Hurt, or Mad?

We were finishing up our dessert after a wonderful meal, which had included the Lovely Lady’s delicious ham along with her amazing cheesy potatoes, when the back door opened with a rush.  The wailing outside drove out all the calm and quiet we were enjoying as we sat back to relax.  We could only assume that a visit to the emergency room was imminent, but the mother of the grandchild quickly calmed our anxieties.  “I’ll take care of it,” she said quietly, and headed for the door.  The crying increased in volume until she appeared to the child right outside the door.  “What’s wrong?” she asked, all businesslike.  The sobbing was interrupted at intervals as the words came pitifully.  “He (sniff) hurt (wail) my (bawl) feelings (howl)!  The crying ramped up in volume as the necessity for words lessened.  It was a good thing too, because the laughter in the dining room began an instant later. 

We should have kept quiet, because we missed the best part.  In her role as a peacemaker, his mom turned to the other young boy, sitting defiantly on his tricycle just down the sidewalk.  “What did you do?” asked Mom.  That wasn’t the question this young man wanted to answer.  He wanted to tell his reason first, and did.  “Well, he’s stressing me out!”  Oh, imagine the uproar that retort would have initiated indoors if we had heard it!  The idea of these two children, four and five years old, talking more like young adults than little kids about what their motivations were, is just too funny.  In a moment, the injured party, deciding that he wasn’t going to receive any reparations, declared adamantly, “I want to go home NOW!”

Two things strike me about the repartee and ensuing pandemonium, the first being just how mothers seem to know when there is blood and real pain involved, or when it’s just emotion and anger being expressed.  I’m told it has something to do with the tone of the crying, but as a father and now a grandfather, I never have been able to tell the difference.  I’m also reminded of another story, which my Mother-in-law tells.

It was some time ago, when the Lovely Lady had yet to achieve all the attributes which attracted me to her during her teenage years.  As a little girl, she was a prime target of her older brothers for teasing, since she usually rewarded them with a wonderfully satisfying display of howls and tears.  For example, there was the time when they and a neighbor boy buried the little girl’s bicycle in a puddle of mud…But I’m getting off track.  On this particular occasion, the underlying cause of which has been lost in the dim dark past, her mom and dad were inside the house, with windows open to let the breezes flow through.  All of the sudden, more was flowing through than the breezes, as a monstrous caterwauling arose out on the front porch.  Dad was up in a second, ready to rescue his precious sweet girl from injury and pain, but Mom put out her hand and said, “Just a minute.”  Then she called out from where she sat, “Are you hurt or mad?”  The two-syllable reply came loudly and tearfully from outside the door, “Maaaa-aaad!”  Moms just know, somehow.

The other thing that struck me about the angry exchange between my grandsons is how much like sponges children are.  That conversation didn’t come out of a four-year old’s brain, nor a five-year old’s head.  It came from an adult world.  We talk about stress and about how others affect the way we feel and all the while, the children are listening, filing information away for a lifetime of reactions.  We watch programs on television and don’t take the time to discuss the conversations we hear there with the children and they take it to heart.  Moms and Dads, Grandmas and Grandpas watch the garbage without contradiction to the falsehoods, so that must mean it is true and okay to act in that manner.  Admittedly, our children also pick up things from friends and neighbors, and even many of the things we do want them to learn are applied incorrectly in their heads.  It’s up to us to help correct that error and to model love and tolerance with each other.

The boys will learn to get along with each other, something they do often with great success already.  They’ll learn to put things in perspective, figuring out what makes the other one tick.  Along the way, once in awhile they’ll push each other’s buttons a bit, just to get a reaction.  It’s an age old story; one which I have lived through myself.

And, I haven’t yelled at a brother in many years, so I’m pretty sure there’s hope for these boys.

“An angry man opens his mouth, and shuts his eyes.”
(Cato the elder~Roman statesman~234 BC-149 BC)

“Oh, be careful little ears what you hear.”
Oh, be careful little ears what you hear.
For the Father up above, is watching down in love.
Oh, be careful little ears what you hear.”

The Story of the World

I love to tell stories.  Oh, I know I’m not always good at it; missing important details, muffing essential conversations.  But still, I have these memories in my head, and they want out.  So, I type them out, giving shape to the vague and not-so-vague snippets of time which still linger inside my head.  There are so many more that have yet to be told, but most them would be of no interest to you:  The neighbor girl who whined “Don’t step on my toes!” constantly as we boarded the bus behind her…The two high-school age brothers who had fist-fights frequently in their front-yard…There’s even Tony and his old three-wheeled mail cart giving me rides home after school.  All these and more are stories which remain in the musty files of my memory, perhaps to be trotted out and perhaps to stay put.  Time will tell…

But, it wasn’t my intention to talk about the true stories tonight.  Those are just narratives, a recounting of events as they happened.  I’m thinking about lies tonight.  A few years ago, when someone believed that you were lying to them, they would say “You’re just telling me a story.”   I don’t hear the word “story” used in this context quite as much today, but it’s safe to say that I’ve done my share of that kind of storytelling, too.  One of the best (or worst) examples I can think of came in first grade.  A rainy day had driven us inside the cafeteria to wait for the bus and as we waited, a couple of us went up onto the little stage to play around.  I happened to notice an inflatable globe on the floor under a desk which was shoved up into a dark corner.  The two of us played with the sadly deflated, glorified beach ball for awhile and then a voice yelled through the door, “Bus number three is here!”  As I grabbed my lunch box, I also grabbed that globe, in effect stealing it.  I remember thinking, “Well, it’s just lying on the floor.  Nobody wants it,” as I took it.

