By Jerry Mack Grubbs
It was the 21st day of December and I had spent a few moments at the cemetery remembering a close friend and visiting old memories. It was a beautiful day, crisp and clear with a gentle breeze blowing. I tucked my neck down into the collar of my coat as I finished writing a few thoughts, closed my notebook and headed back to the car.
I turned left as I exited the cemetery and headed for a Christmas visit with another friend from my past. I see her only once each year now and yet twenty years ago we were together every working day. I knew a little of her hopes and dreams and some of her disappointments. But today she and I will reflect on days gone by, catch up on the events of the current year and after a brief hug, say our goodbyes for another year. Oh, we will promise to get together more often; go to lunch and have Mexican food, but it will not happen.
It will not happen because life gets busy with obligations and routine commitments. But mostly it will not happen because our lives become intertwined for a season and then a pruning separates the old from the new. This year she will once again say, "I wondered if you would come this year." And I will think, "We prune, gather, stack and burn but no one can prune away my memories." We lived and laughed and worked and played. We even shared that friend who is now silent that I visited in the cemetery. She will ask if I know what day this is and we will both know it is the anniversary of his passing.
While sitting at a red light and thinking about the upcoming visit with her, I noticed a black BMW sedan pass by in front of me. It was spotless, so spotless it caught my eye. But what really caught my attention was a red wagon full of Christmas presents in the back seat of that car. When the light changed I impulsively decided to follow the BMW. Pulling in close behind the black car I noticed that it was a 530xi. That didn't mean anything to me but I was sure it meant something to the owner. I wanted to jot down the license plate number but I didn't. The BMW was headed east on Fourth South Street and I decided to pull up beside it to get a closer look at the red wagon in the back seat. But my attention was drawn to the occupants of the car.
It is interesting what you can see in a person if you look close enough. I'm not talking about receding hairlines on men and turtleneck sweaters on women to hide what cosmetic surgery can't roll back the clock on. I'm talking about the look of happiness, contentment, worry or grief. Today I saw worry and grief chiseled in stone on the faces of the couple in the spotless black BMW sedan. They were well dressed. The lady passenger didn't have a single blond hair out of place and the morning sun danced on her golden necklace. The driver wore a heavy starched white shirt with monogrammed cuffs. They each had an unopened water bottle cradled in the console cup holders. They appeared to be in their mid thirties but the strain on their faces gave them the appearance of statues devoid of life or manikins in a department store window.
They did not speak. They did not look at each other or toward me but stared straight ahead as though in a trance. I wanted to know their story. I wanted to know who the little red wagon full of Christmas presents was for. As I continued to follow the BMW, it turned toward the University of Utah Hospital. I began to imagine that this couple had a young son or daughter gravely ill and that they were filled with despair. I lost them in the hospital parking terrace but I wasn't too concerned. How many couples would be pulling a red wagon full of Christmas presents through the corridor of the hospital? To my dismay the couple was just entering the elevator when I reached the main foyer. All I knew was that they were headed up. I was blocked by a sea of people. Something was wrong. There had been a "Code Pink" issued just as I entered the hospital. Code Pink meant there had been an infant abduction and every exit to the hospital was being closed off. It took several minutes before everyone knew that it was just a security drill.
Security drill or not, I had lost the couple with the red wagon full of Christmas presents. But what I could not forget was that look of despair on their faces. There are some things that money cannot buy. It cannot buy health and it cannot buy happiness. The look on the faces of that couple told me that they would trade anything for what they did not have, a healthy child. A spotless black BMW sedan, starched white shirts and gold necklaces become nothing more than pruned limbs, gathered, stacked and prepared for burning if that sacrifice would restore what that couple had lost.
While wandering the halls of the hospital in search of the little red wagon full of Christmas presents, I came across another friend from the past. What a pleasant yet unexpected reunion we enjoyed. We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet for lunch one day. I left the hospital with a lighter step because of a friendship renewed coupled with a pain in my heart for a couple I did not know. I returned to my car and continued on my journey to visit that friend with whom I had laughed and worked and played so many years ago. I didn't have a little red wagon full of Christmas presents for her but I did have memories to share and moments to remember. I heard her voice. I enjoyed her smile. Our friendship has survived the pruning, gathering, stacking and burning that separates the old from the new. After the pruning comes the tender new growth. Oh, how good it is to be alive and pull my little red wagon along the road of my mind and fill it with memories, hopes and dreams and friendships renewed.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Sunday, December 24, 2006
The Look of Christmas
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
The year was 1952. I was six years old and anxious for Christmas to come. I had written my letter to Santa requesting a 24" J.C. Higgins bicycle. I didn't know how to ride a bike but I was sure that in no time I would be sailing up and down the dirt road in front of my home.
My joy was complete Christmas morning as I entered the room and saw my candy apple red bicycle next to the tree. There were other presents with my name on them but I had only one thought…get outside and learn to ride my new bike. My brother Bill got a bike also but he was seven and he already knew how to ride. Bill climbed on his bike and was soon out of sight. I quickly discovered that a 24" bicycle was too tall for a six year old. It was impossible to sit on the seat and keep my feet on the pedals. Sometime the bicycle cross bar was even a challenge. My dad assured me that I would grow into the bike.
Learning to ride this oversize bicycle proved very challenging for me. I couldn't pedal with enough momentum to keep my balance so my brother came up with a plan. I pushed my bike over to a gently sloping hill. Holding the bike while I straddled the cross bar and got my feet on the pedals, my brother gave me a gentle shove down the incline. If I could have remembered my birth this would have been the second most frightening experience of my life. I was convinced that I was about to die. I crashed. I survived, but the candy apple red paint on my bike didn't do as well. I cried as I pushed my bike home. My brother was still laughing as we came into the front yard. I thought how strange it was that he got so serious and concerned about my welfare when my mother appeared in the doorway. She consoled me and assured me that my bike would function just as well with the paint scuffed up a little.
I eventually learned to ride my candy apple red bike with the white side wall tires. The world was different in those days. Mother let us ride our bicycles to town seven miles away. After we moved to the city, my brother and I rode all the way to granny's house thirty-three miles away. Young boys on a two lane country road traveling so far away made us feel all grown up. We eventually rode the tread off the tires of those bikes. That was okay because with bald tires we could slam on the brakes and skid farther which was a great pastime.
I no longer worried about the scrapes and scratches on my candy apple red bike. I left it out in the rain. I occasionally left it in the neighbor's yard and took little regard for it unless I couldn't find it when I was ready to travel once more. One day I looked and looked for my bike and couldn't find it anywhere. When I asked mother if she knew where my bike was, she said, "Yes, I gave your bike away to some needy children who will appreciate it and keep it out of the weather." I was so angry with her that I could cuss but cussing would get me the "you know what." Of course I never tried cussing my mother but I got the "you know what" for other things and I wasn't going to invite that experience into my life intentionally. I was in a bad mood for days. I even ran away for four hours but I decided that wasn't a good plan. No matter what I did or what I said, my candy apple red bicycle did not come home.
As Christmas approached I requested a new bike. Mother said I couldn't ask for another bike because I didn't take care of the bike I had. I told her if I couldn't have a bike I didn't want anything; apply the pressure, right. I knew my parents would eventually cave under the pressure and I'd get a new bike. As Christmas neared I looked high and low for evidence of a new bike tucked away in a safe place. See, when you live out in the country your parents sometimes loose faith in Santa and they stash a few things here and there just incase Santa can't find your place on Christmas Eve.
With all my snooping and searching I could find no evidence of a new bicycle that would be standing shining and bright in our living room on Christmas morning just waiting to make me the happiest boy alive. Mother said that if I didn't decide what I wanted for Christmas she would ask Santa to just bring me some clothes. With a reluctant heart I made other choices for the coming Christmas. Mother reminded us that there were many children on Santa's list so we needed to be careful about how much we asked for. Her comment reminded me of that poor little boy who was riding my candy apple red bike. I hoped he crashed and I didn't even know who he was.
Christmas morning finally arrived. I planned to act excited although I was still unhappy about not getting a bicycle. To my surprise there were two shiny green bicycles with white trim; one for me and one for my brother. I ran across the living room to claim my new bike. Coming closer, I realized the bike wasn't new. It was my old 24" J.C. Higgins bike painted a different color. It wasn't even a good paint job. I was angry at mother for lying to me about giving my bike away. I thought of all the months I had missed riding my bike. She had lied to me. Even with my old bike back I was still unhappy that I wasn't getting a new bicycle for Christmas. This was turning out to be the worst Christmas of my life. I looked at my brother and I could see the same disappointment in his eyes. I turned to my mother and as our eyes met I knew at that instant that I held her happiness in my hands. I saw a longing in her eyes that even a ten year old boy could recognize. Would I do the right thing? Would my light burn bright this day? I knew my mother had painted my bike with her own hands. The unsteady lines and brush strokes of the green paint took on new meaning to me. I ran to mother and threw my arms around her, hugging her has tight as I could and thanking her for my bicycle. As my brother and I took our bikes outside to ride, we decided it was nice to have new tires and fresh paint. We grinned at each other and peddled down the road. I never forgot the power we held in our hands that morning when we looked up into the eyes of our mother on a Christmas long ago when there were so many children on Santa's list.
The year was 1952. I was six years old and anxious for Christmas to come. I had written my letter to Santa requesting a 24" J.C. Higgins bicycle. I didn't know how to ride a bike but I was sure that in no time I would be sailing up and down the dirt road in front of my home.
My joy was complete Christmas morning as I entered the room and saw my candy apple red bicycle next to the tree. There were other presents with my name on them but I had only one thought…get outside and learn to ride my new bike. My brother Bill got a bike also but he was seven and he already knew how to ride. Bill climbed on his bike and was soon out of sight. I quickly discovered that a 24" bicycle was too tall for a six year old. It was impossible to sit on the seat and keep my feet on the pedals. Sometime the bicycle cross bar was even a challenge. My dad assured me that I would grow into the bike.
Learning to ride this oversize bicycle proved very challenging for me. I couldn't pedal with enough momentum to keep my balance so my brother came up with a plan. I pushed my bike over to a gently sloping hill. Holding the bike while I straddled the cross bar and got my feet on the pedals, my brother gave me a gentle shove down the incline. If I could have remembered my birth this would have been the second most frightening experience of my life. I was convinced that I was about to die. I crashed. I survived, but the candy apple red paint on my bike didn't do as well. I cried as I pushed my bike home. My brother was still laughing as we came into the front yard. I thought how strange it was that he got so serious and concerned about my welfare when my mother appeared in the doorway. She consoled me and assured me that my bike would function just as well with the paint scuffed up a little.
I eventually learned to ride my candy apple red bike with the white side wall tires. The world was different in those days. Mother let us ride our bicycles to town seven miles away. After we moved to the city, my brother and I rode all the way to granny's house thirty-three miles away. Young boys on a two lane country road traveling so far away made us feel all grown up. We eventually rode the tread off the tires of those bikes. That was okay because with bald tires we could slam on the brakes and skid farther which was a great pastime.
I no longer worried about the scrapes and scratches on my candy apple red bike. I left it out in the rain. I occasionally left it in the neighbor's yard and took little regard for it unless I couldn't find it when I was ready to travel once more. One day I looked and looked for my bike and couldn't find it anywhere. When I asked mother if she knew where my bike was, she said, "Yes, I gave your bike away to some needy children who will appreciate it and keep it out of the weather." I was so angry with her that I could cuss but cussing would get me the "you know what." Of course I never tried cussing my mother but I got the "you know what" for other things and I wasn't going to invite that experience into my life intentionally. I was in a bad mood for days. I even ran away for four hours but I decided that wasn't a good plan. No matter what I did or what I said, my candy apple red bicycle did not come home.
As Christmas approached I requested a new bike. Mother said I couldn't ask for another bike because I didn't take care of the bike I had. I told her if I couldn't have a bike I didn't want anything; apply the pressure, right. I knew my parents would eventually cave under the pressure and I'd get a new bike. As Christmas neared I looked high and low for evidence of a new bike tucked away in a safe place. See, when you live out in the country your parents sometimes loose faith in Santa and they stash a few things here and there just incase Santa can't find your place on Christmas Eve.
With all my snooping and searching I could find no evidence of a new bicycle that would be standing shining and bright in our living room on Christmas morning just waiting to make me the happiest boy alive. Mother said that if I didn't decide what I wanted for Christmas she would ask Santa to just bring me some clothes. With a reluctant heart I made other choices for the coming Christmas. Mother reminded us that there were many children on Santa's list so we needed to be careful about how much we asked for. Her comment reminded me of that poor little boy who was riding my candy apple red bike. I hoped he crashed and I didn't even know who he was.
Christmas morning finally arrived. I planned to act excited although I was still unhappy about not getting a bicycle. To my surprise there were two shiny green bicycles with white trim; one for me and one for my brother. I ran across the living room to claim my new bike. Coming closer, I realized the bike wasn't new. It was my old 24" J.C. Higgins bike painted a different color. It wasn't even a good paint job. I was angry at mother for lying to me about giving my bike away. I thought of all the months I had missed riding my bike. She had lied to me. Even with my old bike back I was still unhappy that I wasn't getting a new bicycle for Christmas. This was turning out to be the worst Christmas of my life. I looked at my brother and I could see the same disappointment in his eyes. I turned to my mother and as our eyes met I knew at that instant that I held her happiness in my hands. I saw a longing in her eyes that even a ten year old boy could recognize. Would I do the right thing? Would my light burn bright this day? I knew my mother had painted my bike with her own hands. The unsteady lines and brush strokes of the green paint took on new meaning to me. I ran to mother and threw my arms around her, hugging her has tight as I could and thanking her for my bicycle. As my brother and I took our bikes outside to ride, we decided it was nice to have new tires and fresh paint. We grinned at each other and peddled down the road. I never forgot the power we held in our hands that morning when we looked up into the eyes of our mother on a Christmas long ago when there were so many children on Santa's list.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Gone From My View
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
I lost a friend this week. I didn’t loose him like you loose a shiny penny that drops out of your pocket. I didn’t loose him like a favorite book that is temporarily misplaced. I lost him in life. He is gone from my view but not from my heart. His name is James Marvin Moore but everyone called him Jimmy. He had rough edges just like the rest of us but his personal battle with cancer began to smooth and polish his imperfections.
I felt fortunate to be counted as one of his many friends. He was always anxious to help anyone in need. His voice still rings in my ears. “Mister Jerry, I can get that old dump truck running for you,” he said. And fountains of memories gush forth and flood that day we worked on the old truck together. “Mister Jerry, I’ll help you rebuild that washed out dam if my boss will give me a few days off,” he said. And the next six days were filled with hard work and pleasant conversation.
From our first introduction I asked Jimmy to not call me Mister Jerry. I’m just plain Jerry I told him. “You’re not plain to me,” he said. “When you do something to loose my respect I’ll stop calling you Mister Jerry.” That is how Jimmy was . . . once he set his mind on something there was no changing him. For the most part that attitude about life served him well.
Jimmy didn’t amass the treasures of the earth but he gathered about himself a multitude of friends. Those who judge a man by the cost of his coat would take no notice of Jimmy. While those who view a man from where he started and where he finished the day found a warm friendship in this man who always offered a strong handshake and a soft countenance. I can hear in my mind Jimmy saying, “That man is doing the best he can.”
How grateful I am that I was able to visit Jimmy one last time. During his struggle he lost his life but he didn’t loose his positive attitude. He lost his fight with cancer but he didn’t loose the love and caring concern of his companion and wife. Jimmy lost his beloved pickup to the creditors but on one could repossess his friends. They had been purchased and paid for in full. That price was his loyalty. That price was his love. That price was his gentle open acceptance of others. I will miss him and I will not forget him.
We were friends in life and we are friends in death. Some things are not lost even in death. James Marvin Moore, you may be gone from my view but you are not gone from my heart. I am a better person today because of the tenderness you pointed out in me. In reality, it was through your eyes that you saw that tenderness. It is my responsibility to strive to live up to what you saw in me. I’m still trying.
I lost a friend this week. I didn’t loose him like you loose a shiny penny that drops out of your pocket. I didn’t loose him like a favorite book that is temporarily misplaced. I lost him in life. He is gone from my view but not from my heart. His name is James Marvin Moore but everyone called him Jimmy. He had rough edges just like the rest of us but his personal battle with cancer began to smooth and polish his imperfections.
I felt fortunate to be counted as one of his many friends. He was always anxious to help anyone in need. His voice still rings in my ears. “Mister Jerry, I can get that old dump truck running for you,” he said. And fountains of memories gush forth and flood that day we worked on the old truck together. “Mister Jerry, I’ll help you rebuild that washed out dam if my boss will give me a few days off,” he said. And the next six days were filled with hard work and pleasant conversation.
From our first introduction I asked Jimmy to not call me Mister Jerry. I’m just plain Jerry I told him. “You’re not plain to me,” he said. “When you do something to loose my respect I’ll stop calling you Mister Jerry.” That is how Jimmy was . . . once he set his mind on something there was no changing him. For the most part that attitude about life served him well.
