By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Jesus of Nazareth told the parable of the Good Samaritan in the New Testament. I recently discovered that not all attempts to be a Good Samaritan are appreciated by those you are trying to help. As I traveled along Interstate 80 headed to Wamsutter, Wyoming, I reflected on an experience I had in the Atlanta, Georgia airport four years ago today. A man in the restroom was concerned about a tick’s head that had broken off and remained burrowed into his groin when he tried to remove the tick. The head of the tick was tucked up beyond the man’s vision and he needed someone to help extract it. His urgency and fear were based on the fact that his best friend was currently recovering from Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever that he had contracted from a tick. As I chuckled to myself about the experience of helping this man I passed a lady in distress on the side of the road. She was just beyond mile marker 123, fifty miles west of Wamsutter.
The Story . . .
The lady was all alone, standing by what appeared to be a demolished Yakima car top carrier. Her car was parked fifty yards further down the highway. I pulled to the side of the road and walked back to see what I could do to help. She was hyperventilating and I thought she might pass out. I placed my hands on her shoulders and said, “I will stay with you until we get you on your way.” She thanked me for offering to help and asked if I would get her car and back it up near the car carrier. I asked if the keys were in the ignition and she said, “Yes.” As I began to walk back to where her car was parked I realized she was following me. She stayed about eight feet behind me. When I was almost to her car she said, “Oh never mind, I’ll drive the car myself.”
As she got into her car I decided to back my car up and position it so it would block us from oncoming traffic on the freeway as we gathered up the shattered remains of the Yakima car top carrier and her belongings. The lady backed her car up like she was going to a race. As I came around the rear of my car she popped out of her car and hurried to position herself between me and the damaged Yakima carrier. Once again she appeared very nervous. Holding up both hands she said, “Please stay back. All these items are very personal to me. I want to load them myself.” I was somewhat shocked but did as she requested. That was the first I noticed that there weren’t any contents of the car carrier scattered around the ground. Turning her back to me she pulled a large black bag from under the carrier. It was stuffed full of something. It was so heavy she was half carrying and half dragging the bag. “Are you sure you don’t want some help?” I asked. She didn’t respond or look back at me. When she tried to lift the bag into the rear of her silver SUV, five clear plastic bags toppled out of the black bag.
Like being hit in the head with a dirt clod the woman’s behavior began to make sense. She was transporting a large quantity of what I suspected was marijuana. A mountain of questions piled up in my brain but I knew the answer that would come out on top. Before I took time to second guess my decision, I stepped back to my car and pulled out my hand gun and pointed it directly at her. “Move away from the car. Put your hands behind your head and get down on your knees,” I shouted. For a long moment she just stood there in shock and stared at me. “Do it now!” I demanded. Slowly she moved back away from the car and knelt on the ground. Her eyes narrowed in on me like dark daggers. I took out my cell phone to call 911. “You can have anything you want if you will let me go.” She must have thought I was considering my choices. “You can have anything,” she said in a pleading voice as she emphasized the word anything. I could have said something clever but I didn’t feel clever at the moment. I had never pointed a loaded gun at someone. Well except for the time I shot another boy in the butt with a twelve gauge shotgun. I did remove the lead shot from the shell first. I thought it would just make a loud bang but the packing wad I unknowingly left in the shell smacked him in the right buttocks. We both thought he was dead. Today I didn’t want anyone dying over bags of marijuana.
This was serious business and I was more nervous than I first realized. I didn’t want to accidentally squeeze the trigger as I kept the gun pointed at her while I held the phone and dialed emergency. My hand was shaking as I pressed the buttons. “Give me the Highway Patrol,” I said when the operator came on the line. “I am at mile marker 123 on Interstate 80 about fifty miles from Wamsutter. I’m almost certain that a lady I stopped to help on the side of the road is transporting marijuana,” I said with a voice that probably sounded like I had been relieved of the crown jewels. If looks could kill, my new lady friend would be a murderess. Fearing that she might have a concealed weapon, I told her to lie face down in the dirt with her arms spread out away from her body. She acted like she was going to ignore me but then she gradually repositioned herself facedown. I felt sorry for her. Her black hair covered part of her face and her head was turned to the side. I could see that resignation and tears had taken the place of anger in her expression. I wanted to ask her about her life but I left her alone. The wind was blowing so I put my coat over her until the highway patrol officers arrived.
The officers came out of their vehicles with guns drawn and pointed at me. “Put down your weapon,” shouted one of the officers. I wasn’t about to put my gun in the dirt so I laid it on the hood of my vehicle. “Step away from the car,” commanded the officer. It took better than an hour to get everything sorted out. There was two hundred and fifty- five pounds of high grade marijuana in the car. There was also a loaded semi-automatic hand gun and a quantity of cash. The woman’s car was towed and she took a ride in the rear of the Highway Patrol vehicle. When it was all over I was left there alone on the side of the freeway with the busted up Yakima car top carrier and roof rack. I disassembled the roof rack, loaded it in the back of my suburban and drove the last fifty miles to Wamsutter as I thought about the events of the last hour and a half. I was sure that the lady in the back of the police vehicle was wondering just what kind of Samaritan stopped to help her. Would I do it differently if I could relive that experience? Most of us would change something if we could act with the knowledge of hindsight. But I wouldn’t change turning her in. There are no victimless crimes. She and I were both victims . . . victims of coincidence. But then, Neal A. Maxwell said that there are no coincidences in life.
The Truth . . .
Like being hit in the head with a dirt clod the woman’s behavior began to make sense. She was transporting a large quantity of what I suspected was marijuana. A mountain of questions piled up in my brain but I knew the answer that would come out on top. I was considering several options all at once. My gun was lying on the front seat of my suburban. I could hold her at gunpoint until the Highway Patrol arrived but I quickly dismissed that idea. I made the decision when I first obtained my concealed weapon permit that I would never point a loaded gun at someone unless I was prepared to shoot them. In other words I would not use a gun to intimidate someone into doing what I wanted them to do. I wasn’t about to shoot this woman over marijuana no matter how I personally felt about the havoc that drugs cause in peoples lives.
