"To Be Or Not To Be" -Shakespeare, Potatoes And Choices
Choir and Band students from my junior high school participated in an annual West Coast tour when I was in the 7th grade. (Which still baffles me…. It’s not like Blach Jr. High School in Los Altos, CA was a small-scale version of the Julliard School of Music, or anything, I honestly don’t know how we even got to do a tour… unless maybe we just paid to participate). One thing is for sure though, as it goes with this age kids, we were guaranteed to wreak some unknown level of havoc on whatever town we invaded.
Upon arrival in Ashland OR, we were instantly enamored by the Shakespearean Festival and small boutique shops… definitely a change of pace from good old suburban Mountain View. After hours of shenanigans, general Tom Foolery, and copious amounts of junk food/sodas on a tour bus, our teachers were beyond ready to cut us loose in the streets of Ashland for some free time before watching an outdoor performance of “The Taming of the Shrew” early that evening.
As I’ve learned from my few years’ parenting experience, once total freedom is granted, kids tend to become magically magnetized towards trouble. Anything assumed to be “safe” becomes fair game for mischievous behavior. Groups of us spread out in different directions, permeating the shops, trying on Shakespearean costumes, hats with feathers in them, corsets, you name it. Of course we had a riotous good time documenting the event by snapping pictures on our Polaroid or disposable Kodak “Funsaver” cameras. (Read: No iPhones, people. No social media. And not just because we were in Shakespeare Country…. Though it does seem at times like I’m old enough to have been in Junior High when Shakespeare was alive.)
One particular boutique had sort of a novelty section filled with whoopee cushions, sling shots, and other gag/joke items and toys. Somehow a group of students found and purchased what would be the equivalent of a “marshmallow shooter”, but instead of marshmallows, this device shot out pellets of raw potato. The general idea was to load the gun by penetrating a potato, therefore making it possible to assault someone with carbohydrates.
As it does in these situations, word spread quickly amongst our choir and band students that there was to be a “Potato Gun War” on the streets of Ashland. Droves of students descended upon the boutique and purchased potato guns. Ammunition was easily located at the heath store across the street in the produce section.
Warfare was officially declared, and for the better part of an hour, we dashed between cars, patrons, mailboxes, in and out of stores, valiantly clutching their weapon in one hand and their potato in the other. Unsuspecting innocent victims were hit with slimy chunks of wet potato or leathery potato skin, at a force of probably 5 MPH. Shrieks of laughter and screaming echoed throughout the small, quaint, peaceful streets. Annoyed locals attempted to reprimand us, to no successful avail.
After about 60 fun-filled minutes had passed, we were a bunch of panting, exhausted, wet, giggly bunch of hooligans, who were finally corralled by our teachers and chaperones. Let’s just say were less than impressed with our creativity and choice of self-made entertainment.
Upon our return to California, our teachers and administration were flat out pissed. After the school had received numerous complaint phone calls from angry Ashland employees and city officials, our staff had reached the end of their rope. During a tense, tight-lipped, red-eared lecture from the music teacher, we were given an assignment: to each write a letter of apology to the merchants of the town of Ashland, in hopes of reinstating the school’s good name. We complied, albeit insincerely. Muffled snickers and stifled chuckles could be heard throughout the otherwise quiet music room that day, until of course, someone could no longer hold in their laughter and let out a giant, booming snort. The entire room erupted in roaring laughter, minus of course, the teachers, who almost visibly had smoke streaming from their ears.
As a parent of 6, almost 7 kids, my husband and I find ourselves talking about choices. Often. As a self-professed rule breaker, I am the one between the 2 of us who usually has to learn life lessons the hard way. Spoiler alert: Andrew is the rule-follower. (This comes as no surprise to those of you who know us.) In our limited experience, so far, it’s actually been mostly a benefit in raising our children; we offer two different perspectives; we are strong where the other is weak.
I usually find for myself that the temptation of the potential fun factor is usually too great a burden to bear, and frequently in the past I’ve found the potential risks of making the fun choice usually trumped the boredom of the vanilla safe choice. The results of my “Obey all the Rules, Miss All the Fun” lifestyle have been about 50-50. Countless times, I’ve had a total blast and managed to avoid any legitimate trouble, and I have not been seriously harmed. Other times my choices have cost me more than I was prepared to pay, and taken me further down roads I wasn’t prepared to travel.
One truth that has rung in at 100% every single time I’ve calculated the risks and made a choice: I’ve learned something about myself, others, or life in general, at least in hindsight. Sometimes it’s been extremely important and invaluable for me to break the rules. Sometimes I’ve learned it would be wise to never make that particular choice, in that particular circumstance, ever again. I try hard these days to refrain from using the word “mistake” because of this essential learning process from choices made. “Mistakes” provide so many opportunities: chances to practice self-forgiveness, acceptance, making amends, the importance of turning a fresh page, and being reminded of natural consequences.
Something that has helped me tremendously over time is to not rush into anything, if it can be helped.” It’s like watching a game of Double Dutch and pausing just long enough to wait for the right timing to jump in between the ropes. Sometimes there is no option to watch and wait and make a flow chart of potential outcomes of a decision. Some choices are necessary to be made on the fly, in the moment, no time to think. In those cases, a split second usually affords me just enough time to take a breath and say a simple prayer…. Nothing fancy…. Just “God, I’m seeking you.” Or, “Guide me.” And then act.
Speaking of choices….do I regret participating in the Ashland, OR “Great Potato Gun War of 1989”? Let’s just say… the person during the post-incident lecture who couldn’t hold their laughter in, resulting in a booming snort? That was me.