For Lancelot, getting up in the morning and coming face-to-face with a dragon was as exciting as swatting a fly from his head.

He had lost track of the number of quests he had been on. Perhaps 157? His parents could give a perfect inventory of his awards, trophies and medals. His father could state the stats of the length of every dragon’s wingspan. His mother could share how many damsels in distress he had saved including the fabric and style of the ladies’ dresses.

A museum had opened to display the heads of the dragons Lancelot had slain. Princesses and duchesses entered these halls. They batted their eyes and flickered their fans to get Lancelot’s attention. He rolled his eyes and excused himself saying he had another quest to fulfill. A lady often fainted at these words.

“Another day with the dragons,” mumbled Lancelot to his horse.

After hum drumming for 13 miles, he and his beautiful steed halted outside the dark entrance to a dragon’s lair. Lancelot slumped off his horse and casually walked to the cave. In a voice with as much enthusiasm as a snoring bull, he cleared his throat to announce what he had announced for all 157 quests.

“Today you face judgment with my sword—blah, blah, blah—for it is I, Sir Lancelot, who seeks your head!”

Rumbles echoed inside the cave’s walls. The dragon rushed out of the cave and glared at the knight with its scales laid flat.

“RRAAARRRRRR! How dare you speak in such a tone! And saying, ‘Blah, blah, blah!’”

“After 157 quests you’d probably get bored, too. So you know the routine. I’ll wield my sword about a dozen times. We’ll run in two figure eights. You’ll throw around a few fireballs. Then, I’ll stab you in the heart and finally cut off your head.”

“If we do it your way, I don’t get a happy ending, do I?”

“Stop talking and let’s get to work! I have another ‘amazing’ quest to go on.”

“Well, don’t you have a sense of humor!”

Lancelot completed one turn around the dragon when he froze. His sword hung in mid-air. He had heard a word that he had not heard in years.

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘don’t you have a sense of humor!’”

Lancelot lowered his sword and put it back in its sheath.

“Humor? Yes! Humor! Oh—thank you!”

Lancelot charged the dragon—not with a lance—but with open arms and gave the shocked creature a hug around its neck. As the knight raced back to his steed, the dragon watched, unable to move from astonishment. Perhaps that dragon is still frozen in place.

As Lancelot rode back home, he didn’t hum drum or haw or sigh.

He thought back to when he was a child, about the height of his father’s knees.

Trumpets had blared from the castle walls as word was heard of a grand festival complete with jesters and jugglers. He tugged on his mother’s sleeves.

“Can I go, mom? Can I go?”

“Of course, sweetie. Your father will take you.”

Before Lancelot could protrude his lips in disappointment, his father picked him up and placed him on his shoulders.

“Oh, we will go to the jousting tournament. I dare say you want to be a knight and fight dragons!”

Lancelot’s legs dangled around his father’s neck. He squirmed and wiggled to get back on the ground so he could run away to find the jesters and jugglers. His father only hung on tighter, convinced that his son was excited to see the knights.

Conquered, Lancelot placed his elbows on his father’s head and then placed his head in his hands.

After the jousting tournament, Lancelot and his father journeyed home. Lancelot turned his head towards the festival grounds. He saw a jester stuff some crazy things into a burlap sack, swing the sack over his shoulder, and continue down the path—away from Lancelot.

All through dinner, his father shared the amazing feats of the knights and Lancelot stared at his food until it got cold. When his father finished his story, Lancelot blurted out, “I want to be the royal court jester!”

His mother dropped a plate. His father dropped his mouth. No more was said.

Later that night, before Lancelot went to sleep, he heard his mother wailing to his father. “Oh, how can our son think of being a jester? To betray his lineage?”

Lancelot never spoke his dream out loud again and followed the course his father showed him. He became page then squire then knight.

“Yet, the dream will be spoken now!” cried Lancelot as he came out of his daydream.

Lancelot knew he must approach the king yet he could not simply march up to the king and ask to be a jester. Usually a knight asked to become a lord or a duke and be over his own palace. No one asked to be demoted as an ordinary citizen, especially to be a jester.