Jimmy didn’t amass the treasures of the earth but he gathered about himself a multitude of friends. Those who judge a man by the cost of his coat would take no notice of Jimmy. While those who view a man from where he started and where he finished the day found a warm friendship in this man who always offered a strong handshake and a soft countenance. I can hear in my mind Jimmy saying, “That man is doing the best he can.”
How grateful I am that I was able to visit Jimmy one last time. During his struggle he lost his life but he didn’t loose his positive attitude. He lost his fight with cancer but he didn’t loose the love and caring concern of his companion and wife. Jimmy lost his beloved pickup to the creditors but on one could repossess his friends. They had been purchased and paid for in full. That price was his loyalty. That price was his love. That price was his gentle open acceptance of others. I will miss him and I will not forget him.
We were friends in life and we are friends in death. Some things are not lost even in death. James Marvin Moore, you may be gone from my view but you are not gone from my heart. I am a better person today because of the tenderness you pointed out in me. In reality, it was through your eyes that you saw that tenderness. It is my responsibility to strive to live up to what you saw in me. I’m still trying.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Going Home
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
My dream world has been active again. This week I dreamed I was walking across this vast land of ours. I walked over mountains, through valleys and across the grassy plains of the Midwest. I waded across streams and swam rivers. I seemed to be driven by an inner voice moving me eastward. I took in deep breaths of air and was humbled by the scenery of this beautiful country.
I thought how much faster it would be if I could fly or drive but I wasn’t dissatisfied that I was relegated to walking this tremendous distance. I never felt tired. Looking down I was surprised to see that I was barefoot but my feet weren’t sore or bothered in the least. I remember being thankful that it wasn’t wintertime. I could survive the heat much easier than the cold.
I was being mentally pulled eastward toward an unknown destination. I was aware of the fact that I was going to find someone and bring them home. I didn’t know where this journey would take me but I was certain that I would learn many valuable lessons on the way there. Nothing slowed me down. I walked through blazing sun, strong winds and sometimes heavy rain but I continued placing one foot in front of the other. I sang songs and made up stories in my mind to pass the time. I relived memories long buried in the recesses of the deepest chamber of my heart. I was happy. I was content. I was going home.
But I wasn’t going home. I was moving a direction that was taking me far away from home. Why did I feel like I was going home? I was puzzled by this strange sensation. As the foot steps and miles passed under my feet I gradually became aware that home isn’t necessarily a place. It can be a feeling. It can be anywhere you feel safe, loved and appreciated. Who was this person that I was looking for that would make me feel at home once I found them? The one thing I knew for certain was that once we were together we would be so close that we could share a single raindrop. Home would be wherever we were together. I was filled with a love that is difficult for me to describe; as difficult as it is to describe a beautiful sunset to someone who has never seen one.
I realized it was this feeling of love that energized me and gave me a determination to continue my journey. I knew that nothing would stop me, not weather, not mountains, not the heat of day or the cold of night. I would find what was lost to me and I would be home. I was going home.
My dream world has been active again. This week I dreamed I was walking across this vast land of ours. I walked over mountains, through valleys and across the grassy plains of the Midwest. I waded across streams and swam rivers. I seemed to be driven by an inner voice moving me eastward. I took in deep breaths of air and was humbled by the scenery of this beautiful country.
I thought how much faster it would be if I could fly or drive but I wasn’t dissatisfied that I was relegated to walking this tremendous distance. I never felt tired. Looking down I was surprised to see that I was barefoot but my feet weren’t sore or bothered in the least. I remember being thankful that it wasn’t wintertime. I could survive the heat much easier than the cold.
I was being mentally pulled eastward toward an unknown destination. I was aware of the fact that I was going to find someone and bring them home. I didn’t know where this journey would take me but I was certain that I would learn many valuable lessons on the way there. Nothing slowed me down. I walked through blazing sun, strong winds and sometimes heavy rain but I continued placing one foot in front of the other. I sang songs and made up stories in my mind to pass the time. I relived memories long buried in the recesses of the deepest chamber of my heart. I was happy. I was content. I was going home.
But I wasn’t going home. I was moving a direction that was taking me far away from home. Why did I feel like I was going home? I was puzzled by this strange sensation. As the foot steps and miles passed under my feet I gradually became aware that home isn’t necessarily a place. It can be a feeling. It can be anywhere you feel safe, loved and appreciated. Who was this person that I was looking for that would make me feel at home once I found them? The one thing I knew for certain was that once we were together we would be so close that we could share a single raindrop. Home would be wherever we were together. I was filled with a love that is difficult for me to describe; as difficult as it is to describe a beautiful sunset to someone who has never seen one.
I realized it was this feeling of love that energized me and gave me a determination to continue my journey. I knew that nothing would stop me, not weather, not mountains, not the heat of day or the cold of night. I would find what was lost to me and I would be home. I was going home.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
Memory Lane
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
It was just two pennies and a nickel. But even in 1958 when I first stood on this spot seven cents would no longer buy a soda pop. Today it would barely cover the tax on the purchase of a bottle of water. But when I looked down and discovered the two pennies and a nickel on the asphalt parking lot of the Magnolia Ridge Condominiums, I was standing very near the spot where the mighty oak tree grew so many years ago that served as the lofty perch for my tree house. Change had come to these piney woods of East Texas. Buildings, asphalt and fences adorned the landscape that once was the playground of a young boy filled with imagination, hopes and dreams. My dreams eventually carried me far from home and away from these peaceful woods of summer.
Reaching down, I picked up the two pennies and a nickel. They were scratched and marred from being run over by the wheels of vehicles coming and going on peoples' journey through life. But like the scratches on those coins, I have had my share of nicks and scratches as I have traveled in search of my dreams. My hope is that in that process I haven't left painful scratches on the memories of those I have met.
As I enjoyed the thoughts of many wonderful times spent in that grand old oak tree, I continued my walk down memory lane. The summer of 1958 came to a close and having graduated from Valley View Elementary, I was off to a new school. My brother Bill was a year ahead of me in school and he had been walking to Forest Park Junior High for a year. When you grow up with an older brother there are lots of things that you don't have to figure out on your own. I don't know if that is a blessing or not. On the road to school was a home with a red door. Bill told me that the red door meant a prostitute lived there. I watched every day to see if I could see what a prostitute looked like but there was never anyone out in the yard when I passed by.
In 1964, the night of my high school graduation, Charles Hineman, Eddy Gilmore and I headed for Galveston, Texas for a few days of R&R on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. Late that night as we passed through downtown Houston, Texas, Charles pointed to two women standing near the curb and said, "Now there are a couple of real prostitutes." When Charles made that comment about the prostitutes I though once more of what was said about the woman who lived in the house with the red door on our way to school. As I walk by that home these many years later the door is still painted red. I wonder how old that prostitute must be today. What I really wonder is how long does a label stick even if there is no basis of truth in it.
Walking on down memory lane I noticed the large concrete culverts that carried the storm water away form the surrounding development of homes and school. During those junior high days I played in those culverts for hours on end. That was where my friends thought it was time for me to have my first smoke. They didn't realize I had already had my first and last smoke. It was when I was in the fourth grade. I hadn't told anyone about my smoking and I wouldn't tell anyone unless I found that special dream girl who would melt my heart. When that happened I knew I would spill my guts, share all of me, secretly feeling glad that someone on this earth knew me completely, warts and all.
Leaving the memory of the culverts, I walked onto the school grounds. The first building I came to was where I took a drafting class. In that drafting class the teacher made me learn to print all over again. He wasn't satisfied with just regular printing but all the words had to be in neat precise block letters. I spent years practicing my cursive penmanship and now my teacher said that wasn't good enough for those drafting assignments. Mother said that was when I began to loose my flowing penmanship that she always complimented me on. Mother had to find something to brag on me about. There was my older brother Bill with his piano accomplishments, teachers saying he should be in voice lessons and he was already sitting first chair trombonist in the band even though he was only an eighth grader.
I don't remember him crowing like a young rooster about his talents. He didn't have to. Mother was crowing enough for him. If you grew up with an older brother, I'm sure you heard the words, "Why can't you be more like your brother?" Well, we are each different and my parents finally figured that out. I don't remember resenting them for their comments. I often wondered why I wasn't more like my older brother also. The big problem was that I liked being me.
I peered into many other classrooms and memories flooded back, too many to share with you today. But looking west of the school at the forest of pine trees that gave our school the name, Forest Park Junior High, I remembered the pinecone fights that erupted with little provocation. Those pinecone wars were not conducted with fluffy open pedal brown pinecones that have dropped their seeds. They were hard green torpedoes with sharp spikes all over them. There was never an argument whether or not you scored a hit. The victim would have blood oozing from each of those needle pricks. The pinecone wars of Forest Park raged at lunch break all through my junior high days.
We bragged and displayed our war wounds until we returned to afternoon classes. There would be no more talk of what went on at lunch time. To be caught hurdling those hard green missiles at another student was grounds for a trip to the principal's office for a brief but painful encounter with his behavioral modification program. The principal's name has slipped my mind but I still remember what his paddle looked like.
My best friend Nick and I always tried to be on the same side as we divided up before the pinecone war games began. At least that was the way it was until Nick blew off two of his fingers making home made fireworks. Cherry bombs weren't powerful enough for Nick. Going to school one morning, I stopped by Nick's home to walk the rest of the way to school with him. Nick's mother greeted me at the door and asked if I heard the sirens the previous evening. Nick wouldn't return to the pinecone wars for the rest of that year. I stayed behind with him for several weeks but eventually I was drawn back to the games down in the woods and Nick busied himself with other interests as his hand continued to heal. Soon we weren't walking home from school together anymore. Nick had been the only friend who stood by me and helped fight the boys trying to force me to take a puff on a cigarette down in the storm sewer culverts. Where was I when he needed a friend?
But this is a walk down memory lane; a walk that includes reflections of the good choices and the not so good. I made some of both. If it were possible, I would open my chest and reveal my heart but you might not like all you see. So I'll just provide glimpses of me here and there in hopes that if there are any tears they are from laughter not boredom or sadness. Even my poor choices taught me much about life. I'm not proud of all my choices but I'm thankful I learned lessons from a good share of them.
It was just two pennies and a nickel. But even in 1958 when I first stood on this spot seven cents would no longer buy a soda pop. Today it would barely cover the tax on the purchase of a bottle of water. But when I looked down and discovered the two pennies and a nickel on the asphalt parking lot of the Magnolia Ridge Condominiums, I was standing very near the spot where the mighty oak tree grew so many years ago that served as the lofty perch for my tree house. Change had come to these piney woods of East Texas. Buildings, asphalt and fences adorned the landscape that once was the playground of a young boy filled with imagination, hopes and dreams. My dreams eventually carried me far from home and away from these peaceful woods of summer.
Reaching down, I picked up the two pennies and a nickel. They were scratched and marred from being run over by the wheels of vehicles coming and going on peoples' journey through life. But like the scratches on those coins, I have had my share of nicks and scratches as I have traveled in search of my dreams. My hope is that in that process I haven't left painful scratches on the memories of those I have met.
As I enjoyed the thoughts of many wonderful times spent in that grand old oak tree, I continued my walk down memory lane. The summer of 1958 came to a close and having graduated from Valley View Elementary, I was off to a new school. My brother Bill was a year ahead of me in school and he had been walking to Forest Park Junior High for a year. When you grow up with an older brother there are lots of things that you don't have to figure out on your own. I don't know if that is a blessing or not. On the road to school was a home with a red door. Bill told me that the red door meant a prostitute lived there. I watched every day to see if I could see what a prostitute looked like but there was never anyone out in the yard when I passed by.
In 1964, the night of my high school graduation, Charles Hineman, Eddy Gilmore and I headed for Galveston, Texas for a few days of R&R on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. Late that night as we passed through downtown Houston, Texas, Charles pointed to two women standing near the curb and said, "Now there are a couple of real prostitutes." When Charles made that comment about the prostitutes I though once more of what was said about the woman who lived in the house with the red door on our way to school. As I walk by that home these many years later the door is still painted red. I wonder how old that prostitute must be today. What I really wonder is how long does a label stick even if there is no basis of truth in it.
Walking on down memory lane I noticed the large concrete culverts that carried the storm water away form the surrounding development of homes and school. During those junior high days I played in those culverts for hours on end. That was where my friends thought it was time for me to have my first smoke. They didn't realize I had already had my first and last smoke. It was when I was in the fourth grade. I hadn't told anyone about my smoking and I wouldn't tell anyone unless I found that special dream girl who would melt my heart. When that happened I knew I would spill my guts, share all of me, secretly feeling glad that someone on this earth knew me completely, warts and all.
Leaving the memory of the culverts, I walked onto the school grounds. The first building I came to was where I took a drafting class. In that drafting class the teacher made me learn to print all over again. He wasn't satisfied with just regular printing but all the words had to be in neat precise block letters. I spent years practicing my cursive penmanship and now my teacher said that wasn't good enough for those drafting assignments. Mother said that was when I began to loose my flowing penmanship that she always complimented me on. Mother had to find something to brag on me about. There was my older brother Bill with his piano accomplishments, teachers saying he should be in voice lessons and he was already sitting first chair trombonist in the band even though he was only an eighth grader.
I don't remember him crowing like a young rooster about his talents. He didn't have to. Mother was crowing enough for him. If you grew up with an older brother, I'm sure you heard the words, "Why can't you be more like your brother?" Well, we are each different and my parents finally figured that out. I don't remember resenting them for their comments. I often wondered why I wasn't more like my older brother also. The big problem was that I liked being me.
I peered into many other classrooms and memories flooded back, too many to share with you today. But looking west of the school at the forest of pine trees that gave our school the name, Forest Park Junior High, I remembered the pinecone fights that erupted with little provocation. Those pinecone wars were not conducted with fluffy open pedal brown pinecones that have dropped their seeds. They were hard green torpedoes with sharp spikes all over them. There was never an argument whether or not you scored a hit. The victim would have blood oozing from each of those needle pricks. The pinecone wars of Forest Park raged at lunch break all through my junior high days.
We bragged and displayed our war wounds until we returned to afternoon classes. There would be no more talk of what went on at lunch time. To be caught hurdling those hard green missiles at another student was grounds for a trip to the principal's office for a brief but painful encounter with his behavioral modification program. The principal's name has slipped my mind but I still remember what his paddle looked like.
My best friend Nick and I always tried to be on the same side as we divided up before the pinecone war games began. At least that was the way it was until Nick blew off two of his fingers making home made fireworks. Cherry bombs weren't powerful enough for Nick. Going to school one morning, I stopped by Nick's home to walk the rest of the way to school with him. Nick's mother greeted me at the door and asked if I heard the sirens the previous evening. Nick wouldn't return to the pinecone wars for the rest of that year. I stayed behind with him for several weeks but eventually I was drawn back to the games down in the woods and Nick busied himself with other interests as his hand continued to heal. Soon we weren't walking home from school together anymore. Nick had been the only friend who stood by me and helped fight the boys trying to force me to take a puff on a cigarette down in the storm sewer culverts. Where was I when he needed a friend?
But this is a walk down memory lane; a walk that includes reflections of the good choices and the not so good. I made some of both. If it were possible, I would open my chest and reveal my heart but you might not like all you see. So I'll just provide glimpses of me here and there in hopes that if there are any tears they are from laughter not boredom or sadness. Even my poor choices taught me much about life. I'm not proud of all my choices but I'm thankful I learned lessons from a good share of them.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Within Four Hours
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
The scriptures suggest that it is by our fruit that we are known. Before a ripe fruit is plucked from the vine much effort has proceeded that day. There had to first be a preparing of the soil, a sowing of the seed, nurturing of the tender plant and many other acts of labor prior to the enjoyment of the fruit.
Fruit comes in many flavors, sizes and shapes, most of which I have tasted on occasion. In almost all cases, a flower precedes the development of the fruit. Just like fruit, flowers come in all colors, sizes and shapes also. These flowers make up the beautiful bouquets of our lives.
Most women have received a bouquet of flowers at some time in their life. The sound of the door bell caught my wife Kaye's attention. As she opened the door a beautiful bouquet was thrust into her hands with the delivery man hurriedly making sure he was at the Grubbs' residence. What was interesting was that from a distance the bouquet looked like flowers but up close, everything was carved from fruit. What a treat. It was beautiful to look at and wonderful to the taste.
But what was even better was reflecting on the friendship of the one who sent the bouquet. This bouquet was an outward expression of an inner feeling. Over the years I have enjoyed the fruit of the labors of so many others. As my family sat around the table and plucked and ate the flower carved fruit from the bouquet, I thought of how fortunate I am. Thoughtful friends often go out of their way to share a tender feeling of the heart or perform a special act of kindness such as this bouquet of fruit.
Attached to a ribbon on the bouquet was a little note that said, "Best when consumed within four hours." I thought about that little suggestion. Often we receive promptings to perform an act of kindness or express our appreciation in a note. Attached to each of those feelings should be the admonition, "Follow your heart within four hours." When we don't heed the promptings, when we don't act on the feeling, that feeling begins to subside and soon it is nothing more than something we wished we had done.
The scriptures suggest that it is by our fruit that we are known. Before a ripe fruit is plucked from the vine much effort has proceeded that day. There had to first be a preparing of the soil, a sowing of the seed, nurturing of the tender plant and many other acts of labor prior to the enjoyment of the fruit.
