Chapter VII

Our youngest, Daryl Moses Grenz, was born on November 7th, 1983. We thought of him as our accidental angel. He was a gentle hopeful, trusting spirit, a special gift, an angel, so we told ourselves. His first word was spoken accidentally unrelated to anything – “Naïve”, which is a kind of innocence, what he really wanted to say we could not decipher.

He grew through childhood, gentle, kind, didn’t lose his temper. One brother was rough with him, pushed him, wrestled him. When we sought to discipline his brother, Daryl was quick to defend his brother.

As a child, Daryl had some unique habits. Often he’d run to a wall and stand on his head and hands with his feet against the wall. And he’d sing when walking.

Very early he became very interested in books. Unlike his brother who would read fiction adventures with heroes and villains, Daryl would read non-fiction adventures with heroes and villains, Daryl would read non-fiction; “How to Raise Ducks”, “How to raise parakeets”, and many more. Then he wanted to do those things he’d read about. He bought geese. Then he acquired fertile chicken eggs. He’d saved his money to buy an incubator and feed. He was not interested in buying cakes, candy, or toys, as were his siblings. So he always had plenty of money to care for his animals. And he had many animals; five geese, thirty or so ducks, chickens, rabbits, parakeets, mice, hamsters, quail.

He butchered a goose, sold chickens, and duck eggs; experienced the pain and joy of acting as a guardian of the living. And he set some of his captive dependents free.

I remember best the giving of freedom to the parakeets. At first the parakeets were reluctant to leave their cage, then kept returning to the giant out door cage he and his brother had built; then they kept returning to our fir trees, before finally nesting in a cottonwood two blocks away, hatching four parakeets in the wild. A neighbor boy with a gun claimed to have killed all but one, which we would see occasionally flying with a flock of wild black birds.

He hiked often, rode his bicycle, played the piano, but he didn’t learn to whistle until he was 15 or 16. I remember how diligently he worked until the discovery was made. Now his favorite tune to whistle is Johnny Appleseed.

He was a hard working student, researched his articles extensively. One of his papers was about the Kurdish people. For the paper he interviewed two Kurdish men given political asylum in Germany. One was from Iraq. One was from Turkey. The interview with the Iraqi Kurd was very easy. He looked to Americans to come to the aid of Kurds in Iraq. The interview with the Turkish Kurd was more difficult. He refused to be interviewed alone, considered Americans to be suspect. Iranian Kurds, he carefully researched in the library where he worked. And he got an A on his paper, and on many of his papers. He was a very good student.

Back to the library in Germany! I think it was a sort of paradise for him, being the lover of books that he was. He began working there when he was only 13 years old. What a dangerous place to put someone who loves books! He often came home with dramatic information about the real history behind the official history. And he’d share that information with us. I remember some of the detailed stories about Indians in America. If alive today Columbus, who is honored in the US with his own special holiday, could well rank high among the world’s worst war criminals. Not only did he bring home books from the library, he brought home friends. And his friends were mature older people who had important stories of their own to tell.

Did Daryl rebel? Yes, of course! He did so, however, without a dramatic flare. He simply informed us matter of fact about his choices. He is a steadfast thinker who has good logic behind his ideas.

In youthful days he “went forward” during a Graham Campaign. He was a champion Bible Quizzer, was quicker than kids older than he. It did not seem to be a big deal to him.

I remember one ski trek when he skied with his little friend. He sang while skiing. It was as if the two activities were mutually dependent upon one another. When they stopped skiing, he stopped singing.

One conversation between he and Nick comes up now and then – the exact details escape us, but the essence follows – I bet you don’t know what 6 times 8 is. I bet I do know! Alright, what is it? It’s 68! You’re right!

Or the other conversation – You’re not my friend anymore. I have to be! Well you’re not! But I have to be; you’re my best friend! You’re right! We are still friends!

Or remember the Mountain Peak? He and I had spied on a large herd of elk before reaching the summit. He raised both arms into the air. We both heard the sound of electricity crackling. Hands down! – The sound stopped. Hands up! And crackling electrified. Let’s get out of here! In our hurried descent he lost his hat, and began to retrace his steps toward the top before being persuaded to abandon his hat, which likely by then had flown over some cliff.

One additional story – I wrote this some time ago – Candle. My son doesn’t cry anymore when one of his ducklings dies, but I remember when even a feared tragedy brought him to tears. He’d been incubating 15 eggs for about 7 days, faithfully turning them twice a day, keeping the temperature at 100 degrees, when I made a discovery. Someone had unplugged the incubator, the eggs were cold. I plugged it back in, tried to offer him hope, “Let’s keep turning the eggs, just in case.” He persisted in crying, “You can if you want, I’m not..” He refused to be consoled or distracted. As far as he was concerned, his hopes and dreams had been shattered, but he did pray for the eggs before he sobbed himself to sleep.