Lancelot rode to the closest kingdom. For his plan to work, he needed to have the palace buzzing about a traveling jester headed there. Lancelot went to the marketplace and approached several villagers.

“Hey, did you know there is a jester who wants to be a knight? Have you heard of such a thing?”

The people never had heard of such a thing and it wasn’t long before news reached the king. At once, the king requested that this jester come to his court.

When Lancelot heard of the king’s interest, Lancelot exited the palace gates and went into the nearby woods. Out of a burlap sack, he took out a bright costume he had made. While putting it on, he experimented voices he could use as a jester. He put some white powder on his face. Then he pulled out an old broom, his new “horse”, from the sack. He broke off a branch above him to be his sword.

Lancelot galloped along the path atop his trusty broom.

As he neared the kingdom, guards spotted him and announced the jester’s arrival to the king.

Trumpets sounded as Lancelot rode into the palace gates. Lancelot sauntered on his broom all through town and finally to the courtroom. The sight alone of the jester on his “horse” drew a large crowd full of curiosity.

Then Lancelot cupped his hands and mimicked the trumpets.

“Dodododo! Ah! Your majesty! I come before you to become a knight. My training is unsurpassable!”

“Is this so, Jester? How have you trained yourself?” mused the king as he twirled his beard with his fingers.

“I am an expert in the most strenuous exercise of all . . .laughter! Did you know ten minutes of vigorous laughter equals ten minutes of rowing a boat? Let me demonstrate.”

The jester turned to one of the king’s guards. The biggest guard was twice the size of the jester.

“May I borrow your sword? Place it on the ground?”

The guard’s sword was the same size as the jester.

“You may wonder if I can lift this sword! First, I will laugh. Hahahahahahahhahahahah! Now my muscles are ready.”

The jester seized the handle.

“To slay a dragon—gasp, gasp, gasp—it’s important—gasp, gasp, gasp—to intimate it by swinging the sword—gasp, gasp, gasp—a dozen times.”

The sword had not budged from the ground. The jester let go of the handle.

“Hmmm, it appears I shall have to increase my laughter exercise from thirty minutes to an hour for this sword! No matter, I will use my own sword!”

The jester swung his “sword”, the branch, several times and smacked his face a few too many times with the leaves.

The king furrowed his brows.

“Next it is required in a dragon battle to complete two figure eights to avoid tackle. Let me show you my figure eights that I learned through ice-skating. Guard, you will be the dragon.”

The jester took long awkward strides around the guard and completed the lopsided figure eights.

“Now watch as the dragon—guard, that’s you—blows his humongous fireballs!”

The giant guard stood at attention. Nothing happened.

“Ahem, now watch as the dragon blows his humongous fireballs!”
The guard still stood at attention. Nothing happened.

“Come on, guard, you are the dragon. Show me a fireball!”

The guard looked at the king, rolled his eyes, and blew a tiny puff of air from one side of his mouth.

“Guard, is that any kind of a fireball? Bigger! Bigger!”

The guard made a larger puff of air but was not about to do anything more.

“Hmmm, must be a baby dragon. Oh well. It is time to take my sword. . .”

The jester held up his branch.

“. . .and stab the dragon in the heart.”

The jester threw the branch like a spear and made a “tink” against the guard’s armor.

“With a strike like that, any dragon would plunge to the earth!”

The giant guard stood at attention. Nothing happened.

“Ahem, with a strike like that, any dragon would plunge to the earth!”

The guard still stood at attention. Nothing happened.

“Oh, guard! Please cooperate. Let’s try again.”

“With a strike like that, any dragon would plunge to the earth!”

Again the guard looked at the king, rolled his eyes, and slumped to the ground. The jester placed his foot on the “dragon” and pretended to saw the guard’s head as trophy. The jester lifted the imaginary head and exclaimed, “Ah! I have conquered!”

The palace erupted with applause and the jester gave a bow and threw out kisses to the ladies in the court.

The king was quiet. Then the king put his hand to his mouth. Finally, the king wrapped his arms around his stomach from all the laughter!

“Oh, Jester! Now I see how laughter is an exercise. Oh, my stomach hurts!”

After the king collected himself, the jester knelt before the king.

“I am ready to be knighted, oh king!”

