It was a council of war!  And it was as noisy as if the war had already started.  It was far too noisy for Howie, who sat fidgeting in his seat at the table.

The Throckmortons were eating in the kitchen and discussing what to do about the broken vase.  It couldn’t be glued back together.  Meg lost a fingernail attempting it.  Two pieces of vase and one of the handles now had a red fingernail permanently attached to them, and Meg had a bandage on her right index finger.  Grandma Ida would have to be told.

Mike Evans, Meg’s fiance, was glaring at Howie.  He was upset over what he termed “The Attack” on Meg.  The fingernail was an additional insult.

There had to be some other way of teaching Howie to dance.  Acting like a drill sergeant hadn’t worked.  Mike suspected that Howie was unpatriotic.

 Howie was not enjoying his dinner.

“ZEN!” Harvey Throckmorton suddenly shouted over the din.

“Then what?” responded Louise, frowning in confusion.

No, I said ‘Zen’ – not ‘then’.  Zen is an Oriental philosophy that teaches a person can know something in his heart without thinking about it.  I learned about it in the Pacific.  Maybe we could teach Howie to dance using Zen.”

Harvey was a tall, rugged man, with muscles hard from years spent working on a farm before he went to war and then into the insurance business.  He had the Throckmorton brown hair and eyes.  He heard about the disastrous lesson as soon as he arrived home.  His wife and daughter greeted him with bruised limbs, bandages, and pieces of broken vase.  He was sympathetic to them, of course, but he was more worried about Grandma Ida.  What would she do when she found out about the vase?  And there had to be some way to teach Howie without endangering limbs and gifts.

“How is Zen going to teach Howie to dance in his heart?” his wife asked.

“I don’t think he has a heart!” Meg said.  “If he did, he would have tried harder today.”

Mike scowled.

Howie answered indignantly, “Hey!”  He waved his fork for emphasis.   “I didn’t want the dance lesson in the first place.  And you stuck your foot right under me.  What do you think is going to happen when you do that?

“It was a Cha Cha, Howie, not the Swing!” Meg repeated emphatically.  She pounded her fist on the table, sending her bracelets jangling.  Then she winced as her finger began to throb.

“I bet I could make him swing,” Mike muttered under his breath.  Mike was tall and athletic, and he also had brown hair and eyes.

Howie ignored him, as he picked up his glass and took a drink.

Buster, the family watchdog, stopped eating from his bowl on the floor and looked up at the table.  His tail was thumping slowly as he tried to figure out the disturbance.  Buster was a mutt of mostly Scottish terrier descent.  He too had brown hair and eyes, with gray whiskers that gave him a dignified look.  He was a bold and fearless protector, except around Snowball, having lost several encounters to Emily’s cat early in their acquaintance.  Now he had a hole dug under the back porch, where he retreated when Snowball was in a retractable mood.  He decided this was normal family conversation and rolled over on his back to get some attention.

“You don’t want to disappoint your Aunt Mae, do you Howie?” his mother asked, as she reached down and scratched Buster on his stomach, sending his foot thumping.

Mr. Throckmorton continued, “Howie is thinking too much about dancing, and that is making him nervous.  Dancing has to be a natural extension of oneself, like breathing.  Nobody has to be taught how to breathe.  Dancing should be as natural as that.”

 “I agree,” Louise nodded.  “We even make up new steps without thinking.”

“And follow them just as naturally,” added Meg.

“It’s as if we had only one mind,” Mike said of his finacee.  “Separated us and we would each have only half a brain.”

Howie choked on his drink.  It was going to be a long night.  He sighed.

 “To learn to dance, Howie has to forget about dancing,” Harvey repeated.

“I am willing to forget about dancing, but that is not going to work.  It is silly to think that forgetting about something will work…” Howie started before his mother interrupted him.

“It makes perfect sense to me,” she agreed.  “But how do we do make him do that?”

Here, Harvey was stumped.  He hadn’t figured that part out yet.  He tried to remember all he had learned about Zen.

The family was in the kitchen even though there was wrestling TV on tonight.  They were avoiding the parlor.  It felt too much like returning to the scene of the crime.  The women’s feet were wrapped and resting on a pillow, set on a stool they shared between them.  The men insisted they relax and do nothing more that night - the dishes could wait until tomorrow.

Meg was wearing a new dress Emily inspired her to buy, along with the waterproof makeup.  Her hair was still damp.  It was the red one, with tiny straps.   It matched her lipstick and nine of her fingers.  To keep it decent, Meg was still wearing her yellow blouse underneath it, and she lengthened the bottom by tying a long green scarf about her waist.  Mike loved it.  She promised to wear it unaccessorized, in private, after they were married.