I boarded the bus and immediately, one of the fifth graders noticed the globe in my arms and grabbed it from me.  It was handed to the bus driver and word got back to the teacher the next day.   I got sent to Mr. Rhodes office pretty quickly.  Confronted with my crime, I had made up a story for my teacher, telling her that it had been a birthday present.  Consequently, she sent me straight to the principal’s office (some “pal” he turned out to be).  The lie, coupled with the theft, was enough to earn me a paddling.  As I walked back into my classroom, rear end still tingling, Mrs. Reid asked aloud, for all the class to hear, “Well, what did you figure out?”  Of course, you realize that this was in a day before sensitivity training, and different methods were used.  The criminal was expected to confess his crime publicly.  Well, this criminal wasn’t confessing.  In fact, the story was added to,  “It was a birthday present.  It must just look like one from the school. Yep, that’s it.  We decided that it’s mine”

Almost before the words were out of my mouth, she was talking to the office on the intercom system.  Back to the principal I went.  The paddle was plied once more and I made the long, painful trip back to the first grade wing.  This time when the question was asked, the facts were imparted, instead of the story.  “It’s not mine,”  came the words softly.  I refused to say anything else.  In one short sentence, the liar and thief was exposed.  It’s a lesson I will never forget.

Have I told other lies?  Absolutely.  Have I stolen anything else?  Affirmative.  I didn’t say the lesson was learned, just that I remember it vividly to this day.  Liars lie.  Thieves steal.  They get better at their craft or they receive more punishment.  But, it was a turning point.  I understood the shame of exposure and the pain of punishment.  I also understood what I was.  I never again argued with anyone about being a sinner.  I’m thankful that lying thieves are offered Grace.

You know, there’s something else about storytelling.  No, not the lying kind.  I’m back to the original ones now.  As I put down the words of this story tonight, I realized that for years, I have blamed Mrs. Reid for embarrassing me.  In telling the story, I’ve had a catharsis of sorts.  She was really doing what she believed was best for me and for the other students.  For me, because I needed to own up to my actions; that much is clear.  It didn’t hurt that the exposure before the rest of the class would curtail any other such actions by other class members when they saw the embarrassing result.  No, the only one to blame for this predicament was me.  After all this time, I see it clearly and that dear lady, certainly passed on by now, is finally off the hook.

So, you see; stories do have their benefits.  I think I’ll keep telling them.  The narratives, I mean.  I’d probably just have to “fess up” to the other kind, so I believe I’ll stick to the truth for the foreseeable future.

“Hamlet:  It is as easy as lying. Govern these ventages with your fingers and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music.”
(William Shakespeare~English playwright~1564-1616)

“Life begins at 40 – But so do fallen arches, rheumatism, faulty eyesight, and the tendency to tell a story to the same person, three or four times.”
(Helen Rowland~English/American writer~1876-1950)

Ask a Silly Question…

“Whatcha doin’, Don?”  The question is tossed out, even though there is no one named Don around.  I look over at the Lovely Lady, smiling at me from the couch.  Of course, I know the proper answer, so it comes unbidden, “Washing dishes.”  Quite obviously, the answer isn’t the truth, since I have just awakened from an evening nap in my recliner, but I have satisfied the requirements of the repartee and we lapse into our comfortable silence once more.  I wasn’t around when the little sketch was developed, but it has been a part of our repertoire for many years. 

The Don in question is a cousin of the Lovely Lady’s who spent a semester or two in his college years living with her family.  He was pestered continually by the much-younger cousins, who just wanted his attention.  Of course, they resorted to the time-honored, “Whatcha doin?'” to start a conversation.  Don, developed the response as a mechanism for communicating the idea that the question was a silly one.  The response would always be the same, whether he was eating supper, or studying, or tying his shoes.  The reply, “Washing dishes,” would invariably be met with, “No, you’re not.  You’re ____________!” followed by his retort, “Well, if you knew, why’d you ask?”  I’m guessing that such logic was lost on the two little girls, but it must have satisfied his exasperation at the interruptions,and the little tableau entered the halls of immortality in the Lovely Lady’s family, and so into mine.

Not my favorite activity, washing dishes.  I grew up in a family of seven, with the five children shouldering the washing up responsibilities as soon as each of us was able to reach the dish tub which was placed in the old chipped ceramic sink and filled with hot, soapy water.  Five children – five weekdays, so my day as the youngest was always Friday.  The weekends were on a rotating schedule which was always written on the calendar which hung on the back of the cupboard door nearest the sink.  My turns were marked with whining and carping, along with a bit of creative dirty-dish storage.  Under the sink worked for awhile, then behind the canned goods in the pantry took its turn.  The last straw was the time I hid the unbelievably crusty casserole dish in the oven.  The next day, the oven was preheated as supper was prepared, only to fill the kitchen and house up with the incredible stench and smoke from the smoldering mess.  The backside a little sorer, I took another shot at the dishes that day too and never tried that again.  Did I mention I don’t like to wash dishes?

Fast forward forty years or so and the situation hasn’t changed much.  My pleasure at owning a dishwasher cannot be overstated.  I still balk at loading the monster, since obviously I have no concept of the term “full dishwasher”.  I insert the glasses where the pans should go, and the plates take up twice as much space as necessary.  The pans?  Well, don’t get me started on that!  Needless to say, the Lovely Lady has graciously agreed to take the responsibility for this task, leaving me to rinse the dishes and place them on the counter, ready for her puzzle-solving abilities in fitting them in.  Why do I rinse the dishes (essentially washing them before washing), when we’re told that dishwashers clean them quite adequately without the added step?  Because it’s a lie, proven by the spots and little stuck-on particles which remain if they are not rinsed.  So, whether it’s considered “green” or not, I’ll continue “washing dishes” before they’re actually washed.  You’ll thank me, if you’re ever lucky enough to be invited over to enjoy one of the amazing dinners for which the Lovely Lady is famous.