“You? I enjoyed your demonstration, but I would sooner turn one of my knights into the royal court jester than have a jester become a knight!”

The jester smiled. “Do I have your word on that?”

“Yes, of course.”

The jester stood up straight and smeared the white powder from his face with the burlap sack to reveal Sir Lancelot.

“Oh king, I, Sir Lancelot, desire to be your royal court jester.”

The whole palace, which had once been full of roar and applause, became completely silent. Everyone waited to hear the king’s response.

After what seemed like hours, the king said, “I cannot have you lose your rank as knight!”

Lancelot drooped his shoulders.

The king continued. “So from now on, instead of being known as Sir Lancelot, you will be known as Sir Laugh-a-lot, my royal court jester!”

Upon hearing his dream spoken out loud, Lancelot picked up his trusty broom and galloped home, thinking of his next routine as a “normal” jester.

I was working at the local community college setting up short term job training for folks on public assistance, so I occasionally worked with the office staff of the various deans. The Dean of Instruction’s secretary had worked there forever and knew everything, so she was the one to ask if one wanted to get things done. However, she was not easily approachable and I found ways to get things done without her unless it was absolutely necessary. One day, she said something to me that not only changed our relationship, soon after it completely changed my life.

I came to work that day with a burn mark on my upper cheek. She noticed it and asked about it. So I said to her, “I had this big freckle on my cheek and I’d noticed that it was getting bigger over the last few years. The last time I asked a dermatologist about it, he said to ignore it, especially since removal usually left a scar that was even more noticeable than the freckle. Now that I have a new doctor, I asked again. He sent me to a dermatologist who said that I should get rid of it right away because these things tend to change into skin cancer. Before I could even ask him about a scar, he came at me with this blowtorch-looking thing and said he would remove it right now. So he went at me with the blowtorch and just burned it right off! (Demonstration and sound effects included.) Then he told me how to treat the wound and that was that. Now it just looks like a burn from a curling iron and it should heal soon and not leave a scar.”

The secretary chuckled at my story and commented that I was one of those persons who instead of just saying “I had a freckle removed” had to tell a whole dramatic story when answering a question. I had heard this about myself a few times and was aware of this trait but wasn’t sure how much it bothered people. I knew that sometimes I would still be talking and the listeners would have gone onto something else. I knew that often it took me a long time to explain things. On the other hand, I knew that when I had been an instructor this technique (or bad habit) worked well for illustrating concepts to learners. So I asked her what she thought about this tendency. Was it okay or was it something that bothered people? She answered, “We need people like you. We need people who can tell a story and make everyday life sound more interesting than it really is. My husband does the same thing.” That’s all she said, but it stuck with me. After that, I didn’t avoid her quite so much and I stopped feeling so self-conscious about how I explained things.

Within the year I had to leave that job to take care of my ailing parents. After my mother passed away I had some free time so I checked out the local storytelling guild and found a new calling. I was amazed – and still am amazed – that there is a place for people who answer questions with a story; that people actually want to hear me tell stories about everyday life; and that I can dig into the stories that I like to tell over and over again, find the kernel of Truth in them, and share that meaning with others. Now I’m telling my stories and writing my memoirs, I’m telling the stories of people who are gone or who can’t tell their own stories, and I’m helping seniors remember and tell their stories. All because I can’t answer a question without telling a story, and I finally claimed that as good.

I had just celebrated my 40th birthday. I had a mortgage, a family, 4 boys, a wonderful, supportive wife, two jobs, and a lot of people who enjoyed my paycheck. I was just finishing my 15th year as an elementary school teacher teaching the 6th grade at a small Oklahoma school. I was also getting ready to start my 5th year summer at my second job as a paramedic at a hospital-based ambulance service.

When I had finished my Masters degree, my summers were now mine. Since so many people expected a check every month, I started to look for a way to supplement my teacher salary. I happened to know a lady who had worked at school who was also a part time EMT with the county hospital. From visiting with her, I decided that maybe that would be something for me.