As she struggled to get all the bags of marijuana back into the rear of the SUV, I began memorizing everything I could about her. The SUV was silver and the license plate was Nevada 08120. Her hair was died jet black and cut straight just above her shoulders. She wore hip-hugger jeans that were bulging from squeezing into a size too small. Her top was a white blouse with the top two buttons unfastened. She wore an unbuttoned blue denim long sleeve shirt over the blouse with the shirttail out. On her feet were white sneakers with no socks. Her ears were pierced and adorned with small delicate gold loops. She wore black eyeliner and her eyes were grey blue. She had fake fingernails painted to match the color of her lipstick which was a soft red. Her hands were older looking than her face which led me to believe she'd had cosmetic surgery. Guessing her age would be more difficult than describing what she looked like. I targeted her to be at least forty years old. She was about 5’6” and weighed 140.
Closing the hatchback door to the SUV she turned to me and said, “What will your silence cost me?” I just stood there without responding. “You can have anything you want,” she said. “Let me help you get your roof rack off the busted car carrier. I can disassemble it in three or four minutes and it will fit inside your car,” I said. “I don’t have time to wait. I have to go right now. You can have the roof rack for your trouble,” she said. “It was no trouble,” I responded. She came over to me, reached out her hand and said, “What is your name?” Shaking her hand I said, “Jerry Grubbs.” “Is Grubbs spelled with one “b” or two?” she asked. “With two,” I said. “I’ll remember that,” she said as she turned, ran to her car and drove away.
At 4:09 P.M. I opened my cell phone and dialed 911. “Please connect me with the Highway Patrol.” “What is your emergency?” the operator asked. “I am at mile marker 123 on Interstate 80 about fifty miles west of Wamsutter. I just helped a lady who is transporting what I believe to be marijuana,” I reported. I gave the officer all the pertinent information and went to disassemble the roof rack that the lady had left behind. If she had said she would give me the roof rack for my silence, I would have left it there. A few minutes later a Highway Patrol vehicle pulled up next to my vehicle and questioned me to verify that I was the one who made the 911 call. After repeating the information and providing a description of the car and woman the officer hit his lights and departed at a high rate of speed.
Traveling on down the road toward Wamsutter, I recognized the same silver SUV heading the opposite direction. At 4:34 I called 911 again and reported her location at mile marker 137 traveling west. At 6:45 P.M. the officer called to give me an update on her arrest and what was found in her vehicle. “Would you be able to identify her in a lineup?” the officer asked. “Yes,” I replied. “It would have made our job easier if you had followed her at a distance and continued to report her location,” the highway patrolman suggested. “If I ever stop to help a lady in distress on the side of the road and she turns out to be transporting an illegal substance, I’ll do just that."
Epilogue . . .
Our lives are sometimes filled with wouda, couda, shudas but in the heat of the moment we make decisions that with hindsight we would do differently. I was sure that the lady was wondering just what kind of Samaritan stopped to help her. Would I do it differently if I could relive that experience? I have no regrets about the way I treated her. I do wish that I had followed her to ensure that she was apprehended. But it all worked out okay. Well, I guess that depends on your point of reference. I’m sure that the lady doesn’t share my comment about things working out okay. But if I had it to do all over again I would still call the Highway Patrol. There are no victimless crimes. She and I were both victims . . . victims of coincidence. But then, Neal A. Maxwell said that there are no coincidences in life.
Our behavior can be driven by a desire to appear more or better than we actually are. When I examined the option of using a loaded gun to force the lady into compliance, my motive would not have been her apprehension but glory seeking. There are enough glory seekers without me joining the lineup. In a brief moment I saw how using my gun would most likely play out in the apprehension of the lady. I saw every detail of that situation in the story shared above. But the thought that came to my mind was one that a good friend shared with me seven years ago: “just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” I thought of that very saying as I contemplated my choices. Just because I had a gun, just because I had the element of surprise, just because I had her at a disadvantage, just because she was breaking the law didn’t mean I should become her enforcer. Although I called 911 and reported her, if I saw her on the street tomorrow, I would not feel inclined to cross over to the other side to avoid her. In fact, I would ask her if she would like to have her Yakima roof rack back.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Good & Bad
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Good isn’t always readily distinguishable from bad. Is it good to want life to be easier for our children than what we experienced when we grew up? Is it bad to want those punished who do us harm? Too much of a good thing no matter how good it is can sometimes end up being bad for us. So, is it correct to say that good and bad are relative; that they change with the circumstance before us? I do not believe that good and bad are relative terms that change depending on the situation. I believe that good and bad are constants but by our individual choices we can warp something good into something detrimental to our wellbeing.
Good and bad are often camouflaged to our biased eyes. I use the term biased to describe how we see things. The eye records the object or event. The optic nerve sends the recorded image to the brain where it is identified. After the object or experience is identified the brain goes through a series of processes that ultimately open the door to our emotions based on our knowledge and experience.
Two people can look at the same object or have a similar experience and come away with a totally different feeling or interpretation. On my walk this morning I passed a black Malibu LS Chevrolet sedan parked on the side of the street. In the back window of the car was a sticker/picture of two females in silhouette. The images reminded me of the type of chrome female silhouettes that adorn the mud flaps of eighteen-wheelers: long legs, super thin waists, and ample youthful busts. These two silhouettes were identical with the exception that one was portrayed as an angel and the other as a devil. The angel silhouette had wings and a halo while the devil silhouette had horns and a tail. Remove these items just described from the silhouettes and you wouldn’t be able to tell the two figures apart. Which one was the angel and which was the devil? It would all be left up to how you saw them or imagined them to be.
That’s what we discover in life much of the time . . . good and bad packaged in the same wrapping paper. I have decided to not share the rest of the this story in hopes that you think about it and come up with your own ending.
Good isn’t always readily distinguishable from bad. Is it good to want life to be easier for our children than what we experienced when we grew up? Is it bad to want those punished who do us harm? Too much of a good thing no matter how good it is can sometimes end up being bad for us. So, is it correct to say that good and bad are relative; that they change with the circumstance before us? I do not believe that good and bad are relative terms that change depending on the situation. I believe that good and bad are constants but by our individual choices we can warp something good into something detrimental to our wellbeing.
Good and bad are often camouflaged to our biased eyes. I use the term biased to describe how we see things. The eye records the object or event. The optic nerve sends the recorded image to the brain where it is identified. After the object or experience is identified the brain goes through a series of processes that ultimately open the door to our emotions based on our knowledge and experience.