One day when you have the time and you walk into the music store, finding me at my workbench restringing my umpteenth guitar for the day, and are foolish enough to ask what I’m doing, don’t be surprised if I answer with the foolish words, “Washing dishes!”  Well, ask a silly question…

“A question that sometimes drive me hazy; Am I, or are the others crazy?”
(Albert Einstein~American physicist~1879-1955)

“Can a mortal ask questions which God finds unanswerable?  Quite easily, I should think.  All nonsense questions are unanswerable.”
(C.S. Lewis~British scholar and novelist~1898-1963)

Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

He was back again today.  I’ve told you before about some of my “always with me” friends.  The reference is to what Jesus had to say about the poor being with us always.  Over the years, I seem to have collected a fair number of folks who know me well enough to feel comfortable asking for favors, or loans, or even a handout once in awhile.  There was a time when I believed they could all be changed with education and patience.  Call it cynicism if you like, but I have finally been convinced otherwise.

My buddy Thad, standing before me, is a great example of this.  In the late seventies, when I first started as an employee in the music store, he was also a young man; ready to take the world by storm, in much the same way as most of my generation planned to do.  And, he had the tools to do it, too.  Thad was an amazing guitarist and possessed a voice to match, causing a stir every time he let loose at the local bar or one of the frequent “benefits” staged for folks in need.  He was going places! 

Today, he came in once more, instrument in hand and asked me in a quiet voice, “Paul, if you could loan me thirty dollars on this old guitar, I’ll pay you back forty on the first of the month.”  It’s a scene that has been played out more times than I can count  over the last thirty-some years.  Oh, there has been a trip or two to Nashville and even a few recordings on the shelves at the local stores, but there was never really a chance that he was going to “make it”.  You see, Thad has been groomed from a very young age to fail in whatever endeavor he undertook.  He was taught, not in a malicious way, that the world wouldn’t let him succeed.  His parents loved him and treated him as well as they could, but his father was an alcoholic and his mother wasn’t healthy, nor very strong, so they went on government assistance.  For all of his life, the “first of the month” was payday, since that was when the government checks were delivered.  It was only natural for his adult life to be the same.  Even with every chance to succeed as a studio musician, any obstacle, any setback that came along was just par for the course, and only more proof that he couldn’t succeed.

Nerves and stress led to alcohol abuse, which led to drug abuse, the cumulative effect of which led to the nearly complete breakdown of his health.   Food stamps and disability followed, never enough to get his family through the month, necessitating visits to businesses like mine, selling first the nice instruments; later buying and selling, in an unrelenting cycle, the basic instruments he required to keep performing at small gigs, which kept a little supplemental income arriving at opportune times for a bender or maybe even more medicine for the incredible litany of afflictions which attacked more and more often.  I became convinced that his poverty is permanent and irrevocable a couple of months ago.  One day, out of the blue, Thad came in with cash (CASH!) and purchased a new guitar and a digital piano.  He had never done such a thing before and I remarked on it.  “Yeah!  I got a gig that paid me two thousand dollars for three nights work!” he exclaimed excitedly.  I was hopeful that he would use the money wisely, maybe even put some of it back into savings for future expenses, but that hope was scuttled by his next remark.  “I already went to the casino with it and won another four hundred dollars.  I’m going back to win some more tonight!”  He was back the very next week to sell me the guitar and piano.

Kind of depressing, isn’t it?  It’s even more so, when you multiply his story by hundreds in our town and thousands upon thousands across our great land.  Even so, I would argue that I’m blessed.  Blessed to know these folks, and blessed to be able to share with them even in a very small way from the plenty that I have been given.  It doesn’t always feel like a blessing, dealing with the sad continuous cycle, hearing the stories (many of them contrived) of hardship.  Even through the disappointment and dreariness, I think I’ll keep doing what’s required; sharing with them when the opportunity is presented.  I will also continue doing another thing which I have done for years now; praying for the folks I have been privileged to share with.  I pray for them to break free of the prison of poverty and feeling like victims.  I also share my faith along with the gift whenever they have time to listen, but many of them, like Thad, know the words and can immediately shift into piousness when prodded by any mention of God. 

Since it seems that I am already preaching, I will add that I urge you also to share of yourselves and your abundance. The bright spot in the blight of poverty and homelessness across our country is that the government can’t take away our opportunities to be servants.  The “cups of cold water” you share now…who knows?  They may bear fruit in changed lives and renewed spirits for some who have given up all hope.  They may not, but either way, we are blessed as we serve.

I slipped Thad a little something and told him to keep the guitar.  He needs it a lot more than I do.  I do have a roomful of them already, you know.

“There is no delight in owning anything unshared.”
(Seneca~Roman philosopher~1st century AD)

“A generous man will himself be blessed, for he shares his food with the poor.”
(Proverbs 22:9)

Growing Pains

“It will grow out,”  I hear the words from the Lovely Lady’s lips as she talks on the phone with my daughter.  The pictures posted  earlier that day told the story.  Two boys, believing that they understood what their younger sister’s hair should look like, found the scissors and took care of the job themselves.  The result was not the picture of beauty they had envisioned.  To say that their mama was unhappy would be a slight understatement.  The little girl had spent two plus years growing the crop of hair she had and still had not yet had her first hair cut.  It was finally to the point that a barrette could be placed on the side of her head and elicit comments about the beautiful girl and her pretty hair.  Now, the uneven sides were joined by lopsided bangs and if you looked at the back, the scalp could be seen in places.  I think even Grandma may have had tears in her eyes as she listened to our dismayed daughter describe the fiasco.  It was a disaster.

