SUPERBALL SUNDAY

This is what happens when you cross a Welsh Pony with an Italian Stallion. They make talented, bright, and feisty babies. They were from Sacramento and we were from southeastern Idaho and became fast friends in St. Louis, raising young families and completing training in high-pressure healthcare programs. We both returned to our roots after residency. When they visited Idaho, we took them to Island Park. In California, they took us to Santa Monica and Yosemite and introduced us to Rush Limbaugh on the radio when he was only on the radio in Sacramento. Life was good and wherever we met it was just perfection—or so we thought. When we went swimming at the Firehole in Yellowstone Park, we all agreed to climb up on the cliff and jump into the Firehole River as it flowed slow and deep beneath us. They all jumped off the cliff and landed with a thrilling splash. The more they jumped, the more I related to some of the urologic injuries I had been caring for and, in my mind, I saw my baggy nylon swimming suit and its contents coming up around my ears. I backed out and climbed down the cliff, with everything intact—except my pride. It has become a tradition to bring this up whenever we meet—and pass this story of my failing courage on to the next generation. Our youngest daughter was about four when we visited them in their home in Roseville. They had a hot tub and a pool and with four boys they had an abundance of Superballs. There was hardly a moment when a Superball was not flying by. Out of range for the usual close Idaho supervision, the boys challenged our four-year-old to put a Superball into her mouth. She was also talented, bright, and feisty and was not about to chicken out. She took the Superball out of the pool and put it into her mouth, spit it out, and defiantly gave it right back after showing them that she had the courage to successfully take on their challenge. She even enjoyed their hysterical laughter, thinking that they were laughing at the fact that she had bettered them. Not so, one of the brothers had goosed himself with the Superball shortly before the challenge. It became a tradition to bring this up whenever we meet—and pass this story on to the next generation. The Welsh Pony has a sister living in Idaho Falls and their mother was placed into an Idaho Falls assisted living facility. Mother’s Day, about six months before she passed on, the family came to Idaho for the weekend. We went to dinner together Saturday evening with some of their family members—including their two teenage daughters who knew of the traditional Superball story but had not met our daughter previously. Also in attendance was the brother who perpetrated the prank. Even though our daughter was now raising her own tribe, her discomfort at facing the gauntlet was obvious until I offered a suggestion. I told her she could again squirm as this story was retold—or she could set him up. She thought about this for about a nanosecond and chose wisely. As we sat around the dinner table at one of Idaho Falls’ finest restaurants, the Superball recitation began. Our daughter was usually blushing with embarrassment when the story was repeated. That night she was not surprised at all and sat expressionless and calm. After the perpetrator completed the story, she asked him if he knew where their Superball was at that moment. He was puzzled and did not know. She raised a finger and told him that she knew where it was and proceeded to gently roll an old, dirty, faded green, dog-chewed Superball across the table in his direction. Wide-eyed with surprise and horror, he about fell backward out of his chair trying to avoid the ball as it rolled towards him. We were all amused, but not as much as his two younger sisters, who had not even been born when the Superball story originated. They could hardly breathe from laughing at their older brother's discomfort. There is power in how your pass traditions on to the next generation. Ever vigilant, RT