Two people can look at the same object or have a similar experience and come away with a totally different feeling or interpretation. On my walk this morning I passed a black Malibu LS Chevrolet sedan parked on the side of the street. In the back window of the car was a sticker/picture of two females in silhouette. The images reminded me of the type of chrome female silhouettes that adorn the mud flaps of eighteen-wheelers: long legs, super thin waists, and ample youthful busts. These two silhouettes were identical with the exception that one was portrayed as an angel and the other as a devil. The angel silhouette had wings and a halo while the devil silhouette had horns and a tail. Remove these items just described from the silhouettes and you wouldn’t be able to tell the two figures apart. Which one was the angel and which was the devil? It would all be left up to how you saw them or imagined them to be.
That’s what we discover in life much of the time . . . good and bad packaged in the same wrapping paper. I have decided to not share the rest of the this story in hopes that you think about it and come up with your own ending.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Smoke In My Eyes
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Confessing someone else’s sins is easy. Confessing my own sins is more difficult. As I grow older and take opportunity to reflect on my youth certain events come to mind that although serious at the time, today are almost comical.
In the fifth grade attending Valley View Elementary, I occasionally visited the corner market and purchased Lucky Strike candy cigarettes. Walking home from school I would hang one of those candy cigarettes out the corner of my mouth and on cue reach up, pinch the cigarette between my index and middle fingers, remove the cigarette and exhale as though it was a blessed moment.
As I approached home the pack of Lucky Strikes would find a secure hiding place because mother would take them away from me. “Avoid the very appearance of evil,” she said so many times. I knew smoking was against the rules I had been taught but dad was saying, “Do as I say, not as I do.” Even with dad’s example before me every day I do not hold him responsible for my behavior. I didn’t even use him as my excuse for what would follow.
A plan began to formulate in my mind. If I saved my lunch milk money for a week I would soon have enough to purchase a real pack of cigarettes. With money in hand and having rehearsed what I would say, I took a deep breath, opened the screen door and stepped to the counter. “I want to buy a package of Camels,” I said. “You’re too young to buy cigarettes,” said the store clerk. “Oh, they’re for my dad,” I replied. Looking at me with a questioning expression he said, “Does your dad smoke filtered or unfiltered?” With all my rehearsing what I would say, it never occurred to me whether dad smoked filtered or unfiltered cigarettes. Stumbling over my words I said, “He doesn’t care.” “Are you sure you are buying cigarettes for your dad?” he asked. Seeing that my plan was beginning to unravel, I had to act quickly. I almost turned and ran out the door but something inside me said this situation was still winnable. With as much emotion as I could muster and with manufactured tears welling up in my eyes I blurted out, “Dad is going to be so mad if I don’t come home with his cigarettes.” Without saying another word the store clerk slipped a pack of unfiltered Camels from the rack on the wall, laid them on the counter and gathered up my change. Grabbing the cigarettes I quickly left the store.
Step one of the plan was complete. I was so proud of myself. I had duped that old man. Walking home I didn’t realize that I had become less of a person. That realization would come much later. Nothing had changed in the store clerk. He was just the same as before I entered the store
To my delight no one was home when I arrived. Dropping my books in the kitchen and finding some matches I headed for the back yard. Standing behind the storage shed, I lit up my first Camel. Drawing in the smoke I immediately wondered, “Where is the pleasure?” Finishing one cigarette I immediately lit up another thinking I must have overlooked something. Those were the only two cigarettes I have ever smoked. I buried the rest of the pack in the backyard flowerbed. That wasn’t very smart because mother dug them up a few weeks later. There was hell to pay. What mom didn’t realize was that I had already decided that smoking wasn’t going to be part of my life. She didn’t believe me so she proceeded to reinforce my decision. Before you start feeling sorry for me you need to understand . . . I don’t remember ever getting a lickin’ I didn’t deserve.
Confessing someone else’s sins is easy. Confessing my own sins is more difficult. As I grow older and take opportunity to reflect on my youth certain events come to mind that although serious at the time, today are almost comical.
In the fifth grade attending Valley View Elementary, I occasionally visited the corner market and purchased Lucky Strike candy cigarettes. Walking home from school I would hang one of those candy cigarettes out the corner of my mouth and on cue reach up, pinch the cigarette between my index and middle fingers, remove the cigarette and exhale as though it was a blessed moment.
As I approached home the pack of Lucky Strikes would find a secure hiding place because mother would take them away from me. “Avoid the very appearance of evil,” she said so many times. I knew smoking was against the rules I had been taught but dad was saying, “Do as I say, not as I do.” Even with dad’s example before me every day I do not hold him responsible for my behavior. I didn’t even use him as my excuse for what would follow.
A plan began to formulate in my mind. If I saved my lunch milk money for a week I would soon have enough to purchase a real pack of cigarettes. With money in hand and having rehearsed what I would say, I took a deep breath, opened the screen door and stepped to the counter. “I want to buy a package of Camels,” I said. “You’re too young to buy cigarettes,” said the store clerk. “Oh, they’re for my dad,” I replied. Looking at me with a questioning expression he said, “Does your dad smoke filtered or unfiltered?” With all my rehearsing what I would say, it never occurred to me whether dad smoked filtered or unfiltered cigarettes. Stumbling over my words I said, “He doesn’t care.” “Are you sure you are buying cigarettes for your dad?” he asked. Seeing that my plan was beginning to unravel, I had to act quickly. I almost turned and ran out the door but something inside me said this situation was still winnable. With as much emotion as I could muster and with manufactured tears welling up in my eyes I blurted out, “Dad is going to be so mad if I don’t come home with his cigarettes.” Without saying another word the store clerk slipped a pack of unfiltered Camels from the rack on the wall, laid them on the counter and gathered up my change. Grabbing the cigarettes I quickly left the store.
Step one of the plan was complete. I was so proud of myself. I had duped that old man. Walking home I didn’t realize that I had become less of a person. That realization would come much later. Nothing had changed in the store clerk. He was just the same as before I entered the store
To my delight no one was home when I arrived. Dropping my books in the kitchen and finding some matches I headed for the back yard. Standing behind the storage shed, I lit up my first Camel. Drawing in the smoke I immediately wondered, “Where is the pleasure?” Finishing one cigarette I immediately lit up another thinking I must have overlooked something. Those were the only two cigarettes I have ever smoked. I buried the rest of the pack in the backyard flowerbed. That wasn’t very smart because mother dug them up a few weeks later. There was hell to pay. What mom didn’t realize was that I had already decided that smoking wasn’t going to be part of my life. She didn’t believe me so she proceeded to reinforce my decision. Before you start feeling sorry for me you need to understand . . . I don’t remember ever getting a lickin’ I didn’t deserve.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Perception
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
On several occasions I have had a dream repeat itself. These repeated dreams have the same storyline but with different outcomes. These dreams have given me an opportunity to look at life from different viewpoints.
