my time offline from usual routines renewed my appreciation for the beauty of marriage vows — “… in sickness and in health…”

The familiar phrase reminds us, no matter our marital status, of human frailty.

We can count on that in many forms. How thankful am I that we can count our blessings, too.

Happy Thanksgiving!


Pam Mellskog can be reached at p.mellskog@msn.com or at 303-746-0942.

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You never know about those “handicappers”


BY THE TIME I NOTICED my four-year-old son creeping on the toddler in the ruffley outfit, he already had overpowered her to snatch the binkie from her clenched teeth.

Another mother might have flown like a sparrow through the park’s monkey bars to rescue and comfort precious Charlotte.

Instead, I stifled a belly laugh because I could relate to my boy’s impulse.

A little girl blessed to be talking so clearly before age 3 needs to ditch the binkie.

But I could tell that Ray scared the bejeezus out of her by hurling the accessory he never mouthed as a baby down on the wood chips.

So, I wandered over to the park bench where little Charlotte sat melodramatically sobbing between her 8-year-old brother and 5-year-old sister.

Standing before the trio, I told them them the truth about Ray, that he never meant to hurt anyone’s feelings. Then, I promised to bring him over, even though he could not yet apologize with words.

“Is he handicapped?” the 8-year-old asked.

“Yes, he is,” I said, pleasantly surprised by the child’s perception and straightforward question.

“Well, you never know with those handicappers, you never know what they’re gonna do,” he said.

IMG_2117I laughed then at the truth of that statement in positive circumstances, too.

The boy’s comment came to mind again earlier this month during a screening of the award-winning film, “Menschen,” at the Sie FilmCenter in Denver.

“Menschen” means “human beings” in German.

The Denver-based Global Down Syndrome Foundation hosted the event in partnership with the Denver Film Society to raise awareness through the 28-minute film directed by Sarah Lotfi and produced by Anastasia Cumming of how the Nazis during World War II systematically eradicated people with physical, mental and developmental disabilities along with Jews, gypsies and homosexuals.

The film features Connor Long, 20, a Louisville resident born with Down syndrome, a genetic condition that causes varying degrees of intellectual disability.

Some may not be impressed with an actor playing someone very much like themselves until they realize that Long, who was a 17-year-old Fairview High School student in Boulder during the shoot, studied with a dialect coach to speak German lines flawlessly.

His emotionally spot-on portrayal of Radek Novak also led to him winning Best Actor at the 2013 Filmstock Film Festival.

All of the action in the film takes place in May 1945 as the Allies close in on an Austrian captain who guides his company behind Russian lines to surrender to the Americans.

During this retreat, the captain takes Radek under his wing when the boy’s mother gets killed by crossfire.

Viewers later learn that the captain’s compassion and morality stem from heartache over the German’s “T4 Action Plan,” which killed his developmentally disabled sister, Hannah, earlier in the war.

Historically, the Nazi’s gassed an estimated 300,000 people with physical or mental disabilities.

Michelle Sie, whose daughter was born with Down syndrome, established the Global Down Syndrome Foundation with her family in 2009 to “significantly improve the lives of people with Down syndrome by eradicating the medical and cognitive ill effects associated with the condition.”

She explained that the film challenges prejudice behind stereotypes like “disabled,”  “enemy,” or even “hero.”

Given the film’s celebrated festival reception, the director and producer hope to shoot a full-length feature and re-up Long’s contract.


You never know what those “handicappers” will do.

For more information, visit www.menschenthemovie.com and Lafayette film critic Tim Brennan’s post: http://lafayetteramblings.blogspot.com/.

Pam Mellskog can be reached at p.mellskog@gmail.com or 303-746-0942.

Connor Long, 20, of Louisville, stands in the lobby of the Sie FilmCenter in Denver before a Sept. 4 dinner reception and screening of the film "Menschen." The film's promotional poster depicts Long playing a character in the film, which explores the Nazi action plan of eradicating those with physical, mental and developmental disabilities along with Jews, gypsies and homosexuals.

Connor Long, 20, of Louisville, stands in the lobby of the Sie FilmCenter in Denver before a Sept. 4 dinner reception and screening of the film “Menschen.” The film’s promotional poster depicts Long playing a character in the film, which explores the Nazi action plan of eradicating those with physical, mental and developmental disabilities along with Jews, gypsies and homosexuals.



