I thought I'd throw an appendix into this whole Millhouse story.
Maybe because, in medical terms, it often involves surgery, and so does an encounter with Millhouse.
Or maybe it's because adding an appendix seems so serious. And Millhouse's story is so NOT serious. And so adding an appendix to the Story of Millhouse makes me laugh.
I don't really know why. Add it to the unanswerable questions of the ages.
I thought I'd give Board Members Who Have Encountered Millhouse or BMWHEM's an appendix all their own.
Ron is in this category, one of my most favourite people ever. Ron was a tailgunner in WWII and had quite the stories to tell. He took as many missions as possible, because you got a steak-and-eggs meal before and after each mission. Whenever he shot someone down, he would salute them as they fell from the sky. He believed in showing respect to your enemies.
Can I just tell you, that kind of story is not part of my life experience, and I'm quite in awe of it.
Ron was awesome. When I met him, he was a lovely older gentleman, a Board Member at my church. He had all kinds of grace for me, a new pastor, fresh outta pastor school, full of all kinds of unproven theories and untested philosophies. It's possible that in my youthful enthusiasm and idealism, I was a little annoying. I don't know. Ron never said so, anyways.
Ron and George (another BMWHEM) very kindly renovated our bathroom for us, soon after we moved to town. Newly married, newly graduated, we didn't have actual money, per se, just loads of hugs and coffee for anyone who would help us. And Ron and George were coffee drinkers, so they were happy to come and do our bathroom.
George is the reason for this blog. You can read about that here. He is also one of my very favourite people.
George and Ron could laugh easily at anything. No matter the crisis or disaster, they had seen worse and lived to tell the stories, which they did, often. Usually when they told a story, they would laugh so hard, tears would come down their faces.
I love Ron and George.
(pause to smile at memories)
So anyway - Millhouse. He didn't feel that the bathroom needed renovating. We explained to him that his feelings didn't matter, and locked him in a bedroom. He expressed his displeasure at this by wailing through the door, begging us to let him out. We refused. He then tried hurling himself through the air at the door, over and over again. We ignored him. He went to sleep for a few hours. We let down our guard.
That was our mistake.
While we were relaxing, secure in the knowledge that Millhouse could not attack Helpful Renovating Board Members from behind a closed door, he was developing his skills, testing his prison for weaknesses. If we had been paying attention, we would have seen his little paw sliding quietly under the door, pushing here, pulling there. We would have realized that his brain was at work, devising an escape plan, while he dozed on the bed.
We didn't know. We had only owned this little feline terrorist for a year or so.
Eventually, he got out. Slid his paw under the door, hooked it around the other side, pulled just at the right angle, disengaged the latch, and silently slipped out. Who knows how long he cased the joint, how long he skulked in corners, before making his move. Patiently, he waited, fanning his hatred of Helpful Renovating Board Members into a fiery loathing rage, while Ron and George unsuspectingly worked away, laughing and telling stories, as they installed tub faucets.
Millhouse waited until I was busy making coffee, and Ron was carrying something heavy out of the bathroom, around the corner, and down the stairs. I heard an almighty caterwaul, a crash and a holler, and knew before I started running what had happened. By the time I got there, the counter was in the living room, Ron was on his keister at the bottom of the stairs, and George had collapsed on the floor at the top of the stairs, killing himself laughing, tears pouring down his face.
Millhouse had disappeared in glee, knowing he would become airborn again (see Norm's story here) if I could get my hands on him.
Fortunately Ron lived to laugh again, and he didn't even dock my paycheque or anything.
But forever after that, whenever Millhouse came into his line of vision, I would see a determined ferocity wash across Ron's face, once again a tailgunner with an enemy, and Mill would retreat. You can throw a WWII tailgunner down the stairs once, but don't try it twice - he'll just respectfully salute you as you plunge out of the sky.