The Dream...
Although I had not opened my eyes, I gradually became aware of my surroundings. I was a little warm even though my only covering was a sheet. What was producing the heat was her body snuggled up next to mine with her arm across my chest. I don’t know if it was the heat from her body that had awakened me or the unique way that she always breathed as she slept. Her breath came in little puffs. She didn’t snore as she accused me of doing but the sounds she made were just as irritating as any sound I might make. If she would just turn over on her back she could breathe easier and the oppressive heat of her body crowded up next to me would diminish. You would think we were sleeping on a single bed instead of the queen-size bed that consumed a large portion of our bedroom. It would do no good to ease out from under her arm and move over because within a few minutes she would find me again even in her sleep.
A Repeat…
Although I had not opened my eyes, I gradually became aware of my surroundings. I was a little warm even though my only covering was a sheet. What was producing the heat was her body snuggled up next to mine with her arm across my chest. I don’t know if it was the heat from her body that had awakened me or the unique way that she always breathed as she slept. Her breath came in little puffs. Realizing the source of the external heat warmed my heart. Even with the queen-size bed that occupied our bedroom, her most comfortable spot was snuggled up next to me. The little puffs of air escaping from her lips gave me assurance in the darkness of who was lying next to me. How fortunate I felt that someone cared enough about me to snuggle up next to me even in the heat of a summer night. How comfortable it felt to know someone so well that you could even recognize the pattern of her breathing. I pulled her tighter against me and wished that the moment would never end. I was glad that she found me even in her sleep.
How often do we look for the negative and overlook the positive? Our attitudes can lead to self fulfilling prophecies. Do I need an attitude adjustment? Could each of us use an attitude adjustment? These two dreams had everything in common: the heat, the closeness, and the little puffs of air escaping from her lips. The only difference was my attitude. I wrote about another dream I had in February 2004 where the scene replays and I get a chance to do things differently. It is titled “The Dirty Windshield” and you can read it by clicking on the link below.
www.grubbsfamily.org/ponder/item?item_id=19405
On several occasions I have had a dream repeat itself. These repeated dreams have the same storyline but with different outcomes. These dreams have given me an opportunity to look at life from different viewpoints.
The Dream...
Although I had not opened my eyes, I gradually became aware of my surroundings. I was a little warm even though my only covering was a sheet. What was producing the heat was her body snuggled up next to mine with her arm across my chest. I don’t know if it was the heat from her body that had awakened me or the unique way that she always breathed as she slept. Her breath came in little puffs. She didn’t snore as she accused me of doing but the sounds she made were just as irritating as any sound I might make. If she would just turn over on her back she could breathe easier and the oppressive heat of her body crowded up next to me would diminish. You would think we were sleeping on a single bed instead of the queen-size bed that consumed a large portion of our bedroom. It would do no good to ease out from under her arm and move over because within a few minutes she would find me again even in her sleep.
A Repeat…
Although I had not opened my eyes, I gradually became aware of my surroundings. I was a little warm even though my only covering was a sheet. What was producing the heat was her body snuggled up next to mine with her arm across my chest. I don’t know if it was the heat from her body that had awakened me or the unique way that she always breathed as she slept. Her breath came in little puffs. Realizing the source of the external heat warmed my heart. Even with the queen-size bed that occupied our bedroom, her most comfortable spot was snuggled up next to me. The little puffs of air escaping from her lips gave me assurance in the darkness of who was lying next to me. How fortunate I felt that someone cared enough about me to snuggle up next to me even in the heat of a summer night. How comfortable it felt to know someone so well that you could even recognize the pattern of her breathing. I pulled her tighter against me and wished that the moment would never end. I was glad that she found me even in her sleep.
How often do we look for the negative and overlook the positive? Our attitudes can lead to self fulfilling prophecies. Do I need an attitude adjustment? Could each of us use an attitude adjustment? These two dreams had everything in common: the heat, the closeness, and the little puffs of air escaping from her lips. The only difference was my attitude. I wrote about another dream I had in February 2004 where the scene replays and I get a chance to do things differently. It is titled “The Dirty Windshield” and you can read it by clicking on the link below.
www.grubbsfamily.org/ponder/item?item_id=19405
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Time to Fish
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Have you ever awakened and briefly wondered where you were or what day it was? As I raised my head and looked around, I began brushing the sand from my face as though it was something I routinely did every morning. The sound of waves crashing on the beach drew my attention away from myself for a moment. The ocean looked angry and the skies were dark and threatening. It was only a matter of time before rain would be pelting me if I didn’t find some type of shelter.
My clothes were in disarray. I was missing a shoe. I had an ache in my stomach that resembled hunger but I wasn’t sure if it was hunger or anxiety. When had I last eaten? I couldn’t remember. How long had I been here? I didn’t know. How did I get here? I wasn’t certain but there was a nagging thought that I had fallen overboard from a ship of some kind. I had this sense of falling and then the darkness and the cold. Now here I was lying on this beach, chilled, hungry and about to get drenched by a storm that filled all the visible sky.
The wind howled and the tree limbs leading into the dense vegetation whipped against my face as I pushed my way through looking for a place that would shield me from the elements. As the rain came I could hear it pounding on the canopy of trees above me. It reminded me of the big bad wolf growling and trying to blow my house of trees down. The trees were so thick they blocked the sky as the rain pounded against this little island. The ground was thick with vegetation and fallen timber. I found a large log about three feet in diameter. I stacked limbs and clump-grass against the log making a lean-to to shield me from the rain. After I crawled inside I drew my knees up against my chest to block out the chill of the coming night air.
When I dozed off and was startled awake by a large clap of thunder it was dark. I couldn’t see anything. The sounds around me were adding to my already heightened sense of concern and anxiety. As I laid there huddled against the forces of nature, I became aware of a sound that was different from the rest of the forest noises. It was a crying sound that was human or near human. I wasn’t alone. But what was out there in the dark of this wet, cold night? Not being able to see because of the darkness I laid there for the rest of the night listening to that muffled cry. With all the other noises I couldn’t determine how close or far away the sound was coming from.