Fruit comes in many flavors, sizes and shapes, most of which I have tasted on occasion. In almost all cases, a flower precedes the development of the fruit. Just like fruit, flowers come in all colors, sizes and shapes also. These flowers make up the beautiful bouquets of our lives.
Most women have received a bouquet of flowers at some time in their life. The sound of the door bell caught my wife Kaye's attention. As she opened the door a beautiful bouquet was thrust into her hands with the delivery man hurriedly making sure he was at the Grubbs' residence. What was interesting was that from a distance the bouquet looked like flowers but up close, everything was carved from fruit. What a treat. It was beautiful to look at and wonderful to the taste.
But what was even better was reflecting on the friendship of the one who sent the bouquet. This bouquet was an outward expression of an inner feeling. Over the years I have enjoyed the fruit of the labors of so many others. As my family sat around the table and plucked and ate the flower carved fruit from the bouquet, I thought of how fortunate I am. Thoughtful friends often go out of their way to share a tender feeling of the heart or perform a special act of kindness such as this bouquet of fruit.
Attached to a ribbon on the bouquet was a little note that said, "Best when consumed within four hours." I thought about that little suggestion. Often we receive promptings to perform an act of kindness or express our appreciation in a note. Attached to each of those feelings should be the admonition, "Follow your heart within four hours." When we don't heed the promptings, when we don't act on the feeling, that feeling begins to subside and soon it is nothing more than something we wished we had done.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
In the Blink of an Eye
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
His name is Richard Day but we called him Dick. He came into my life as my brother's best friend. At least Bill and Dick were best friends until Patsy; a well proportioned cheerleader performed a few cart wheels in front of my brother. She was a real looker but so was my brother and somehow he snagged her on his fishing line. If you have ever fished, you know the thrill that comes when you feel the tug on your line. All your attention is focused on getting that big one in the boat. As my brother was struggling to get Patsy in his boat, there was time for me to slip into Dick's life. What a blessing that was for me.
Dick's father died when he was young but a loving mother made sure that he was plowing a straight course. Actually, I think Dick had an inborn tendency to do the right thing regardless of whether anyone was watching. He never spoke ill of anyone. He found no humor in hearing or sharing off-color jokes. Dick loved trains and photography. He once enticed me to be a two-day hobo. We hopped a freight train to Saint Louis, Missouri. Before jumping on the train I removed the heel of my shoe and hid $40 inside. The money did little good. You can't buy anything to eat on a freight train. We didn't even take a water bottle. My Saint Louis experience consisted of washing up in a dirty bathroom of a gas station located near the train tracks. I rinsed out an empty whiskey bottle I found along the tracks and filled it with water for the return trip home.
We had quite an adventure: dirt, flies, meeting real hobos, hopping the wrong train home and having to bale off when it took an unexpected turn North, sunburn, windburn, and hunger. But in the blink of an eye I can open that memory and the joy of being with Dick cascades across my mind and a smile forms on my lips. That says it all. I took his companionship for granted when I was young but I always knew the value of his friendship. It is a friendship that remains in my heart to this day although I haven't seen him in years.
Dick's other passion was photography. He carried a camera most of the time and he captured much of my life in print. Dick created a book of my high school years. Under each picture was a personalized caption with his unique comments and humor. After high school graduation he gave the book to my girl friend, Karen Young. When I asked him why she got the book, Dick said, "If I gave it to you, you would look at it once and forget where it was. This way, you will always know where it is." Well, Dicks comment was prophetic. I know where the book is but I can't look at it, hold it, share it or even misplace it. It just never occurred to Dick that Karen and I would go separate ways.
Although I don't have access to the high school photo album, I can access the memories of my experiences. I am continually grateful for the ability to remember the past, reflect on the present and look forward to the future. I am thankful for the good friend Richard Byron Day was to me. He encouraged me to be my better self; not by his words but by his example. In the blink of an eye I am drawn back in time to a place where I can see his contented smile, relive our shared experiences and express gratitude for his friendship.
Richard has contributed two articles to the Point to Ponder section of our family website.
"Journey to Life"
http://www.grubbsfamily.org/ponder/item?item_id=20227
"What the Railroad Taught Me"
http://www.grubbsfamily.org/ponder/item?item_id=18755
His name is Richard Day but we called him Dick. He came into my life as my brother's best friend. At least Bill and Dick were best friends until Patsy; a well proportioned cheerleader performed a few cart wheels in front of my brother. She was a real looker but so was my brother and somehow he snagged her on his fishing line. If you have ever fished, you know the thrill that comes when you feel the tug on your line. All your attention is focused on getting that big one in the boat. As my brother was struggling to get Patsy in his boat, there was time for me to slip into Dick's life. What a blessing that was for me.
Dick's father died when he was young but a loving mother made sure that he was plowing a straight course. Actually, I think Dick had an inborn tendency to do the right thing regardless of whether anyone was watching. He never spoke ill of anyone. He found no humor in hearing or sharing off-color jokes. Dick loved trains and photography. He once enticed me to be a two-day hobo. We hopped a freight train to Saint Louis, Missouri. Before jumping on the train I removed the heel of my shoe and hid $40 inside. The money did little good. You can't buy anything to eat on a freight train. We didn't even take a water bottle. My Saint Louis experience consisted of washing up in a dirty bathroom of a gas station located near the train tracks. I rinsed out an empty whiskey bottle I found along the tracks and filled it with water for the return trip home.
We had quite an adventure: dirt, flies, meeting real hobos, hopping the wrong train home and having to bale off when it took an unexpected turn North, sunburn, windburn, and hunger. But in the blink of an eye I can open that memory and the joy of being with Dick cascades across my mind and a smile forms on my lips. That says it all. I took his companionship for granted when I was young but I always knew the value of his friendship. It is a friendship that remains in my heart to this day although I haven't seen him in years.
Dick's other passion was photography. He carried a camera most of the time and he captured much of my life in print. Dick created a book of my high school years. Under each picture was a personalized caption with his unique comments and humor. After high school graduation he gave the book to my girl friend, Karen Young. When I asked him why she got the book, Dick said, "If I gave it to you, you would look at it once and forget where it was. This way, you will always know where it is." Well, Dicks comment was prophetic. I know where the book is but I can't look at it, hold it, share it or even misplace it. It just never occurred to Dick that Karen and I would go separate ways.
Although I don't have access to the high school photo album, I can access the memories of my experiences. I am continually grateful for the ability to remember the past, reflect on the present and look forward to the future. I am thankful for the good friend Richard Byron Day was to me. He encouraged me to be my better self; not by his words but by his example. In the blink of an eye I am drawn back in time to a place where I can see his contented smile, relive our shared experiences and express gratitude for his friendship.
Richard has contributed two articles to the Point to Ponder section of our family website.
"Journey to Life"
http://www.grubbsfamily.org/ponder/item?item_id=20227
"What the Railroad Taught Me"
http://www.grubbsfamily.org/ponder/item?item_id=18755
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Making a Difference
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
There was no explosion or earthquake that disrupted our lives. It was referred to as a civil unrest. Someone must have thought that the term "civil unrest" was more pleasing to the ear than the truth. Like when Vietnam was called a conflict instead of a war. Whatever you choose to call it, it was a dangerous time. Gangs were roving the streets, taking what they wanted by force. Law and order was nonexistent in our community. It was dangerous to be out on the street. The only means of transportation was by foot or bicycle since there was no gasoline for vehicles.
With a desire to be together as a family during this turmoil, my son Trevor brought his little family along with my daughter Leslie and her boys to our home. It was a long walk for the little children. The parents were exhausted not so much from the long walk but from the threatening and unsafe circumstances. Leslie's husband Ty had gone to help my son Todd take care of his neighbors. As soon as they were safe within the walls of our home, Trevor left again to help bring Todd's family to our home. I wanted to go with him because I knew there was safety in numbers but he desired for me to stay home incase there was trouble in our neighborhood.
Todd's family lived closer and the walk wasn't as far but it was still a relief when they arrived under Trevor's care. The stories Trevor told of what he had seen on his journey made me realize that the situation in our community was worsening. We had no way of knowing if the situation was as bad in the southern end of the valley where Linda Jean had moved. Since she lived the greatest distance away we had previously mapped out a route that she would start following and we would come meet her if anything of this nature occurred. For fear that she might be out on the road and in danger I now wished I had asked her to just stay put in her own home until we came for her.
As soon as Trevor returned I started preparing to go for Linda Jean and her son William. Once again, Trevor stopped me and suggested that I stay with the family and he would go find them. I gave him the course that Linda Jean would be following and my wife Kaye packed food for him to take. It could require the better part of two days for him to make the trip under the current circumstances. I hated to send him out alone but I knew it was best that I stay with the family until the other men, Todd and Ty arrived.
To our surprise and relief, Trevor was back home with Linda Jean four hours later. Family members gathered around her, hugging her and celebrating her safe arrival. The spirit of that celebration was dampened when we were told that William had not been willing to come. He said that he needed to stay in their home to protect it from looters. Sadness fell over the family and there was a feeling of loss without him there. True, Todd and Ty were not back yet either but we knew they were together and could protect one another. William was all alone.
I went upstairs and began preparing to bring William home if at all possible. There would be plenty of time while on my walk to think of some way to convince him that he should be with us instead of all alone. I loaded my shotgun and put other shells in my jacket pocket. I didn't want to hurt anyone. I just wanted to be left alone. I took the food pack that Kaye had prepared for Trevor and started out the door. Linda Jean met me in the foyer and said that she was coming with me and that she had only come without William in order to get help convincing him to come stay with us. In unison, the family pleaded with me to not let her go. She was safe inside the walls of our home and I would be able to travel faster alone which meant that I would reach William sooner. She reluctantly agreed and as I stepped out the door she opened a small plastic case and handed me a baby tooth belonging to William and asked me to not return without him. She already knew that I would not come home without him if he was still alive. This act of entrusting me with his baby tooth was merely a symbol that we both understood. The last sound I heard as I stepped away from the door was the dead bolt being locked behind me. I looked back and there stood my family gathered at the front window waving goodbye.
As I walked, I thought of what had transpired over the last few days; the collapse of law and order and the shutting down of goods being transported across the country that created shortages. There was panic buying that stripped the shelves in the stores within hours. Selfishness ruled as did the cruelty of people toward one another when such circumstances should have brought out the best in humanity. I wanted to find William and get back home as soon as possible. I knew that until we returned there would be no peace in the hearts of those locked behind the walls of our home. My thoughts turned to Todd and Ty, wondering if they were home safe yet. Suddenly I realized I had forgotten to ask Linda Jean if she had given William the route that he should follow if he decided to come on his own. Doubt began to creep into my mind. What if I passed him and didn't even know it. What if I went all the way to his home and at the same time he was arriving at our home. I felt foolish for not being better prepared. Subconsciously, I reached into my pocket and touched William's baby tooth that Linda Jean had given me just as I left the house. All I could do was my best with what I had and knew at the time. I picked up my pace to find William.
In the distance ahead I could see three men coming toward me. I felt uneasy. Although I had my shotgun and a pistol, I didn't want any trouble nor did I want to hurt anyone. I angled my direction of travel so as not to come face to face with them but as I did so they shifted their direction also and continued to advance toward me. I eased my shotgun out of its holster and held it in a non-threatening position. Then I recognized the three men coming toward me. To my relief it was Todd and Ty. And they had William with them. After they had finished helping Todd's neighbors they immediately took off to get Linda Jean and William. Arriving at their home they found only William there and brought him with them.
I never asked how they convinced William to join them and they never offered an explanation. I was just happy that the four of us were on our way home. We would have enough challenges ahead without worrying about the past. We arrived home long after dark. Most were bedded down but except for the children not many were sleeping. It is difficult to describe the feeling that swept over me as I realized that we were all there, all safe, all accounted for.
As night turned to day we began to stir around the house. At breakfast Todd gave a little speech about how thankful he was that Kaye had been so diligent in preparing for an emergency such as this. We held a family council and it was decided that we couldn't just remain locked behind the walls of our home while others were struggling and less prepared. Unbeknown to me, Kaye, Linda Jean, Julie and Kim had spend the better part of the night doing an inventory of our food supplies. Everything was categorized and a basic menu had been developed.
With gangs roaming the streets and going into the homes and taking food supplies from other people we decided that we should help out in whatever way we could. There were five men in our home. We decided that four men would take food prepared by the family and go out and share it with those in need. Each day one man would stay behind to defend our home. The other four would go out, locate hungry, tired families and share the food with them. They not only shared food but the four would stay and guard over a family while they ate and rested. These men were soon being referred to as the "Peace Warriors." They carried enough fire power to defend a small neighborhood but focused their attention on helping, not hurting. When they extended a hand it was filled with food, not a weapon.
The highlight of each evening was when the Peace Warriors returned home safe once more. After dinner the family would gather and listen to the stories and experiences that they had that day. While our own food supply satisfied our physical hunger, the sharing of our food and the gratitude of those who received it filled our hearts to overflowing. However small it might be, we were making a difference.
I dream every night but most dreams are just bits and pieces of disconnected events. On occasion I have a dream that is so vivid and detailed that I feel compelled to write it down. This dream is not a foretelling of events to come. It is not an omen of impending doom. It is just a dream that both saddened me and enriched me. However, the people of my dream are real. They are precious to me. I hope there is something within this dream that reaches out to you and touches you for good. That's my only purpose in sharing it with you.
There was no explosion or earthquake that disrupted our lives. It was referred to as a civil unrest. Someone must have thought that the term "civil unrest" was more pleasing to the ear than the truth. Like when Vietnam was called a conflict instead of a war. Whatever you choose to call it, it was a dangerous time. Gangs were roving the streets, taking what they wanted by force. Law and order was nonexistent in our community. It was dangerous to be out on the street. The only means of transportation was by foot or bicycle since there was no gasoline for vehicles.
With a desire to be together as a family during this turmoil, my son Trevor brought his little family along with my daughter Leslie and her boys to our home. It was a long walk for the little children. The parents were exhausted not so much from the long walk but from the threatening and unsafe circumstances. Leslie's husband Ty had gone to help my son Todd take care of his neighbors. As soon as they were safe within the walls of our home, Trevor left again to help bring Todd's family to our home. I wanted to go with him because I knew there was safety in numbers but he desired for me to stay home incase there was trouble in our neighborhood.
Todd's family lived closer and the walk wasn't as far but it was still a relief when they arrived under Trevor's care. The stories Trevor told of what he had seen on his journey made me realize that the situation in our community was worsening. We had no way of knowing if the situation was as bad in the southern end of the valley where Linda Jean had moved. Since she lived the greatest distance away we had previously mapped out a route that she would start following and we would come meet her if anything of this nature occurred. For fear that she might be out on the road and in danger I now wished I had asked her to just stay put in her own home until we came for her.
As soon as Trevor returned I started preparing to go for Linda Jean and her son William. Once again, Trevor stopped me and suggested that I stay with the family and he would go find them. I gave him the course that Linda Jean would be following and my wife Kaye packed food for him to take. It could require the better part of two days for him to make the trip under the current circumstances. I hated to send him out alone but I knew it was best that I stay with the family until the other men, Todd and Ty arrived.
To our surprise and relief, Trevor was back home with Linda Jean four hours later. Family members gathered around her, hugging her and celebrating her safe arrival. The spirit of that celebration was dampened when we were told that William had not been willing to come. He said that he needed to stay in their home to protect it from looters. Sadness fell over the family and there was a feeling of loss without him there. True, Todd and Ty were not back yet either but we knew they were together and could protect one another. William was all alone.
I went upstairs and began preparing to bring William home if at all possible. There would be plenty of time while on my walk to think of some way to convince him that he should be with us instead of all alone. I loaded my shotgun and put other shells in my jacket pocket. I didn't want to hurt anyone. I just wanted to be left alone. I took the food pack that Kaye had prepared for Trevor and started out the door. Linda Jean met me in the foyer and said that she was coming with me and that she had only come without William in order to get help convincing him to come stay with us. In unison, the family pleaded with me to not let her go. She was safe inside the walls of our home and I would be able to travel faster alone which meant that I would reach William sooner. She reluctantly agreed and as I stepped out the door she opened a small plastic case and handed me a baby tooth belonging to William and asked me to not return without him. She already knew that I would not come home without him if he was still alive. This act of entrusting me with his baby tooth was merely a symbol that we both understood. The last sound I heard as I stepped away from the door was the dead bolt being locked behind me. I looked back and there stood my family gathered at the front window waving goodbye.
As I walked, I thought of what had transpired over the last few days; the collapse of law and order and the shutting down of goods being transported across the country that created shortages. There was panic buying that stripped the shelves in the stores within hours. Selfishness ruled as did the cruelty of people toward one another when such circumstances should have brought out the best in humanity. I wanted to find William and get back home as soon as possible. I knew that until we returned there would be no peace in the hearts of those locked behind the walls of our home. My thoughts turned to Todd and Ty, wondering if they were home safe yet. Suddenly I realized I had forgotten to ask Linda Jean if she had given William the route that he should follow if he decided to come on his own. Doubt began to creep into my mind. What if I passed him and didn't even know it. What if I went all the way to his home and at the same time he was arriving at our home. I felt foolish for not being better prepared. Subconsciously, I reached into my pocket and touched William's baby tooth that Linda Jean had given me just as I left the house. All I could do was my best with what I had and knew at the time. I picked up my pace to find William.
