Nine-year-old Milton Trent, all excited after testing out his new idea, passed it on to his best friend George Ludlow next door, and then went to tell his father, Sgt. Trent.
“Dad!” he said. “I think the women are actually on to something this time!”
Sisters Vanna (17), Velma (11), and Gracie (8) all looked over, and each of them would have had something to say, but one sharp look from their father advised them against that.
“What, son?” he said gently.
“Embroidery, Dad, embroidery!”
Gracie, who was 8, turned around and started to walk away.
“Don't you want to hear this?” Vanna said.
“Nope. Milton and a needle and he's never paid attention to Mom teaching us sowing. Nope.”
“I'm with Gracie,” said Velma, “especially since he told George and George is picking the lock on the Ludlow garage to get in there without permission.”
Sgt. Trent heard this and so quietly began walking and talking with Milton and easing across the property line in the back of the house...
“So, yeah, Dad!” Milton said. “You know how they have embroidered handkerchiefs and tablecloths and napkins and stuff? They just need better designs, and I have that part all taken care of! Fast cars! Big mountains! Motorcycles! Bombs and explosions! And we just need to put them on man things, meaning, we need something better than a sewing machine!”
“What exactly did you have in mind, son?”
“A staple gun, Dad, like Capt. Ludlow has!”
Sgt. Trent forgot all about easing – he took off running, and just when George got the lock almost to open, the sergeant removed the pick from his hand, gathered his nine-year-old body up – “Because I like you better alive than dead, George” – and walked him right up his front stairs.
“This time, I'm just going to keep the pick and not mention to your grandfather that you are practicing criminal habits on your own family. Don't ever let me catch you going around permission again like that, though.”
“Yes, sir, Sergeant.”
Sgt. Trent and Milton returned to their porch.
“Order of operations, Milton: you have the idea, you come tell me, and then tell George once I have cleared it. You were about to get your friend in serious trouble.”
“Yes, sir … but … .”
“Yes, Milton?”
“Gracie got her idea done, though!
“Right tools for the right job at the right time, Milton. Your idea is a good one, so let's see if we can make stickers instead.”
“Stickers – oh wow! Even better! Can I call George?”
“Sure – but he must get his grandparents' permission.”
George got permission, and later that day surprised Sgt. Trent with a hug.
“Thanks, Uncle Sarge,” he said, and grinned when the sergeant bear-hugged him like he would his own son Milton.
“Any time, George.”