At daybreak I eased out of my resting place behind the log and looked around. As far as I could see it was just trees, trees and more trees. The vegetation was choked with fallen timber from trees that had finished their lives and collapsed, rotting at the feet of newer, healthier trees. The sound of crying was fainter now and it was hard to distinguish the direction it was coming from. I made my way toward what I thought was the origin of the sound.
I didn’t know what to expect. What if it was someone injured or sick? It had never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to figure out a way to survive, but to have to care for someone else may be more than I could handle. My mind was alert and I had always been taught that the mind is the most valuable weapon we have against the unknown. The sound of crying gradually became clearer as I moved deeper into the dense growth of trees. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. It startled me and my breath locked in my throat yet I was excited to finally know the source of the crying sound. I wasn’t prepared for what I discovered.
It was a woman holding a small child cradled in her arms. The girl looked to be about three years old. They were both drenched and shivering from the rain of last night. Fear streaked across the woman’s face as she clutched the child to her chest and struggled to get on her feet for what I thought would be a flight deeper into the jungle. She collapsed back against the tree trunk she had been leaning against before I startled her. Then the lady began to weep in deep gasping sobs which caused the little girl to cry even louder. They just sat there clutching each other like I was their executioner.
I dropped to my knees in front of them and asked how I could help. As the woman’s sobs turned to whimpers I reached out and rubbed the side of her face. She gradually eased her grasp of the little girl and allowed me to take her in my arms. I took the woman by the arm and helped her to her feet. She was like a wobbly newborn calf as she stood and tried to walk. Gradually we began to move in the direction from which I came. My footprints were easy to follow in the damp earth. Looking down it was almost comical as I remembered that I only had one shoe. As I held her arm and carried the child we did not speak. The little girl had stopped crying and was leaning against my chest. I could feel her warm breath on my neck. It was such a contrast to the chilled skin of the woman’s arm as I continued to steady her as we walked.
Somehow I needed to get these two people warm. The rain had stopped but due to the dense canopy of trees overhead, I didn’t know if the clouds had blown away to reveal a sunny day or not. They needed warmth, water and something to eat. My mind began to race as I thought about trying to get a fire started after such a downpour. What was I thinking? I didn’t even have a single match: no Bic lighter, no flint and steel, no nine- volt battery and steel wool. A feeling of calm came over me as I remembered that if Heavenly Father wanted this woman and child warm he would help me accomplish the task. He had helped me find them, hadn’t he? I thought about that saying: “There are no coincidences in life.”
After an hour of frustration I still didn’t have that miracle fire started. I gave the woman my dry shirt and told her to remove all her wet clothes and let them dry in the sun. I took the toddler’s clothes off and put my tee shirt on her. As we sat in the sand she explained that they hadn’t eaten for three days. That is how long it had been since they were left on this island by the father of her child. When she told him she was pregnant he became angry and tried to persuade her to get an abortion but she refused. After their daughter was born, their relationship deteriorated until he took them on a sailboat cruise to this remote island and deserted them, leaving them nothing but two bottles of water. They watched him sail toward the horizon certain that he would come back. Since the birth of their daughter he had played other cruel jokes on her but this time he didn’t return.
All of a sudden the responsibility of caring for this woman and her daughter began to overwhelm me. Getting a fire started using old Indian methods I had studied in a book wasn’t going to be easy. That was just one of the many challenges that would be required of me if I was going to keep them alive until help arrived. I began preparing to go into the forest to see if I could catch some small game for us to eat. The woman didn’t want me to leave them but I couldn’t accomplish what I needed to do with them along. With my pocket knife I sharpened several long stakes to use as spears and headed back into the dense vegetation to look for food. After several hours of hunting with no success I returned to fine both of them sound to sleep. Something pricked my heart to think that they had laid their troubles in the sand and were sleeping contented. They wouldn’t be sleeping so peacefully if they knew how ill prepared I was to keep them alive.
The woman was lying on her left side with her head resting on her outstretched arm. Her hand was open, palm up with no ring on her finger. Her mouth was slightly parted and her breathing came in short little puffs. She had small laugh lines at the crease of her mouth. Her hair was blonde with the slightest presence of darker roots at the scalp. Her daughter was tucked in a fetal position against her stomach with the woman’s right arm holding the child snugly to her. It was like I was seeing them before she gave birth to her daughter. I wanted to brush the sand from her cheek but I was afraid I would awaken her. There was something familiar about this woman and her child. I realized I was studying her like someone preparing for an examination and I became embarrassed for invading her privacy as she slept. Rising to my feet, I unbuckled and removed my jeans and took one of my sharpened sticks and started toward the breaking surf to try my luck at fishing. They were hungry when I found them and they would be even hungrier when they awoke. As I approached the water I saw a white plastic trash bag half buried in the sand. Then I saw another, and another. One of them was ripped open spilling out debris in the surf. There were milk containers, tin cans, rotting vegetables, soggy wet paper goods . . .
Then I remembered. I had been standing on the deck near the back of our cruise ship watching the moon and stars paint the sky with a beautiful array of twinkling lights. I heard a clanking sound like a heavy steel door being opened somewhere far down below me. I leaned over the rail to examine where the sound was coming from. I was startled to see gigantic amounts of garbage being belched into the ocean from the ship. It was sickening to watch. Hundreds of garbage sacks and food along with the smell of human waste spiked the air. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. If every cruise ship practiced ocean dumping at this magnitude, what would eventually happen to all the marine life in the water? As I watched the tons of waste being dumped it began to stream out behind the ship like a highway of refuse. I looked at my watch. It was 2:38 A.M. “No wonder they do this in the middle of the night,” I thought. Startled from a noise from behind, I began to turn around and at that moment I was shoved over the ship’s railing and began to fall. I grabbed for the rail but it was too late. If this was a dream I would awaken before I hit the water. With arms and legs flailing in the air I was certain I was going to die from the impact but unwilling to give up I tried to arrest the tumbling motion and keep my feet pointed down. Wham! I landed in a sea of plastic garbage bags, rotting food and worse. Crashing through the bags of garbage I tore through some of them and drug them down below the surface with me. Fighting the water and the plastic bags of garbage I worked my way to the surface and gasp for air. I guess it wasn’t a dream. I didn’t wake up before I hit the water and I hadn’t died. I was wrong on both counts. I felt something strike my leg and fearing it to be a shark I scrambled to stay on top of the floating garbage.