In the distance ahead I could see three men coming toward me. I felt uneasy. Although I had my shotgun and a pistol, I didn't want any trouble nor did I want to hurt anyone. I angled my direction of travel so as not to come face to face with them but as I did so they shifted their direction also and continued to advance toward me. I eased my shotgun out of its holster and held it in a non-threatening position. Then I recognized the three men coming toward me. To my relief it was Todd and Ty. And they had William with them. After they had finished helping Todd's neighbors they immediately took off to get Linda Jean and William. Arriving at their home they found only William there and brought him with them.
I never asked how they convinced William to join them and they never offered an explanation. I was just happy that the four of us were on our way home. We would have enough challenges ahead without worrying about the past. We arrived home long after dark. Most were bedded down but except for the children not many were sleeping. It is difficult to describe the feeling that swept over me as I realized that we were all there, all safe, all accounted for.
As night turned to day we began to stir around the house. At breakfast Todd gave a little speech about how thankful he was that Kaye had been so diligent in preparing for an emergency such as this. We held a family council and it was decided that we couldn't just remain locked behind the walls of our home while others were struggling and less prepared. Unbeknown to me, Kaye, Linda Jean, Julie and Kim had spend the better part of the night doing an inventory of our food supplies. Everything was categorized and a basic menu had been developed.
With gangs roaming the streets and going into the homes and taking food supplies from other people we decided that we should help out in whatever way we could. There were five men in our home. We decided that four men would take food prepared by the family and go out and share it with those in need. Each day one man would stay behind to defend our home. The other four would go out, locate hungry, tired families and share the food with them. They not only shared food but the four would stay and guard over a family while they ate and rested. These men were soon being referred to as the "Peace Warriors." They carried enough fire power to defend a small neighborhood but focused their attention on helping, not hurting. When they extended a hand it was filled with food, not a weapon.
The highlight of each evening was when the Peace Warriors returned home safe once more. After dinner the family would gather and listen to the stories and experiences that they had that day. While our own food supply satisfied our physical hunger, the sharing of our food and the gratitude of those who received it filled our hearts to overflowing. However small it might be, we were making a difference.
I dream every night but most dreams are just bits and pieces of disconnected events. On occasion I have a dream that is so vivid and detailed that I feel compelled to write it down. This dream is not a foretelling of events to come. It is not an omen of impending doom. It is just a dream that both saddened me and enriched me. However, the people of my dream are real. They are precious to me. I hope there is something within this dream that reaches out to you and touches you for good. That's my only purpose in sharing it with you.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Trading Places
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
It was a warm summer day. Dad and I were sitting by a stream with water tumbling over the rocks. The water made a gurgling sound as it worked its way around and over the rocks trying to catch back up with the flow of the stream. Dad and I sat mesmerized, watching the water and enjoying the solitude of our surroundings.
I had the feeling that I was experiencing a singular moment that I would never be able to reconstruct. Dad's age coupled with the distance we lived apart helped me realize how precious these times together were. As we sat by the stream looking at our reflections in the water, a third image appeared by my side. "What would you trade for someone else to have a day like today with their father?" asked the image. Turning around I looked to see who was speaking to me and creating the image in the water next to me but there was no one there. I looked back toward the water and the image was still there. He repeated the same question but this time he explained that the trade would be for someone to be able to spend a day with their deceased father.
It was obvious that my father didn't see or hear the image that was communicating with me. I wondered who the image was referring to. I was shocked that the image in the water read my thoughts and answered, "Linda." "What would you trade for Linda to be able to spend a day with her dad?" he asked. Once again, thinking in my mind I asked what it would require. It was as thought the image was bargaining with me. "Would you trade a day of your life for her to have a day with her dad?" I must have answered too quickly for the image immediately asked if I would trade a week of my life. Once again I answered, "Yes."
"It is easy to trade your own life for someone you love. But would you be willing to trade someone else's life?" asked the image reflected in the water. "I can't make that decision for someone else," I said. "Take me. Take a week of my life and let her spend a day with her dad." "I will take a day of your life and a week of your dad's life in exchange for Linda being able to spend a day with her dad." I knew that I would visit with my dad and ask how he felt about it but I already knew what his answer would be. I knew that a week of my dad's life was asking more than a week of my life because of his age.
Realizing what a blessing that would be for Linda and her dad, I immediately began to think of others who might also benefit from such an experience with a deceased relative. I thought of Kaye spending a day with her mother and Renee spending a day with her dad. There he was reading my thoughts once more, the image in the water said that for each trade I desired I would have to give a day of my life but the other person would have to give a week. He explained that for Kaye to spend a day with her mother, my mother would have to give a week of her life and for Renee to spend a day with her dad, my father would be required to forfeit another week of his life. Then a line of people paraded before my mind and a sadness came over me as I realized that I could not grant each of them such an experience. I couldn't ask so much of my parents.
On top of those requirements there would be one other stipulation. I would never be able to discuss with Linda, Kaye or Renee what had been traded for them to have such an experience with their parent nor could I or my parents ever take any credit for what transpired. I agree to all the terms of our agreement and as I turned to ask dad if he could see the image in the water who had been speaking to me, I awoke.
It was a warm summer day. Dad and I were sitting by a stream with water tumbling over the rocks. The water made a gurgling sound as it worked its way around and over the rocks trying to catch back up with the flow of the stream. Dad and I sat mesmerized, watching the water and enjoying the solitude of our surroundings.
I had the feeling that I was experiencing a singular moment that I would never be able to reconstruct. Dad's age coupled with the distance we lived apart helped me realize how precious these times together were. As we sat by the stream looking at our reflections in the water, a third image appeared by my side. "What would you trade for someone else to have a day like today with their father?" asked the image. Turning around I looked to see who was speaking to me and creating the image in the water next to me but there was no one there. I looked back toward the water and the image was still there. He repeated the same question but this time he explained that the trade would be for someone to be able to spend a day with their deceased father.
It was obvious that my father didn't see or hear the image that was communicating with me. I wondered who the image was referring to. I was shocked that the image in the water read my thoughts and answered, "Linda." "What would you trade for Linda to be able to spend a day with her dad?" he asked. Once again, thinking in my mind I asked what it would require. It was as thought the image was bargaining with me. "Would you trade a day of your life for her to have a day with her dad?" I must have answered too quickly for the image immediately asked if I would trade a week of my life. Once again I answered, "Yes."
"It is easy to trade your own life for someone you love. But would you be willing to trade someone else's life?" asked the image reflected in the water. "I can't make that decision for someone else," I said. "Take me. Take a week of my life and let her spend a day with her dad." "I will take a day of your life and a week of your dad's life in exchange for Linda being able to spend a day with her dad." I knew that I would visit with my dad and ask how he felt about it but I already knew what his answer would be. I knew that a week of my dad's life was asking more than a week of my life because of his age.
Realizing what a blessing that would be for Linda and her dad, I immediately began to think of others who might also benefit from such an experience with a deceased relative. I thought of Kaye spending a day with her mother and Renee spending a day with her dad. There he was reading my thoughts once more, the image in the water said that for each trade I desired I would have to give a day of my life but the other person would have to give a week. He explained that for Kaye to spend a day with her mother, my mother would have to give a week of her life and for Renee to spend a day with her dad, my father would be required to forfeit another week of his life. Then a line of people paraded before my mind and a sadness came over me as I realized that I could not grant each of them such an experience. I couldn't ask so much of my parents.
On top of those requirements there would be one other stipulation. I would never be able to discuss with Linda, Kaye or Renee what had been traded for them to have such an experience with their parent nor could I or my parents ever take any credit for what transpired. I agree to all the terms of our agreement and as I turned to ask dad if he could see the image in the water who had been speaking to me, I awoke.
Sunday, October 8, 2006
Defining Moments
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
“What was the most embarrassing moment of your life?” asked a friend this week. Without question, an experience sprang to life from a cobweb of memories. Before I uttered a word in response to her, I had relived that event as though it had happened yesterday. Some stories don’t need to be told and others shouldn’t be told. My experience might fall into both of those categories. I said that I would write about my most embarrassing moment and share it at some future time. I did write of that event and planned to share it as my point to ponder this week. At least that was my plan until I took an early morning walk and my mind changed gears.
Stepping out the door before daylight, I witnessed a beautiful Fall moon. We have had rain for the past few days and the clear sky was a welcome change. As night turned to day the shadows of darkness gave way to thin rays of light shimmering on the Great Salt Lake. There was beauty all around me even with the thin purple hue of pollution in the valley below. When you live in the foothills with the mountains to the East, there is full daylight bending over the mountain range long before you actually see the morning sun. To see the sun as it climbs its way above the horizon can be breath taking.
The most beautiful sunrise I have ever seen was in Baja. That day the sun poked its sleepy eye from far out across the watery horizon of the Sea of Cortez. In the predawn of that day I headed to the beach for a peaceful walk along the wet sand. It appeared that the whole world was asleep and I had the sand and sea all to myself. That was when it happened; the distant horizon took on a glow and bands of light began to streak across the dark blue water. It only took an instant before the whole sea was flooded with light. That huge ball of orange flame appeared to rise right out of the water. I had witnessed it. I looked around and saw once again that I was all alone. I knew that I would never be able to fully describe the beauty of what I had seen in a way that someone else could see what I saw, feel what I felt. It was a defining moment for me. My immediate desire was to share it with someone I loved. The feeling of wanting to share that moment with someone was so strong I could feel my eyes beginning to grow moist.
That experience and other defining moments in my life are precious. There is certainly not a defining moment or a gorgeous sunrise that occurs each day of my life but I have a little routine that helps remind me of the approaching close of the day, the sunset. The internet tells me the exact time of the setting of the sun so I often set my watch to alert me ten minutes before sunset. Some days when my alarm goes off I go to the window and see it with my eyes. Other times I just briefly close my eyes and relive a previous sunset or the sunrise I witnessed in Baja. These moments bring stillness to my spirit, calmness to my mind and warmth to my heart.
My desire is not to draw you into my defining moments but to have you reflect on your own defining moments. Those events can cause your hardness to melt, your fears to flee and your love to swell for those you hold dear. At a different time, in a different setting I will share my most embarrassing moment but that wasn’t a moment that defined me. It was just a set of events that happened a long time ago. Today I ask you to recognize the moments that define you and share them with those you love. If you look for me and can’t find me I am probably in Baja, walking barefoot on a deserted beach, watching a sunrise, at least in my mind.
“What was the most embarrassing moment of your life?” asked a friend this week. Without question, an experience sprang to life from a cobweb of memories. Before I uttered a word in response to her, I had relived that event as though it had happened yesterday. Some stories don’t need to be told and others shouldn’t be told. My experience might fall into both of those categories. I said that I would write about my most embarrassing moment and share it at some future time. I did write of that event and planned to share it as my point to ponder this week. At least that was my plan until I took an early morning walk and my mind changed gears.
Stepping out the door before daylight, I witnessed a beautiful Fall moon. We have had rain for the past few days and the clear sky was a welcome change. As night turned to day the shadows of darkness gave way to thin rays of light shimmering on the Great Salt Lake. There was beauty all around me even with the thin purple hue of pollution in the valley below. When you live in the foothills with the mountains to the East, there is full daylight bending over the mountain range long before you actually see the morning sun. To see the sun as it climbs its way above the horizon can be breath taking.
The most beautiful sunrise I have ever seen was in Baja. That day the sun poked its sleepy eye from far out across the watery horizon of the Sea of Cortez. In the predawn of that day I headed to the beach for a peaceful walk along the wet sand. It appeared that the whole world was asleep and I had the sand and sea all to myself. That was when it happened; the distant horizon took on a glow and bands of light began to streak across the dark blue water. It only took an instant before the whole sea was flooded with light. That huge ball of orange flame appeared to rise right out of the water. I had witnessed it. I looked around and saw once again that I was all alone. I knew that I would never be able to fully describe the beauty of what I had seen in a way that someone else could see what I saw, feel what I felt. It was a defining moment for me. My immediate desire was to share it with someone I loved. The feeling of wanting to share that moment with someone was so strong I could feel my eyes beginning to grow moist.
That experience and other defining moments in my life are precious. There is certainly not a defining moment or a gorgeous sunrise that occurs each day of my life but I have a little routine that helps remind me of the approaching close of the day, the sunset. The internet tells me the exact time of the setting of the sun so I often set my watch to alert me ten minutes before sunset. Some days when my alarm goes off I go to the window and see it with my eyes. Other times I just briefly close my eyes and relive a previous sunset or the sunrise I witnessed in Baja. These moments bring stillness to my spirit, calmness to my mind and warmth to my heart.
My desire is not to draw you into my defining moments but to have you reflect on your own defining moments. Those events can cause your hardness to melt, your fears to flee and your love to swell for those you hold dear. At a different time, in a different setting I will share my most embarrassing moment but that wasn’t a moment that defined me. It was just a set of events that happened a long time ago. Today I ask you to recognize the moments that define you and share them with those you love. If you look for me and can’t find me I am probably in Baja, walking barefoot on a deserted beach, watching a sunrise, at least in my mind.
Tuesday, October 3, 2006
Coming Up, Going Down
By Jerry Mack GrubbsMy heart sank when the nurse entered my room with the prep tray. She didn’t look old enough to be a nurse. I wondered if she was a hospital volunteer instead. “Hi Mister Grubbs,” she said as she set the tray on the edge of the bed and turned to leave. With a sigh of relief I realized she was just getting things set up for the real nurse. From the moment I was informed that my private area would have to be shaved for surgery I had begged unsuccessfully to do it myself. My request was denied with no explanation given. The tray she left on my bed contained a safety razor, spare blades, and a can of shaving cream. As I stared at the tray, dreading the upcoming experience I was about to undergo, the door to my room opened once more and in walked the same nurse. “I’m Nancy and you and I are about to get well acquainted,” she said. It was apparent that Nancy was going to get more acquainted with me than I was with her. This was going to be what I would call a one sided relationship. I didn’t want Nancy looking at my private parts but that was just the beginning of my concerns. Once she pulled the sheet back and raised my hospital gown she had breached that private barrier and I just wanted to disappear. I tried to focus on her name tag to keep my mind off the procedure taking place.
The shaving cream felt cool as Nancy prepared me to be shaved. I couldn’t think of a more humiliating experience when suddenly I realized things could get worse. The process of touching, pulling, tugging, pressing and scraping was beginning to bring me to life. I was so embarrassed. I quit focusing on Nancy’s name tag. I became concerned that she might think I was focusing on the darts in her uniform instead of the name badge pinned to her pocket. I prayed for a miracle. I tried to visualize my favorite food, anything to curb the rising beginning to take place.
Nancy must have understood my humiliation. “Don’t worry; it is just a natural reaction that should be expected.” Easy for her to say, she wasn’t lying flat on her back with her pointer signaling “I’m number one.” The more I tried to focus my mind elsewhere the less success I had. I prayed for relief but it did not come. I looked up at Nancy. She was focused on her task of finding and removing every sprig of hair on that part of my body. She must have sensed my despair. Looking at my facial expression, without the least hint of warning, she took a pencil from her pocket and said, “Down boy,” as she whacked the defiant head. It immediately went limp. The crisis was over. With the stroke of her pencil, Nancy had answered my prayer. I breathed a weak sigh of relief.
With my mind somewhat relaxed I became aware of two distinct sounds: the scraping of the razor against my skin and laughter coming from outside my hospital door. A group of my friends had come to the hospital to visit me just prior to Nurse Nancy entering the room to prep me for surgery. That is why she had temporarily left the room before getting started. She had explained to my friends in the hallway that she would be just a few minutes then they could come in and visit.
“Is the door locked?” I asked. “No but they won’t come in until we are finished,” she said. “How do you know?” I asked. “Because I told them before we started that you were being prepped for surgery and they would need to remain outside until I finished.” Oh great. It wasn’t bad enough to experience this “get acquainted” session with Nancy. Now my friends were right outside the door. They could probably hear everything that was going on. I was sliding from one humiliation to another. Nancy completed her task and washed me off with a warm cloth. I didn’t wait for her; I quickly lowered my hospital gown and pulled the sheet up to my waist. I wanted to cover up the evidence of what had just taken place.
Gathering up her instruments of humiliation, Nancy said, “You did very well Mister Grubbs. Don’t worry; you’ll remember this experience much longer than I will. I have three more surgery preps tonight. Within a few hours I won’t remember what your ‘you –know-what’ looks like.” It has been forty-five years and I still remember her face, her hair and hands. But most of all I remember the nametag pinned to the pocket of her uniform. It was black with white letters spelling out the words NANCY, RN. Even at fifteen, I knew that “RN” stood for Registered Nurse but that night I thought a better definition would be “Razor Nazi.” As Nancy prepared me for hernia surgery I said to myself, “Registered nurse, razor Nazi, registered nurse, razor Nazi, over and over trying to send my mind anywhere besides where it naturally wanted to go. But now that part was over.
