STANLEY’S DANCE WITH DEATH

     My bride, Mizz Nancy, and I live near four of our grandchildren in California and get to watch their activities.  We went to our first-grader Bellamy’s assembly at school where she received an award for acceptance.   This child loves everyone and demonstrates God's love to all around her... I am going to run her for mayor.     

     I looked out over Bellamy’s gym and saw row after row of elementary school boys and had flashbacks to my days in the primary grades.  My teachers would have worked to keep the boys separate, because little boys can be troublesome and nasty.

     We had one particular desperado who I recall was named Stanley.  He was in my 2nd grade class in Sherman, Texas and was one of the most confident, self-assured people I have ever met.   Stanley ALWAYS wore cowboy boots.  When it was warm he would wear them with shorts and when it got cold, he would tuck his jeans into the tops.   Nothing… no teacher, parent or older student concerned Stanley.  He attended my school class and my sunday school.  He talked back to the teachers in both, insulted his classmates and looked down his nose at danger.   

     I was the exact opposite of Stanley and lived in constant fear of being annihilated.  He knew no fear.  Further, he had the gift of being able to swallow air and make himself belch really loud.  He could also belch out

his ABC’s and certain selected songs.  If he swallowed enough air, he could eventually make himself pass gas.  He generally saved his “tooting” stunt until we were in an assembly of some kind in the Jefferson Elementary auditorium.  As long as he was in the presence of admiring boys to marvel, Stanley could flatulate at will and when sitting in those hard, wooden, fold up seats it sounded like a rifle shot.  There was no mistaking what it was and the rest of us suppressed laughter so hard we thought we would black out.  When Stanley did this in the lunchroom, milk would come out of our noses, as he ripped one off while we were in mid-gulp from those little half-pint cartons.

     The faculty would attempt to seek out the guilty party, but we all shrugged and feigned innocence.  Our teacher KNEW it was Stanley, but either couldn’t prove it or didn’t want to deal with it.  Her only admonition was, “Stanley, you are dancing with death.”  He took pride in this prediction and began to say to us all, he enjoyed walking on the edge and

“dancing with death.”  His parents never did seem to respond to complaints about their son and he appeared to be given a pretty free reign. 

      Stanley’s “dance with death” day of reckoning  came about one Sunday morning in the pre-1960 sanctuary of Key Memorial Methodist church in Sherman.  This was an old church that was in a half moon shape, kind of like the original Grand Old Opry.  This morning they had a special event for the children and all of us were on the first row in front of the pulpit of our minister, a formal looking, but kindly Brother Simpson.    

     We were brought in from Sunday school, seated on the pews and unbeknownst to Stanley, his parents were seated a few rows behind him.  This class included pupils who had not experienced Stanley’s performances in the past.  He swallowed enough air to even outdo his usual bravado.  With split second timing during a pause in one of Brother Simpson’s famous lengthy prayers, he ripped off a sonic blast against the hard wooden pews that rattled the stain glass windows, as we all broke into stifled laughter. 

     However, this time he did not have his usual core of admirers covering up his crime and a new comer shouted, “EEEEEWWWWWW…STANLEY FARTED!”  The congregation twittered, attempting to choke back smatterings of laughter, while their heads were bowed in prayer.  Brother Simpson paused, rubbed his mouth and chin while valiantly remaining composed, as his eyes remained shut.   Stanley looked very pleased, until he felt his father’s fingers close around his neck.

     Stanley’s dad jerked him from his seat in the pew, tossed him over his shoulder and marched to the back of the church.  Stanley began yelling, “No daddy, no daddy…NOOOOO…DON’T SPANK ME!!”    We looked back to see Stanley disappearing from view.  Our eyes locked in with his, along with a pleading expression and outstretched hands as he looked at the praying congregation.  He shouted…

     “PLEASE, PLEASE…Pray for…ME!”