Age 8
"Being right is easy; being human takes effort."
The summer of '86 sat heavy over Medford—the kind that makes the air feel half asleep. Cicadas buzzed like static from a dying radio, and the sun burned everything it touched like the setting was turned to a slow simmer. My mom called it good Texas heat—whatever that means.
Most mornings started the same: Dad reading the paper, Georgie rushing out the door to play outside, Missy asking for a juice she didn't want, and me somewhere in the corner of the room quietly calculating how long until breakfast was done, wondering if Mom needed help.
Family life was interesting.My father loved order but had none.My mother loved faith but wrestled with doubt.Sheldon—well, Sheldon was Sheldon; he was in his experimental years, his knowledge blossoming.
But that summer felt quieter than usual. There was something missing. Pop Pop's chair at the table stayed empty. No one said it out loud anymore, but the silence was heavy.
Mom still set out his mug some mornings. Dad pretended not to notice. Missy had asked once where he went. Mom told her, "He's in Heaven." Sheldon made a comment about statistics, and me—I just looked at the mug and wished logic could fill it.
Grief wasn't something I could quantify. It didn't follow a pattern or yield to reason—it just… was.And for the first time, I realized my mind, perfect as it was, couldn't fix everything.
Our house was small, but ideas and memories filled it to the brim. Mom tried to keep up, bless her heart. She'd walk into a room and find Sheldon explaining rocket propulsion to Missy, who just wanted to watch cartoons, while I was beginning to plan out my future—writing down knowledge I knew of this world in a cipher I made myself.
Saturday mornings were supposed to be peaceful, but peace is rare in a house with three kids and one Sheldon.
Dad was reading the Medford Daily News, half grumbling at the headlines, half guarding his bacon like it was gold. Georgie was already bragging about how many touchdowns he was going to score at his peewee league game. Missy wanted the last pancake because it was the prettiest one.
And then there was Sheldon, trying to measure syrup viscosity with a ruler.
"Did you know that maple syrup's density is—" he started.
"I swear, Shelly," Georgie cut in, "one day I'm gonna pour that syrup over your head and see how you measure up."
Mom sighed. Dad mumbled something about patience. I sipped apple juice and decided to let natural selection play out for a minute.
Before anyone could test that theory, there was a knock at the door.
It was the neighbor boy, Billy Sparks. Every neighborhood has that one kid who owns too many slingshots and doesn't believe in an indoor voice. He stood there grinning.
"Hey, y'all wanna come out and play? My dad said I could use the BB gun if I don't shoot nothin' important!"
Mom gave him the look—the one that could melt steel."Billy, honey, that's lovely, but maybe later."
Sheldon quipped, "Statistically, you will shoot something important."
Billy frowned. "Huh?"
I stated that it meant no, standing and walking toward the door before Sheldon could start some dissertation on firearm probability, then have Dad chime in, and an argument conclude—because this is Texas, and we love our guns.
"But thanks for the offer, Billy."
He tilted his head at me. I shrugged. He squinted like he was solving a riddle. Then he laughed, big and loud, and trotted off down the street.
And then we went back to our chaos of breakfast—but the good kind, the kind that meant the house was still alive.
Sunday mornings
Sunday mornings were Mary Cooper's favorite—and Sheldon's least. The rest of us were somewhere in between.
The smell of starch and hairspray filled the house as Mom lined us up for church like it was inspection day. Sheldon protested the entire time, his collar itchy, asking Mom questions that tested the theological inconsistencies of organized religion, while she tried her best to keep her composure.
Dad snorted from the kitchen."We're gonna be late—now get in the truck."
The First Baptist Church of Medford was only ten minutes away from our house. The white steeple gleamed against the blue sky, and the bells began to ring. Inside, ceiling fans spun slow. Pastor Jeff stood at the pulpit, cheerful and certain.
As we took our seats, the pastor started his sermon. He knocked on his pulpit.
"Church, can you hear it? Maybe you don't notice it anymore, but I still hear it. The world is knockin' on the church house door. It ain't just out on the street anymore. The world has put on its Sunday best and is askin' for a place in the pew.
"We have got worldly music on our radios, worldly programs on our televisions, and now the world is telling the church how to think and how to act. Well, I'm here to tell you today, that's not what the Word of God calls us to do. The Apostle Paul lays it out plain and simple for us here in Romans."
Pastor Jeff's voice grew more intense.
"Paul says, 'Do not be conformed to this world.' That word conformed means to be poured into the world's mold—to take on its shape."
At that point, I stopped paying attention.He went on for quite a while.
After service, Pastor Jeff was by the door shaking hands like a politician. He said hello to Mom, smiled at us kids, and we filed out into the sunlight.
That evening
The house was still—the kind of quiet that only came after a Sunday spent pretending everything was fine.
The dishes were drying in the rack, the air smelled of fried chicken and lemon soap, and somewhere down the street, Billy Sparks was probably shooting at cans—or something that used to be a can.
Dad was outside with the hood of his truck open, cursing at the engine. I quietly joined him. The sun was low, bleeding orange across the driveway, casting long and soft shadows.
He glanced over, half-smiling."You believe any of what the preacher said?"
"I believe people need to," I answered.
He gave a small chuckle, tightening a bolt."Yeah. Your mama sure does."
I passed him the wrench he'd been reaching for."Pop Pop did too."
He stopped and rested his arm on the truck, looking up into the sky."He sure did, little man."
After that, we sat in silence.
The truck coughed once, then rumbled to life. As the engine settled into a steady hum, I found myself thinking about constants—those rare things that stay true no matter how the variables shift.
For Mom, it was faith.For Dad, it was his work.And for me… maybe family was its own equation—unsolvable but worth studying.
The sun dipped below the trees, and the cicadas started up again, filling the space between our words. Dad took a sip of his beer. I leaned against the truck, and for a little while, everything was good.
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