Andrew Rhodes WMD
Our alarm system needed a code word that we could use in case we accidentally set it off. I figured if someone was going to go to enough trouble to break into our house, they would probably be smart enough to figure out our dog’s name. So instead I chose the word Empurpled. Years later, we had kids and got a swing set. The swing set was Donald Duck themed. Yes, the beloved character that had brought joy and tears into the lives of so many. A character that, in simpler times, had uplifted souls into their rightful altocumulus homes. In the novels of Walter M. Disney—those epic tomes from which we often worshipped but seldom read—the duck-who-wouldspeak had uncoiled our dreams. The writings of WMD stirred hearts and loins, and had become inextricably
woven into the daily fabric of our homes and gardens. It was Donald Duck, he of the misunderstood intention, who was knighted, galvanized, stripped of his knighthood, murdered in his sleep, reanimated by a primeval wizard, and ultimately, regurgitated throughout space and time. Our hearts still rise and fall with him. So one day I went to the library to get one of these books for the children, and when I came home I saw something extraordinary. My son was quite a climber, and he had tremendous balance. Well, he had learned to climb the stop sign next to our house and stand on top of it. I asked God if this was significant. A Stop Sign on the street just means to stop your car. But your child on top of a Stop Sign? That probably means