Friday,February 21, 2003
Friday,February 21, 2003 |
| The
dreaded phone call that often comes in the middle of the night
By Rick Ryckeley When the phone rings in the middle of the night, it's never good news. Last night the phone rang at 3:45 a.m. I know the time 'cause when the phone rang, I rolled over to cut on the lamp and fell out of bed. Hitting the floor, the night table fell on top of me and the phone bounced under the bed. In the dark I groped around for it, bumping my head on the bed frame in the process. Sleepily, with my head throbbing in the darkness, I said, "Hello." The conversation started by the voice on the other end of the phone saying, "Dad, I need help." What came next I was not prepared for. At 3:45 in the morning, my son was talking, but I couldn't believe what he was saying. "Dad, I need help. Do I have to be home by noon, or can I stay over till three?" "Son, when you get home tomorrow, we have something to talk about. Be home by three." I hung up the phone and stumbled to the kitchen to get ice for my quickly intensifying headache. As I did, another little boy came to mind one who also stayed out well past nightfall and scared his parents nearly to death in the process. Growing up, Mom told us that nothing good ever happens after midnight. Dad said that anything we did after dark would only get us into trouble; that's why they set our curfew at sundown. We were always home long before that time well, except for that one time we were working late down at Cliff Condos. Cliff Condos was the Big Dig into the face of a 30-foot cliff. The site of the construction project was the vacant lot two doors down from our house. Everyone in the neighborhood helped us four Ryckeley boys with the massive dig that would take an estimated three years to complete. Down the Street Bully Brad, Big Brother James and Older Brother Richard were on the morning shift that lasted 'til lunchtime. Twin Brother Mark, Neighbor Thomas, Goofy Steve and I were on the afternoon shift that went until dinner time. Goofy Steve didn't do much digging, but he sure was good at dodging dirt clods during war time. (With six boys around, it was always war time.) The middle of the first summer of our three-year dig, it happened. Everything was going according to plan the area at the bottom of the great cliff had been cleared of small trees, Base Camp Zulu had been set up there complete with tents, campfire ring and stocked with all of the essentials: Kool-Aid, jumbo marshmallows, Twinkies, and smoke bombs. From Camp Zulu, using three green army shovels, we dug hand and footholds 15 feet up the face of the cliff. Reaching there, we dug into the face of the cliff to form the Grand Room. The Grand Room was completed by the July 4 deadline with a celebration and fireworks display at the base of Cliff Condos. The room eight feet wide, six feet into the cliff, and four feet high with an open face was to be the meeting room of our secret club: The Cliff Condo Cliff Dwellers, or CD's for short. Due to rain and three dirt clod fights, we were a bit behind schedule by mid-summer. To date, only the Grand Room had been completed. The plan was to finish the second of five rooms by the end of the summer, and that meant someone had to work an extra shift. Being the first president of the CD's, I volunteered to work late on the second room to get us back on track. The second room was to be the first of four bedrooms running off of the Grand Room. It being cloudy that afternoon, we had brought flashlights to the dig. I was the designated digger for the day, Twin Brother Mark loaded the dirt into buckets, Neighbor Thomas threw the dirt out and let it fall down the face of the cliff. Goofy Steve threw dirt clods at the morning shift. Goofy Steve was the first to leave, saying it was getting late and he was tired of dodging dirt clods I kept digging. Twin Brother Mark left, saying he was tired I kept digging. Neighbor Thomas left, saying he was getting hungry I kept digging. The digging stopped when the battery in the flashlight ran out. That's when I noticed that it was dark, and I was in big trouble. When I got home, I didn't have to go out in the back yard, down by the swamp, and pick out a switch. Dad had already done so. After my whuppin', he asked me, "Do you have any explanation as to why you were out so late? Why didn't you come home with your twin brother when the sun went down? Why was it well after eight before you came strolling through the door?" I just looked at him with tears streaming down my face and answered, "But Dad, I knew where I was." Years later he told me at that moment he didn't know whether to whup me again or just hug me. After the Boy's phone call I couldn't go back to sleep. With my head still throbbing, I sat on the couch pondering the many things one could say and do to his only offspring. The next day, when he got home, we had a long discussion, and a new rule was enacted. "Son," I said, "the new rule is: unless you are in a car wreck, dead or dying don't call home after midnight." He just walked off mumbling something under his breath. I've found that teenagers mumble a lot. Mumbling maybe that explains the lyrics to some of their music. [Rick Ryckeley is employed by the Fayette County Department of Fire and Emergency Services. He can be reached at firemanr@bellsouth.net.]
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