What is it about hair that elicits such emotion?  My generation grew up fighting our parents constantly about the length and style of hair.  I remember a time when one of my brothers was angry enough to consider running away one night after a run-in with our father over hair and its acceptable length.  I even remember one of my most embarrassing moments which was precipitated by a bad haircut.  I realize that the picture included with this post shows what also should have been an embarrassing hair style (to say nothing of the amazingly fantastic slacks), but it was what I wore most of my years in school.  The haircut I’m remembering actually occurred very soon after this picture was taken.  I grew up with my parents cutting my hair, so this one was to be just like the multitude of cuts I had received before.  Dad must have been at work, so Mom took her turn with the barbering chores this time.  As she cut, she was careful to leave enough at the front that it could come down almost to, but not quite in, the eyes.  The problem came as she moved down from the top of my head to the sides, tapering the longer expanse on top to the shorter hair that would go down to the nape of my neck.  For some reason, she just couldn’t get the taper to come out on one side and the short area moved up that side further and further as she worked.  Finally, she said, “Well, it’s done.  Maybe a little worse than usual, but it’ll grow out.”  I took one look in the mirror and realized that it looked like she had laid a cereal bowl at an angle on the very top of my head and cut around it.  Long on top and immediately close cropped on the left side and a low fringe hanging down over the right.  There was no way I was going to be seen dead like that!

I returned to the chair I had just vacated.  “Cut it all off!”  I requested curtly.  Mom protested for a while and then complied.  The buzz cut had been a familiar sight on my  head in my earlier years, but the changing styles as I got older made that an unpopular option.  Nevertheless, it was what I requested this time and it was what I got.  In moments, all my hair laid in a circle about me on the floor and I was repenting my hasty decision.  I looked in the mirror, listening to Mom’s quiet reassurance once more, “It’ll grow out.”  It didn’t help any.

All I could see as I gazed in that unfriendly glass was the reception which was awaiting at school the next morning.  There was no doubt that the other kids would laugh.  My friends would be sure to pin me down and give me “nuggies” unmercifully.  Nuggies?  You know; when someone rubs your scalp roughly with their knuckles. Not only is it painful, but just the thought of the humiliation…Well, no matter.  I had a plan.  By this age, I had been wearing the “kicker” boots (pointed cowboy boots) for a couple of years, so I would just wear a hat to match.  I figured if I wore an old straw cowboy hat I had, no one would notice the haircut.  I had no idea!

In the morning, I stepped off the bus at the edge of the portico, where most students waited for the first bell to ring.  The concrete expanse was crowded and the hope that no one was looking was a false one as I crammed the old hat onto my stubbly head.  If I thought they would laugh at the haircut, that was nothing to the immediate reaction the ridiculous hat evoked.  The roars followed me back around the side of the building to the band room entrance, where I ducked in as quickly as I could.  Needless to say, the hat was relegated to the locker all that day and never made another appearance.  The wisecracks were endured, the nuggies borne and the following day, it was if the haircut had never happened.  How could I not know that’s what would occur?  What was all the angst about?

Isn’t that a picture of us all through life?  Every bad situation that comes up is the worst, causing consternation and stress.  Then when it’s past, we wonder what the fuss was about.  We jump the hurdle, the obstacle in our way and go on, stronger because of it, rather than damaged.  But, for some inexplicable reason, the next time such a circumstance is to be faced, we go through the emotions once again.  You would expect that we could learn from experience.  For some reason, it seems that we’re only really calm when it’s someone else going through it.  We glibly offer the words, “It will grow out”, “Don’t worry”, and the like, only to have them fall on deaf ears.  It appears that we each have to face our own embarrassments, our own hurdles, our own obstacles to get through to the other side.

That said, you may consider this my advice if you’re in such a situation.  It’s not original, but it bears consideration…Trouble will come to pass, but it will pass.  You will get through this.  Easy for me to say?  Don’t take my word for it.  “…Weeping may stay for the night, but joy comes in the morning.”  The words of the writer of Psalms give comfort and promise.  Bad haircuts aren’t life threatening illnesses; they aren’t the pain of separation.  But they do give us a clue as to the nature of our lives.  It will grow out.

“But that’s not all.  We gladly suffer, because we know that suffering helps us to endure; and endurance builds character, which gives us a hope.”
(Romans: 3: 4.5)

“Expect trouble as an inevitable part of life and repeat to yourself the most comforting words of all:  this, too, shall pass.”
(Ann Landers)

Sight for Sore Eyes

She took my glasses.  “It’s going to be about forty-five minutes, Mr. Phillips,” came the warning.  I was prepared for a delay, so I took my seat in the waiting room.  I used to spend this time reading the already-worn magazines which are always hanging around reception areas, but today as I bided my time, I pulled out my Swiss-Army phone to check my email and the auction I was running on Ebay.    That didn’t take long (slow day for both emails and the auction), so the Solitaire game, always a welcome time-waster when no other alternatives are available, popped up on the screen. 

