Madam President

by Donna Poole

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I heard that often when I was a child. I’m still trying to decide on my answer!

I didn’t want to be president. Talk about a thankless, stressful job! Why would anyone want to be president of the United States? It’s a reasonable question to ask on President’s Day. Your answer depends on whether you’re a cynic, an optimist, a psychiatrist, or a combination of all three! A cynic says a candidate is in it only for money and power. An optimist objects: no, it’s altruism; the person really cares about the country. The psychiatrist may say whatever the motive, the individual must be crazy!

I had no aspirations to be president. I did think it would be fun to be Queen Elizabeth so I could use the editorial “we” when speaking of only myself, as in, “We are not amused.” My sister Mary and I thought that phrase was hysterical and used it at every opportunity; Mom was not amused.

I remember for a time wanting to be an Amelia Earhart and fly solo across the Atlantic, an ambition my family laughed at because I’d been getting lost since pre-school days. At a young age I got angry with my parents about something and informed them I was running away.

They shrugged. “Go ahead.”

We lived in town at the time. I marched out of the house, and my anger dissipated into delight in my newfound freedom as blocks passed. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. Dad! I hadn’t been free; he’d been following me!

“Time to go home.”

I was furious. “You said I could run away!”

“Now I’m saying it’s time to go home. Where were you going anyway?”

“Aunt Virginia and Uncle Tom’s!”

He laughed. “Well, you were going the wrong way.”

Our family was visiting Aunt Virginia and Uncle Tom when I was a little older. They lived in a charming row house in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I was an outdoor girl, a tomboy, and I got restless and probably rambunctious. Someone told me to go outside and play.

I had so much fun running up and down the block in front of their house getting rid of the excess energy accumulated from spending too much time indoors. It took a while, but I got tired. Time to go inside. That proved to be a problem. Row houses all look alike. I wandered aimlessly, up the block, down the block. What to do?

At last, I saw a familiar figure standing in front of one of the houses. Uncle Tom! I ran to him, trying to keep relief from showing.

He chuckled. “You got lost, didn’t you? Your secret’s safe with me.”

I’ve outgrown many things in my life, but I still have zero since of direction. Once I started driving the few short miles to our Michigan church and ended up hopelessly lost in Ohio. My tales of getting lost could fill a tome. Let’s just say some of my back road wanderings have been unintentional.

It’s a family trait this getting lost. My older sister Eve and I were supposed to serve the food at our baby sister Ginny’s wedding reception, so we left the wedding as soon as the ceremony ended to get things ready. By the time we got to the reception almost everyone was gone. Our husbands had served the food. They looked cute in aprons.

I gave up on flying solo across the Atlantic. I remember wanting to be a detective like Nancy Drew. I also wanted to be an airline stewardess. That’s what they called them back in the fifties; there were no positions for men.

Dad worked for an airline, and he dashed my hopes.

“Honey, there’s a height requirement to be a stewardess. You’ll never be tall enough. And you must be able to see fairly well without your glasses; you’re legally blind without yours. And besides, those stewardesses are glamorous!

What are you saying, Dad? I can be glamorous! Just let me get out of these jeans and wash my face a few times!

After I thought about it, glamor didn’t appeal to me, so I discarded that ambition too.

I was pretty shocked when we were newly weds and John said he thought God was calling him to be a pastor. Wait! That would make me a…pastor’s wife? God hadn’t said a word to me about that! Weren’t pastor’s wives everything I wasn’t? As a joke I went and put on the most old-lady looking outfit I could find and wound my long hair into a severe bun. I came back into the room, stood pigeon-toed, and tried to look saintly.

“What are you doing?” Mom Poole asked.

“Practicing. For when I’m a pastor’s wife.”

She was not amused. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit…sacrilegious?”

No, I didn’t. And that’s exactly why I thought God should maybe have given John a different wife if He planned to make him a preacher! But we’ve both survived and thrived these almost forty-eight years in the ministry, and despite more than a few tears, I confess, it’s the life for me. I’ve loved it. I guess God knew what He was doing after all.

My sister Mary remembers when I was a kid, I said I wanted to be a hermit and a writer. Well baby, look at me now! I’m a writer, and my oncologist has enclosed me in a hermit’s bubble for almost two years. I keep trying to connive my way out, but nothing works. I think he’s heard it all before.

I look back at my life with a heart full of joy. I look to the future with anticipation. I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. Not the president; you’ll never have to call me Madam President. I don’t suppose I’m English enough to qualify to be the queen either; nor was I born into the royal family, and you know what I say to that? We are not amused!