Fear shut down my brain or I actually passed out, I don’t know which. I was pulling garbage sacks around me trying to hold them together when a voice in my mind said, “Give up, it will be okay.” I shouted out loud, “I will never give up.” The next thing I remembered I was waking up on shore and brushing the sand from my face. Now here I was, on a remote island with a woman and the daughter she refused to give up. They were looking for me to be an answer to prayer. Standing at the edge of the surf with my spear in hand, I looked back at the woman and child sleeping in the sand. Then she rose up on one arm and calling after me said, “Will you take care of my daughter like she was your own if something happens to me?” I didn’t answer her. I just turned back toward the ocean. It was time to fish. She would ask the question again and we both already knew the answer. As I stepped into the water, I awoke.
Have you ever awakened and briefly wondered where you were or what day it was? As I raised my head and looked around, I began brushing the sand from my face as though it was something I routinely did every morning. The sound of waves crashing on the beach drew my attention away from myself for a moment. The ocean looked angry and the skies were dark and threatening. It was only a matter of time before rain would be pelting me if I didn’t find some type of shelter.
My clothes were in disarray. I was missing a shoe. I had an ache in my stomach that resembled hunger but I wasn’t sure if it was hunger or anxiety. When had I last eaten? I couldn’t remember. How long had I been here? I didn’t know. How did I get here? I wasn’t certain but there was a nagging thought that I had fallen overboard from a ship of some kind. I had this sense of falling and then the darkness and the cold. Now here I was lying on this beach, chilled, hungry and about to get drenched by a storm that filled all the visible sky.
The wind howled and the tree limbs leading into the dense vegetation whipped against my face as I pushed my way through looking for a place that would shield me from the elements. As the rain came I could hear it pounding on the canopy of trees above me. It reminded me of the big bad wolf growling and trying to blow my house of trees down. The trees were so thick they blocked the sky as the rain pounded against this little island. The ground was thick with vegetation and fallen timber. I found a large log about three feet in diameter. I stacked limbs and clump-grass against the log making a lean-to to shield me from the rain. After I crawled inside I drew my knees up against my chest to block out the chill of the coming night air.
When I dozed off and was startled awake by a large clap of thunder it was dark. I couldn’t see anything. The sounds around me were adding to my already heightened sense of concern and anxiety. As I laid there huddled against the forces of nature, I became aware of a sound that was different from the rest of the forest noises. It was a crying sound that was human or near human. I wasn’t alone. But what was out there in the dark of this wet, cold night? Not being able to see because of the darkness I laid there for the rest of the night listening to that muffled cry. With all the other noises I couldn’t determine how close or far away the sound was coming from.
At daybreak I eased out of my resting place behind the log and looked around. As far as I could see it was just trees, trees and more trees. The vegetation was choked with fallen timber from trees that had finished their lives and collapsed, rotting at the feet of newer, healthier trees. The sound of crying was fainter now and it was hard to distinguish the direction it was coming from. I made my way toward what I thought was the origin of the sound.
I didn’t know what to expect. What if it was someone injured or sick? It had never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to figure out a way to survive, but to have to care for someone else may be more than I could handle. My mind was alert and I had always been taught that the mind is the most valuable weapon we have against the unknown. The sound of crying gradually became clearer as I moved deeper into the dense growth of trees. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. It startled me and my breath locked in my throat yet I was excited to finally know the source of the crying sound. I wasn’t prepared for what I discovered.
It was a woman holding a small child cradled in her arms. The girl looked to be about three years old. They were both drenched and shivering from the rain of last night. Fear streaked across the woman’s face as she clutched the child to her chest and struggled to get on her feet for what I thought would be a flight deeper into the jungle. She collapsed back against the tree trunk she had been leaning against before I startled her. Then the lady began to weep in deep gasping sobs which caused the little girl to cry even louder. They just sat there clutching each other like I was their executioner.
I dropped to my knees in front of them and asked how I could help. As the woman’s sobs turned to whimpers I reached out and rubbed the side of her face. She gradually eased her grasp of the little girl and allowed me to take her in my arms. I took the woman by the arm and helped her to her feet. She was like a wobbly newborn calf as she stood and tried to walk. Gradually we began to move in the direction from which I came. My footprints were easy to follow in the damp earth. Looking down it was almost comical as I remembered that I only had one shoe. As I held her arm and carried the child we did not speak. The little girl had stopped crying and was leaning against my chest. I could feel her warm breath on my neck. It was such a contrast to the chilled skin of the woman’s arm as I continued to steady her as we walked.
Somehow I needed to get these two people warm. The rain had stopped but due to the dense canopy of trees overhead, I didn’t know if the clouds had blown away to reveal a sunny day or not. They needed warmth, water and something to eat. My mind began to race as I thought about trying to get a fire started after such a downpour. What was I thinking? I didn’t even have a single match: no Bic lighter, no flint and steel, no nine- volt battery and steel wool. A feeling of calm came over me as I remembered that if Heavenly Father wanted this woman and child warm he would help me accomplish the task. He had helped me find them, hadn’t he? I thought about that saying: “There are no coincidences in life.”
After an hour of frustration I still didn’t have that miracle fire started. I gave the woman my dry shirt and told her to remove all her wet clothes and let them dry in the sun. I took the toddler’s clothes off and put my tee shirt on her. As we sat in the sand she explained that they hadn’t eaten for three days. That is how long it had been since they were left on this island by the father of her child. When she told him she was pregnant he became angry and tried to persuade her to get an abortion but she refused. After their daughter was born, their relationship deteriorated until he took them on a sailboat cruise to this remote island and deserted them, leaving them nothing but two bottles of water. They watched him sail toward the horizon certain that he would come back. Since the birth of their daughter he had played other cruel jokes on her but this time he didn’t return.
All of a sudden the responsibility of caring for this woman and her daughter began to overwhelm me. Getting a fire started using old Indian methods I had studied in a book wasn’t going to be easy. That was just one of the many challenges that would be required of me if I was going to keep them alive until help arrived. I began preparing to go into the forest to see if I could catch some small game for us to eat. The woman didn’t want me to leave them but I couldn’t accomplish what I needed to do with them along. With my pocket knife I sharpened several long stakes to use as spears and headed back into the dense vegetation to look for food. After several hours of hunting with no success I returned to fine both of them sound to sleep. Something pricked my heart to think that they had laid their troubles in the sand and were sleeping contented. They wouldn’t be sleeping so peacefully if they knew how ill prepared I was to keep them alive.
