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Up next, a listener story from Brent Timmons, who listens to us on Spotify in Delaware. Today, Brent shares with us a story called Under My Thumb. Take it away, Brent. 35 years after I'd spent the better part of a summer in Louisville with my Uncle Bud and Aunt Tinka, we sat at her dining room table with my wife Tina. Our four kids played in the adjacent room.
We listened to music from 1969. A black woman, Nina Simone, sang haunting songs about the mistreatment of African American women in 1960s society. Uncle Bud talked about the glory days of sitting on his front porch with Tinka and her friends in the early 70s, discussing how they were going to make the world a better place to live, a world where everyone respected the rights of everyone else. All they would need was love. We talked about Abe Lincoln depression and how ironic it was that such a depressed man would take on such a depressing job of leading this country through a war ironically to attempt to save it We talked about how he must have laid in bed at night and wept as he thought about Americans killing Americans in an effort to forge a united country.
We talked about Tinka crying upon hearing the news of Kent State, learning again about Americans killing Americans in an effort to define themselves as a country. We didn't discuss the things that an 8-year-old and a 31-year-old spoke of during that summer in 1969. We had matured 36 years. I was now 44. Uncle Bud was still going strong at 67.
And Tinka, somehow still a beautiful 29 years of age. We talked about how those 36 years had changed us. We discussed the similarities between 1860, 1960, and 2005 America and the events that shaped our country during those critical years. In each case, someone rose up who was able to clearly articulate ideas held dear to their heart. This very day we had visited Abraham Lincoln's birthplace.
Scrawled everywhere was evidence of a man who could express his heart and mind. How fortunate we were as a nation to have a man who could ponder life and then speak so clearly, so briefly, in the way the average 1860 citizen could understand. Certainly Martin Luther King was one of those men in 1960. Certainly this black woman whose songs we were listening to was one of those women. But who were these men and women today?
Was it one of us? Was it one of our young children playing out in Tinka's pool? perhaps a great gene of wisdom passed from my grandfather through Uncle Bud and my mother through me to Asher and would surface one day in our now two-year-old son. We were right in the middle of listening to Nina sing a song detailing a method of keeping white men from taking advantage of black women, the song which reportedly encouraged Mick Jagger to pursue a life of music when we were thrust back into the present. As if on cue, practically by the hand of an all-knowing God determined to restore humility to my large head, we heard a cry from the latest little family thinker, Asher.
Apparently, he had fallen and cracked his young and still small head on the counter of Tinka's 1950s Art Deco diner-style table. Uncle Bud matter-of-factly asked if we needed to go to the emergency room for stitches. Upon closer inspection, that did not appear to be necessary, but I could see that Tina was not totally convinced and was concerned about scarring. We decided a call to a nurse friend in Delaware would give us more information by which to make a decision. we concluded that butterfly bandages would be adequate for this crisis.
The last thing I wanted to do was spend the next six hours in the ER. It was not what I wanted our kids to remember about their trip to visit their Uncle Bud and Aunt Tinka. Uncle Bud and I valiantly volunteered to drive to the pharmacy for the bandages. As I stood before the shelf searching for the butterfly type, I spied a product called liquid bandage. Immediately my great knowledge of Vietnam trivia came to mind.
I had heard that super glue was originally invented to mend battlefield cuts during the Vietnam era. I shared my wealth of trivia with Uncle Bud and decided that in addition to the butterfly bandages, we would get some liquid bandage.
So we left the store with nine dollars worth of first aid supplies We arrived back home at Tinka and began with surgical precision to repair Asher cut The gash was just over his eyebrow I was concerned about leaking the liquid bandage onto his eye, so I firmly rested my pinky under his eyebrow, which also served to close up the wound, a task which had been suggested by our nurse friends. We carefully applied a little of the liquid and waited the suggested 30 or so seconds for the bandage to set. Our plan was working beautifully. No liquid to the eye, no bleeding, no gaping, no problem. As I relaxed and began to loosen my hold on Asher's head, he began to whimper.