I was in the optometrist’s office to pick up my new lenses, probably long past due, given the changes in my eyesight over the last couple of years.  Since I’m too cheap to buy new frames if there is any wear left in the current pair, they were cutting the new lenses to fit the old ones.  I could hear the machine back there, grinding or cutting something.  After awhile, the optometrist, an old acquaintance of mine, came out and sat in the chair next to me just to talk.  We gabbed about children, and old times.  Doc was an umpire years ago when my son played Little League, giving opportunity to all kinds of jokes about glasses and bad calls in the ball games.  We just sat and remembered “way back when” and then he was gone again to check on the progress.

“Come on back, Paul,” he called out, directing me to a seat in the fitting room.  “She’s just going to get them cleaned and then we’ll make sure they’re okay.”  I sat where I was directed (again) and waited…and waited…and waited.  Finally, he walked into the room and told me what the delay was about this time.  It seems that when the lab makes the type of bifocals I wear, they have to mark them to make sure the optometrist aligns them correctly when cutting them to fit the frames.  Otherwise, I might be looking cross-eyed to use the stronger magnification needed to read these days, instead of looking out the bottom of the glasses.  This time, they had marked the lenses with a marker which wouldn’t wash off.  Try as they might, two dots remained on each lens.  They cleaned them with normal glass cleaner, and then still stronger liquids; finally placing them in an autoclave to see if the steam would remove the marks.  It didn’t.

The young lady came out with the glasses in hand to show me the marks, asking half-jokingly if I wanted to just go ahead and take them as they were.  We talked a few moments about how the eyes would adjust to the marks and after awhile, would not even recognize that they were there.  I declined, at which time she replaced my old lenses in the frames and handed them back to me.  “We’ll send them back and make them right this time,” the girl at the desk told me as I left.  I assume that I’ll wait another forty-five minutes the next time they call me back.  But hey, at my age, I’ll take all the breaks I can get.

The lady’s comments got me thinking, though.  I remember that my mom used to look at me as I came home from school and ask, “How can you see through those things?  They’re filthy!”  I would remove the glasses and look at them from a distance; acknowledging that they were indeed, filthy.  The odd thing is that I never noticed the filth.  I would start out the day with clean lenses, accumulating dust and grease gradually as the day progressed.  Little by little, my vision was obscured, never being noticed at all.  But, when I cleaned them!  Wow!  The world became clearer and so much more well defined.  Obviously, the world hadn’t changed, so it could only be that I was just looking at it differently.

How’s your vision?  Have you purposely bought a distorted picture of reality?  Or maybe you’ve just got a build-up of filth from years of being out in the elements.  Either way, you’ll be amazed at how very different the view really can be.  Sometimes blindness needs a miracle touch to give sight.  Other times, we just need to employ the tools we’ve been given and clean the lens.  Either way, it’s a great perspective when unobscured by the grit and grime of doubt and cynicism which are thrown into our faces daily.

I won’t be buying the defective lenses this time.  You might remind me to clean the new ones once in awhile, though.  Fuzzy is okay for teddy bears, but not when I’m looking at your smiling face!

“I can see clearly now, the rain is gone.
I can see all obstacles in my way.
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind.
Gonna be a bright, bright, sunshiny day.”
(Johnny Nash)

“They are blind guides leading the blind, and if one blind person guides another, they will both fall into a ditch.”
(Matthew 15:14)

You There! In the Shadows…

I’m a “looky loo”.  I’ve actually spent most of my life saying that I am a “people watcher”, but the latter is just a more polite phrase for the former.  I openly admit this as one of my shortcomings.  If something is going on nearby, regardless of my stake in the event, I want to get a look at it.  Sometimes, even after I’ve seen what’s happening and have gone home, I have to return to the scene, to be sure that there hasn’t been another development adding to the interest.  I have nothing to contribute to the situation, no help to offer, but I don’t want to be the one guy in the world who didn’t witness what occurred.

It happened the other night.  I was working in the music store with the Lovely Lady and our watch-mutt in the backyard started barking.  This is not unusual, but under normal circumstances, he’ll stop pretty quickly as the neighbor dog being walked goes around the next corner, or the two middle-aged speed-walking fitness nuts zip past, never missing a beat in their conversation (how do they do that?).  This night, the barking kept up and actually increased in volume, so I stepped out the back door of the business to investigate.  Up the street a hundred feet or less, a police cruiser was stopped next to the sidewalk and three men were standing nearby, one of them in conversation with the officer in the vehicle.  As I watched, the two not talking with the officer walked away in opposite directions.  A moment later, the officer switched on the lights on top of the car and got out, moving around to stand next to the remaining man.  They continued speaking for a few moments, so I decided that there was nothing more to be seen and went back in to work.  This was a rookie mistake on my part.  No veteran “looky loo” would have left so quickly.  In just moments, the volume of the mutt’s yelping increased nearly to the frantic stage, so I exited the store once more.

“Let me see your hands!” was the shout that I heard as I opened the door.  Yep, they really said it.  I thought that was just in the movies, but the officer had his pistol drawn and aimed at someone behind the car wash next door to me, repeating the command several times more before the man evidently complied.  What had started as a single officer in conversation with the man quickly became pandemonium, with no less than 7 cruisers arriving in just seconds.  I saw two officers with drawn weapons, and a third came up from the side of the building I was on with his hand resting on his still-holstered pistol, ready to draw it at a second’s notice.  They rapidly got the man in cuffs and half-carried, half-led him toward the waiting car.  Moment’s later, an ambulance arrived with its siren screaming, to the dismay of the mutt, who went into a full-throated howl at the sound.  From my vantage point, I couldn’t see what the injury was, but stayed where I was for a few moments as the officers wandered through the neighborhood with their flashlights, checking for any of the other individuals who had wandered away just moments before the altercation with their comrade.  When I was sure I wasn’t going to miss any other momentous events, I returned to my work. 