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Why white pants don’t work

My friend, Tricia Sargent, and I enjoyed wearing our white pants on my family's porch swing on July 6, 2010, as I held my third son, Ray. I have not worn them much since then because they -- like other high maintenance items -- have become more trouble than they are worth.

My friend, Tricia Sargent, and I enjoyed wearing our white pants on my family’s porch swing on July 6, 2010, as I held my third son, Ray. I have not worn them much since then because they have become more trouble than they are worth.

A PAIR OF WHITE PANTS — hiphuggers with a button fly and boot cut — will hang in my closet untouched every summer for the next six years at least.

My youngest child turns 10 then, and that may be when mama dares to wear white pants again.

Much as I would love to slip into these white pants a few times between Memorial Day and the Labor Day — the official season — I keep them in the closet for the same reason I keep 99-cent dishes versus antique china in the Lazy Susan.

I don’t like feeling livid.

And that is exactly how I feel when, not five minutes after buttoning these pants, one of my three young sons tumbles into my lap with an uncapped purple marker or orange Popsicle dribble around his smile or dusty hands fresh from excavating behind the garage in the weed patch that I got too busy to plant in May as a vegetable garden.

Eight years into my parenting adventure, I finally value these white pants on a symbolic level and better understand why they are incompatible with the messy work of mothering.

Classic white summer clothing, be it a linen jacket or a tennis skirt, speaks to a season of staying cool and looking good in the heat. The color alone hints at a certain leisure, a certain expectation of remaining spotless.

Chef hats and doctor coats make notable exceptions.

But since I wear neither to work, I have no business wearing this color, especially when the whitewear sets me up to send a regrettable message to my little ones: “Stand back!”

I suspect most people have their own version of white pants that, upon reflection, can refine the questions we put to behaviors we hope to change.

Why, for instance, would I keep trying to wear something that predictably requires Spray ‘n Wash and just as predictably makes me fume at my children when they plow into my legs for a hug?

None of us can ignore all our pet irritations by wearing blue jeans instead.

But most of us can decide what matters more — something or someone — as a guide on how to get comfortable in the life we live.

Since I consider my children my magnum opus, the great work of my life, it helps to view them as I did on the day there were born — with delight — and to forget about fashion.

Wearing something else, like serving kids food on plastic plates, comes with its own satisfactions, after all.

Spills and breakage no longer create a crisis. They create space for grace. My work as a mother suddenly becomes lighter when I can get say “No problem” and mean it.

Pam Mellskog can be reached at p.mellskog@gmail.com or 303.746.0942.


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Red, white, and blue moments


THE PILOT PANICKED WHEN HE heard the rumble from the back that day in 1974. His stomach tightened at the thought of flying Marines home and instead getting hit just off the runway by Viet Cong below.

Moments later, as the jungle shrank in the oval windows, the flight attendant explained the goings on behind the cockpit.

IMG_0679IMG_0674IMG_0688The men sensed the pilot’s struggle to get lift in the sweltering heat. They knew bullets to the fuselage could ground the flight, and they pounded their muddy boots on the carpet to give him their power.

I interviewed that veteran pilot about 10 years ago, and I still remember his final thought on the subject.  

“It sounded like endless thunder,” he said before taking a moment to compose himself.

Though I did not live through this story, I still consider it a red, white, and blue moment — one of the many short stories that explains my patriotism, my sense of gratitude regardless of the political climate, for all of the men and women who have served this country in uniform.

I suspect many Americans shape their patriotism in the same fashion, by reflecting on published and unpublished stories that help tease the best from the worst of who we are as Americans overseas and at home.

For most of us, visiting battlefields and cemeteries as we do on Memorial Day may be the closest we ever get to the dearest sacrifice.IMG_0729

So it was for me, at 20, when I stood on the cliffs above the beaches at Normandy, France.

Never have I felt the same mix of pity and pride as I did then, in 1987, when I peered at the steel-grey English Channel through the slats of German bunkers used there during the Allied invasion in 1944 on D-Day.

The Germans were so protected in those bunkers, so above the fray with seemingly nothing but their eyeballs and the muzzles of their weapons exposed.

How our seasick, waterlogged men managed to battle on … That question still haunts this girl’s heart.

I was single and childless then. I am a wife and the mother of three young sons now.

Honestly, we might not get to Normandy together.