Nancy opened the door and invited my friends into the room. As they crowded in and asked how things went, the last act Nancy performed on my behalf was to give my friends the “thumbs up” sign. Some of them roared with laughter while others were trying to figure out what was so funny. I was content to leave them wondering. For the most part they were kind. Only Lonny Posey asked what the nurse meant when she said, “Down boy.” Those were the only words the group had overheard from the hallway as they waited just outside the door.
I was saved by my girlfriend’s mother walking into the room. With her entrance the group quieted and gradually said their well-wishes and goodbyes. She and I were left alone. It felt so good being with her after what I had just been through. Her presence, coupled with her smile, had an immediate calming effect on me. As she stood by my bed she began to stroke my arm. After a few moments my girlfriend Karen came through the door carrying a strawberry shake and a lucky rabbit’s foot. Although strawberry was my favorite flavor of shake until I discovered raspberry, I couldn’t drink it because of the early morning surgery. And as far as I was concerned, the rabbit’s foot arrived too late to be of any use. Regardless of whether I believed in such lucky charms or not, I was happy to be with Karen and her mom.
With Karen on one side of the bed and her mother on the other side, I felt surrounded by what I understood love to be.
Karen wore my ring on a chain around her neck signifying that we were attached. Turning to her mother and looking into her eyes, I knew that she and I were attached and it didn’t take a ring on a chain to remind me. We talked frequently but she often said more with her eyes than she ever conveyed by the spoken word. I had been taught how to listen with my eyes years earlier by a girl who visited me in my dreams. As Karen’s mother prepared to leave, she leaned over and kissed me on the forehead and said, “You’ve already experienced the worst because you won’t remember the rest.”The surgery went well the following morning. My father was the first person my eyes focused on as I was coming out of the ether-induced coma. In my delirium I kept trying to get out of bed. Each time I rose up my dad would push me back down and say, “Down boy.” Gradually I became aware of my surroundings. Meeting Nancy the razor Nazi, the pencil coupled with the “down boy” episode and my friends all laughing when Nancy gave them the “thumbs up” sign were just a memory. But it is a memory that will remain with me for the rest of my life.
Sunday, October 1, 2006
The Color Fades
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
"Whites Only" was posted just above the drinking fountain. Next to that cold water dispenser was a small porcelain bowl hung on the wall. Above the bowl was printed "Colored." I grew up with those signs and generally thought little of it. Most likely that was because I wasn't colored and could always find myself on the better side of those barriers. I didn't agree with segregated drinking fountains nor did I think I would catch some dreaded disease from drinking after a black man. But I didn't see it as my responsibility to try to change the world's perception. Anyway, what could one boy do?
I no longer believe that the influence of one person can't make a difference. I have lived long enough to realize that to change one attitude, one person, to improve the circumstances of a situation even if only for a few moments, makes a difference.
The summer of my sophomore year in high school I took a job working for Evans Corner Market. The market sold groceries and feed products. I earned forty cents an hour and was happy to be employed. Two other young men worked in my same capacity with Evans Market. One was white and the other black. Marvin, the white boy made the same wage as I did while Jesse, the black boy, earned only thirty cents an hour for the same work. Marvin and Jesse were both already working at the market when I started my employment. I'm not sure that I was needed at the store but the mother of my girlfriend persuaded Mr. Evans that I would be a good employee. She always had a higher opinion of me that I held of myself.
We sacked groceries, stocked shelves, delivered sacks of feed and bales of hay. The summer was hot and I didn't look forward to the feed deliveries. I preferred to stay inside the store where the ceiling fans stirred the air and cooled the sweat on my back. The old ladies who needed help with getting their groceries to the car were pleasant and I enjoyed teasing them. As much as I wanted the tips they offered, I knew that most of them needed the money more than I did. I took pleasure in closing their fingers back around the coins that they offered. It didn't take them long to learn my name and I became friends with many of them. It is amazing what the refusal of a tip consisting of a couple of nickels can buy. Those smiles of appreciation were worth far more to me than what their tips could have ever purchase.
I received quite an education in the short time I worked at Evans Corner Market. Although Jesse had a driver's license, he was not allowed to drive the delivery truck because he was black. Either Marvin or I had to go on those deliveries with him. Jesse never complained that when Marvin drove he had to do all the unloading while Marvin just sat in the cab of the truck and listened to the radio. Marvin loved to make the deliveries because it was easy duty for him. I preferred to stay in the store so it appeared that everyone was happy.
One day I saw Marvin steal two comic books from the magazine rack and stick them under his shirt just as he was leaving for the day. When I asked him why he took them his response puzzled me. "Old man Evans isn't paying me enough for the work I do around here so I steal once in a while to get even," he said. I had never bumped up against that concept before. I said, "If you aren't happy working here why don't you find a job somewhere else?" With a sneer on his face, Marvin said, "Get real, idiot." I asked Jesse if he knew that Marvin was stealing from the store. Jesse acknowledged that he did know of Marvin's stealing but had never mentioned it to anyone.
The following morning I asked Marvin if he was aware that Jesse also knew that he was a thief. "I'm not worried, that nigger ant tellin' nobody. If he does he knows I'll get him fired," responded Marvin. "My daddy owns the vacant lot next door that old man Evans rents for additional parking so I have a job here as long as I want it," he said. "What does a nigger lover like you care anyway? I learned a valuable lesson at that moment: calling a black man a nigger has much more serious degrading connotations than I had ever supposed. I had called my brother and friends the "N" word before but I had never addressed a black man with such words. Turning to Marvin, I said, "I'd rather be a nigger lover than a thief."
The color of Jesse's skin faded from my view that day. He had become my first black friend. I was fifteen years old. I lived in a town that was thirty-five percent black yet I had never even carried on a meaningful conversation with a black before I met Jesse. He worked harder than either Marvin or me. He made twenty-five percent less an hour for the same work. He never complained about his situation.
Not all blacks are like Jesse and not all whites are like Marvin but they each taught me valuable lessons in the summer of 1962. I have often wondered what became of Jesse. I even miss Marvin and contemplate where he might be today. I often quote an old saying, "If I had to go to war who would I want defending my back side?" I never had to fight in the jungles of Vietnam, a war that waged in the remote land of Southeast Asia and tore the heart of America apart when I was a young man. But if I had found myself in that war or any other hazardous situation, I think you could figure out which of those two men I would want standing by my side, black or white. When we allow people to become human, accepting their failings and shortcomings along with their strengths, the color fades.
"Whites Only" was posted just above the drinking fountain. Next to that cold water dispenser was a small porcelain bowl hung on the wall. Above the bowl was printed "Colored." I grew up with those signs and generally thought little of it. Most likely that was because I wasn't colored and could always find myself on the better side of those barriers. I didn't agree with segregated drinking fountains nor did I think I would catch some dreaded disease from drinking after a black man. But I didn't see it as my responsibility to try to change the world's perception. Anyway, what could one boy do?
I no longer believe that the influence of one person can't make a difference. I have lived long enough to realize that to change one attitude, one person, to improve the circumstances of a situation even if only for a few moments, makes a difference.
The summer of my sophomore year in high school I took a job working for Evans Corner Market. The market sold groceries and feed products. I earned forty cents an hour and was happy to be employed. Two other young men worked in my same capacity with Evans Market. One was white and the other black. Marvin, the white boy made the same wage as I did while Jesse, the black boy, earned only thirty cents an hour for the same work. Marvin and Jesse were both already working at the market when I started my employment. I'm not sure that I was needed at the store but the mother of my girlfriend persuaded Mr. Evans that I would be a good employee. She always had a higher opinion of me that I held of myself.
We sacked groceries, stocked shelves, delivered sacks of feed and bales of hay. The summer was hot and I didn't look forward to the feed deliveries. I preferred to stay inside the store where the ceiling fans stirred the air and cooled the sweat on my back. The old ladies who needed help with getting their groceries to the car were pleasant and I enjoyed teasing them. As much as I wanted the tips they offered, I knew that most of them needed the money more than I did. I took pleasure in closing their fingers back around the coins that they offered. It didn't take them long to learn my name and I became friends with many of them. It is amazing what the refusal of a tip consisting of a couple of nickels can buy. Those smiles of appreciation were worth far more to me than what their tips could have ever purchase.
I received quite an education in the short time I worked at Evans Corner Market. Although Jesse had a driver's license, he was not allowed to drive the delivery truck because he was black. Either Marvin or I had to go on those deliveries with him. Jesse never complained that when Marvin drove he had to do all the unloading while Marvin just sat in the cab of the truck and listened to the radio. Marvin loved to make the deliveries because it was easy duty for him. I preferred to stay in the store so it appeared that everyone was happy.
One day I saw Marvin steal two comic books from the magazine rack and stick them under his shirt just as he was leaving for the day. When I asked him why he took them his response puzzled me. "Old man Evans isn't paying me enough for the work I do around here so I steal once in a while to get even," he said. I had never bumped up against that concept before. I said, "If you aren't happy working here why don't you find a job somewhere else?" With a sneer on his face, Marvin said, "Get real, idiot." I asked Jesse if he knew that Marvin was stealing from the store. Jesse acknowledged that he did know of Marvin's stealing but had never mentioned it to anyone.
The following morning I asked Marvin if he was aware that Jesse also knew that he was a thief. "I'm not worried, that nigger ant tellin' nobody. If he does he knows I'll get him fired," responded Marvin. "My daddy owns the vacant lot next door that old man Evans rents for additional parking so I have a job here as long as I want it," he said. "What does a nigger lover like you care anyway? I learned a valuable lesson at that moment: calling a black man a nigger has much more serious degrading connotations than I had ever supposed. I had called my brother and friends the "N" word before but I had never addressed a black man with such words. Turning to Marvin, I said, "I'd rather be a nigger lover than a thief."
The color of Jesse's skin faded from my view that day. He had become my first black friend. I was fifteen years old. I lived in a town that was thirty-five percent black yet I had never even carried on a meaningful conversation with a black before I met Jesse. He worked harder than either Marvin or me. He made twenty-five percent less an hour for the same work. He never complained about his situation.
Not all blacks are like Jesse and not all whites are like Marvin but they each taught me valuable lessons in the summer of 1962. I have often wondered what became of Jesse. I even miss Marvin and contemplate where he might be today. I often quote an old saying, "If I had to go to war who would I want defending my back side?" I never had to fight in the jungles of Vietnam, a war that waged in the remote land of Southeast Asia and tore the heart of America apart when I was a young man. But if I had found myself in that war or any other hazardous situation, I think you could figure out which of those two men I would want standing by my side, black or white. When we allow people to become human, accepting their failings and shortcomings along with their strengths, the color fades.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Chesters Chicken
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Exhausted, I pulled into a truck stop, the only place open at 2:00 A.M. in Wamsutter. Wamsutter is in the middle of Wyoming not close to anything you've ever heard of. The little town boasts a population of 68 and an elevation of 6709 feet. Main Street is comprised of two truck stops and a 1950's Maw and Paw Café. The café booths have the original upholstery decorated with cigarette burns along with cracked and frayed cushions. I had eaten there on a previous trip to Wamsutter and noticed that the owners must take great pride in the carvings of initials and love notes in the wooden backs of the booths. I saw one that dated back to August 6th, 1951. But this story isn't about the café; its windows were dark and a neon pink sign flashed "closed" on the side of the building.
Inside the truck stop where I now stood, momentarily allowing my eyes to adjust to the bright lights was a combination Subway Sandwich/Chester's Chicken eatery. That's where I met Marlene. I was burnt out on Subway because that is where Kaye always wants to stop. She thinks you can live on lettuce, cucumbers and tomatoes on a whole wheat bun. Subway calls it a veggie delight. I call it getting hungry thirty minutes after you've eaten.
I chose to eat at Chester's Chicken. Marlene was working behind the counter. I told her I wanted a Number 5 which consisted of a thigh, a drumstick, mashed potatoes, gravy, coleslaw and a roll. Marlene said that Chester's was closed and I would have to order a Subway sandwich. I wasn't sure I wanted Marlene making me a sandwich. She had a large bandage on her wrist, wore no gloves or hairnet and was smoking a cigarette. I asked her if Subway ever let a customer come behind the counter and make their own sandwich. She informed me that the Board of Health didn't permit customers in the prep area. I decided I wouldn't eat.
As I turned to leave, Marlene said, "Is your heart set on fried chicken mister?" Before I could answer, she said, "We're out of drumsticks, potatoes, gravy and corn on the cob. You'll have to settle for two thighs and two cups of coleslaw." "How long has the chicken been sitting there?" I asked. "We don't date stamp our chicken," she responded, not showing the least bit of offense by my question. I ordered a Number 5 with the substitutions and sat down in the eating area that was shared by Subway and Chester's Chicken.
"Mind if I join you?" asked Marlene as she slid into the seat across from me. Since there were no other customers at 2:00 in the morning she decided to take a coffee break and pass the time. I was about to say that she could sit down if she ditched the cigarette but I held my tongue. I had been reading a book that spoke about choosing whether we see individuals as objects or as people. She brought me a large root beer that I had not ordered. She told me about her life. I was thankful that I made the choice to see her as a person not as an object, listening to someone who needed an attentive ear instead of holding myself aloof.
Marlene's break ended forty-five minutes later when a sleepy truck driver staggered through the door. He had the worst case of bed head I had seen since I looked in the mirror the previous morning. Sliding out of the booth I poked my half eaten dinner into the trash. The chicken was terrible. I'll never eat there again but I will stop in to see if Marlene is on duty, working behind the dual counter of Subway and Chester's Chicken. All she asked was a little of my time and a listening ear. I gave her what she asked and received much more in return. Besides the free root beer and some second hand cigarette smoke, listening to Marlene's story, I gained a greater appreciation for my own life, my opportunities, my education, and my family and friends who continually enrich my life.
Exhausted, I pulled into a truck stop, the only place open at 2:00 A.M. in Wamsutter. Wamsutter is in the middle of Wyoming not close to anything you've ever heard of. The little town boasts a population of 68 and an elevation of 6709 feet. Main Street is comprised of two truck stops and a 1950's Maw and Paw Café. The café booths have the original upholstery decorated with cigarette burns along with cracked and frayed cushions. I had eaten there on a previous trip to Wamsutter and noticed that the owners must take great pride in the carvings of initials and love notes in the wooden backs of the booths. I saw one that dated back to August 6th, 1951. But this story isn't about the café; its windows were dark and a neon pink sign flashed "closed" on the side of the building.
Inside the truck stop where I now stood, momentarily allowing my eyes to adjust to the bright lights was a combination Subway Sandwich/Chester's Chicken eatery. That's where I met Marlene. I was burnt out on Subway because that is where Kaye always wants to stop. She thinks you can live on lettuce, cucumbers and tomatoes on a whole wheat bun. Subway calls it a veggie delight. I call it getting hungry thirty minutes after you've eaten.
I chose to eat at Chester's Chicken. Marlene was working behind the counter. I told her I wanted a Number 5 which consisted of a thigh, a drumstick, mashed potatoes, gravy, coleslaw and a roll. Marlene said that Chester's was closed and I would have to order a Subway sandwich. I wasn't sure I wanted Marlene making me a sandwich. She had a large bandage on her wrist, wore no gloves or hairnet and was smoking a cigarette. I asked her if Subway ever let a customer come behind the counter and make their own sandwich. She informed me that the Board of Health didn't permit customers in the prep area. I decided I wouldn't eat.
As I turned to leave, Marlene said, "Is your heart set on fried chicken mister?" Before I could answer, she said, "We're out of drumsticks, potatoes, gravy and corn on the cob. You'll have to settle for two thighs and two cups of coleslaw." "How long has the chicken been sitting there?" I asked. "We don't date stamp our chicken," she responded, not showing the least bit of offense by my question. I ordered a Number 5 with the substitutions and sat down in the eating area that was shared by Subway and Chester's Chicken.
"Mind if I join you?" asked Marlene as she slid into the seat across from me. Since there were no other customers at 2:00 in the morning she decided to take a coffee break and pass the time. I was about to say that she could sit down if she ditched the cigarette but I held my tongue. I had been reading a book that spoke about choosing whether we see individuals as objects or as people. She brought me a large root beer that I had not ordered. She told me about her life. I was thankful that I made the choice to see her as a person not as an object, listening to someone who needed an attentive ear instead of holding myself aloof.
Marlene's break ended forty-five minutes later when a sleepy truck driver staggered through the door. He had the worst case of bed head I had seen since I looked in the mirror the previous morning. Sliding out of the booth I poked my half eaten dinner into the trash. The chicken was terrible. I'll never eat there again but I will stop in to see if Marlene is on duty, working behind the dual counter of Subway and Chester's Chicken. All she asked was a little of my time and a listening ear. I gave her what she asked and received much more in return. Besides the free root beer and some second hand cigarette smoke, listening to Marlene's story, I gained a greater appreciation for my own life, my opportunities, my education, and my family and friends who continually enrich my life.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Tournament of Life
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
On three occasions I have had a friend go the extra mile as he endeavored to introduce me into an activity in which I had little previous interest. Definition of going the extra mile means gifting me all the necessary equipment to properly participate in the activity. On each of those occasions I evaluated the friend, not the gift, and decided if I truly wanted to spend additional time with that person. There is an old saying, "If you are with someone whose company you truly enjoy, the activity you share becomes secondary, but if you find limited enjoyment in their company, you better really enjoy the activity."