The whole time this went on, the Lovely Lady stayed at her desk, accomplishing exactly what she came to work for, working steadily toward her goal.  She is not a “looky loo”.  What is it about our personalities that makes some of us intensely interested in the goings on in the world, while others are only concerned when the event directly affects them or someone they are connected with?   I don’t ask the question to indicate that either choice is better or worse, simply to call attention to the difference.  There is no arguing that she accomplishes more work, even as events are transpiring, while I spend most of my time playing catch-up because of my lack of focus.

Chances are good, if you’re a casual reader of this blog, you may also be a “looky loo”.  I’ve observed before that the media (especially the so-called “social media”) we have at our disposal brings out the voyeur in us, allowing us to follow many individuals’ activities without the bother of interacting with them.  We can view photos and videos, follow the progress of a “friend” recovering from an illness or injury, and even observe their special days (birthdays and anniversaries) without them ever knowing that we have any interest whatsoever.  The other new label for this activity is “lurking”, and countless numbers of us participate in this.  I will say that I have made a conscious effort to comment on such items of interest, simply because I know myself and how easy it would be to simply watch from the shadows of the Internet.

I have a two-fold purpose in writing today’s post; the first being to remind all of us, myself especially, that it’s not healthy to simply watch events unfold from the sidelines.  I’m certainly not suggesting that we walk into the middle of the arrest scene I described above, but I am suggesting that when we have the opportunity to be involved in our friend’s and neighbor’s lives, we do so actively.  The changing definition of friendship is more than a little disturbing to me and I believe that the further we go into isolation, the more impoverished and consequently, unbalanced as a society we will be. 

My second reason for mentioning the issue of “looky loos” is to encourage the readers of this blog to interact with me and the other readers.  I know that many of you are not comfortable with making public comments, but rest assured; there are ways you can do so anonymously.  Sometimes, I find myself getting discouraged in writing because several posts go by without feedback, but I know you’re out there (the stats don’t lie!).  If you don’t want to actually write a comment, you may opt to click the one-word comments at the bottom of this post.  I’m not looking for pats on the back, but simply your honest input.  You may disagree with something I’ve said in a blog and I’d love to hear your take on what I have written.  If mine is the only voice I hear, you’ll keep getting the same old stuff over and over again.  I’m pretty sure that will get fairly monotonous, if it hasn’t already done so.

Okay!  Enough of the boring stuff!  It seems like exciting things keep happening around me.  I’ll let you know when my next interaction with the men in blue happens.  Come to think of it; I’d rather not.  Maybe we could keep it a little lower key for awhile.  My heart needs time to recuperate from the last one…

“Every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies.”
(Jane Austen~English novelist~1775-1817)

“A friend is very different than an acquaintance.  The former is tried and true; the latter only a casual shadow in one’s life.”
(Anonymous)

I Want My Mommy!

The young boy wept as silently as he could, lying on his pallet on the floor.  It had been a traumatic day, and the fact that his mother was working the night shift for the first time didn’t help much.  He cried, realizing that no comfort would come, but to an eight year old boy, facts don’t change feelings.  As the tears flowed, the sobs gradually grew louder until even his father in the living room below heard it and came to the foot of the stairs.  “Quit that crying now.  You know it won’t change a thing.  Your brother is in your bed because he has to get up early in the morning for summer school and he needs his sleep.”  Small comfort, that.  As the sound of his father’s footsteps faded away, the sobs also subsided, but the tears and sniffles continued unabated.  And, it was too bad his mother wasn’t home.  She would have known that all he needed was a quiet voice of assurance and a warm hug to be convinced that all was well and the storm clouds would have rolled away.  But the tears just kept coming.  And, it reeked of smoke up here!

Mere hours before, the young man had his own bed to sleep in, and the thought of Mom being gone for the night was not a problem at all.  That had all changed in a few exciting moments that hot summer afternoon.  As the family sat and did various activities in different parts of the house, the young man was in the state he was frequently to be found in; engrossed in a book.  Sprawled across the couch, he skimmed the words on the pages being turned as quickly as he could.  As always, the “fluff” on the page was getting in the way of the action, so he skipped past the unnecessary words and interaction to get to the exciting parts.  Two of his older brothers stomped noisily down the stairs and he glanced up, annoyed.  They were nothing but a distraction and it was a pretty sure bet that they would be picking on him any minute now.  Sure enough, the teasing started within moments.  “Man, he’s moving those pages quickly.  Do you suppose he’s reading any of it?”  “Naw,” came the answer.  “He doesn’t do anything but skim the books.  He couldn’t even tell you the names of the people in the story.”

The tormented reader opened his mouth to protest (even though it was all true), but was interrupted by his Dad, sniffing the air and shushing them.  “Do you smell smoke?”   He rushed to the stairs and looked up, to see the air on the landing filled with it, billowing from the room above.  “Call the Fire Department!” he called, as he ascended the steep stairway.  Within moments, he was yelling down the steps, “There’s a mattress on fire up here! Somebody hand me a hose through the window.”  The boys rushed to comply, as their mom frantically dialed the telephone to reach the fire dispatcher.  The hose handed high above their heads outside to their dad, who was waiting with the screen unhooked and shoved outward, they attempted to re-enter the house and go upstairs too.  He refused to allow them to come up the stairs, so they watched from the back yard, as he worked feverishly inside, spraying water from the garden hose on the flaming mattress and papered wall, which had also burst into flames.  Probably none of the boys will ever forget the sight of their father sticking his head out the window, gasping for breath, gagging and choking on the smoke; all the while directing the stream of water on the flames inside the bedroom.

