CHAPTER 3
DAFFY DUCK
"Let's go tree climbing' Scov" he suggested, "you ain't got
nothin' else to do, do ya?"
"Nope," I admitted indifferently, "I guess not."
"Well, let's go then."
The orchard glittered green. The branches bowed low with
their burden of shiny red and yellow apples. We followed the
trails to the edge of the orchard. Nearly every tree had been
successfully climbed, probably more than once, by Danny and I at
one time or another. Dan was a good friend and he liked to do
nearly everything I liked to do. That always helps a friendship.
"How 'bout this here one," he said pointing to a funny
looking tree. "That'un ain't been 'round as long. Looky how
short it is compared to the other apple trees." He was right.
It wasn't an apple tree at all. It stood about twelve feet high
with bunches of tiny branches poking out in every direction.
"How'a we gonna' climb that silly thing?" I questioned.
"Just like this," Dan said wading into the dense greenery
and grasping the trunk. I stood in casual observation for a
moment, uncertain as to the ability of such a spindly trunk to
hold a pair of ten year olds, and followed my friend into the
depths of greenness.
"I ain't never seen a tree like this 'fore," I called up
behind Danny, "wonder what they call it?"
"Ah, who cares," Danny said nearing the top, "it's neat." I
had to agree but my feet kept slipping off the tiny branches as I
climbed.
"It's preddy comfortable up here," Dan said. "It's kind'a
like sittin' in a bird's nest." He was right! The tree was
nearly flat on top, giving us a clear view of the surrounding
area. We were both perched face-to-face at the very top of the
tree. It rocked back-and-forth gently in the soft breeze.
"Hey," Dan exclaimed, "look over there." I followed his pointing
finger.
"What," I said, "I don't see nothin'"
"That tree there," he snorted, "I like it. I'm gonna' climb
it," and he was sliding down.
Danny and I sat in trees a lot. We talked mostly. Nothing
heavy, just talk. We discussed bikes, friends at school, games
we enjoyed playing, fishing, and what we wanted to do when we
grew up. We ate lots of apples when we talked since most of the
trees we climbed were in the orchard. Our climbing wasn't
limited to the orchard however. We climbed everywhere; even
telephone poles just for something different. Danny was a
dedicated kid. He always found something to do even when
everything had already been done.
"Hey," I called, "be careful climbing that thing," I
cautioned. He nodded almost imperceptibly.
Dan was so dedicated to tree climbing that I recalled one
time, as we spent probably an hour perched in one of the two
yellow apple trees in the orchard, he said, "I gotta' go to the
bathroom."
"So, go," I encouraged. Why leave the comfort of a tree to
do that?
"No," he frowned, "that ain't what I mean?"
"You mean," I suggested, "you gotta do more than just take a
leak?"
"Yeah, that's what I mean all right." I told him to shinny
down the tree and trot on over to my house and tell my Mom he had
to use the bathroom.
"Ah," he snorted, "I don't wanna' do that."
"Why not?" I said.
"Oh, 'cuz'" he answered. "That's your Ma that's why."
"Well," I said dropping an apple core to the grown and
pulling another, not quit ripened apple from a nearby branch,
"what you gonna' do?" He showed me by defecating from fifteen
feet above the ground.
Now I watched my buddy climb expertly foot-by-foot up the
nearby tree. Higher and higher until he reached the highest
branch where he swung like a monkey and balanced himself.
"This'un's nice, too," he said with satisfaction. We talked
some more.
Suddenly a strong gust of wind blew through the orchard, the
trees bowing to the force. A summer storm rushed in, blowing on
the city. The trees waved back-and-forth like flags. I was
blown over backwards and fell head first to the ground. I pulled
frantically at the branches sliding by, as in slow motion, to
try and break my fall. Two feet from the ground my legs
entangled in the closely cropped branches. I hung up-side-down
by my legs laughing uncontrollably. "Where's Danny," I wondered,
looking about. There he was, I could see, howbeit up-side-down,
hanging by one hand from his high perch, perhaps twenty feet
above ground, and yelling with laughter. "Heeeeeeeeee! Rid 'um
cowboy," he squealed.
