There is a gene at large among the female members of this family.  Its source was Margie’s mother, Zelma.  It manifests itself as embarrassing situations wherein the women misplace things as well as themselves.  They may have no clear idea how they came to be where they are, which direction to go to retrace their steps, or what happened to the list they made to keep them from forgetting what they came there to get.

Margie and Zelma were once driving together to the stake center in La Grande.  They were lost in an engaging conversation when they suddenly realized that they’d altogether missed the city of La Grande.  Having missed both La Grande exits they were forced to continue on to Perry before they could get off the freeway and get turned around.

Entering La Grande from a whole new direction confused them to the point of being totally lost.  Knowing that they were directionally-challenged, they thought it best to ask directions.  They pulled into a service station.  Zelma rolled down her window and inquired of the attendant:  “Can you tell us how to get to the stake house?”  Phrasing the question in that manner only had the effect of further confusing the issue since the service station attendant had never heard of that particular restaurant.

Margie once accompanied her sister, Mary, to the wedding reception of one of Mary’s acquaintances in Utah.  Mary drove.  She located the church.  The two of them went in, deposited their gift with the girl in charge of the gift table, and joined the reception line to await their turn to congratulate the bride and groom.  As the line inched its way forward Mary became aware that no one at the reception looked familiar—not even the bride and groom.  They were at the wrong reception!

They hastened back to the gift table to reclaim their gift.  The efficient girl at the gift table, however, had already unwrapped the gift and noted its contents on the list from which thank-you notes would be written.  An embarrassing situation ensued as the gift was retrieved, and some wrapping paper was patched around it as best as could be achieved under the circumstances.  They then set out again to locate the real reception.

Katie is making a name for herself among the teachers at the public school in Monument.  One morning she found Levi back in his bed an hour or so after she’d gotten the kids off to school.  She laughed about the situation because it was just like the joke we’d found in the Readers’ Digest wherein a woman with a large family sent a note to school with her late child saying, “Please excuse my son for being late to school.  I thought all the children were gone, and didn’t find him until I was making the beds.”

The teachers enjoyed the joke, too.  Emmy’s teacher, however, made it a point to tell Katie several times not to send Emmy to school several Mondays later because there would be no preschool class for her.

Katie remembered clear through the weekend—right up until Monday morning.  Monday morning was the usual scurry, bustle and hurry; and Katie got all the kids, including Emmy, out the door and off to school on time.  It wasn’t until 9:00 that she remembered.  She gathered little Gracie into her arms and ran the block to the school.  Emmy wasn’t in her room, and no one had seen her.  It took several minutes of searching before she was found crying in Isaac’s classroom.  Isaac’s teacher hadn’t noticed her.

Ivy was asked to play her violin at a funeral in Baker.  Margie and Ivy left early, and picked me up at my shop.  We went together to the church, and arrived exactly 30 minutes early.  Margie preceded me to the door with a salad in hand to leave in the kitchen.  Behind us Ivy was just getting out of the car and gave a little gasp.  I barely noticed the sharp inhalation, but Margie, being in tune with such things, I suppose, immediately perceived the problem.

“Did you forget your violin?” she shouted back to Ivy.

Ivy gave a despairing-looking affirmative nod of her head.  I wordlessly ran back to the car, leaped in, and drove home at speeds hitting 90 MPH.  The only other time in my life that I drove that fast was when Margie called me at a bishopric meeting to tell me that she’d started labor with Danny.  I’d made it home in 15 minutes that time, so I knew I  could do it again.  I was back at the church with the violin with two whole minutes to spare.

—“Oh, no, Ivy has the gene!” Katie exclaimed when Margie told her the story.

Indeed she does.  Having won a tri-county music competition, Ivy was to go to the district competition in Hood River the week following the funeral.

“Do you have your violin?” I asked Ivy as we got into the car.

“Yep.”

“Got your music?”

“It’s in my violin case.”

“I can’t find my copy,” Margie said, “but we’ll have Ivy’s teacher bring hers when we pick her up in La Grande.”  That sounded like plenty of music to me, but I should have paid attention to the little, gnawing worry in the back of my head.

Janelle, the teacher, was to accompany Ivy on the piano in Hood River.  Being told that Margie didn’t have her copy, she went back into her house and got her own.

“Great,” I thought.  “Now I know for sure that they have the music.  Ivy has her piece memorized, so Janelle’s copy is the only one that’s really necessary.”

What I didn’t know was that the adjudicator who would judge the performance was to be given a second copy of the music to follow as the piece was played.

I’ve learned that it’s good to arrive early to appointments.  It’s one of the adjustments that I’ve made to help us deal with this gene in the family.

We were early for the recital in Hood River.  That left time for a practice session before everyone arrived.  It also left time to deal with Ivy’s subsequent discovery that her copy of the music wasn’t in her violin case after all.  Making another mad dash home was out of the question, although I jokingly offered to do so.

Janelle, an efficient type, quickly got on her cell phone, called a music teacher in Hood River, and asked her to bring that piece of music to the recital when she came.  The lady had the exact piece, and the day was saved.

Two weeks later there was a big multi-school music recital at the college in La Grande.

“Got your violin?” I asked Ivy.

“Yes.”

“Do you have two copies of your music?”

“Yes,” she said, and double-checked.

All was well.  The recital went well.  One potential problem was headed off when a woman brought Margie her purse which she’d left in the rest room.  I was grateful.  So was Margie.

That was on Saturday.

Sunday afternoon after church I saw a motorcycle go up the hill.  I drove out the driveway to go feed the cattle, and headed down the hill.  In my rear-view mirror I could see the motorcycle coming down.  I’m sorry to say that I thus missed the next scene.

The motorcycle pulled into the driveway and up to our house.  It was a Harley.  The motorcyclist was properly decked out in helmet and black leather.  Heidi looked out the window and said, “It’s Uncle David!”

Margie said, “Let’s give him a cheer!”

Margie, Heidi and Ivy rushed out to greet him.  Heidi had her arms stretched upward like she was ready to give him a big hug.

“Harley man!” she exclaimed.

Margie broke into her cheerleader dance, shouting “Yahoo!”

Ivy was all smiles.

The Harley man removed his helmet. —It wasn’t David!

“Maybe he couldn’t hear inside his helmet,” Margie said hopefully afterward.  (Hopefully he couldn’t see, either.  I don’t suppose he’d ever gotten such a welcome before).

“Does Ivy Kerns live here?” the Harley man asked.  “I have her backpack that she left at yesterday’s recital.”