I took my first class, and I was hooked. I finished the class, and passed the National Registry Test and became a certified EMT. I got my first job at the service where my friend worked. I worked that summer as a fill-in for people on vacation. Then, when school started, I would work on weekends, as needed. Time went by, and the service I worked for began to advance their service to a higher level of care. So did I. The service soon became a Paramedic Life Support service. I went back to school at night and became a full-fledged Nationally Registered Paramedic.

I was getting ready to start my fifth summer, and standing there looking at a balding man who was becoming aware of the passing of time. I don’t think I was much different from any other man who finds himself facing the realization that as one gets older the years seem to shift to a higher gear and come faster than you ever thought they could. I believe it’s called a Mid-Life Crisis. I told my wife that when she turned 40 I would trade her in for two 20s. She said, “Honey, you’re not wired for 220!” I wasn’t the type of guy to buy a sports care, chase wild women, or dye my hair, or in my case, buy a wig. I was worried whether I had made the right decisions in my life.

As a teacher, I spent my first 10 year had been spent as an elementary teaching principal. This lasted until a budget crunch. My school went from 2 principals to one. I decided I would go to the classroom because I had a second job that paid as much as got for being principal. When the time came to go back to the principal job, the qualifications had changed and I was no longer certified. That was fine with me. I had advanced to a Paramedic, and I was able to keep the wolves away from my door. I was even thinking about going on in the ambulance service and maybe, even working full time as a director. As I said, time passes, and things change. My new principal at school felt threatened by the ex-principal, me. Medicaid cuts put the small hospitals and their ambulance services in danger of closing. So there I stood looking at the stranger in my mirror while my world seemed to be falling apart around my ears. This is also the time that I really started looking at my relationship with God. I was raised in a home where church was a very important part of our lives. When my wife and I married, we dedicated ourselves to do what God had planned for us. Don’t get me wrong, I have missed my share of Sundays that I should have been in church, but we were never far from God. He had been good to us, and we knew it. We had what we needed, and we were blessed. With everything that had happened, I wondered if I had made the right decisions in my life. Was I really doing what I had promised to do? I wasn’t afraid that God was failing me, but that I was failing Him.

The call came in as a “baby not breathing.” This is a call that a paramedic hates to get. A critical child call could go “sour” in a heartbeat. Adults we worked on often, and had reason to be confident in our skills. But a child was something else. It was a great relief upon our arrival that the child was breathing. This was not the first time that we had dealt with this child or her family. She was a twin and had been born way too soon. She and her sister had multiple problems. I had run on a call for her twin sister. She was transported to a larger hospital, and soon passed from this life. Now this very young couple was faced with the possibility of losing this baby too.

They were out at the bowling alley, one of the few places they could go and take her apnea monitor which sounded an alarm when her oxygen level dropped too low. That was what had happened, so they had called us.

This was a very sick little girl. If you have ever been around a child with her condition, you would notice the bluish tint to her skin. The skin is almost slimy with a thick sweat. There is an acidic type smell due to the body chemistry.

She was breathing, but not very well. The monitor was buzzing. The young mother was crying. She was saying that they shouldn’t have tried to go anywhere because they had already buried one baby. Would they also lose this one?

When you’re young and trying to take care of a sick baby, there are a number of things that make you feel guilty. What did I do wrong? Did I take something that made my baby so sick? Sometime the family is critical of the young parents trying to take care of a fragile life.

Not that this family was not supportive, but they were not in the hearts or the minds of the young parents desperately trying to hold on to their beautiful baby girl.

My partner that day was my favorite partner to work with. He knew the town well, and he told good jokes. We shared the opinion that very sick people need to get to the hospital and a doctor as quick as possible. We called it “Boogey Time.” This decision would be made without a word being said. A look was all that was needed from either one of us, and we were moving. Everything we did, we did on wheels. We started our oxygen, established our IV, got ready for intubation, if needed, and did our vitals. Now we’re in the truck. Color us gone! The boss wasn’t always happy with these methods since billing information wasn’t part of the “Boogey!”

The hospital was only about three miles away, and I wasn’t looking forward to trying to put that intertrachial tube into her little airway. I noticed that that wouldn’t be necessary because she already had a tracheotomy. Our oxygen monitor showed that her level had come up a little, and she seemed to be breathing easier. Since we were about three minutes out, I called in my report. They said they were aware that we were on the way, and they were ready.