In honor of the dress, Louise served spaghetti for dinner, along with grape soda.  She had planned on fish sticks, but changed her mind.  She felt strongly, after the dance lesson, that Howie had not earned seafood.

Buster, having satisfied his itch, rolled over and returned to his bowl of breaded cod.

Mr. Throckmorton finally came up with something.  “I heard a story about a student who asked a Zen master to teach him knowledge.  Instead, the master led him into the ocean and held him under water so he couldn’t breathe.”

Howie sat up in his chair.  This didn’t sound good!

“Maybe he should have raised his hand before asking,” suggested Meg.

“Yes,” agreed Mike.  “I had a teacher like that once.  He got upset if you spoke out of turn.”

Harvey continued.  “The student struggled and struggled, but in spite of his efforts, he could not break free.  Finally, just as he was about to lose consciousness from lack of air, the master let go and he jumped up gasping for breath.  As the student stood there, shuddering, the master said, ‘When you want knowledge as badly as you wanted air, you will not need to be taught.  It will come to you naturally.’”

“And he learned this…from being held under water?” Louise asked.

“Yes,” said Harvey, pleased with his recollection.  “Eventually he became a Zen master, also.”

There was a pause as the family digested this method of teaching.

“I don’t know” Mrs. Throckmorton finally said.  “There are no oceans near here.  And our bathtub is awfully small.  Would holding Howie under the shower do?”

“What if he stepped on our feet,” Meg worried.

Howie wondered if he should get to his room and lock the door.

 “You’re missing the point,” Mr. Throckmorton said, shaking his head.

Mike put down his fork and began rolling up his sleeves.   “I’ll hold him under for you, sweetheart,” he told Meg.

“Hey,” said Howie, scooting his chair as far away from Mike as he could.  “Dad says you’re missing the point.”

“I don’t see how holding Howie under a shower would make him dance anyway, unless it was really cold water,” Meg added.  She shifted her foot to make it more comfortable.

Howie breathed a little easier.  But he didn’t move his chair back.

“I’ll think of something else then,” Mike promised, picking up his fork and spearing a meatball.

“The point,” Harvey said, “is Howie should not think about dancing.  It is a disaster when he does.

Soon everybody was talking at once, trying to find a way to teach Howie without him knowing it.  Although the shower idea was nixed, suggestions like “dangle him by his thumbs", “give him a hot foot”, and “tickle him” were tossed about, mostly by Mike.

Howie was losing his appetite.

The Throckmorton kitchen was as bright and colorful as the parlor.  Again Mrs. Throckmorton gave sway to her love of color and modern tastes.  The cabinets were green and the walls were yellow.  Red-checkered curtains covered the window.

The counter top and floor were tiled in the same black and white checkered pattern.  They matched so well that it was hard to tell where the counter top ended and the floor began.  Occasional visitors unfamiliar with the kitchen tried to step onto the counter as they crossed the room..

The kitchen table was a round Formica top with metal legs.  Its chairs were made of metal tubes and green plastic seats.  In the center of the table was a Lazy Susan.  A Lazy Susan is a large tray that rotates in a circle.  Instead of passing food, the Throckmortons turned the tray to take what they needed.  Through experience they had learned to turn it so it did not cause food to fly.  Louise loved its efficiency.

The original wood-burning farm stove had been replaced by a gas one, which stood on the same bricks as for the original.  It had four burners and a hot plate on top, with a broiler under the oven.  The fashionable refrigerator with round corners and a chrome handle.  The fridge had egg and butter shelves in the door and a freezer on top.  The meat and vegetable drawers were clear plastic to show what was in them without having to pull them out.  On the counter top next to the toaster were a large electric can opener and a stainless steel mixer.  It was a very modern kitchen.

The kitchen was also Mrs. Throckmorton’s cosmetic showroom.  By the back door was her makeup table, used to give makeovers to ladies in the neighborhood.  It was real, bought from a beauty store.  On it were lipsticks, blushes, powders, and lotions.  The men avoided it.  They did not know a blush from a powder, and weren’t interested in learning.  A lighted mirror on a tiltable stand sat on the table.  Its brightness could adjustable so makeup could be applied in the light it was to be worn in, soft for the daytime and heavy for night.  A current addition was the bowl of water used for demonstrating the waterproof additions.  The stool normally reserved for customers was at the kitchen table, being used to rest the swollen feet.

