The Robbers
When I was 13, my sister was 18. She was the proverbial big sister. I was the proverbial little brother. And though she called me "twerp" and I called her "fatso", it was always comforting to know she was in the next room, especially on the nights when our parents went out. I wouldn't be alone. My sister was there.
But when she went off to college, everything changed. Now I was the only child in the house. Now it was just me.
I will never forget my first night alone. My parents, after dinner, casually informed me they were going out for the evening but would be back at a "reasonable hour." They petted the dog, gave me a hug, and were gone in a flash. I stood by the front door, listening, until the sound of their Oldsmobile disappeared into the distance. Then I made myself a huge bowl of ice cream, retreated to my room, turned on the TV, flopped down on my bed, and started doing my homework.
So far so good. The ice cream was yummy. The capital of Montana was Helena, and the Mets were leading 4-2. That's when I started hearing the SOUNDS -- very strange sounds coming from the kitchen... troubling sounds... scary sounds... the kind robbers make when looking for things to steal. Like my mother's set of sterling silver, for example -- the extremely expensive set of sterling silver given to her years ago by my rich Uncle Herman.
The sounds from the kitchen continued -- sounds I had never heard before. And then... absolutely nothing... nothing at all... just silence... a deadly silence... the kind that could only mean one thing -- the robbers had just poisoned my dog. Or strangled her.
The moment of truth was upon me. Laying on my bed, eating the last of my ice cream, I had a decision to make. A big one. Do I turn up the sound of my TV so the robbers will know someone is home and leave on their own, or do I confront them, saving my mother's sterling silver before they get away?
It may have seemed like a choice, but it wasn't. I knew, in my heart of hearts, there was only one thing to do. So I got off my bed and began making my way, ninja-like, oh so slowly, out of my room, down the hallway, past the bathroom, closer and closer to the closed kitchen door.
My heart was pounding, my breath coming faster, my mind was racing. Standing just a foot from the door, I stopped and listened. An eternity passed. The sounds from the kitchen continued. And then, raising my right foot, I kicked open the door and leaped into the kitchen, letting out the kind of scream karate guys make when they attack.
The first thing I saw was my dog, Doxie, looking up at me, wagging her tail. She was alive! Alive! I bent down to pet her, no robbers in sight, having obviously heard me coming and vamoosed out the side door. I stood up and walked a few steps to the table where the sterling silver set was supposed to be in its velvety blue box. It was still there -- just a few inches away from the spice rack and the stack of Life Magazines. I open it slowly. Not a fork or spoon was missing. Not a knife.
I made my way to the pantry and gave my dog a treat. Then I returned to my room, finished my ice cream, memorized the capital of Vermont (Montpelier) and watched the end of the baseball game. Then I turned on my clock radio and went to bed.
This same drama must have played itself out at least 30 times in the next two years. My strategy, I must say, worked like a charm . From the time I was 13 until I was 15, not a single thing was ever stolen from our house.
COMMENTARY: This little story of mine played out 63 years ago. For the six decades that followed, only two people ever heard about about my heroics And yet for me, now 76, taking the time to reflect on this story and share it with you has been a revelation. While laughable in many ways, I've gotten some keen insights into my psyche and how I, at an early age, became wired to deal with the unknown, whether real or imagined.
My self-invented rite-of-passage was how I learned to deal with fear and the choices before me.
First, I learned I needed to be alert to the subtle clues around me. Then I learned I had a choice. Then I learned I had to choose. Once my choice was made, everything was cool. I was no longer a victim, no longer a boy hiding in his room, but a man of action. And the danger? Gone.
Excerpted from Storytelling for the Revolution
Pet Portraits by Evelyne Pouget
Photo: Artem Sapegin
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 07:49 AM | Comments (0)
December 03, 2021Mr. Tomato Head!
What is Mr. Tomato Head doing on my storytelling blog? Whatever he wants!
Mr. Tomato Head and his good friend, Mr. Watermelon Head, were two of my kids' favorite stuffed animals growing up. I just rediscovered them yesterday and am thrilled beyond belief. Whoo hoo!
Stories, you see, are often triggered by a single word, memory, or image. In my case, seeing Mr. Tomato Head transported me back to the days when my kids were young (they are now 27 and 24).
Childhood! Imagination! No responsiblities! The time when anything was possible -- the time when just seeing Mr. Tomato Head on a shelf, pillow, or floor was enough to realize that everything was absolutely perfect -- that life was not only GOOD, but chock full of love, sweetness, delight, cuddles, bedtime stories, cookies, snow days, cartoons, birthday cake, and endless innocence (which, by the way, it still is, even if it is 20 years later -- as long as I allow the heart of a child to beat deep within me. And it does...
All hail Mr. Tomato Head!
And here is a story about his cousin, Wolfie.
And one about the time I save my mother's sterling silver
And the only hit I got one baseball season
And my favorite book of the year
PS: The older I get, the younger I get
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 02:25 PM | Comments (1)
June 19, 2020WOOF! WOOF! A Pet Portrait Message from the Other Side
This just in from Chili, my beloved poochie for 11 years who crossed over to the other side a while ago.
"OK, I know this is a storytelling blog and I also know it is not necessarily 'appropriate' for me, as a canine, to be promoting the pet portrait services of Evelyne Pouget, but sometimes you just gotta get 'out of the box', right?
Anyway, as long as I have your attention, here's what I want to say: Evelyne is a fabulous artist who specializes, these days, in pet portraits, especially poochies. She is very connected to my species, brings out our spirit, and is very fairly priced. Plus she is a great person and speaks French, Italian, Spanish, and English.
Oh, I almost forgot, now that she has opened her new art studio in San Miguel, she is taking on pet portrait commissions. Interested? If so, email my old buddy, Mitchie Pie (mitch@ideachampions.com), who used to take me for long walks, tickled my belly, and tried to get me to laugh at his ridiculous jokes, when no one else in the house was interested. I'm a good boy, Yes, I am! And I know a good pet portrait painter when I see one.
Click the link below for some samples of Evelyne's work."
More of Evelyne's pet portraits
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 04:25 PM | Comments (0)
October 29, 2018Everything You Wanted to Know About Morgan Freeman
Thanks to Scott Cronin for the heads up
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 11:50 AM | Comments (0)
April 28, 2018I Am Not a Handyman
Are you a man -- or know a man who is, shall we say, "handyman challenged"? If so, then this newly published Huffington Post article of mine, is for you. Three minutes worth of comic relief. If you like it, please LIKE it and forward the link to your friends. Let's go viral!
90 other HuffPost articles of mine
My day job
Storytelling at Work
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 10:04 AM | Comments (0)
April 20, 2017The Idiots Guide to a TED Talk
Posted by Mitch Ditkoff at 09:17 PM | Comments (0)