The ER is usually kept informed by the pediatrician anytime we have a critically ill child. There are standing orders so the ER doctor wouldn’t have to contact the pediatrician before starting treatment. There are also orders as to how far to carry out resuscitation of one of these sick children.

I couldn’t see her face because of the oxygen mask. At the hospital we changed to a different mask. When I took the large mask off, I thought I saw a smile on her face. Respiratory therapy was called since the baby had a tracheal tube that she breathed through.

I went about getting my truck back into service. When I finished, I went back to check on my patient. By now the respiratory therapist had suctioned her out and her oxygen saturation had returned to normal.

That’s when I saw it. When she looked at me the most beautiful smile come onto her little face. It was a smile that can only come from a child, a smile that can melt the hardest heart, a smile that says, “Hi, I love you!” I went to her, and she took my finger in her tiny hand. Her eyes sparkled full of life. I talked and played with her until X-ray came to take her.

When they brought her back, I was busy with another patient. An ER nurse I had known since I had started working at the hospital came over and asked me what I was going to tell my wife. I asked her what she was talking about. She said, “What are you doing to tell your wife about your little girlfriend?” She said that the little girl’s eyes had followed me everywhere I went. I looked at her lying in the bed, and again that smile greeted me. It was the sweetest smile I have ever seen. This was the way it was every time I saw her.

Her name was Megan. Megan always had a smile for me. There were many other times that Megan was brought into the ER, but even during the worst times she always had that beautiful smile for me. I soon also got to know her parents. After all I was their daughter’s first boyfriend. They were feeling guilt, anger, hopelessness, fear, and pain. I shared some of their pain and the love of their little girl.

The end of the summer was the last time I saw my little girlfriend, Megan. Her dad had gotten another job in the next county. I just happened to have some friends who worked at the hospital in that county. I knew I would miss seeing her, but I also knew she would be well taken care of.

School started and I went back to working part time for the ambulance service. I decided I would only work every other weekend. I was getting my truck ready for my weekend shift when a unit from the town where my little girlfriend, Megan, had moved to brought in a patient to ER. As was our custom after they gave their report and off loaded the patient, we would help get their truck back into service. On this day the paramedic on the truck was also a part time paramedic for our service. We were exchanging shoptalk while the other medic finished his paperwork. She asked me if I remembered the little girl that we had run on when the family lived here. I said yes, and I was anxious to hear how she was doing. When I asked, she reached out and touched my arm. Softly she said, “I guess you haven’t heard. We lost her last week.”

Now medically speaking, it was no surprise. Megan had so much working against her. My friend said that the family was doing as well as could be expected. To tell the truth I didn’t know how to feel. I thanked her and went about my business.

Now I knew why one of my students and her sister hadn’t been at school that last week. You see, it just so happened that Megan’s aunt, Dusty, was in my class. She loved to talk about Megan. I had gotten close to the whole family. This happens in a small town.

When I went back to school I wasn’t quite sure what I would say to Dusty. When the class came in she came up to my desk. She said, “Mr. Armstrong, have you heard what happened?” I said I did, but I didn’t know in time to go to the funeral. Dusty said her sister asked her to do something. She wanted to apologize for not letting me know, but that so much was going on that they forgot to call. I told her that I understood. Then she took out a little picture. There it was – that beautiful little smile. Dusty said that her sister wanted me to have this picture. She also wanted me to know how much they appreciated my kindness to them and their little girl. I took the picture, and made up an excuse to step out of the room for a minute.

Today I look in my mirror, and I don’t see that old bald man wondering what his role is in the big picture of life. When I look in the mirror, I see a man blessed. I see a man who was shown what is important by a beautiful little girl and her young parents.

We all have a place in this world. We are each a piece of a beautiful picture. When all of those pieces fit together they paint a picture of God’s love for us. We are each an important part of that picture, caring and loving each other. This was what Megan taught me. She wasn’t here on this earth very long, but she was able to show me her part of the picture and mine. It has been said that when God takes a baby to heaven that baby becomes an angel. If that is true, then I carry an angel in pocket and always will.