Dinner with the Throckmortons was always lively.  It was hard to hear one’s self over the din. Everyone had something to say and no one to listen.   Emily loved it when she got invited to eat with the Throckmortons.  In the midst of the noise, Mrs. Throckmorton set down her fork and said simply, “I am going to have to call Grandma Ida and tell her about the vase.”

Suddenly the room was deathly still.

Mr. Throckmorton, decorated for his courage in battle, turned pale.  “You’re going to call my mother about the vase…tonight?” he repeated.

“I’ve got it!  We could take Howie to Cleveland and throw him into Lake Erie.”  Mike, who didn’t know Grandma Ida well enough to worry about her, was still working on a solution for teaching Howie.

As tempting as this suggestion might have been another time, Meg was too worried to consider it now.  No one had ever destroyed a gift from Grandma Ida before.

There was long silence.  Buster looked up from his meal, while licking his whiskers.

“I suppose I could wait until tomorrow,” Louise finally offered.  “It is getting late.  She may have already gone to bed.”

“Yes!  I’m sure it is too late.”  Harvey let out a sigh of relief; ignoring the fact that seven o’clock was an early time for anyone to be in bed.  “Tomorrow will be soon enough!”

Everyone agreed putting it off seemed like a good idea!

Mrs. Throckmorton returned to the problem of Howie.  “Your Aunt Mae is looking forward to seeing you at the wedding, Howie.  You two can do whatever you feel like.  Forget anything about D A N C I N G!”  She spelled it.

Does she think I can’t spell, Howie wondered?

She continued, “I don’t know what you two will do, but you can figure that out, when you are not thinking about it.”  She looked at her husband for approval.

Howie rolled his eyes.  But at least she was not trying to drown him.

Mr. Throckmorton caught on right away, and agreed.  “Your mother is right.  You and Aunt Mae should just relax and have fun.  We do not care what you do out there on the dance floor with the music playing, the beat going, the lights flashing, and the other couples…er…D A N C I N G.”

“And I do not care what you do, either.  You could even talk about fishing…no pressure.” Meg added.  She started humming a tango.

 “FISHING!” Mike shouted, half rising out of his seat.  “I know a fishing lake just over the Indiana border.  My father took me there when I was a kid.  It’s deep enough to drown in!  Howie, how would you like to go fishing?”

Meg looked pleased, as Mike whispered in her ear, but loud enough for everyone to hear.  “I have a plan to stop Howie from breathing and teach him to dance.”  Mike was persistent, a sign of a good salesman.

Howie was not about to go fishing with Mike.  But he was spared from answering by his father.

 “That reminds me of a joke I heard today,” Mr. Throckmorton said.

A joke!  Everyone gave him their attention.

 “A young boy was sitting on a rock, fishing in a lake.” Harvey started

“Is this the same lake Mike is taking Howie to?” Meg asked.

Mr. Throckmorton looked thoughtful.  “The man who told me the joke is from Indiana, so it might be the same lake.”

Howie asked, “Don’t you think there’s more than one lake in Indiana?”

“Howie, don’t interrupt you father,” his mother said.  “Can’t you be polite and listen like your sister?”

“But Meg interrupted first.”

“Hush, Howie,” she repeated.  “Meg asked an intelligent question.  You were just interrupting."

“A young boy was sitting on a rock, fishing in a lake - in Indiana,” Mr. Throckmorton added, “and he fell in.”

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Throckmorton.  “He wasn’t injured, was he?”

“It’s only a joke, mother.”  Howie tried to reassure her.

“Howie, you are interrupting again,” Meg said.

“Fell in the lake…that is a great idea!”  Mike looked speculatively at Howie.

Howie was definitely going to turn down all invitations from Mike.

“And he fell in!” Mr. Throckmorton repeated.  “Can I continue?”

Everyone glared at Howie, then turned their attention back to Harvey.

“As he was going down for the third time, an English teacher happened along.  And she pulled him out.”

“Then could he dance?” Louise asked.

Mr. Throckmorton ignored her.  “She asked him, ‘Young man, how did you come to fall in?’  The boy looked at her in bewilderment and replied, ‘Lady, I didn’t come to fall in.  I came to fish!’”

There was a pause.  Everyone looked at him blankly.

“’Lady, I didn’t come to fall in.  I came to fish!’” Mr. Throckmorton repeated.  “That’s all!” he finally said.  “That was the joke!”

There was another silence. 