The fire was out by the time the fire trucks arrived, but that didn’t lessen the excitement in the neighborhood.  They had roared down the street, lights flashing, and sirens screaming.  It couldn’t have been any finer.  They were coming to his house!  The little boy just knew he’d have a story to tell for days to come and bragging rights with it too!  Anybody can talk about the fire trucks coming to the neighborhood.  He and his brothers were the only ones who could boast that they came to their house.  The big firemen pushed past the crowd and on into the house, checking to assure themselves that the danger was truly past.  The ruined mattress was flung out the window to the yard below and then the inquiry began.  How could this fire have occurred?  Recalling that the two older brothers had just come down the stairs moments before it broke out, the questions began with them.  It didn’t take long to clear up the mystery.

The two delinquents had been sitting on opposite sides of the room, “shooting” matches at each other.  You remember matches?  Those wooden sticks with red caps on them, that you struck on the side of the matchbox to ignite?  Well, these young adventurers had figured out that if you held a match with your fingertip on one end of the stick, forcing the business end downward onto the striking surface of the box, you could flip it with the index finger of the other hand, driving it across the room as it blazed into life.  If you were unlucky enough to be struck by the lit match, you might get a small burn, but it was exciting and fun to see who could sit still as the burning piece of wood approached.  Almost like the game they used to call “Chicken”, it was pretty fun, even though they knew it would earn them a spanking if they were caught.  They didn’t really worry when they couldn’t find one of the matches after it reached the other side of the room, figuring that it had just gone out on its own.  Tiring of the game after awhile, they headed downstairs to torment their younger brother.  He was always good for a laugh; until he went whining to Mama. All too obviously, the one errant match had not extinguished itself, but had smoldered in the bed sheets until it blazed up and quickly was out of control.

Fast forward to bedtime that night.  The oldest boy was without a bed to sleep in, but while all the other boys were out of school for the year, he was making up some work in summer school and had to get up early.  It was decided that the youngest would sleep on the landing area of the stairs upon a pallet made up of blankets.  Mom said her goodbyes as she left for her first shift of taking care of patients as the night nurse at the old folk’s home across town.  The trauma of having no Mom in the house was the last straw in an already very trying day, and the waterworks began.

Is there a point to all this?  Just one.  Never send a man to do a mother’s work.  My father was just fine for fighting fires and could leap tall buildings with a bound.  He was perfectly competent when he was taking control of situations in the light of day.  He was even pretty good at keeping the teasing of older brothers to a minimum. But there is absolutely no substitute for a mother’s love.  No amount of Daddy’s logic could approach the calming effect of just a touch and the knowledge that Mama was near.  Dad was great when you needed a strong take-charge hero, but it was Mom who calmed the troubled spirit and chased away the night-time fears.

I miss those days.  I’m fairly confident it was just the same for my children as they grew, and now for their children as they are getting older.  Maybe it was even the same in your house.  It’s a pretty good system.  Am I a sexist?  I don’t think so.  I would say that I’m a realist.  God gives us different roles to play as parents which we’re uniquely equipped to perform.  I hope all of us can continue to live up to the example set by both of our parents and theirs before them.

If your mom is still living, tell her thanks and give her a big hug this week.  Hug her even if you’re not the hugging kind.  She’ll get over the shock.  If your mother isn’t alive, why not honor her by keeping her memory alive in the minds and hearts of your children?  You’ve got memories to share and a story or two to tell.  Your kids will cherish them for the rest of their lives, too.

“Motherhood.  All love begins and ends there.”
(Robert Browning~English poet~1812-1889)

“Her children rise up and call her blessed.  Her husband also, and he praises her.”
(Proverbs 21: 28)

Where Did That Come From?

“Play me something on this guitar, Paul.  I want to listen to the sound.”  Kurt held out the old classical guitar expectantly.  As I reluctantly took the guitar from his hand, he stepped a few feet away, waiting for me to strum a few chords on the nylon strings.  I thought for a second and then began a classical piece, the name long lost to my memory, which I had learned close to thirty years ago.  It was a pretty basic student piece, with a repetitious high E, plucked in an alternating eighth note pattern throughout the first half of the piece, progressing to a triplet feel toward the end.  For some reason, the song is impressive to listen to, but not so difficult to play.  My rudimentary skills are well suited for this piece, so it’s what I usually play when someone insists that I demonstrate a guitar for them.

Kurt has been around our little town for a few years now, a transplant from New Orleans, uprooted by hurricane Katrina.  He came for the shelter offered in the camp south of town and decided to stay and work for awhile.  I first met him, along with another displaced fellow, who came in to my store from the camp to find a guitar.  They had both been professional musicians in the city and lost everything they had when disaster struck.  The other older gentleman headed back for more familiar territory as soon as he could, but Kurt has carved out a niche for himself here.  He is a seasoned jazz guitar player, so it was gratifying to watch him as I played the little ditty on that old guitar.  The look of surprise and enjoyment on his face was unexpected, but welcome to me as I struggled to manipulate the strings on the frets with my inept left hand and, at the same time, to work out the plucking pattern with the tentative digits of my right hand. 