It was then that I realized a small flaw in the procedure. The directions, which I had carefully read, said that the liquid flowed freely until setting. Indeed, it had flowed from the wound down the entire length of my pinky. My great intellectual ability to anticipate possible effects had paid off. The one small glitch was that my pinky was now affixed to my son's eyebrow.
I announced my predicament, and Tina quickly resorted to her faith with an exclamation of, Oh, Lord! I recalled from the directions that some form of oil would release the adhesive, so as calmly as possible I requested that someone read the box to clarify what the antidote was. Mineral oil or baby oil would do the trick. Tinka had just used up her last of both but drawing from her culinary experience did a quick conversion and rushed into the midst of the chaos with olive oil. Fortunately all but a few drops ended up in the carpet and Asher's hair.
I was too busy to look Uncle Bud's way, but he was quiet, obviously concluding that this was a situation better left to the parents. I hated the very idea that he had to witness this at all. He had just told me weeks previously that he would never have the audacity to try to tell me how to raise my children. He remained true to that conviction to the nth degree in this situation. As Asher cried and struggled to free his head of my finger, the grip between our flesh began to free, and I could see that an end to the nightmare was in sight.
With a little more coaxing, my finger was free, and Asher had a layer of liquid bandage on his small cut. In a short while, he was pretty much back to his old self. We were all older now, and we may have grown in wisdom, but needless to say, we are always in a position of needing more. Our experience may equip us to better handle a situation, to handle it in a cooler fashion, to improvise, or to let someone else do what they need to do without interfering or making it worse. And when faced with some things, it sure doesn't hurt just to say, Oh Lord.
It is in situations like these that the only thing you can be is yourself. What comes out is what is deeply rooted inside. You don't tell yourself how to act. You just act. And if you have learned anything at all in life, the way you act will be a little more mature than the last time.
If only Abe Lincoln could see how his life had inspired Nina Simone to write her songs about freedom, who inspired Mick Jagger to write his songs, and then see me bring a whole new meaning to the song Under My Thumb. Just as we had seen that day that Mr. Lincoln came from humble beginnings and would forever remain humble, God would see to it that I too forever remained humble. I was reminded that the task of passing on a legacy to our son would always involve a balancing act of trying to decide when to keep him under my thumb and went to encourage the separation of our flesh in its proper time Within a few minutes of this incident it was obvious that this was a story we would tell and laugh about, eventually. Asher would learn of his battle scar, which he would proudly display and talk about for years to come.
It would be a battle scar suffered during the watch of his family while they discussed the fate of the world and how to pass on the values that make us who we are. And a special thanks to Monty Montgomery for the editing and the production on that piece. And a special thanks to Brent Timmons for his work. And he listens to us on Spotify, and he lives in the state of Delaware. And my goodness, he's right about that balancing act.
And any parent, any human being ultimately has to weigh when to keep people under their thumb and protect them, and when to go out on their own. And again, if you have stories, you can tell we We love listener stories. We stand by that. We love hearing stories from all over this great country, too. Big cities and small ones, big states and a little state like Delaware.
And I grew up in New Jersey right above it. Brent Timmons' story under my thumb here on Our American Story. And Doug. There's nowhere I wouldn't go to help someone customize and save on car insurance with Liberty Mutual, even if it means sitting front row at a comedy show. Hey, everyone, check out this guy and his bird.
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It showed a Jewish kid being targeted at school and another student who chose not to ignore it. As someone who is Jewish, that moment felt very real to me. Not dramatic, just familiar. And what struck me was how clearly it showed that hate doesn't always announce itself. but the impact is still huge.
If you saw the blue square spot during the big game, it's worth thinking about. And if you want to show support, sharing the blue square is one small way to do that. Life gets messy. Spills, stains, head accidents, and kid chaos. But with Anabay, cleaning up is easy.
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