“I like insurance jokes better,” Meg said.

“But could he dance?”  Mrs. Throckmorton still wanted to know.

Mr. Throckmorton shrugged his shoulders.  “I suppose he could, if he wanted to badly enough.”

Mrs. Throckmorton added, “And that nice English teacher was there, if he needed to someone to dance with,”

Howie sighed and twirled his spaghetti.

Meg said, “Mike, when you and Howie go fishing, do you think you could find a nice English teacher to take with you in case there is any D A N C I N G?”

“Do we know any English teachers who like to fish?” Louise asked her husband.

“What about Emily Hinton?” replied Harvey.  “Isn’t she going to be an English teacher?”

Actually, Emily wanted to be a poet like Emily Dickinson.  It had not escaped her notice that they shared the same name.

“It is something that starts with a ‘P’,” Louise replied, ”Policeman or president…I think.”

“She would be good at both,” added Meg.

Mr. Throckmorton was disappointed.  “Well, let’s think of someone else then.”

Soon the table was as noisy as ever with them trying to think of a fishing English teacher.

“There must be some other way,” Louise said at last.  It was just as well.  She had already mopped the floor twice that day, demonstrating the new makeup, and she was not particularly excited about another wet person traipsing - or even dancing - across her clean floor.

“You’re right,” the others reluctantly agreed.  No one could think of the right teacher anyway.

“I did not realize Zen was so hard,” Mrs. Throckmorton said.

“It’s not supposed to be,” Harvey answered.  He wondered what he was doing wrong.  He wished Emily were going to be an English teacher.  That would have been Zen!  “Why hasn’t Emily Hinton taught him to dance,” he asked.  “I understand she has some wonderful teaching methods."

Wonderful? Howie thought, what’s wonderful about getting hit by a baseball?

“This might be too dangerous for a young girl like that,” Louise replied.

“Hey!” said Howie indignantly.  But he couldn’t think of anything else.  Emily would probably agree with them.  But she was his best friend, and she had no business agreeing with his family!  Besides, her teaching methods were not all that great, he thought, rubbing his stomach. 

“Does Emily like to fish?” Mike asked.

Howie decided it was time to change the subject, and looking around the table asked, “Who sold any thing today?”

That got their attention.

“I had an off day,” admitted Louise.  “Just a small order to Easter Hinton.  I do not have the knack of demonstrating this new makeup, yet.  I wonder if I could get some tips out of an old army magazine,” she mused.

“I sold several dresses and sheet,” Meg said with a smile.

 “Was it for a bed?” Louise asked.

“I don’t think so,” Meg answered.  “She wore it home.”

“She wore it home?” Louise repeated.

“Yes,” said Meg.  “It went with her shoes.”

“What kind of shoes was she wearing?” Louise was puzzled.

“Bedroom slippers.”

 “ZEN!” Harvey Throckmorton suddenly shouted.

“Then what?” Louise asked, again.

“No, I said ‘Zen’, not ‘then’.  But that’s it!  Zen is like selling.  A good salesman sells from his heart.”

“You have to believe in what you are doing!” Mike agreed.

“When we tried teaching Howie we weren’t using our hearts?” Mrs. Throckmorton asked.

“I gave a foot and a finger,” Meg said.  “How many body parts do you want?”

“Your finger wasn’t my fault,” Howie insisted.

“Hush, Howie,” said his mother.

“The problem is that you gave Howie dance lessons.  And it was a disaster.” 

Louis and Meg agreed with that.  “But what else could we do?” Mrs. Throckmorton asked.  “There wasn’t enough room to hit him with a baseball.”

Mr. Throckmorton paused and looked around the table expectantly.  “We are no longer going to give Howie dance lessons.”

Howie breathed a sigh of relief.

“Instead, we’re going to sell them to him.”

Howie dropped his fork and it clattered onto the floor.

Thinking the fork had been thrown at him; Buster ran under the makeup table and hid.

“What a clever idea,” said Louise.  “How much should we charge him?”

 “I am not paying for dance lessons,” Howie said.  “I don’t even want dance lessons.”

“It should be a lot,” said Meg.  “After all, we want Howie to have only the best!”

Howie reached to the Lazy Susan for another fork just as Mike turned it to get another helping of spaghetti, and he found his hand in the middle of the plate of meatballs.

“Howie, don’t play with your food,” his mother scolded.

As he reached for a paper napkin, Mike turned it the other way.  This time he went in the spaghetti sauce.

“Do you want some cheese with that?” Meg asked sarcastically.

