Just Another Day with the Barlow Family

Published April 24, 1986. It started out just like any other day. But somehow I sensed it was going to be different. It was spring vacation and our children were out of school. We didn’t have anything unusual planned. So the kids had to try out creative things . . . keeping themselves busy until school started again. This was particularly so with Kris, 5, Jason, 9, and Jon, 13.

My car was in the repair shop, and Susan had agreed to pick me up at the University in her car. I had just given a lecture to my class on the blessings of family life. It was titled “Joy in Your Posterity.” I wanted to see if Susan was on her way to pick me up. She had indicated she had to first stop at the store, so about 4 o’clock in the afternoon I decided to phone home.

Jon answered the phone.

“Hi, Jon,” I said. “How are things going?”

“Fine,” he replied, with all the enthusiasm of a 13-year-old out of school.

“Did Mom leave to pick me up?” I inquired.

“Probably,” came his monotone answer. (The word “probably” is a favorite of our teenagers. It’s very ambiguous and doesn’t mean anything.)

“Just look around,” I suggested. “If she’s not there she is likely on her way.”

“I can’t see her, so I guess she has gone,” he said.

“Thanks, Jon,” I replied. “Have you been on your paper route yet?” I asked, trying to make conversation.

“No,” he answered, “I’m going out to do it after I watch my TV show.”

“Well, don’t overdo it,” I said, somewhat concerned. There was a long pause.

“Did you hear about the accident?” Jon asked.

“What accident?” I responded, shuffling the papers on my desk.

“The one with Kris,” John said with his John Wayne enthusiasm.

“Our Kris?” I exclaimed as I stood up.

“Yes, our Kris,” Jon said, “She’s in the hospital.”

My heart started to pound. “What happened. . . which hospital is she in?” I asked frantically.

Jon continued his lethargic narrative. “She’s down at the Emergency room at Orem Community Hospital. Mom was gone – I guess to pick you up – and Kris was playing with a pen; the kind you write with. She put it in her nose and, well . . . it got stuck.”

“Kris has a pen stuck in her nose?” I asked. My heart continued to pound, and my palms were sweating. “How did she get to the hospital?”

“Doug (our 18-year-old) was home, and since we didn’t have a car, he called the Ortons (our neighbors). Mr. Orton took them to the hospital.”

“How is she now?” I asked. “And Mom doesn’t know about this, either. How can we get to the hospital?”

“Doug just called from the emergency room and said not to worry,” Jon consoled. “He said they’ll have the pen out of her nose in a few minutes . . . I guess I’d better go pass my papers now. Goodbye.” And he hung up.

Jon and Doug were correct. The doctor did get the pen out of Kris’ nose, and they were all home before Susan and I arrived. Thus ended “just another day” of the continuing saga of the Barlow family.

Susan and I are grateful for neighbors like Van and Maxine Orton. And we are also thankful that school starts again on Monday.