The first experience came from a former employer who was convinced that I would find as much enjoyment in the game of golf as he had derived. I repeatedly declined his invitations to play. One day as I entered my office I found a set of new golf clubs, carrying bag and golf shoes sitting on my desk. Along with this gift was a certificate for golf lessons at Uintah Golf. My construction company had built the Uintah Golf store the previous year and I knew the owner very well. I visited with Gordon, the store owner and asked him what was so exciting about trying to get a ball into a hole. He said, "The game of golf has little to do with getting the ball in the hole and a lot to do with who you spend your time with." I don't know if that statement describes most golfers but it made a lot of sense to me. I gave Gordon the certificate for golf lessons and suggested he share it with someone who desired to learn the game. I had made a decision that my former employer wasn't someone whose company I enjoyed enough to spend additional time with, golfing or otherwise.
Hopefully, I'm not viewed as placing myself above my former employer. He is a good man. He placed trust in me through the years and provided me with opportunities. He even chose me over his own grandson when the chips were on the table. His wiry twenty-two year old grandson Bill thought he didn't have to take orders from anyone in the company except his grandfather and demonstrated that attitude by throwing a punch at me on a construction site. At the conclusion of the altercation I fired him and ejected him from the property. When complaining to his grandfather that I fought dirty he simply answered by saying, "You might not be able to trust that Texan to fight clean but you can trust that you are fired. Better start looking for a job somewhere else." The subject was never brought up again. Years later his grandson and I went to lunch together and laughed about the incident. But his grandfather wasn't someone who I wanted to spend more time with other than occasionally sharing a lunch or brief visit. The golf clubs are probably in one of my son's garages or at the hangar. I have lost track of them.
I see my former employer Clayton Mills only rarely. I visit him during the Christmas season and call him occasionally. He still enjoys the game of golf a couple of times a week when the weather permits. He watches the tournaments and tries to emulate the swing of his favorite players. I'm watching a tournament also but it is a different tournament. My desire is to not only watch and learn from the tournament of life but to also contribute. There is a time to give and a time to receive. There is a time to learn and a time to teach. The man who has not learned should not teach. When I am making a decision whether or not to commit a significant amount of time in an activity with a friend, I ask myself, will I be a better person or will I have made a difference in that friend's life from the time spent together.
I was going to share my other two experiences of friends aggressively encouraging me to enter into activities with them. But I have taken enough of your time. Maybe some other day I will tell you about hunting big game and fly fishing. But more importantly I hope to be able to share with you what I learned from those who introduced me to those activities.
On three occasions I have had a friend go the extra mile as he endeavored to introduce me into an activity in which I had little previous interest. Definition of going the extra mile means gifting me all the necessary equipment to properly participate in the activity. On each of those occasions I evaluated the friend, not the gift, and decided if I truly wanted to spend additional time with that person. There is an old saying, "If you are with someone whose company you truly enjoy, the activity you share becomes secondary, but if you find limited enjoyment in their company, you better really enjoy the activity."
The first experience came from a former employer who was convinced that I would find as much enjoyment in the game of golf as he had derived. I repeatedly declined his invitations to play. One day as I entered my office I found a set of new golf clubs, carrying bag and golf shoes sitting on my desk. Along with this gift was a certificate for golf lessons at Uintah Golf. My construction company had built the Uintah Golf store the previous year and I knew the owner very well. I visited with Gordon, the store owner and asked him what was so exciting about trying to get a ball into a hole. He said, "The game of golf has little to do with getting the ball in the hole and a lot to do with who you spend your time with." I don't know if that statement describes most golfers but it made a lot of sense to me. I gave Gordon the certificate for golf lessons and suggested he share it with someone who desired to learn the game. I had made a decision that my former employer wasn't someone whose company I enjoyed enough to spend additional time with, golfing or otherwise.
Hopefully, I'm not viewed as placing myself above my former employer. He is a good man. He placed trust in me through the years and provided me with opportunities. He even chose me over his own grandson when the chips were on the table. His wiry twenty-two year old grandson Bill thought he didn't have to take orders from anyone in the company except his grandfather and demonstrated that attitude by throwing a punch at me on a construction site. At the conclusion of the altercation I fired him and ejected him from the property. When complaining to his grandfather that I fought dirty he simply answered by saying, "You might not be able to trust that Texan to fight clean but you can trust that you are fired. Better start looking for a job somewhere else." The subject was never brought up again. Years later his grandson and I went to lunch together and laughed about the incident. But his grandfather wasn't someone who I wanted to spend more time with other than occasionally sharing a lunch or brief visit. The golf clubs are probably in one of my son's garages or at the hangar. I have lost track of them.
I see my former employer Clayton Mills only rarely. I visit him during the Christmas season and call him occasionally. He still enjoys the game of golf a couple of times a week when the weather permits. He watches the tournaments and tries to emulate the swing of his favorite players. I'm watching a tournament also but it is a different tournament. My desire is to not only watch and learn from the tournament of life but to also contribute. There is a time to give and a time to receive. There is a time to learn and a time to teach. The man who has not learned should not teach. When I am making a decision whether or not to commit a significant amount of time in an activity with a friend, I ask myself, will I be a better person or will I have made a difference in that friend's life from the time spent together.
I was going to share my other two experiences of friends aggressively encouraging me to enter into activities with them. But I have taken enough of your time. Maybe some other day I will tell you about hunting big game and fly fishing. But more importantly I hope to be able to share with you what I learned from those who introduced me to those activities.
Sunday, August 6, 2006
Looking Back
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Prologue
Today is August 6th and it is a special day. In fact, every day of the year is a special day to someone. It is someone’s birthday, anniversary, or other celebrated event. Below I have shared a few of my reminiscings that took place on this day of the year.
Chapter I - Serious
On August 6th, 1973, thirty-three years ago today, I attended the funeral of a special friend. She died of liver cancer. She said she was surprised that it wasn’t lung cancer taking her life since she started smoking at the age of seventeen. Her attitude about death reminded me of some of the brave men and women who stoically went to their executions in the sixteenth century as they fought for human rights against the tyrants who ruled the land. She did not fear death, nor was she angry about the circumstances in which she found herself. Although our lives had separated I knew I would miss her.
In August of 1993, twenty years after her death, I finished writing a series of short stories about her that I titled “Legacy of a Lady.” One day while on a flight into the backcountry, I tossed those stories out of the plane one by one. I was chided for my behavior but I knew something that no one else knew; the stories were only lost on paper not lost from my mind. I had written them for an audience of one (me) as a tribute to her. I read them to my family and then returned them back to where they belonged, in my heart and in my mind.
As human beings we have failings and we disappoint one another from time to time. As a teenager I disappointed this lady on occasion but our relationship was such that we could talk about the situation and she often dispensed motherly advice to me. There is a saying that states, “The surest way to turn teenagers off is to tell them something they already know.” Since teenagers already know everything it becomes challenging to find ways to get them to listen, accept and modify their behavior. In reality, teenagers are only students of their parent’s behavior. Remember the old familiar statement about giving adults suggestions, “Advice not requested is rarely heeded.”
Looking back, I do not recall one instance when she and I had one of our little chats that I did not follow her counsel. She had a way of reaching out; making sense of a situation without getting her panty hose twisted around backwards. She helped me see where a small adjustment on my part today would produce significant benefits tomorrow. This lady who shared my mother’s name and treated me as her son was dead at fifty-nine. Her funeral thirty-three years ago today was a sad moment for me but looking back, oh how precious are the memories.
Chapter II – Not Quite So Serious
On August 6th, 2003 while on a solo hike up Rattlesnake Canyon I received a call to meet a friend at the Salt Lake City Cemetery. My wife Kaye would say, “Now Jerry, was that a call from a real person or one of your imaginary friends?” From her question you might get the idea that I was walking with a slight mental limp. Well, it doesn’t matter. After the call I turned around and headed back down the canyon to enjoy a different adventure. Maybe that call was destiny keeping me from being bitten by a rattlesnake that day.
Arriving at the cemetery, I went over and visited my long time friend Bill McMahan. This place had become a respite from the world for me since Bill was buried here. I try to come at least once a month and enjoy the solitude. I have lost other people dear to me, grandparents, the lady who treated me as a son, and even Kaye’s parents but they are all buried elsewhere. So there I stood, in front of Bill’s grave. I reflected on our adventures together that began thirty years ago. I also thought about some of the things we had shared since his death.
I often brought things to the cemetery to share with Bill. When I left the house that morning to hike Rattlesnake Canyon, I didn’t know that I would be visiting the cemetery so I struggled to come up with something that I could share. Bill had only one sweet tooth in his head and he never wasted it on candy bars and other treats. His sweet tooth was for honey. Bill didn’t like just any honey but favored a honey that was locally produced. After his death, his wife granted my request and let me have some of his honey.
I realized I had that honey in my survival pack that day. I also had two bananas in my lunch. I had never mixed honey and bananas but I heard a voice say, “Go for it.” Coming from the hot car, the consistency of the honey was thin. Pealing the first banana I stuck it all the way to the bottom of the honey jar, twisted it up and down and back and forth making sure that it was fully covered.
If the honey could talk it would have complained about that cold banana. But the coolness of the banana just made the honey stick with a heavier coating. I ate that banana covered with honey and began pealing the second one so I could plunge it into the honey jar also. But this banana would be for Bill. As I coated the banana with honey, I began to rationalize in my mind. The honey would make a mess on the grave marker and attract flies.
To solve this problem I would eat the second banana and leave Bill a note telling him how great it was. I didn’t think he would mind. Never before or since that day have I mixed bananas and honey but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. It was what some call a virgin experience. One day Bill and I will laugh about some of these experiences. Some things happen without any forethought or planning; the moment is just right. When that moment passes it becomes a sweet memory of looking back. It’s hard to get much sweeter than honey on a banana.
Chapter III – Serious Again
My mother-in-law was born on August 6th and I have many memories of our time together as she spent the final months of her life in our home, in our care, in our hearts. In anticipation of her own passing she often said, “I do my crying in private and my smiling in public.” That lesson I haven’t learned very well. I still cry in public.
Epilogue
The fact that these things all occurred on August 6th isn’t what is important. That these special people lived and loved and touched my life in so many ways is what is precious to me. Looking back while at the same time looking forward, I am excited about the future and thankful for the past: the lady who treated me as a son, the man who introduced me to honey and bananas, a mother-in-law who taught me by example how to die with dignity.
Prologue
Today is August 6th and it is a special day. In fact, every day of the year is a special day to someone. It is someone’s birthday, anniversary, or other celebrated event. Below I have shared a few of my reminiscings that took place on this day of the year.
Chapter I - Serious
On August 6th, 1973, thirty-three years ago today, I attended the funeral of a special friend. She died of liver cancer. She said she was surprised that it wasn’t lung cancer taking her life since she started smoking at the age of seventeen. Her attitude about death reminded me of some of the brave men and women who stoically went to their executions in the sixteenth century as they fought for human rights against the tyrants who ruled the land. She did not fear death, nor was she angry about the circumstances in which she found herself. Although our lives had separated I knew I would miss her.
In August of 1993, twenty years after her death, I finished writing a series of short stories about her that I titled “Legacy of a Lady.” One day while on a flight into the backcountry, I tossed those stories out of the plane one by one. I was chided for my behavior but I knew something that no one else knew; the stories were only lost on paper not lost from my mind. I had written them for an audience of one (me) as a tribute to her. I read them to my family and then returned them back to where they belonged, in my heart and in my mind.
As human beings we have failings and we disappoint one another from time to time. As a teenager I disappointed this lady on occasion but our relationship was such that we could talk about the situation and she often dispensed motherly advice to me. There is a saying that states, “The surest way to turn teenagers off is to tell them something they already know.” Since teenagers already know everything it becomes challenging to find ways to get them to listen, accept and modify their behavior. In reality, teenagers are only students of their parent’s behavior. Remember the old familiar statement about giving adults suggestions, “Advice not requested is rarely heeded.”
Looking back, I do not recall one instance when she and I had one of our little chats that I did not follow her counsel. She had a way of reaching out; making sense of a situation without getting her panty hose twisted around backwards. She helped me see where a small adjustment on my part today would produce significant benefits tomorrow. This lady who shared my mother’s name and treated me as her son was dead at fifty-nine. Her funeral thirty-three years ago today was a sad moment for me but looking back, oh how precious are the memories.
Chapter II – Not Quite So Serious
On August 6th, 2003 while on a solo hike up Rattlesnake Canyon I received a call to meet a friend at the Salt Lake City Cemetery. My wife Kaye would say, “Now Jerry, was that a call from a real person or one of your imaginary friends?” From her question you might get the idea that I was walking with a slight mental limp. Well, it doesn’t matter. After the call I turned around and headed back down the canyon to enjoy a different adventure. Maybe that call was destiny keeping me from being bitten by a rattlesnake that day.
Arriving at the cemetery, I went over and visited my long time friend Bill McMahan. This place had become a respite from the world for me since Bill was buried here. I try to come at least once a month and enjoy the solitude. I have lost other people dear to me, grandparents, the lady who treated me as a son, and even Kaye’s parents but they are all buried elsewhere. So there I stood, in front of Bill’s grave. I reflected on our adventures together that began thirty years ago. I also thought about some of the things we had shared since his death.
I often brought things to the cemetery to share with Bill. When I left the house that morning to hike Rattlesnake Canyon, I didn’t know that I would be visiting the cemetery so I struggled to come up with something that I could share. Bill had only one sweet tooth in his head and he never wasted it on candy bars and other treats. His sweet tooth was for honey. Bill didn’t like just any honey but favored a honey that was locally produced. After his death, his wife granted my request and let me have some of his honey.
I realized I had that honey in my survival pack that day. I also had two bananas in my lunch. I had never mixed honey and bananas but I heard a voice say, “Go for it.” Coming from the hot car, the consistency of the honey was thin. Pealing the first banana I stuck it all the way to the bottom of the honey jar, twisted it up and down and back and forth making sure that it was fully covered.
If the honey could talk it would have complained about that cold banana. But the coolness of the banana just made the honey stick with a heavier coating. I ate that banana covered with honey and began pealing the second one so I could plunge it into the honey jar also. But this banana would be for Bill. As I coated the banana with honey, I began to rationalize in my mind. The honey would make a mess on the grave marker and attract flies.
To solve this problem I would eat the second banana and leave Bill a note telling him how great it was. I didn’t think he would mind. Never before or since that day have I mixed bananas and honey but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. It was what some call a virgin experience. One day Bill and I will laugh about some of these experiences. Some things happen without any forethought or planning; the moment is just right. When that moment passes it becomes a sweet memory of looking back. It’s hard to get much sweeter than honey on a banana.
Chapter III – Serious Again
My mother-in-law was born on August 6th and I have many memories of our time together as she spent the final months of her life in our home, in our care, in our hearts. In anticipation of her own passing she often said, “I do my crying in private and my smiling in public.” That lesson I haven’t learned very well. I still cry in public.
Epilogue
The fact that these things all occurred on August 6th isn’t what is important. That these special people lived and loved and touched my life in so many ways is what is precious to me. Looking back while at the same time looking forward, I am excited about the future and thankful for the past: the lady who treated me as a son, the man who introduced me to honey and bananas, a mother-in-law who taught me by example how to die with dignity.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Footprints
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
As I stepped off the curb I punched the button on my stopwatch to begin the monitoring of my morning walk. The goal is four miles in an hour. At the two-mile mark if I am ahead of time I slow down and if I am behind, I speed up for the remaining two miles. For six in the morning the day was already beginning to heat up. I was thankful for light raindrops falling on my face. Putting on my headset I cranked up the volume to the song “Georgia Rain” which was befitting the occasion. While lost in thought during my walk, a sweet familiar fragrance drifted over me. Instantly I knew that the smell was coming from the pink flower of a mimosa tree.
We had a mimosa tree in our front yard when I was growing up. I stepped over to the tree and took a deep breath. With that breath came memories marching around in my mind. I won’t bore you today with any of those memories other than to say they are precious to me. Many hours of my life were spent out there in the shad of that tree. As I stepped back onto the sidewalk from the damp grass to continue my morning walk, I looked behind me and saw that my wet shoes were leaving footprints on the concrete. Within six or seven steps the footprints began to fade. I was still walking on the sidewalk, my tennis shoes were still making contact with the concrete but there was no visible evidence being left behind.
The music in my headset began to fade from my consciousness as I began to reflect on all the people who have walked across my life and left footprints on my heart. Many of those people are no longer physically close to me but their influence on my life is still present. I am thankful for the invisible footprints that continue to lead me in my life.
The familiar fragrance of the mimosa tree drew me back in my mind and helped those early footprints become visible once more. Mark Twain once said, “ I am a part of all I have met.” How blessed I am for those I have met. How blessed we are to be able to choose the best part of all we meet. My experience this morning brought about a desire to walk more tenderly through life. Whether my footprints are visible or invisible, I desire that they lift, encourage, carry and lead. But most importantly, I want my footsteps to follow in the steps of those who have been such a positive influence on me.