Howie gave up and dropped his hand to his side.

“The first lesson was for free.  That was to entice him,” Harvey said.

“I was not enticed,” Howie informed them.

Seeing that nothing else was being thrown, Buster crept out from under his hiding place.  He went over and sniffed Howie’s hand.

 “Maybe we could sell him accident insurance, too” Mike suggested.

Howie ignored him.  “If I do not want dance lessons for free, what makes you think I want to pay for them?”

 “Because then you will be getting your moneys worth,” responded Meg.

“But I don’t want dance lessons at all.”

 “A good salesperson sees a need and satisfies it.  Sometimes the person doesn’t even realize he has the need,” she added.   She gave Howie a knowing look.

Just then, Howie snicker as Buster licked the sauce from his fingers.

Everyone was appalled.  His mother said, “Howie, your sister is serious.  Just because you cannot sell, does not mean you should make fun of people who can.”

“I’m not making fun of her," Howie insisted.  He shoved Buster away and finally got a napkin.

 “I’ll have you know,” said Meg, “selling is one of the hardest and most challenging jobs in the world.

“Being a doctor is not easy,” said Howie.

“At least a doctor gets to bury his mistakes,” responded Meg.  “But a salesperson has to…has to…” She stopped and took a drink of grape juice.

“Has to what?” asked Howie.

Meg set her glass down and said, “A salesperson has to warranty.”

“I’d like to see you warranty a dead body, Howie,” said Mike.

“What?”

His father said, “Howie, a salesperson not only has to find a need and fill it, but he also has to guarantee that it works.”

“And if it doesn’t, then he replaces it – again, and again, and again,” Mike added, “as often as needed.”

His mother nodded, soberly.

There was a moment of respectful silence.

“We should charge him not only for dance lessons,” Mike broke the silence.  “But also a cover charge like at a real dance studio.”

Again everyone started talking at once, ignoring Howie’s protests about cover charges in his own home.

Louise said, “If this works, we could open a studio, and after he learns, Howie could give us a testimonial.  He could say ‘I was a hopeless klutz with two left feet and no social skills until I was taught at the Throckmorton School of Dance.”  She looked hopefully at Howie.

“I’m not hopeless and I have social skills!  Why should I pay for lessons I do not even want…and…and…you can’t charge me cover charge in our own parlor.”

 “You are right, Howie,” his mother said thoughtfully.  “This time we’ll use the kitchen.”

“Why don’t we call it the Evans School of Dance,” asked Mike.  “After all, that will be Meg’s married name.”

“You don’t want to wait until you’re married to teach Howie, do you?  Imagine what would happen at the reception.”

Mike and Meg shuddered.  “The Throckmorton School of Dance sounds great,” they both agreed.

Harvey had an idea.   “If you give the lessons in the kitchen, you can use the tiles on the floor as dance patterns,” he suggested.

They all gave him puzzled looks.

He pointed to four black and white squares and said, “That’s the box step.”

“Ah!”  They replied.

 “The squares would also work for the two-step, the Cha Cha, and the swing,” Meg added excitedly.

 “It is a good thing that no dances go in a triangle,” Harvey said, “or we’d have to re-tile the floor.”

“But you should avoid any dance that goes in a circle,” said Mike.

“No polkas,” Louise agreed.

 “Let’s decide how much we should charge him,” Meg suggested.

“Could the cover charge be extended to cover cost of replacing the vase?” Mike asked.

“I am not paying a cover charge,” Howie insisted

 “Later we could hold Friday night dances here.  This would be great for a Sock Hop,” Mike continued.

“I don’t think that is such a good idea.  You do not want to be in socks around Howie on a dance floor,” Louise said

They all shuddered.

 “Maybe Howie’s testimonial should say, ‘Until I learned to dance at the Throckmorton School of Dance, I was heartless and had no redeeming qualities,’” suggested Meg

“I had no redeeming WHAT?” Howie yelled.  “You’re crazy.”

Buster ran under the makeup table again.

“Howie, you’re scaring the dog,” his mother said.

Mr. Throckmorton replied, “Crazy!  That reminds me of a story of a patient in a mental hospital.  He was looking out of his window at a farmer working in a nearby field.  ’What are you doing?’ the patient called out to the farmer.  ‘I am putting fertilizer on strawberries,’ was the answer.  ‘They say we’re crazy,’ replied the patient, ‘but in here we put cream on them.’”

While the others were busy laughing, Howie was finally able to get new fork from the Lazy Susan.  Seeing it, Buster moved farther under the table.