I spent more time with Danny than any other kid. He came
from a broken home, did poorly in school, and couldn't hit a
baseball even if you paid him. I liked sports, especially track
and field, but I rarely played such with Danny because of his
lack of coordination. He loved riding bikes, however, and that
we did a lot.
Riding the pavement one day at the front end of the orchard
I said, "Wanna' play chicken?"
"Sure," he said, swerving toward me. I pulled violently at
my handle bars, narrowly missing his bike.
"You crazy kid," I yelled.
"That's what it's all 'bout, ain't it?" he laughed. I
stomped down on my peddles and arrowed straight for him. At the
last second, he chickened, and pulled away.
"Chicken!" I chided.
"Oh, yeah," he challenged, "watch this." His rickety old
bike came spinning toward me at a remarkable rate of speed. You
had to ride Danny's bike to appreciate it. I did once...once and
only once.
"Wanna' trade bikes for awhile, Scov," Danny asked.
"Ok," I agreed without knowing what I was getting into.
Climbing from my bike, I leaped on Dan's and peddled off. "Hey,"
I complained, "what kinda' bike is this?" The frame rattled and
creaked. Every part on the thing wiggled: the handle bars, the
seat, the wheels, the chain guard, the peddles. The fork was
bent, the tires low; never able to keep air for more than a day,
and the handle grips were cracked and split. I wiggled the
handle bars back-and-forth. The wheel slammed against both sides
of the fork uncontrollably. "How can you ride this crazy thing
Danny?" He just laughed and rode off with my bike.
"I'm comin' to get you Scov," he yelled, whooping like an
attacking indian. "You better chicken or we're both dead." I
watched him approach as though in slow motion.
"Would he really ram me," I wondered. Suddenly I realized
he was going to do exactly that. I jerked my bike violently to
the right just as he jerked his to the left. We side-swiped
front wheels, the axles locking momentarily. I half fell, half
jumped, from my bike and rolled gently over the black top.
Getting to my knees, I saw Danny rolling from his bike. He was
laughing! The bikes were tumbling apart as though a large hand
had chopped between them. As we stared in frozen fascination,
Danny's front wheel ripped from it's fork, and continued spinning
across the pavement until it came to rest several yards away. I
looked at Danny. The grin on his face could have powered a city.
"You ever see such a thing," he boasted. "Couldn't do that
if you tried again, I bet ya'"
Practically every kid knew someone growing up who acted like
Daffy Duck. Crazy, silly, loud, sputtering, daring, fast, goofy,
laughing with and laughing at, uncoordinated, everywhere at once,
flapping, jumping, skipping, hopping, soaring, giddy, over
bearing, intoxicated with life; but never boring. That was my
Danny. His favorite saying was, "Ain't ya got no edication?
What-a-madder for you, ain't ya got no bringin' up?"
Danny and I were always collecting. Collecting what? We
collected everything: pop bottles [worth two cents], pop lids,
broken bottles, fish hooks, leaves, blades of grass, dirt, rocks,
carpet tacks, broken spectacles, string, nails, rubber bands,
milk cartons, rusty cans, field mice, and probably anything else
one could name. We were especially interested in things others
threw away. We often went on treasure hunts just for something
to do and I was always amazed at things we found.
Dan was fearless, or so it seemed. He rode his bike
courageously through mud, snow, into and through tall grass and
weeds, across busy streets, down cluttered ally ways, over bumpy
gravel roads. He climbed tall trees, jumped from one to the
next, crawled to the end of branches at the highest point in the
tree. He climbed fences, garages, walls, flag poles, telephone
poles, or anything with a roof. He and I once walked under a
short bridge, about two hundred feet long, on thin ice. I know
it was thin because the space on either side of the bridge was
open water. The ice just remained where the sun had not been
able to shine. I was scared spitless; not Dan! He crawled into
any opening big enough to yield admittance. He picked up
anything that moved: snakes, spiders, ants - red or black -
worms, beatles, birds, fish; you name it. Finding a tangle of
vines along the Des Moines River, we would dangle from their
ends; swinging far out over the water. Dan pretty much hated
girls, as I did at that young age, and we thus paled around
endlessly day-after-day.
