Miscommunication

Go open the brown gate.

It’s a simple directive.

Yet my kids often use that phrase to point out one of biggest my flaws.

It turns out that we have multiple brown gates.

And it turns out, neither of my kids – nor anyone else I know – can read my mind to know which brown gate I am picturing in my mind.

Even when my picture is as clear as a sunny day.

I tend to think in pictures, not words, and often translations take more time than I give them.

I don’t want to take the time to describe something that is so obvious, so right in front of me.

I think this trait might be hereditary.

Once, when my daughter, Abby, was about 7, we were driving down a dirt road when Abby pointed to a buck mule deer grazing in a coulee.

“Look, Dad! A buck!” she exclaimed to my husband, Steve.

“Where is it?” Steve asked, darting his eyes from the road to the coulee.

“Right in front of my eyeballs!”

Abby’s disgust and disappointment at her father’s lack of vision enveloped the entire pickup cab.

Frankly, I’m proud of myself when I say “go open the brown gate.”

After all, at least that’s better than:

“Would you please go get…”

Or “I really need a…”

Those sentences usually drift off into a foggy mumble while I concentrate on the task in front of me, only to be brought back into focus with “Mom, finish your sentence!”

Most of the time, I revive my verbal skills in time to rectify the situation, but sometimes I don’t have a chance.

I used to work as a county extension agent near Whitehall, Montana.

My program areas included 4H and agriculture.

One spring morning, I received a phone call from a rancher.

She hesitated and then explained that a cow had just given birth to a premature, two-headed, six-legged baby calf. It was small, hairless and she had never seen such a fetus. She wanted to preserve it, but didn’t know how.

Her husband suggested preserving it in a gallon-sized glass jar with formaldehyde.

I don’t know much about embalming, but formaldehyde sounded like a better idea than tequila.

The movie in my mind flashed with school kids admiring the oddity of a baby calf with two heads and six legs in a jar.

Just think of all of the lessons they could learn – from biology and genetics to kindness for people who are different and taking personal responsibility.

Younger kids could think about how to feed such a baby and how it might take steps.

Older kids might even learn a little about preservation through chemistry.

The list of learning opportunities was endless. 

No problem, I said. I would call the local mortuary and ask if they could provide a gallon of formaldehyde.

I knew my request was unusual, but it was for such a good cause.

A woman answered the phone after three rings.

“This is Lisa Schmidt at the county extension office,” I introduced myself. “A client has a premature baby that died. It’s a Siamese twin. She wants to preserve it. Is there a way we can get some formaldehyde so she can keep it in a jar and show the kids at school?”

The silence on the line felt endless.

Then it erupted.

“You’re sick!”

My ears rang with the slam of the phone.

Apparently, I had not translated the picture of a Siamese twin calf in my mind well.

Formaldehyde was not available.

The rancher used tequila.