As I stepped off the curb I punched the button on my stopwatch to begin the monitoring of my morning walk. The goal is four miles in an hour. At the two-mile mark if I am ahead of time I slow down and if I am behind, I speed up for the remaining two miles. For six in the morning the day was already beginning to heat up. I was thankful for light raindrops falling on my face. Putting on my headset I cranked up the volume to the song “Georgia Rain” which was befitting the occasion. While lost in thought during my walk, a sweet familiar fragrance drifted over me. Instantly I knew that the smell was coming from the pink flower of a mimosa tree.
We had a mimosa tree in our front yard when I was growing up. I stepped over to the tree and took a deep breath. With that breath came memories marching around in my mind. I won’t bore you today with any of those memories other than to say they are precious to me. Many hours of my life were spent out there in the shad of that tree. As I stepped back onto the sidewalk from the damp grass to continue my morning walk, I looked behind me and saw that my wet shoes were leaving footprints on the concrete. Within six or seven steps the footprints began to fade. I was still walking on the sidewalk, my tennis shoes were still making contact with the concrete but there was no visible evidence being left behind.
The music in my headset began to fade from my consciousness as I began to reflect on all the people who have walked across my life and left footprints on my heart. Many of those people are no longer physically close to me but their influence on my life is still present. I am thankful for the invisible footprints that continue to lead me in my life.
The familiar fragrance of the mimosa tree drew me back in my mind and helped those early footprints become visible once more. Mark Twain once said, “ I am a part of all I have met.” How blessed I am for those I have met. How blessed we are to be able to choose the best part of all we meet. My experience this morning brought about a desire to walk more tenderly through life. Whether my footprints are visible or invisible, I desire that they lift, encourage, carry and lead. But most importantly, I want my footsteps to follow in the steps of those who have been such a positive influence on me.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Chasing a Sunset
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Stepping out of the building where I had attended a New Testament class with the young adults of my church, I looked to the West and saw what was the making of a beautiful sunset. Without any mental bantering of what was the best way to spend the next few minutes of my life, I hurried to my car and headed for the airport.
Opening the hangar door, I shoved my plane into the open air and without so much as a preflight inspection I fired up the engine and headed toward the West, the setting sun. I climbed with all the power my plane could produce until I reached 18,000 feet and chased the setting sun. Gradually the disappearing ball of fire outran me so I winged over and headed for home, descending back through that same air space I had just traveled.
I was flying out over the Great Salt Lake. The air was calm and I was alone with my music, my thoughts and the drum of the aircraft engine. My favorite country western artist was singing her lyrics in my headset but she was not the person I shared that sunset with. I often ask my daughter whom she sees in her sunsets. At first she was puzzled by the question but then she understood.
Whether a beautiful sunset or some other event or activity stirs your emotions, reach for it and share it with your special someone even if that someone is beside you only in your mind.
Stepping out of the building where I had attended a New Testament class with the young adults of my church, I looked to the West and saw what was the making of a beautiful sunset. Without any mental bantering of what was the best way to spend the next few minutes of my life, I hurried to my car and headed for the airport.
Opening the hangar door, I shoved my plane into the open air and without so much as a preflight inspection I fired up the engine and headed toward the West, the setting sun. I climbed with all the power my plane could produce until I reached 18,000 feet and chased the setting sun. Gradually the disappearing ball of fire outran me so I winged over and headed for home, descending back through that same air space I had just traveled.
I was flying out over the Great Salt Lake. The air was calm and I was alone with my music, my thoughts and the drum of the aircraft engine. My favorite country western artist was singing her lyrics in my headset but she was not the person I shared that sunset with. I often ask my daughter whom she sees in her sunsets. At first she was puzzled by the question but then she understood.
Whether a beautiful sunset or some other event or activity stirs your emotions, reach for it and share it with your special someone even if that someone is beside you only in your mind.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Last Goodbyes
By Mack Grubbs
As we flew home from a family gathering in Washington we settled in for the flight and my family members were soon enjoying a nap. I plugged some music into my aviation headset and began to listen and let my mind drift. Much of country western music is about saying goodbye. I thought of the goodbyes we had just exchanged at the airport before heading for home. Since today was about goodbyes my mind began to focus on last goodbyes. I didn't realize at the time they were occurring that some of my goodbyes were last goodbyes. Saying goodbye to Karen Young, my high school girlfriend, when I left for the mission field was supposed to be "till we meet again" but it wasn't. Other goodbyes were the last time I visited my grandparents before their deaths. Then there was Bill McMahan who died unexpectedly. He and I had a prepaid hunting trip to take that would never be. I reflected on the last time I spoke with him, his laugh, and his mischievous smile.
Life can and does take unexpected turns. Some of those turns appear without any warning or signals. Each of the goodbyes I mentioned above were meant to be "till we meet again" goodbyes. I didn't realize that they were actually "till we meet beyond this life" goodbyes. On June 5th, 2000, I dropped by Karen Young Frady's home and defied the goodbye we shared some thirty-five years earlier. We had a pleasant visit on her front lawn. As I started to say goodbye once again, she said, "Don't say goodbye. Say, till we meet again." At her request, I uttered those words but I knew I was saying goodbye.
Sometimes goodbyes are okay but what I look forward to are the "hellos." The day I get to say hello to those I have had to say goodbye to is a day I look forward to. A favorite poem of mine suggests that when there are more people we are looking forward to saying hello to than there are people left here to say goodbye to, death will not be so painful, so dreaded. I'm not to that point yet but I sure miss those who have had such an impact on my life and are not around to hold, enjoy visiting with and express appreciation to. Maybe the key is to hold that special person, enjoy sharing time with him or her and express love and appreciation before that last goodbye occurs whether it is truly a last goodbye or just "till we meet again." You can make a difference in their life and yours.
As we flew home from a family gathering in Washington we settled in for the flight and my family members were soon enjoying a nap. I plugged some music into my aviation headset and began to listen and let my mind drift. Much of country western music is about saying goodbye. I thought of the goodbyes we had just exchanged at the airport before heading for home. Since today was about goodbyes my mind began to focus on last goodbyes. I didn't realize at the time they were occurring that some of my goodbyes were last goodbyes. Saying goodbye to Karen Young, my high school girlfriend, when I left for the mission field was supposed to be "till we meet again" but it wasn't. Other goodbyes were the last time I visited my grandparents before their deaths. Then there was Bill McMahan who died unexpectedly. He and I had a prepaid hunting trip to take that would never be. I reflected on the last time I spoke with him, his laugh, and his mischievous smile.
Life can and does take unexpected turns. Some of those turns appear without any warning or signals. Each of the goodbyes I mentioned above were meant to be "till we meet again" goodbyes. I didn't realize that they were actually "till we meet beyond this life" goodbyes. On June 5th, 2000, I dropped by Karen Young Frady's home and defied the goodbye we shared some thirty-five years earlier. We had a pleasant visit on her front lawn. As I started to say goodbye once again, she said, "Don't say goodbye. Say, till we meet again." At her request, I uttered those words but I knew I was saying goodbye.
Sometimes goodbyes are okay but what I look forward to are the "hellos." The day I get to say hello to those I have had to say goodbye to is a day I look forward to. A favorite poem of mine suggests that when there are more people we are looking forward to saying hello to than there are people left here to say goodbye to, death will not be so painful, so dreaded. I'm not to that point yet but I sure miss those who have had such an impact on my life and are not around to hold, enjoy visiting with and express appreciation to. Maybe the key is to hold that special person, enjoy sharing time with him or her and express love and appreciation before that last goodbye occurs whether it is truly a last goodbye or just "till we meet again." You can make a difference in their life and yours.
Sunday, July 9, 2006
Situational Ethics
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
On November 28, 2003, the day after Thanksgiving, I boarded a plane for Columbia, South Carolina. I was on my way to attend a memorial service. I had a forty-five minute layover in Atlanta, Georgia. I overheard a man pleading for help while I was in the restroom of the Atlanta Airport; I came around the corner of the restroom partition to get a better view of the problem. The man asking for help informed me that he had the head of a tick imbedded in his groin area. He was fearful of contracting Lime's Disease before he could get to his doctor to have the tick's head removed. He could not see to do the task himself because of where it was located. I couldn't understand what he was so concerned about but it wasn't my groin or my tick. It is easy to disassociate yourself when the problem belongs to someone else.
I knelt down to see if I could help. It is funny now as I think back and try to remember what the two of us must have looked like: him with his pants down to his knees and me kneeling in front of him trying to find the head of that tick. It was difficult to extract the head of the tick with no sharp tool or knife to work with. The airline industry was not allowing any sharp objects on board the aircraft since the 911 attack. He survived my probing and gouging, pulled up his pants and went on his way to catch his connecting flight and I resumed my journey to Columbia. I chuckled to myself as I thought of another encounter I had with ticks long ago.
Years ago my brother Bill, my cousin Lana, and I were down in the west pasture of Granny's home playing along the creek bank. We realized we were covered in tiny creatures crawling all over us. We would later discover that those little creatures were sand ticks. We ran to the house to get help from Granny. She took us into the garage, made us remove all our clothes, and then she bathed us all over in gasoline. It burned like the dickens. I'm sure you know what "the dickens" means.
This was my earliest recollection of what I would later come to recognize as "situational ethics." Just a few weeks prior to this experience, Bill, Lana and I had received the "big lecture" for going skinny-dipping in the creek. Mother said we were too old to be taking our clothes off in front of members of the opposite sex. I was scratching my head and thinking about what mom had said in that lecture and there we were bare naked in front of Lana again. I guess it was okay to take our clothes off in front of Lana if an adult told us to but it wasn't okay if we made our own decision to remove our clothes. Adults must have a tough job keeping all these rules straight: the when you can and when you can't of life.
Well, I got the head of that tick out of the man's groin in the Atlanta Airport restroom and I finally figured out it is okay to take your clothes of in mixed company if you are covered in ticks. These are my tick stories and I'm sticking to them, much like a tick sticks to you if he is given a chance. You will have to decide what you get out of the story. My wife Kaye has a fire ant story she could share with us and she certainly came out of her clothes right there in front of mixed company.
On November 28, 2003, the day after Thanksgiving, I boarded a plane for Columbia, South Carolina. I was on my way to attend a memorial service. I had a forty-five minute layover in Atlanta, Georgia. I overheard a man pleading for help while I was in the restroom of the Atlanta Airport; I came around the corner of the restroom partition to get a better view of the problem. The man asking for help informed me that he had the head of a tick imbedded in his groin area. He was fearful of contracting Lime's Disease before he could get to his doctor to have the tick's head removed. He could not see to do the task himself because of where it was located. I couldn't understand what he was so concerned about but it wasn't my groin or my tick. It is easy to disassociate yourself when the problem belongs to someone else.
I knelt down to see if I could help. It is funny now as I think back and try to remember what the two of us must have looked like: him with his pants down to his knees and me kneeling in front of him trying to find the head of that tick. It was difficult to extract the head of the tick with no sharp tool or knife to work with. The airline industry was not allowing any sharp objects on board the aircraft since the 911 attack. He survived my probing and gouging, pulled up his pants and went on his way to catch his connecting flight and I resumed my journey to Columbia. I chuckled to myself as I thought of another encounter I had with ticks long ago.
Years ago my brother Bill, my cousin Lana, and I were down in the west pasture of Granny's home playing along the creek bank. We realized we were covered in tiny creatures crawling all over us. We would later discover that those little creatures were sand ticks. We ran to the house to get help from Granny. She took us into the garage, made us remove all our clothes, and then she bathed us all over in gasoline. It burned like the dickens. I'm sure you know what "the dickens" means.
This was my earliest recollection of what I would later come to recognize as "situational ethics." Just a few weeks prior to this experience, Bill, Lana and I had received the "big lecture" for going skinny-dipping in the creek. Mother said we were too old to be taking our clothes off in front of members of the opposite sex. I was scratching my head and thinking about what mom had said in that lecture and there we were bare naked in front of Lana again. I guess it was okay to take our clothes off in front of Lana if an adult told us to but it wasn't okay if we made our own decision to remove our clothes. Adults must have a tough job keeping all these rules straight: the when you can and when you can't of life.
Well, I got the head of that tick out of the man's groin in the Atlanta Airport restroom and I finally figured out it is okay to take your clothes of in mixed company if you are covered in ticks. These are my tick stories and I'm sticking to them, much like a tick sticks to you if he is given a chance. You will have to decide what you get out of the story. My wife Kaye has a fire ant story she could share with us and she certainly came out of her clothes right there in front of mixed company.
Sunday, July 2, 2006
Worth the Risk
By Mack Grubbs
Withering in pain from smashing my finger, I heard the words from inside my head, “Buck up and take it like a man.” Gritting my teeth, taking deep breaths and moaning softly, I did take my pain like a man. As the initial moments passed, the sharpness of the pain began to subside. Putting my finger in my mouth actually seemed to help soothe the throbbing. I knew that ice would be a better solution but at the moment I just wanted immediate comfort.
Another time when I just wanted comfort was on a fairs wheel at the Gilmer Yamboree. I don’t actually remember the experience but I feel as though I remember because of the vivid recollection my mother has of the event. Gilmer, Texas is where I was born and spent the early years of my life. TheYamboree was a county fair that set up right in the town square and for a few days our lives were transformed by the rides, the lights, cotton candy, tent freaks and games of chance. As the years passed and we moved away from Gilmer, we always returned to enjoy the Yamboree with our extended family.
As a four year old, my Aunt Lela took me on the fairs wheel for what she thought would be a great thrill for me. From the moment the operator pushed the lever and the fairs wheel started to spin, I began to scream with a cry that brought my mother running. She begged the operator to stop and let her take me off the fairs wheel but he refused. I creamed until the ride stopped and Lela returned me to the arms of my mother. Nothing would console me until I was back where I felt safe.
Where physical pain can be medicated to the point its sharpness can be dulled, emotional pain is more difficult to soothe. I can pack my bruised finger in ice or even hold it in my mouth but where can I place my emotional hurt? I can’t put it in my mouth to be soothed or pack it in ice. Even if I temporarily push that pain deep down in a dark crevice of my mind, when I least expect, it will rise back to the surface and squeeze my heart with a pain that only time can dull.
There are blessings that come with pain. Physical pain helps you learn to be more careful where you put your finger. Experiencing emotional pain reveals that you were willing to place your feelings at risk. The person who has never experienced emotional pain has never shared enough of their innermost feelings to become truly connected to another human being. My earliest recollection of emotional pain came in the fourth grade. I was in love with my teacher, Miss Mormon, at Valley View Elementary. I was going to marry her when I grew up. She was the prettiest person I had ever seen and she showered me with attention. Mother tried to tell me that it was not possible for my dream to materialize but I refused to listen.
During those blissful days of the fourth grade, my heart was shattered like a crystal vase with the announcement that Miss Mormon was getting married and would be taking a two-week leave of absence for her honeymoon. I didn’t know what a honeymoon was but I was sure I wasn’t going to like the answer mother would give me when I got home. I refused to accept the fact that she would betray my dreams. I never called her by her new married name but continued to refer to her as Miss Mormon no mater how many times she corrected me. I never asked about her honeymoon either.
Although my relationship with Miss Mormon was totally a product of my imagination, the pain was still real. I would have gladly traded my emotional pain for a smashed finger that I could poke into a bag of ice to diminish the throbbing. But not even the loving arms of my mother could console me this time. No rescue came from the emotional fairs wheel I was riding with the loss of my dream of marrying Miss Mormon. I had opened my little naive heart and only time would heal the open wound. My injury would have to heal from the inside out.
Today, these many years later, I can still close my eyes and see Miss Mormon standing before our class dressed in her white blouse and yellow skirt as she introduced us to her future husband. I disliked him immediately. With time that dislike mellowed, as did my hurt over Miss Mormon’s betrayal of our future together. That experience taught me that emotional pain is survivable. It is not only survivable but also healable. It takes more time to heal than a mashed finger or a frightening ride on a fairs wheel. My memories of Miss Mormon are cherished. What I learned along that part of my journey of life became an inspiration and strength to me. I healed from that pain and learned that the rewards of risking the heart are worth the potential future pain that might follow.
Should you think my story is a product of fiction just check out the index finger on my left hand. You will find the evidence of the blood spot under my fingernail and the need I had at that time to “buck up and take it like a man.” I plan to be more careful where I place my finger in the future but I will continue to share my feelings and risk my heart. It’s worth the risk.
Withering in pain from smashing my finger, I heard the words from inside my head, “Buck up and take it like a man.” Gritting my teeth, taking deep breaths and moaning softly, I did take my pain like a man. As the initial moments passed, the sharpness of the pain began to subside. Putting my finger in my mouth actually seemed to help soothe the throbbing. I knew that ice would be a better solution but at the moment I just wanted immediate comfort.
Another time when I just wanted comfort was on a fairs wheel at the Gilmer Yamboree. I don’t actually remember the experience but I feel as though I remember because of the vivid recollection my mother has of the event. Gilmer, Texas is where I was born and spent the early years of my life. TheYamboree was a county fair that set up right in the town square and for a few days our lives were transformed by the rides, the lights, cotton candy, tent freaks and games of chance. As the years passed and we moved away from Gilmer, we always returned to enjoy the Yamboree with our extended family.
