Ah, memories....

Twenty-seven years ago today, I was sick.

You may ask, “Tim, how can you remember being sick all that time ago?” I’m glad you asked. I’ll tell you.

Today is my 43rd birthday. Or, as you might have already observed, it’s my last prime-numbered birthday until 47. Twenty-seven years ago today was my 16th birthday, and I remember that day pretty well, considering how far away it is now shrouded in the mists of pre-history. (That’s what my kids would have me believe, anyway.) I remember it because all that week I was sick at home with the chicken pox.

At the time, my family was living in Woodland, California. My dad was the minister at a church there; I was in high school, as many 16-year-olds are, and in my opinion, I was ready to face the world, as many 16-year-olds think they are. (I was wrong, as many 16-year-olds are, but that’s beside the point, as many of my comments are.) My parents tell me that I was an obnoxious, lazy know-it-all. I don’t remember being obnoxious, but the rest still tracks pretty well.

Somehow I had gotten it into my head (my parents told me) that I had chicken pox as a three- or four-year-old, the way all the Castle men do.... three spots, a high fever, and it’s all done with. That’s how Granddad Castle had ‘em, how my dad had ‘em, and so I was just following the family tradition. So when the dratted spots started showing up among the kids at our church, my parents responded with compassion toward the other folks at church who hadn’t had them, by volunteering me to help in the kids’ classes, substituting for the “at-risk” folks.

Imagine our surprise (and my disgust) when I started getting sick! Apparently the immunity you get when you have gone through the dreaded pox didn’t take in my initial encounter, and there I was, right in the sights of the attacking virus. I was a goner.

One thing you don’t find out until a time like this is that such diseases hit you a lot harder the older you get. I had the spots EVERYWHERE on my body -- on the bottom of my feet, in my ears, in my mouth... and everywhere you can think of. It was most uncomfortable. Plus, I had a fever, nausea, and aches that are the stuff of legend. It was a miserable week.

To add insult to injury, that was the week in which our church was hosting a vacation bible school, and to support that, a preacher friend of my dad’s, Victor had brought his “youth staff” to help. Each summer, Victor collected teenagers from churches all over the area to go put on VBS programs, camps, outreach campaigns, and generally help out churches up and down the state. Since I was sick, I didn’t get to participate. Not that herding kids around VBS all week was my idea of fun, but the fact of the matter was that in this “youth staff” were a few quite lovely young ladies that I was quite intrigued by. It had been in my mind for some time leading up to this week that it would be a good time for some serious hand-holding. (Give me a break: I was a good church kid, and so were most of these intriguing young ladies; hand-holding was about as much physical affection as we would let ourselves think of. Okay, as much as we would let ourselves think of for more than a second or two. Most of the time.)

But, no; as I saw Victor’s bus pulling in, I was starting to feel ill. My mom felt my head, and her eyes widened, and she banished me to my room for the duration. My parents had already committed to hosting some of the teens at our house, and, what with my dad being in charge of the VBS and associated activities, and our house being so close to the church building, the whole gang was in and out of our house for the whole week. All those lovely hands, just waiting to be held, so close, yet so far. I was heartbroken. And itchy.

On that Thursday afternoon, I heard some voices outside my window, singing “Happy Birthday” to me. I peeked outside, and there were several of the gang, wishing me a good birthday, but keeping a safe distance. I remember looking at one of the intriguing young ladies and thinking, “She’d look real cute with these spots on her face.” I thought it would be worth finding out, but as I headed for the hallway, there was Mom, coming to see how I was enjoying my surprise serenade. For an instant, I thought about trying to get past her, but realized that in my weakened condition, I was no match for a mother in the prime of her “Oh-no-you-don’t-young-man-get-back-in-there-and-stay-there-until-I-say-you-can-come-out-and-why-don’t-you-clean-your-room-while-you’re-stuck-in-there” years.

As the bus drove off at the end of the week, I was just getting my strength back, but not enough to chase after it. I had missed an opportunity for girl-chasing, and that was that.

So that is the sad tale of my 16th birthday, and as sad as it may be, my birthdays since then have faded the memory of the spots and of my exile to contact-isolation, especially those of the last 16 years, since my wife and I have been together. My 43rd started out with my wife and kids showering me with affection and attention. I got to hug them, and share with my wife a kiss that would have turned my ears red at 16. The hand-holding wasn’t bad, either.