But we can learn in our kitchen why flags never touch the ground anywhere, and why waiving one on Main Street honors our veterans and our country.  IMG_0500

Together we can pay tribute on U.S. highways and byways as we did in August 2011 on the 18 Mile Road Bridge in Michigan, where we were vacationing. The bridge spans U.S. 131, and we stood there with veterans and their families as the traveling Vietnam Veterans Memorial wall headed northbound to Cadillac for installation.

IMG_0749IMG_0486Vets wearing dark embroidered ball caps from various wars — including World War II — showed up with their families and draped flags over the bridge rail as the motorcade proceeded below.

Who knows what sticks with my kids or how such images and stories will shape their patriotism?

But what sticks with me is the Vietnam vet who stood silently beside us on the bridge and held up two fingers.

Pam Mellskog can be reached at Mellskog@msn.com or 303-746-0942


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The Other Mother’s Star Power


THE OTHER MOTHER, THE ONE I hope to meet after her first year of grieving passes, delivered her son with special needs in 1954.

IMG_8971By the time I read the obituary she wrote about him in April, this boy had grown into a man who took on many of the responsibilities and privileges of adulthood. He did so in spite of his diagnosis at birth with Down syndrome, a genetic condition that causes intellectual disability.

IMG00533One line in the notice of his life and his death moved me so much — probably because my third child, Ray, has the same syndrome — that I read it aloud to my husband.

After listing her son’s birth in Iowa to her and her late husband, this other mother mentioned his diagnosis and wrote: “This did not deter him or his parents from a full and rich life.”

By commenting in the obituary on the good quality of the life they shared, this other mother raised a good question.

What, exactly, might be big enough to deter a mother or her child from living a full and rich life together?

IMG_8775I suspect this other mother could scan a long list of deterrents — disabilities, personality conflicts, divorce, differing value systems, reversals of fortune, etc. — and peg them for something else, peg them for a new normal with new opportunities.

Hollywood loves characters like her.

I visited that place last month to catch up with an old friend working through a midlife crisis that prompted him to leave a corporate law career — at least temporarily — to write screenplays.

For months, I have been listening by phone to all he has learned about filmmaking and script formulas at the University of California at Los Angeles 20 minutes from his home in West Hollywood.

IMG_9364In a nutshell, I learned what I already understood — that every engaging story happens between two worlds, the old one and the new one.

First, we see the main character living in his or her usual context. Then, preferably within 7 minutes of the film’s opening scene, that character experiences a so-called cute meet with the love interest or another inciting incident that shakes up everything.

Most of the action takes place in the new world either to win over the love interest, defeat the bad guys or solve some other seemingly insurmountable threat to peace and prosperity.

IMG_9352After four days of watching movie after movie with my friend to analyze script formulas, character development and action, I came home with a deeper appreciation for how much star power ordinary people bring to their new world.

A Down syndrome diagnosis in the mid 1950s catapulted the other mother — the obituary writer I want to meet– into such a place.

Then, doctors recommended institutionalizing these babies.

IMG_9356She brought him home from the hospital instead and enjoyed her boy.

Cheers to her and to all mothers grabbed by some circumstantial turnstile and thrust into an unexpected reality — big or small.

It is the call to action, and the Academy Award performance of your life awaits.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Pam Mellskog can be reached at Mellskog@msn.com or 303-746-0942.


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Good Neighbors

IMG_3879JUST PAST MIDNIGHT ON TAX day, April 15, my husband stole out the back door to set up a tripod in our driveway.

Then, he pointed our zoom lens camera slightly above our neighbor’s second-story master bedroom with the balcony to photograph a total lunar eclipse.

Never mind that our neighbor lady describes herself as an insomniac.

David briefly worried that she might peek through her shades and brand him a creeper.

But tinkering with slow shutter speeds and witnessing the moon turning copper-red as it moved directly into Earth’s shadow tempted him too much.

IMG_3884Folks like to say that you can’t pick your in-laws.

Well. You can’t pick your neighbors either, right?

IMG_3899This is less of an issue when you grow up as I did, on a 200-acre farm at the end of a mile-long lane in northwestern Illinois.

There, my parents still see only barns and pastures out every window in their home.

IMG_3911They hear the occasional airplane quietly sketching a contrail on the sky high above or a barge sounding off on the Mississippi River to the west or the tornado siren blasting from the historic fire station in town at noon every day.