The woman was lying on her left side with her head resting on her outstretched arm. Her hand was open, palm up with no ring on her finger. Her mouth was slightly parted and her breathing came in short little puffs. She had small laugh lines at the crease of her mouth. Her hair was blonde with the slightest presence of darker roots at the scalp. Her daughter was tucked in a fetal position against her stomach with the woman’s right arm holding the child snugly to her. It was like I was seeing them before she gave birth to her daughter. I wanted to brush the sand from her cheek but I was afraid I would awaken her. There was something familiar about this woman and her child. I realized I was studying her like someone preparing for an examination and I became embarrassed for invading her privacy as she slept. Rising to my feet, I unbuckled and removed my jeans and took one of my sharpened sticks and started toward the breaking surf to try my luck at fishing. They were hungry when I found them and they would be even hungrier when they awoke. As I approached the water I saw a white plastic trash bag half buried in the sand. Then I saw another, and another. One of them was ripped open spilling out debris in the surf. There were milk containers, tin cans, rotting vegetables, soggy wet paper goods . . .
Then I remembered. I had been standing on the deck near the back of our cruise ship watching the moon and stars paint the sky with a beautiful array of twinkling lights. I heard a clanking sound like a heavy steel door being opened somewhere far down below me. I leaned over the rail to examine where the sound was coming from. I was startled to see gigantic amounts of garbage being belched into the ocean from the ship. It was sickening to watch. Hundreds of garbage sacks and food along with the smell of human waste spiked the air. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. If every cruise ship practiced ocean dumping at this magnitude, what would eventually happen to all the marine life in the water? As I watched the tons of waste being dumped it began to stream out behind the ship like a highway of refuse. I looked at my watch. It was 2:38 A.M. “No wonder they do this in the middle of the night,” I thought. Startled from a noise from behind, I began to turn around and at that moment I was shoved over the ship’s railing and began to fall. I grabbed for the rail but it was too late. If this was a dream I would awaken before I hit the water. With arms and legs flailing in the air I was certain I was going to die from the impact but unwilling to give up I tried to arrest the tumbling motion and keep my feet pointed down. Wham! I landed in a sea of plastic garbage bags, rotting food and worse. Crashing through the bags of garbage I tore through some of them and drug them down below the surface with me. Fighting the water and the plastic bags of garbage I worked my way to the surface and gasp for air. I guess it wasn’t a dream. I didn’t wake up before I hit the water and I hadn’t died. I was wrong on both counts. I felt something strike my leg and fearing it to be a shark I scrambled to stay on top of the floating garbage.
Fear shut down my brain or I actually passed out, I don’t know which. I was pulling garbage sacks around me trying to hold them together when a voice in my mind said, “Give up, it will be okay.” I shouted out loud, “I will never give up.” The next thing I remembered I was waking up on shore and brushing the sand from my face. Now here I was, on a remote island with a woman and the daughter she refused to give up. They were looking for me to be an answer to prayer. Standing at the edge of the surf with my spear in hand, I looked back at the woman and child sleeping in the sand. Then she rose up on one arm and calling after me said, “Will you take care of my daughter like she was your own if something happens to me?” I didn’t answer her. I just turned back toward the ocean. It was time to fish. She would ask the question again and we both already knew the answer. As I stepped into the water, I awoke.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Lady Justice
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
She stood eleven feet eleven inches tall and held a set of scales in her left hand. Why justice is always portrayed as a woman wearing a blindfold makes sense but why she is draped in a robe with her right breast exposed is a mystery to me.
This bronze statue of a lady stood atop the dome and oversaw the affairs of justice at the Lincoln County Courthouse in Kemmerer, Wyoming until the building was remodeled in 2003. She was placed there when the courthouse was constructed in 1925 and looked down on the court proceedings of those presumed innocent until proven guilty by that court of law.
Having served faithfully for seventy-eight years, Lincoln County couldn’t let her go to the scrap yard and be melted down once she was replaced by a shiny new lady of justice. The bronze statue was tucked into a corner of the remodeled courthouse just inside the front door where she could be honored for her years of service. Looking atop the building the new Lady Justice was draped in a bronze robe with her right breast exposed just like the former Lady Justice. Now the accused shoplifters, thieves, drunk drivers, rapists, and murderers pass under the non-seeing, all sensing new lady as they experience their day in court.
“What is the significance of Lady Justice being eleven feet and eleven inches tall?” I asked. Most court decisions are arrived at without all the facts. Lady Justice isn’t built to full height because she must often balance the scales of justice with less than a full measure of truth. How challenging that assignment must be. She is blindfolded as a symbol of impartiality. I still haven’t figured out why she has her right breast exposed.
Stepping up to examine the former Lady Justice a little closer, I noticed she had sustained three bullet holes. One bullet passed through her neck, one through her right breast just below the nipple and a third bullet penetrated near a depression in the robe covering her female fold. Stepping around to the rear of the statue I saw where the bullets passed completely through the statue leaving jagged protruding tares in the bronze metal. “What is the story behind Lady Justice being shot?” I asked the clerk at the desk. “I have no idea,” she replied. The young blond with her sparkling blue eyes and hair pulled back under a gold clip made me feel younger just looking in her eyes. She probably wasn’t even born when Lady Justice was assaulted. Striving to be helpful she said, “Vera, the oldest member of our staff may know something about the bullet holes. She works up on the second floor in the court clerk’s office if you would like to check with her.”
I took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and opened the door to the balcony that overlooked the foyer below. From where I stood I couldn’t see Lady Justice tucked away in the alcove but just knowing she was there was a reminder to me that truth will always tip the scales toward the right decision. “Clerk of the Court” said the sign over the door that lead to the office where I was looking for Vera. An older woman with her eyes and hands busy with a stack of papers looked up as I entered the room. “Are you Vera?” I asked. She nodded an affirmative gesture and her eyebrows raised but didn’t speak. “I was told that you might know why Lady Justice down in the foyer has three bullet holes in her,” I said. “What makes you think I know anything about that?” she said almost expressionless and returning her attention to her paper work. I wanted to say that the young lady in the tight sweater downstairs said that she was the oldest hen in the house and if anyone knew something it would be her, but I didn’t. I said, “The lady downstairs said that you had worked here the longest and you might know more than she did.” Vera looked up at me and asked in a cold impersonal voice, “Why do you want to know?” I was caught off guard by her question and my mind went back to many years ago.
