Imagine yourself in a multiplex movie theater. Curiously, no walls separate the half-dozen theaters that form the multiplex. Miraculously, you are watching six different screens all at once, thoroughly understanding and enjoying every scene, word, character.
Welcome to ADHD.
[You in the Real World, be sure to click on the red underlined hyperlinks! And know these accounts are true … without exaggeration!]
Our two teams survive the rigors of the cold and off-trail terrain …
“I cold. My hands cold.”
Three times a four-year-old says that in five minutes, tsk-tsks Screen Six. Alert the Guinness Book people: world record coming.
“We just got out here, Eowyn,” I remind the youngest of four daughters belonging to friends Travis and Carol Montgomery.
“I know,” she replies, chill undiminished by logic. “My hands cold.”
“But we are geocaching,” I say, desperate to deny defeat. I even read aloud from a pamphlet provided by Craig, college-aged guide at W.W. Knight Nature Preserve: “Dress for the outdoors to perform off-trail terrain exploration.” Then I try folding the paper, but frozen, it simply cracks. Perhaps we need a distracting tactic. “See the cool little GPS your sister is holding?”
Abigail, 9, hoists the unit in an ungloved hand. “Where’s your mitten?” I gasp. “It’s 21 degrees out here!”
“Can’t wear it and work the tiny buttons,” she replies without looking up. “I have to keep switching hands to run the GPS so we know exactly where to go and find the SWAG.”
“What is SWAG?” asks Eowyn, promptly adding, “My hands cold.”
“Stuff We All Get,” I reply. “When Abby leads us to where things are hidden on this acreage, we are allowed to bring some of it home.”
Speaking of finding things, asserts One, we should have located “geocache site three” by now, Black. In all fairness to the baby –
“I not the baby!” spouts Eowyn.
– I do not think we must run the Boston Marathon to find trivial items. Perhaps Miss Abigail incorrectly reads the GPS?
“Oh, man!” I moan. “That cold cut right through my glove. How are you holding that with a bare hand?”
This cues Eowyn. “I cold. My hands cold.”
A gentle tap on my shoulder is followed by the patient voice of Craig, who saw our trio’s errant trek and followed to ensure our safety. “May I suggest you are rather distant from geocache site three?” He points at the cryogenic contents of my glove. “Look at the symbols, sir.”
I can barely see the tiny GPS, much less its coordinates and symbols. “Left my glasses in the car. That’s why Abby is leading us.”
“Are you with them?” asks Craig.
Of course we are with the two girls, humphs Five.
“No,” he corrects, “I mean them – the trio over there.” Our threesome looks across the woodland at my beautiful brown-eyed bride, Miss Laura; Miss McKenzie, 7; and fearless leader, Miss Brianna, 11. Their SWAG bag already appears semi-full as they excitedly bend over yet another geocache site discovery.
Abby looks longingly at the progressive party. Eowyn tugs my hand –
Do not say it, child, cautions Three. Do not even think it, kid.
– and I sigh heavily. “Abby, why don’t you join Miss Laura? I’ll take poor Eowyn back to the lodge.”
Very kind, Black, applauds Two. Do you think you can keep up?
“What do you – oh, noooo!” I exclaim, seeing a tot boot-scootin’ across boardwalks built just 20 inches above partially frozen lake. “Eowyn!” I yell in panic, but this just makes her erupt in giggles and speed up. My pursuit is hobbled greatly by a chilled titanium knee requiring the Tin Man’s oil can.
Heated oil, dreams Four. Even better.
I only catch Eowyn because she stumbles and skins her knee. I scoop her up and wobble back to the lodge, where Eowyn’s thawing hands fumble with crayons intended to color drawings of wild animals.
She is wide-eyed at the collection of stuffed creatures around us. “I seed a polar bear one time,” she comments.
I wink. “When we went to Toledo Zoo?”
Eowyn shakes her head. “No. At my church.”
No more questions, your honor, counsels Five.
What seems but minutes later, our victorious Swag Bag Starlets stroll in, laughing and reminiscing as if they’ve crossed the polar ice cap. Hats are doffed, hot chocolate is quaffed, explorers’ stories are told and smiling Eowyn shares:
“My hands not cold.”
Postscript: Last week’s “ADHD Powered” apparently led readers to believe a sequel would explain what I did when I found the man whose terrible driving cut me off in West Virginia’s mountains. His actions left me and my car teetering –
Or tottering, says Screen Three.
– on the edge of a precipice. But let me assure you, no such sequel is forthcoming: I never located the wrongdoer.
Plenty of readers shared what they would do should they encounter the cad. Winning comment, however, comes from excellent friend and transplanted West Virginian, Mark Montgomery (gifted grandfather of the four Montgomery moppets):
Just great. As if two-part “Batman” episodes from the ‘60s were not bad enough, now I have to wait for the “to be continued” conclusions in stories from Blackie. Don’t you know us old people may not live to see the next installment? Sheesh. The nerve.
And worse – since I have 21 aunts and uncles and over 100 cousins who drive rust buckets with no plates in “dem dere hills” – the culprit could be related!
* * * * *
Blackie’s Weekly Wonders
Geocache the wonder of it all
“The Heat is On” but Glen is gone
This kitty is built for speed
Adieu to David Bowie