IMG_3917However, on the farm the outside world remains at bay apart from these sounds.

Here in Boulder County, our mortgage paperwork lists our our lot as < .25-acres.

IMG_3950So, neighbors have come into focus for me in a relatively new way, in a good new way as we get comfortable with the sounds and sights of others in the midst of our own noise and mess.

Such close proximity makes plain how another family’s quality of life can go up or down depending on what kind of neighbor you set out to be.

The people we know here feel likewise and often pass goodwill and goodies over the fence or across the street.

We pet sit and babysit for each other. We share casseroles and cookies. We scrounge our pantries for a single ingredient — a tablespoon of soy sauce, a cup of bread crumbs — to  spare another a trip to the store at dinner time.

Because I forget to watch the gas gauge and because my kids like to turn on the dome light when I am not paying attention, I also borrow a vehicle from my neighbors when mine won’t start in the morning, and we need to go.

This, for the record, has happened at least a half-dozen times to my utter shame since we moved into this house in November 2007.

My neighbors keep on loving our little family in spite of the mistakes I make and the toys that spill from our yard onto the sidewalk.

Perhaps a good neighbor simply tolerates the harmless idiosyncracies others bring to the block.

When David finally crawled into bed with cold hands, confessions from the driveway, and chuckles as he told the story of photographing the lunar eclipse, I decided to find out.

I needed to ask April if any of the goings on that morning in our driveway below her bedroom window prompted her to think about calling the police.

She knew nothing of it.

We then both laughed uproariously as women will do over men caught catting around, be the report real or imagined.

“Call the police on Dave? Oh, I wouldn’t be calling the police, Pam,” she said as we talked by phone and stood in our side-by-side homes. “I would be calling you!”

Pam Mellskog can be reached at Mellskog@msn.com or at 303-746.0942.



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A Gold Standard

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OUR SECOND GRADER AT THE end of March brought home a writing assignment from school that tickled my husband and me.

“A thing more important than a pot of gold is my parents Pam and Dave because they help me in hard times,” he wrote. “They feed me, buy me stuff, help me with homework.”

Carl, 8, printed these words on lined paper framed with the black outline of a pot and topped with coins he colored yellow before drawing a dollar sign on each one in pencil.

When he left the room, we laughed out of happy disbelief that he wrote “buy me stuff” third, instead of first, on the list of things that he values about us.

This kid loves to shop and pesters us often to head down aisles with the slip of paper that tells him how much money remains in The Daddy Bank – the tally my husband keeps of Carl’s cash reserves garnered from generous friends and family members.

We figured that introducing the bank concept might help him learn how to save and spend more wisely.

Not everyone agrees.

The materialism in our culture jaded one mother I know so much that she banned her two boys from celebrating anything with gifts including Christmas and birthdays.

But her boycott seems destined to backfire.

For one thing, materialism describes an attitude about things versus the possession of things.

A poor person with nothing theoretically can be as materialistic or more materialistic than a rich person with everything.  

Secondly, I believe we practice sharing and delighting when we give and receive gifts, be they with or without cash value.

Who wants to get rusty in those areas? 

So, my husband and I give our boys toys along with broccoli and set bedtimes, and we trust that they will grow up with a healthy sense of love’s symbolism.

Re-reading Carl’s assignment shows me that maybe, just maybe, our gifts of service – helping him through “hard times” and with his homework – already might be received as gratefully as our ability to buy him “stuff.”

His writing hints at the developmental progression from concrete to abstract in all of us.

If a child consciously cherishes a thing, he then consciously may cherish an action and, finally, a relationship with himself, with others, with God.

After all, stuff and service both only go so far in terms of how much they can enrich a life.

Both seem like coins in the pot – things we can stamp with value and bank – versus the rich veins of gold running on mysterious paths through the earth awaiting discovery.

Carl’s teacher last month asked him and his class to write about “a thing more important than a pot of gold.”

This month, with Easter fresh in mind, I am taking the same challenge to cherish treasures unseen by faith once again.

I pray for what I cannot pay for – for hunger and for joy in my life and the lives of my children.   

The hunger is to know more of God and His ways. The joy is to celebrate what is known already, and the blessing is a gold standard that puts lesser things in the proper place.   

Pam Mellskog can be reached at Mellskog@msn.com or 303-746-0942.

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