Mischievous

A while back, a lady at church made the observation and comment that “little Brisco sure is mischievous”. I had been looking for that word for a while now, but for some reason it alluded me. Ornery is the only word that came to mind, but it seemed like such a toothless, back-of-the-pickup-in-your-overalls, haven’t–had-a-bath-in-six-months kind of descriptor, while still, albeit 100% true.

But mischievous more clearly and succinctly encompasses my thoughts. And it brings into focus a memory of long ago that I guess I had forgotten until this word was reintroduced to my life as a description for my own child.

Years ago as a small child, my family and I would come to Sentinel to visit. We’d make our rounds to Martha’s and Jones’ and then over to Grandma and Ruby’s. I had an uncle named Buss, which in and of itself always seemed strange to me as a kid. Why would a grown up have a name like Buss, and what did it mean anyway? But “Uncle Buss” was a name that just seemed to fit. He was always tickling us and smiling and sticking out his dentures. We thought it was funny, and maybe a little gross, but we were little kids. Easily entertained.

I don’t remember when it started, or why for that matter. But it seemed, like the second born of my children, I had earned the title “mischievous”. Whether I had done one thing or many, or I simply had “that look”, to Uncle Buss, my name was just that. And it didn’t come out like a school marm reading it from a Dickens' novel. It was that twangy, four-syllable way I still pronounce it today: “mis-chee-vee-us”.

It’s funny how some things stick out in a child’s memory. I couldn’t tell you 10 things about Uncle Buss today if I had to. But I remember always being the one with “the look”. I could be sitting on that old floweredy couch with the raised, gold stitching doing nothing but sitting still and he’d look across at me, grinning, and say, “There’s that mischievous one over there.”

As a child, I don’t remember knowing what that word really meant. I’m sure I asked at some point in time. Maybe I got a truthful response; maybe I didn’t. It didn’t really matter. It wasn’t something I could change or mask or eliminate from my being. It just was. And I guess the same is so for our Brisco.

It is true; some kids just have the look. And maybe some don’t live up to the interpretations of their personalities, but let’s face it, some kids do. Whether it is embraced or avoided, accepted or denied, it is what it is. It somehow helps define who we are and how other people see us. At least while we are young.

Having an ornery little kid is a thing to endure, but I know there are things much worse. After all, my parents lived through it. But when the boy is told not to touch the chocolate cake and while you are watching-making solid eye contact with him, in the presence of God and other witnesses-he takes his fingers and walks them across the table toward that sweet, forbidden snack…taunting my authority with a grin on his face and “the look” in his eyes…that mischievous child can almost win me over, forcing me to overlook his ornery disobedience. Almost.

And that’s All in a day’s work!