When I finished the piece, we talked for a few moments about the guitar and took care of our business.  As he exited, he tossed  a comment over his shoulders.  “I never knew you had that in you, Paul.  You really can play the guitar, can’t you?”  I didn’t have the chance to disabuse him of the notion, but I wish it were true.  Years ago, I aspired to learn the guitar, spending a number of late evenings practicing and stumbling through exercises and scales, learning the notation for this frustrating instrument with its odd intervals and difficult chord patterns.  In the battle of man against guitar, the guitar won.  Thirty years later, I still cannot claim anything but the most basic mastery, nor do I anticipate that this will change in the next thirty years.

As usual, my focus is not really on the actual event I describe, but on the illuminating concept that emerges as I consider the implication of Kurt’s words.  I’m wondering if this is not actually a fairly common condition, this hidden talent awaiting an opportunity to surprise others who think they know us.  The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that most of us have gifts, talents if you will, that have lain dormant within us, simply awaiting the time when we realize that it’s now or never.  We succumb to that urge to paint, or write, or play the guitar; whatever it is that has been our secret talent.

Many late bloomers determine to make the most of their dream and seek instructors to help perfect their craft.  Others simply begin to do that which they have put off until it can be put off no longer.   For some, the dormancy was never their plan, but simply a casualty of the necessities of life.  Marriage, family, work – all of these combine to crush our intentions to use the skills we have.  Now at last, those responsibilities have progressed to a point where they demand less of our attention and we remember what it was we once wanted to achieve. 

Are you a late bloomer?  It’s time to get busy!  Start using that secret skill; practicing that talent.  You owe it to yourself to explore the potential.  I’m not saying that everyone around will enjoy it, but give it a shot anyway.  I’m tormenting you with my blooming dream right now.  Writing these posts has been the most fun I’ve had in many years.  I realize that from the other side, it may not be so pleasurable.  Thanks for putting up with me anyway.  I may get better at it as time progresses (or not).  Maybe it’s time you give it a try yourself.  (I don’t mean the writing, unless of course, that’s your passion.) 

If you’re going to run marathons, start training.  Sharpen up the knives if you’re going to try woodcarving.  Somewhere out there is someone who will look at you in surprise and say, “I didn’t know you had that in you!”

It’s time you let the rest of the world in on the secret.

“Hide not your talents.  They, for use were made.  What’s a sundial in the shade?”
(Benjamin Franklin~American statesman, writer, and inventor~1706-1790)

“Hide it under a bushel? No!
I’m going to let it shine!”
(from the children’s song “This Little Light Of Mine” by Harry Dixon Loes~1895-1965)

Really Most Sincerely Dead

A man died yesterday as his body was torn by bullets.  Quite likely, he died with a curse on his lips, as he attempted to do what he had done for all of his life; send more of his enemies to their graves in the name of his false god.  One man died.  And, a whole nation rejoiced.

A sinner went to his grave, never to repent, never to know the grace of a loving God.  And, it seems to me that as he entered the gates of Hell, going to eternal torment, many of the very people who should have been saddened at the state in which he died, exulted in his annihilation.

As I sat down to write last night, I struggled with my feelings, believing that I could keep quiet about this and it would pass.  I have spent the day listening to and reading comments from family and friends, only to come to the conclusion that my heart knew the truth, but I was unwilling to expose it to you, unsure of how many of you would react if I made anything approaching a “political” statement.  This is anything but political.  It is the very core of who I am, what my faith has made me.  Tomorrow perhaps, I’ll write a light, funny essay.  Not tonight.

For tonight, I’ll try to keep it short, but I want to say this as clearly as I know how.  I am convinced that Osama Bin Laden had to die.  There was no alternative.  His reign of terror has turned the world upside down.  The repercussions will be felt for generations, perhaps centuries (if we’re still here) to come.  A capture and public trial could only serve to further inflame the hatred and increase the atrocities which have been committed at his behest and in his name.  My head knows this and is content that his death was inevitable.  Our God assures us that evildoers will die.

That said, my heart tells me that we have lost a huge part of ourselves yesterday and today.  My first thought, as I watched the crowds dancing in the street last night, both at the White House and at Ground Zero in NYC, was of the thousands who danced with delight in the streets of many Middle Eastern cities on September 11, 2001.  We also danced, not because justice had been done, but because the vengeance in our hearts was satisfied.  You don’t believe it?  Go back and listen to the sound track of the video.  “Na na na-na, Na na na-na, Hey hey, Goodbye!”  Is that the sound of justice?  Read the posts in the social media today.  Were they of justice and the sigh of relief at the knowledge that a murderer was no longer free to wreak his havoc?  Or, were they of unbridled pleasure that a man was dead?  Really most sincerely dead?  Just like the Wicked Witch, bereft of humanity, of a soul.  “Ding dong, the witch is dead…”

Do I offend?  I don’t mean to.  I am pointing the finger at myself, knowing who I am; knowing my reaction at the news last night.  I am aware of my joy, my elation as I heard the story unfold.  I am as much a part of those mobs as if I was there, singing and rejoicing at a sinner’s entrance into Hell.  The evil man got what was coming to him!  Those were just as much my thoughts and feelings as anyone else in the world.

But, I am convinced that our God (the same One who declares that the evildoer must die), takes no joy in any sinner’s entrance into Hell.  His love speaks against my hatred, my vengeful spirit.  “While we (all of us) were still sinners, Christ died for us.”  We have all been His enemies.  Every one of us deserved annihilation, but instead were offered life. 

I pray that we will recover.  I pray that we will learn.  I pray that we will love our enemies with His unrelenting love.  If we fail, we lose.

“Have I any pleasure in the death of the wicked, declares the Lord God, and not rather that he should turn from his way and live?”
“For I do not take pleasure in the death of anyone, declares the Lord God; so turn, and live.”
(Ezekiel 18:23, 32)