“That reminds me of one,” responded Mike.  “As a man enters a mental institution, a patient challenged him saying, ‘Salute me, because I am Napoleon.’  After doing so, hen the man went about his business, but on the way out, the same patient said, ‘Salute me, because I am Julius Caesar.’  ‘Wait a minute,’ the man responded.  “On the way in, you said you were Napoleon.’  ‘Yes,’ replied the patient, ‘but that was by a different mother!’”

“I can top that one…” Harvey started.

“We were talking about dance lessons,” Louise reminded him.

 “When will you have the next lesson,” Harvey asked.  He knew the rest of Grandma Ida’s gifts were in the basement, but he was going to lock that door just to be safe.

“What do we have scheduled for tomorrow?” Louise looked at Meg.

“I have a ball game after school,” Howie reminded them.

“We will do it after the game then.  That’ll give Meg and I time to prepare,” his mother said.

“And come up with a price for the lesson,” Meg added.  Both of them shifted their feet to be more comfortable.

When Harvey noticed this, he said, “That reminds me of another joke.  It seems an elderly lady fell down and broke her leg.”

“Howie, Don’t interrupt your father this time,” his mother interrupted to say.

“The doctor put a cast on it and told her, ‘I don’t want you climbing stairs until this heals.’  The woman agreed and went home.  Six weeks latter she came back with the leg healed, but she looked exhausted.  ‘Can I climb stairs now,’ she asked the doctor.  ‘Certainly,’ he assured her.  ‘Good,’ she said.  ‘You don’t know how hard it has been shimmying up and down the drain pipe!’”

While they were laughing, Louise made a mental note to add the Shimmy to the list they would teach Howie.

Mike Evans helped himself to some more spaghetti and said, “You know, sir.  That reminds me of an insurance joke.  It goes like this.  A man’s wife died, and he was so overcome with grief that nothing could console him, until his insurance agent showed up and gave him a check for one hundred thousand dollars.  His tears dried up instantly!  But he assured the agent he was still heartbroken, ‘I want you to know,’ he said, ‘I would give half of this back just to have her here again.’”

“Half of it…,” the men laughed.  But women didn’t think it was funny! 

Louise felt it was time to put them in their place.  “I know an insurance joke,” she said, glaring at them.  “Some business men went on an African safari together,” she started.  “But they were bothered by one of their group, an insurance salesman.”  She paused to give them a meaningful look.  “He was constantly pitching his policies, even in the midst of the jungle.  It got so the others avoided him.”

“Hey!” said Harvey and Mike, indignantly.

“One day,” she continued, ignoring them, “the salesman got separated from the group.  After a spirited discussion amongst the others, it was decided they had to go back and look for him.  Finally, they found him in a clearing, where he was backed up against a tree facing a lion.  Quickly, the guide led the others away.  ’Wait,’ said one kind soul, ‘shouldn’t we try to rescue him?’  ’No,’ replied the guide.  ‘The lion got himself into that mess.  Let him get himself out.’”

 “Wait!  I know one,” Meg joined in.  “An insurance salesman sold Mrs. Smith a policy, and he needed her age.  But she refused to tell him.  ‘Did the Hill sisters tell you their age when you sold them a policy?’ she asked.  ‘Certainly!’ the salesman insisted.  ‘Well, I am as old as they are.’  And that is what he wrote.  ‘Mrs. Smith is as old as the Hills.’”

Mike gave Meg a proud look, and squeezed her hand.

Howie snorted.

 “Howie,” said his mother gently, “You don’t have to have a sense of humor like the rest of us.  We love you, anyway.”

Howie was indignant.  “I can tell a joke.  And I know an insurance one.”

They all looked at him doubtfully.

 “Two storekeepers met in Hawaii,” he started, “and shared the story of how they got there.  ‘I had a fire in my store,’ the first said.  ‘But fortunately I had fire insurance, and I came here on my benefits.”

“That’s good,” said Mr. Throckmorton.  “That’s why you should always pay your premiums.”

Howie continued.  ”’My story is pretty much the same,’ said the other storekeeper.  ‘Only I had a flood in my store.’  At this, the first storekeeper looked perplexed.  Finally he asked, ‘How do you start a flood?’”

Howie grinned and looked at the others.

There was a painful silence.

Then…

“Oh Howie,” his mother gasped.

Meg hid her face on Mike’s shoulder.

“Howie,” his father looked at him sadly.  “That was no a joke.  That was insurance fraud.”