Grow up, little girl, and I will tell you stories

Written as a newspaper column celebrating MacKenzie Jill Sauer's birth. Ran in Evening Star  of Auburn, IN, Jan. 2, 1995.

Grow up, little girl, and I will tell you stories

            Our little girl came to us at 12:26 a.m. Monday. She arrived quietly, with wide-open eyes.

            MacKenzie Jill Sauer.

            Wrapped tightly in a blanket, a pointed hospital cap on her head, she looked like one of Santa’s helpers baked inside a holiday loaf of bread. No need to hush her, but I spoke to her still, and she listened as if kaleidoscope-colored clowns dance from my mouth.

            Grow up, little girl, and I will tell you stories!

            I will tell of the night a woman mistook labor pains for sauerkraut gas, and bore her child on a bathroom floor. The woman’s husband cut the cord and wrapped the baby in the only cloth nearby—his pajama bottoms. He ran to the neighbor next door, the neighbor with the telephone, the widow-woman neighbor. The husband awoke the neighbor with his urgent knock, breathlessly requested she call a doctor, and this is what the widow-neighbor said:

            “Mr. Sauer, you haven’t any pants on.”

            That’s your great-grandfather Philipp, his wife Louise, and the story of your Grandpa Richard’s birth.

            I will tell of the afternoons, the endless afternoons, when two boys shot baskets on a dirt court at a netless rim on a wooden pole. They both played for the same imaginary team and no imaginary opponent could stop them. The taller boy, the one with hair like a summer sun and legs longer than long, would provide mock radio play-by-play descriptions. The shorter, stockier boy couldn’t move as smoothly, but became enchanted with trying over and over again. And both boys would score a dozen, two dozen winning shots in one endless afternoon.

            That’s your Uncle Thom and I.

            I will tell you of the time a baby boy—a sweet little peanut like you—grew strong and long and loved for 20 days. Then a virus stole his life. I will tell you how 100 colored balloons accompanied the baby boy to heaven, and how the skies gasped and writhed and wept at his burial.

            That’s the story of your cousin, Ryan.

            I will tell how your great-great grandfather Wasbotten preached Norwegian to an American congregation—and lost his minister’s job because of it; and how your great grandfather Sauer came from Germany to America as a grown man, and found himself lost and alone and miserable in the middle of a Cleveland bridge on a New Year’s Eve.

            I will tell how your Grandma Barb drew lines on a milk jugs to stretch a teacher husband’s salary thin enough to feed six kids; and how your Great Aunt Glee and Great Uncle Jack rode life like a roller-coaster, arms high and still reaching, and how we shook our heads and wondered—why were they the ones to go too soon?

            I will tell how your Mommy cried as she married your Daddy until the pastor--“Uncle” Bob—offered to wipe her nose with his minister’s stole, and the congregation laughed. I will tell how your Aunt Jill (the one you’re named after!) went to California to be a TV star, and how your Mommy and I flicked the video-cassette remote fast as a flyswatter to catch a glimpse of her hair or hand or legs 2,000 miles away.

            I will tell how your Uncle Joel and I competed in everything—including whose child would be born first. And how I won with you. Oh, I really won with you.

            And then, little Miss Mackenzie, I will predict how you will supply chapters to our family history—chapters funny, profound and sad. And I’ll never tire of reminding you how much joy you’ve added already.

            Grow up, little girl, not fast or soon, but strong and kind. Then sit by my side, quietly, with your wide-open eyes.

            I have so many stories to tell you!