I could tell dozens of stories about Dan and the places we
went and the things we did. I am probably even exaggerating his
personality all these many years later but he still lives vividly
in my memory. Friends are important. The kinds of friends we
have are even more important.
Seated in a classroom in Bible college years later, one of
my professors spent a few minutes one morning talking about just
how important friends are. He remarked how he had heard someone
once say that if we obtained five friends, real friends with whom
we could trust, in one's lifetime, we indeed would be blessed.
He personally limited that to just two, however. The true figure
is probably "#1." Having a real friend is rare even today.
Christians are even guilty of avoiding closeness with others. We
are commanded, however, to "bear one another's burdens, and so
fulfill the law of Christ." (Gal. 6:2). Obedience to such a
command is impossible without closeness.
Several days in a row this passage on bearing each others
burdens popped in-and-out of my thinking. I knew the Lord was
trying to tell me something but I was not listening too closely
for some reason. Finally one day, as the verse fluttered in my
mind again, I said, "Lord, I've got several burdens of my own
right now. As soon as those things are cleared up, then I'll
bare the burdens of others." The Lord very clearly spoke to me
that morning as I walked through the dinning room of my home and
said,
"I never said to bare the burdens of others after your own
were being managed!"
I was jolted with the revelation and immediately began thinking
of the concerns and desires of other fellow Christians. Such
constitutes friendship.
For a number of years I have been concerned about the lack
of such relationships among fellow Christians. The Church
somehow has lost its emphasis on one-on-one. We have gone to
"large" and "big" and "huge" and "immense" theology and thus
forgotten the "one." Jesus, of course, ministered to the
multitudes and so should we. He also gave his personal attention
to "the twelve." Even within "the twelve," He seemed to spend
more time with Peter, James, and John. John, however, was known
as the "disciple whom Jesus loved." The four Gospels are
likewise filled with remarkable stories of Jesus stopping out of
His daily ministry to the multitudes to reach the one - the
Galilean demoniac, the woman with the issue of blood, the lame
man at the pool of Bethesda, the nobleman's son, Peter's mother-
in-law, the blind man, to name a few.
In my counseling, I find many who confess that they lack
friends or even personal relationships with others. Many
complain of having no friends at all. "A man that has friends
must show himself friendly." (Prov. 18:24). We must show
ourselves friendly if we desire to have friends. The best way of
doing that, certainly the most personal, is to bare another's
burdens. Show concern. Call them just to visit. Ask about
their situation. Pray for them. Make special trips to where
they live or work. Drop them a card in the mail.
"And there is a friend that sticks closer than a brother,"
the remainder of Proverbs 18:24, is often quoted and preached
from. It is true Jesus is such a friend but such friendship is
demonstrated between those of us claiming Christ as Lord and
Saviour. I have included this chapter to point out the
importance of friendships and the necessity of sharing with
others intimately. Make it a commitment. Go out and be a
friend. Pal around with someone. Share yourself. Don't be
picky. You may discover the best of friends are Daffy Ducks.
"By this shall all men know that you are my disciples,
if you have love one to another." (John 13:35).
End Of Chapter 3
LIQUID PURPLE
BY
PHIL SCOVELL
Copyright 1991-2004
By Phil Scovell
All Rights Reserved
Reproduction of the book entitled "Liquid Purple" is granted by
the copyright holder, Phil Scovell, if such reproduction is done
in the spirit in which it was given. It may not be reproduced
and sold for financial gain without written permission of the
copyright holder: Phil Scovell. Electronic formats may be
distributed freely but this copyright notice must remain with
each copy and the text cannot be altered in any way. For
convenience, this copyright notification may be placed at the end
of the document if reproduced electronically. If chapters and
sections of the book entitled "Liquid Purple" is separated in
file form for convenience of electronic reproduction and
distribution, this copyright notice must appear somewhere within
each individual file.
CONTACT INFORMATION
Phil Scovell
840 South Sheridan Boulevard
Denver, Colorado 80226-8017
Email: phil@redwhiteandblue.org
Web: WWW.RedWhiteAndBlue.ORG
Go To HOME: The Zenith Tube Website: RedWhiteAndBlue.org