As a four year old, my Aunt Lela took me on the fairs wheel for what she thought would be a great thrill for me. From the moment the operator pushed the lever and the fairs wheel started to spin, I began to scream with a cry that brought my mother running. She begged the operator to stop and let her take me off the fairs wheel but he refused. I creamed until the ride stopped and Lela returned me to the arms of my mother. Nothing would console me until I was back where I felt safe.
Where physical pain can be medicated to the point its sharpness can be dulled, emotional pain is more difficult to soothe. I can pack my bruised finger in ice or even hold it in my mouth but where can I place my emotional hurt? I can’t put it in my mouth to be soothed or pack it in ice. Even if I temporarily push that pain deep down in a dark crevice of my mind, when I least expect, it will rise back to the surface and squeeze my heart with a pain that only time can dull.
There are blessings that come with pain. Physical pain helps you learn to be more careful where you put your finger. Experiencing emotional pain reveals that you were willing to place your feelings at risk. The person who has never experienced emotional pain has never shared enough of their innermost feelings to become truly connected to another human being. My earliest recollection of emotional pain came in the fourth grade. I was in love with my teacher, Miss Mormon, at Valley View Elementary. I was going to marry her when I grew up. She was the prettiest person I had ever seen and she showered me with attention. Mother tried to tell me that it was not possible for my dream to materialize but I refused to listen.
During those blissful days of the fourth grade, my heart was shattered like a crystal vase with the announcement that Miss Mormon was getting married and would be taking a two-week leave of absence for her honeymoon. I didn’t know what a honeymoon was but I was sure I wasn’t going to like the answer mother would give me when I got home. I refused to accept the fact that she would betray my dreams. I never called her by her new married name but continued to refer to her as Miss Mormon no mater how many times she corrected me. I never asked about her honeymoon either.
Although my relationship with Miss Mormon was totally a product of my imagination, the pain was still real. I would have gladly traded my emotional pain for a smashed finger that I could poke into a bag of ice to diminish the throbbing. But not even the loving arms of my mother could console me this time. No rescue came from the emotional fairs wheel I was riding with the loss of my dream of marrying Miss Mormon. I had opened my little naive heart and only time would heal the open wound. My injury would have to heal from the inside out.
Today, these many years later, I can still close my eyes and see Miss Mormon standing before our class dressed in her white blouse and yellow skirt as she introduced us to her future husband. I disliked him immediately. With time that dislike mellowed, as did my hurt over Miss Mormon’s betrayal of our future together. That experience taught me that emotional pain is survivable. It is not only survivable but also healable. It takes more time to heal than a mashed finger or a frightening ride on a fairs wheel. My memories of Miss Mormon are cherished. What I learned along that part of my journey of life became an inspiration and strength to me. I healed from that pain and learned that the rewards of risking the heart are worth the potential future pain that might follow.
Should you think my story is a product of fiction just check out the index finger on my left hand. You will find the evidence of the blood spot under my fingernail and the need I had at that time to “buck up and take it like a man.” I plan to be more careful where I place my finger in the future but I will continue to share my feelings and risk my heart. It’s worth the risk.
Dressed
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
The word “egg” is a noun. When you take that noun and throw it at someone, the word becomes egged. The word “dress” is also a noun. When you put that noun on someone, the word becomes dressed. As a young Cub Scout, the thought of being dressed in a dress was more distasteful than having rotten eggs hurled at you from a passing car. You could always wash the egg off. You could even throw away the soiled clothes if necessary. But for a young boy to be caught wearing a girl’s dress would be unbearable. We played cowboys and Indians, climbed tall trees, dared each other to do risky things, even chased hogs around the mud wallow, but we never put on a dress and pretended to be a girl.
At least no one in our Cub Scout troop wore a dress until the cub master, my mother, decided that we were going to put on the play, The Wizard of Oz. Our troop had a big problem. The principal character in the story was Dorothy. Dorothy was a girl, a girl who wore a dress. No one wanted to play the part of Dorothy. Mother almost had a mutiny on her hands. Each Cub Scout scrambled to put dubs on one of the other parts. I chose the part of the lion. I didn’t care that the lion had lost his courage. Any part would be better than having to wear that Dorothy dress in front of all my friends. The lion would eventually get his courage back. How could you ever overcome having worn a dress? Whoever had to wear that dress would never live down the shame.
Mother said it was just a play and no one would remember a cub scout wearing a dress. I didn’t believe her and I told her I would run away and live in the woods before I wore a dress. She knew I was serious because mother also knew how petrified I was of the woods in the dark of night.
By some form of bribery or trickery, a secret buried with time and shame most likely, mother convinced my brother Bill to play the part of Dorothy. Everyone else breathed a sigh of relief. Mother took me aside and made me a promise. She said, “If you make fun of your brother I will beat the livin’ tar out of you.” I didn’t know what the livin’ tar was but it didn’t take much imagination to figure out that extracting the livin’ tar from my body was going to be painful.
Mother worked tirelessly on our costumes. Bill’s dress and my paper mache lion head were ready before the first dress rehearsal. There was just one problem. Living in East Texas, we were plagued with humid weather. That humidity worked it’s magic on my paper mache lion head. It mildewed on the inside and smelt like raw chicken parts tossed in a garbage can and left for days in the hot sun. It was too late to make another paper mache lion head so I begged mother to let me do my part without the lion head but I lost the battle. The lion head went on with me holding my breath as long as I could.
Regardless of all my suffering on stage in that hot, smelly, cowardly lion head, I was happy as a toad in a cool pond. All I had to do when my happiness began to sag was look over at my brother dancing around in that Dorothy dress and once more I was content. The play ended and Bill led us all back on stage for a curtain call. It didn’t matter that the loud applause was from the hands of our family members. What mattered most was that I would be able to get out of that stinking lion head.
After the play was over and the threat of someone else having to wear that dress and play the part of Dorothy had passed, we kidded Bill without mercy. Mother said that everyone would forget about Bill being “dressed.” We were going to make sure that no one ever forgot. But time passed and Bill’s dress was gradually forgotten. But I never forgot the lesson I learned on stage that hot summer evening as I tried to breathe inside that paper mache lion head. When I began to feel sorry for myself all I had to do was look at my brother Bill “dressed” up as Dorothy and I was immediately happy to be where I was, just a lion who had no courage. Down deep inside, I knew that Bill was a bigger person for agreeing to do what was necessary to make the play a success but what the heck; mother could have chosen a different play. The year before we had been dressed as Indians and warhooped around an imaginary campfire on stage and got just as loud an applause.
Today I would choose to be “dressed” instead of being “egged,” but try to convince an eight-year-old boy of that while his friends are standing around just waiting for an excuse to make fun of him. Maybe those eight-year-old boys should rethink the definition of friend. The word “friend” is a noun. When someone wraps the arms of that noun around you does that mean you are “friended?”
The word “egg” is a noun. When you take that noun and throw it at someone, the word becomes egged. The word “dress” is also a noun. When you put that noun on someone, the word becomes dressed. As a young Cub Scout, the thought of being dressed in a dress was more distasteful than having rotten eggs hurled at you from a passing car. You could always wash the egg off. You could even throw away the soiled clothes if necessary. But for a young boy to be caught wearing a girl’s dress would be unbearable. We played cowboys and Indians, climbed tall trees, dared each other to do risky things, even chased hogs around the mud wallow, but we never put on a dress and pretended to be a girl.
At least no one in our Cub Scout troop wore a dress until the cub master, my mother, decided that we were going to put on the play, The Wizard of Oz. Our troop had a big problem. The principal character in the story was Dorothy. Dorothy was a girl, a girl who wore a dress. No one wanted to play the part of Dorothy. Mother almost had a mutiny on her hands. Each Cub Scout scrambled to put dubs on one of the other parts. I chose the part of the lion. I didn’t care that the lion had lost his courage. Any part would be better than having to wear that Dorothy dress in front of all my friends. The lion would eventually get his courage back. How could you ever overcome having worn a dress? Whoever had to wear that dress would never live down the shame.
Mother said it was just a play and no one would remember a cub scout wearing a dress. I didn’t believe her and I told her I would run away and live in the woods before I wore a dress. She knew I was serious because mother also knew how petrified I was of the woods in the dark of night.
By some form of bribery or trickery, a secret buried with time and shame most likely, mother convinced my brother Bill to play the part of Dorothy. Everyone else breathed a sigh of relief. Mother took me aside and made me a promise. She said, “If you make fun of your brother I will beat the livin’ tar out of you.” I didn’t know what the livin’ tar was but it didn’t take much imagination to figure out that extracting the livin’ tar from my body was going to be painful.
Mother worked tirelessly on our costumes. Bill’s dress and my paper mache lion head were ready before the first dress rehearsal. There was just one problem. Living in East Texas, we were plagued with humid weather. That humidity worked it’s magic on my paper mache lion head. It mildewed on the inside and smelt like raw chicken parts tossed in a garbage can and left for days in the hot sun. It was too late to make another paper mache lion head so I begged mother to let me do my part without the lion head but I lost the battle. The lion head went on with me holding my breath as long as I could.
Regardless of all my suffering on stage in that hot, smelly, cowardly lion head, I was happy as a toad in a cool pond. All I had to do when my happiness began to sag was look over at my brother dancing around in that Dorothy dress and once more I was content. The play ended and Bill led us all back on stage for a curtain call. It didn’t matter that the loud applause was from the hands of our family members. What mattered most was that I would be able to get out of that stinking lion head.
After the play was over and the threat of someone else having to wear that dress and play the part of Dorothy had passed, we kidded Bill without mercy. Mother said that everyone would forget about Bill being “dressed.” We were going to make sure that no one ever forgot. But time passed and Bill’s dress was gradually forgotten. But I never forgot the lesson I learned on stage that hot summer evening as I tried to breathe inside that paper mache lion head. When I began to feel sorry for myself all I had to do was look at my brother Bill “dressed” up as Dorothy and I was immediately happy to be where I was, just a lion who had no courage. Down deep inside, I knew that Bill was a bigger person for agreeing to do what was necessary to make the play a success but what the heck; mother could have chosen a different play. The year before we had been dressed as Indians and warhooped around an imaginary campfire on stage and got just as loud an applause.
Today I would choose to be “dressed” instead of being “egged,” but try to convince an eight-year-old boy of that while his friends are standing around just waiting for an excuse to make fun of him. Maybe those eight-year-old boys should rethink the definition of friend. The word “friend” is a noun. When someone wraps the arms of that noun around you does that mean you are “friended?”
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Weed & Water
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
We have had a family garden since 2002. I forget which day is my assigned day to weed and water but if I were there by assignment only, I wouldn't be involved anyway. Growing up I spent enough hours in a garden against my wishes. As a young boy, gardening and other unpleasant chores created an atmosphere that stimulated my imagination. Whether I was hoeing in the garden, shelling peas or washing canning jars, my hands would be doing the assigned task but my mind would be far away.
I find the same thing happening now in the garden. As I water and weed the rows, I allow my mind to wander to different times and places. I think of times spent in the garden with those I love. I think of things we talked about. I reflect on the first sprouting of new plants as I witnessed the miracle of a seed. I remember the first ear of ripe corn eaten raw right off the stalk. I also use this garden time to contemplate the challenges and opportunities that are before me. As an adult, the time spent in the garden isn't dreaded. It is actually therapeutic for me.
Just as life has its challenges, we have had problems with our garden seeds spouting this year. Some rows of corn have been planted three times and we still do not have a satisfactory showing. The sparse growth hasn't dampened my desire to spend time in the garden. But maybe I have been doing too much daydreaming and to little weeding these past weeks because the weeds were getting out of control.
Today I put on my gloves, picked up my hoe and went to work. My neighbor dropped by and with a chuckle said, "Looks like you've lost your touch, Grubbs." He often struggles with his garden and has always claimed that our family garden puts his garden to shame. I never thought about feeling shame over a garden, nor did his disparaging comment make me feel uncomfortable or resentful. I knew his heart and he would never intentionally wound me; we enjoy chiding one another.
The hoe is a marvelous tool that allows you to do much of the weeding in a standing position instead of bent over. But when the weeds are close to the tender garden plants it is necessary to get down on the ground and pull those weeds by hand. Today, grabbing weeds by the handfuls, I inadvertently pulled a bean plant. It wasn't a very big plant, scrawny compared to the other plants in the row. Saddened by my mistake and realizing that every plant was precious because of our sparse sprouting experience this year, I quickly pushed the bare roots of the bean plant back into the damp soil all the time knowing that it would not survive. It's like jerking a child out of the womb before it is mature enough to survive and quickly replacing it after the umbilical cord has been severed. Or taking a newborn nursing pup away from its mother before it has learned to eat other food.
The earth serves as a substitute mother to that bean plant. Without the nourishment that the earth provides, the plant cannot survive. I want that bean plant to do more than just survive. I want it to flourish, blossom and produce beans to be enjoyed by those who share the garden; thus, fulfilling the measure of its creation. Just like the bean plant, we as human beings need to do more than just survive; we need to flourish also.
This week I read a book about the child foster care system. It was about a boy who was born in prison and remained in the foster care program until his eighteenth birthday. It was disheartening to think of one child suffering as he did but all the while knowing that there are thousands of children out there in similar circumstances. Reading the book caused me to want to gather my loved ones close and just hold them. I am thankful for the opportunities I have to be weeded and watered by those who care about me. There are certainly times when I am daydreaming and probably don't give as much in return. Regardless of that fact, I am grateful for the garden I live in and the tender love and concern that is shown me. My daydreaming these days is often directed toward those I hold most dear. Thank you for being patient with me as I learn to be a better person. Thank you for the love that is expressed in so many ways.
Please don't mistaken me for a weed and cast me out of your garden. I'm still trying to blossom. In some ways I'm just a scrawny bean plant trying to catch up with the rest of you as we grow in the garden of life.
We have had a family garden since 2002. I forget which day is my assigned day to weed and water but if I were there by assignment only, I wouldn't be involved anyway. Growing up I spent enough hours in a garden against my wishes. As a young boy, gardening and other unpleasant chores created an atmosphere that stimulated my imagination. Whether I was hoeing in the garden, shelling peas or washing canning jars, my hands would be doing the assigned task but my mind would be far away.
I find the same thing happening now in the garden. As I water and weed the rows, I allow my mind to wander to different times and places. I think of times spent in the garden with those I love. I think of things we talked about. I reflect on the first sprouting of new plants as I witnessed the miracle of a seed. I remember the first ear of ripe corn eaten raw right off the stalk. I also use this garden time to contemplate the challenges and opportunities that are before me. As an adult, the time spent in the garden isn't dreaded. It is actually therapeutic for me.
Just as life has its challenges, we have had problems with our garden seeds spouting this year. Some rows of corn have been planted three times and we still do not have a satisfactory showing. The sparse growth hasn't dampened my desire to spend time in the garden. But maybe I have been doing too much daydreaming and to little weeding these past weeks because the weeds were getting out of control.
Today I put on my gloves, picked up my hoe and went to work. My neighbor dropped by and with a chuckle said, "Looks like you've lost your touch, Grubbs." He often struggles with his garden and has always claimed that our family garden puts his garden to shame. I never thought about feeling shame over a garden, nor did his disparaging comment make me feel uncomfortable or resentful. I knew his heart and he would never intentionally wound me; we enjoy chiding one another.
The hoe is a marvelous tool that allows you to do much of the weeding in a standing position instead of bent over. But when the weeds are close to the tender garden plants it is necessary to get down on the ground and pull those weeds by hand. Today, grabbing weeds by the handfuls, I inadvertently pulled a bean plant. It wasn't a very big plant, scrawny compared to the other plants in the row. Saddened by my mistake and realizing that every plant was precious because of our sparse sprouting experience this year, I quickly pushed the bare roots of the bean plant back into the damp soil all the time knowing that it would not survive. It's like jerking a child out of the womb before it is mature enough to survive and quickly replacing it after the umbilical cord has been severed. Or taking a newborn nursing pup away from its mother before it has learned to eat other food.
The earth serves as a substitute mother to that bean plant. Without the nourishment that the earth provides, the plant cannot survive. I want that bean plant to do more than just survive. I want it to flourish, blossom and produce beans to be enjoyed by those who share the garden; thus, fulfilling the measure of its creation. Just like the bean plant, we as human beings need to do more than just survive; we need to flourish also.
This week I read a book about the child foster care system. It was about a boy who was born in prison and remained in the foster care program until his eighteenth birthday. It was disheartening to think of one child suffering as he did but all the while knowing that there are thousands of children out there in similar circumstances. Reading the book caused me to want to gather my loved ones close and just hold them. I am thankful for the opportunities I have to be weeded and watered by those who care about me. There are certainly times when I am daydreaming and probably don't give as much in return. Regardless of that fact, I am grateful for the garden I live in and the tender love and concern that is shown me. My daydreaming these days is often directed toward those I hold most dear. Thank you for being patient with me as I learn to be a better person. Thank you for the love that is expressed in so many ways.
Please don't mistaken me for a weed and cast me out of your garden. I'm still trying to blossom. In some ways I'm just a scrawny bean plant trying to catch up with the rest of you as we grow in the garden of life.
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