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For some years I've suffered a mysterious disorder: I hear things wrong. My propensity to react to the sound rather than the meaning of words creates bizarre misunderstandings and hilarious images.

Just the other day I was chatting with our neighbor, a kind farmer who always gives us excellent advice about mending fences and making hay and feeding cows.

"Are you going to the volunteer firemen's dance?" he asked me.

"No, I'm afraid not," I replied.

"Too bad," he said sadly. "I wanted a wall switcher."

	"And how many chaos does he milk?" he asked quizzically.

"A wall switcher?" I said, brightening. "Maybe Gordon can help you!"

I was so excited to be able to contribute something tangible to our neighbor in return for all the favors he had done for us that I failed to notice his puzzled expression. I took it for granted that a wall switcher was some piece of electrical equipment, and I knew that my husband had plenty of that kind of thing lying around in the shed.

"A wall switcher?" asked Gordon at the supper table that night.

"Yes, that's right," I said. "He wanted us to bring it with us to the volunteer firemen's dance."

Gordon suddenly saw the light. "No wonder he looked so disappointed when you told him that maybe I could help him out," he chuckled. "He was asking for a waltz with you!"

My difficulty understanding people is an affliction I can't seem to escape. It even followed me to Australia and the Twenty-Third World Convention of the International Dairy Association. The organizers had arranged a visit to a local dairy farm.

I was enjoying the tour until a strange question was directed at me.

"Do you have chaos on your farm?" inquired the owner, blinking pleasantly as we walked toward his barn.

I assumed he had taken one look at me and concluded that any farm with which I was associated would suffer a fair share of turmoil and confusion.

"Oh, yes," I admitted, smiling bravely. "But my husband is very good at handling everything that goes wrong."

"Is that so?" said the owner with a slightly quizzical expression that is becoming more and more familiar to me as I grow older. "And how many chaos does he milk?"

Charitable thoughts
I was comforted when I realized these misunderstandings are not just the domain of mildly dotty seniors like myself. They can happen to people of any age. Not long ago the grandchildren of a Dutch friend of mine, John Van Til, were asking him about the old country.

"Do you know what they call me when I go home?" he asked them, delighted that they were showing such an interest in their cultural roots. "They call me Johannes."

The children stared at him wide-eyed. John couldn't imagine why they were looking so astonished until the oldest one finally spoke up.

"They call you Your Highness in the Netherlands?"

Nobody is exempt, not even the former bulletin editor at our church. One day he received a phone call from a member who, he thought, was asking him to mention in the bulletin that an upcoming evening offering was designated for the Netherlands Fund.

When the notice appeared the following Sunday we were baffled. The Netherlands Fund? It seemed clear to all of us that the Dutch homeland was a prosperous nation and not really in need of financial aid.

The problem was finally solved when the bulletin editor managed to collar the individual who had telephoned him in the first place.

"Not the Netherlands Fund!" the parishioner exclaimed. "I said Benevolence Fund!"

In this world where wall switchers lurk in dusty sheds, where Australian farmers love to breed chaos, and where men called "John" can count on receiving the red carpet treatment when they visit Holland (flown compliments of the Netherlands Fund), life is far from boring.

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