As a small boy I sat in the window seal of my grandmother’s kitchen and asked her a thousand “Why” questions. Years later, as I returned to visit my grandmother she would tell me the story over again how I was the little boy so full of questions. Here I was like that little boy again, I didn’t have a real reason, I just wanted to know. “I guess you might say it is just curiosity,” I said. “Curiosity killed the cat,” replied Vera. I smiled and said, “I’m not a cat.” Her countenance softened and she invited me to sit down. What had started out as a stern expression that said, “Don’t bother me; I’m busy and I have important things to do,” melted into a warm friendly expression of, “Okay.”
It all happened in 1957, Vera began. I won’t give you their names because who they were isn’t the important part of the story. He was eighteen and she was seventeen and ten months old when it all started. No, not when it started but when they appeared before what you call Lady Justice. They had just graduated from high school. He was leaving for college in the fall and she was working at the J.C.Penny store in town. They planned to marry as soon as he graduated. He was accused of statutory rape. The charges were brought before this court by her father. She was in love and refused to testify against the only guy she had ever seriously cared about. They had dated all through high school and it was only by accident that the depth of their relationship was discovered. I think I understood what Vera meant when she used the term depth of their relationship. I had heard sex described in many ways but this one was a new one on me.
Her father was furious and placed all the blame for the violation of his daughter on the young man. The young man didn’t hire an attorney and one was appointed by the court. The day of his trial arrived and he took the witness chair, raised one hand to the square and placed the other on the bible and swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. He testified that they were both minors when their relationship first deepened and that he was guilty of such activity with her after his eighteenth birthday. When asked questions about the young woman’s participation and willingness in the activity, he declined to comment. He never spoke a word that would shed a negative light on her regardless of the humiliation and embarrassment they both were being exposed to in open court.
He was sentenced to five years in the state penitentiary and was removed from the courtroom in handcuffs. Before exiting the courtroom the judge asked if he had anything to say. He turned and faced his accuser, the father of the only girl he had ever loved, and said, “I’m so sorry. I would have gladly accepted a sentence twice as long if it would have saved your family this embarrassment. I will always love your daughter. I hope that someday your family will be able to heal from my selfish acts.” From that moment on he looked straight ahead and left the courtroom without uttering another word. The following morning he was transported to the Wyoming State Penitentiary where he began serving his sentence.
Early the next day three shots broke the still morning air over the town. When business as usual began at the courthouse, a note was found beneath a rock on the front step. It said, “I shot her three times, I hope I killed her.” No one understood the note. They thought it was a prank or someone confessing to a murder that would soon be discovered. Then a second note appeared one week later. It said, “Justice is indeed blind in this town. Look up you fools. I shot her in the neck as a symbol that her head and her heart weren’t connected in last week’s court decision. I shot her in her breast as a symbol that the beauty of justice was destroyed last week. I shot her in the appropriate spot, not in an attempt to violate her, but in hopes that she will never again reproduce the kind of justice that was delivered on a young man last week. If you find me, don’t expect me to do as he did, to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I will lie, I will deceive, I will hire the best attorney my money can afford and I will beat your system that you call justice. I want your bronze statue, Lady Justice to stand as a witness of the two lives that were destroyed last week by an insensitive father and an insensitive justice system.”
The court tried to keep the notes that were found on the steps secret but eventually the public became aware of what had happened to the bronze statue and why. The unknown shooter became a local hero of sorts. He was talked about in the restaurants and bars around town and members of the community expressed the sentiment that they hoped he was never caught. An all-out effort to find the shooter and bring him to justice was mounted. The angles of firing line were studied and eventually the hillside knoll was discovered where the shots had been fired. Three empty 30-30 rifle cartridges were still lying on the ground. Next to the brass cartridges were two small white crosses, each had a ribbon and bow attached to it, one pink and one blue.
Vera rose from her chair signaling that our visit was over. As I stood to leave, she came around her desk and gave me a hug. With a smile that could have melted my heart she said, “Thanks for asking.” As I turned to leave she said, “What’s your name?” “Why do you want to know?” I asked. “Remember, curiosity killed the cat.” “But you aren’t cat,” she said. “You are the only person I have ever told my story. I was that seventeen year old girl.” I stepped back toward her and we held one another once more, this time with more understanding. I felt her body trembling against my chest. She was struggling to hold back tears the way some people do when they feel like if they let one tear fall, a floodgate will open and they will not be able to stop. I said goodbye and stepped through the door and out of her life.
She stood eleven feet eleven inches tall and held a set of scales in her left hand. Why justice is always portrayed as a woman wearing a blindfold makes sense but why she is draped in a robe with her right breast exposed is a mystery to me.
This bronze statue of a lady stood atop the dome and oversaw the affairs of justice at the Lincoln County Courthouse in Kemmerer, Wyoming until the building was remodeled in 2003. She was placed there when the courthouse was constructed in 1925 and looked down on the court proceedings of those presumed innocent until proven guilty by that court of law.
Having served faithfully for seventy-eight years, Lincoln County couldn’t let her go to the scrap yard and be melted down once she was replaced by a shiny new lady of justice. The bronze statue was tucked into a corner of the remodeled courthouse just inside the front door where she could be honored for her years of service. Looking atop the building the new Lady Justice was draped in a bronze robe with her right breast exposed just like the former Lady Justice. Now the accused shoplifters, thieves, drunk drivers, rapists, and murderers pass under the non-seeing, all sensing new lady as they experience their day in court.
“What is the significance of Lady Justice being eleven feet and eleven inches tall?” I asked. Most court decisions are arrived at without all the facts. Lady Justice isn’t built to full height because she must often balance the scales of justice with less than a full measure of truth. How challenging that assignment must be. She is blindfolded as a symbol of impartiality. I still haven’t figured out why she has her right breast exposed.
Stepping up to examine the former Lady Justice a little closer, I noticed she had sustained three bullet holes. One bullet passed through her neck, one through her right breast just below the nipple and a third bullet penetrated near a depression in the robe covering her female fold. Stepping around to the rear of the statue I saw where the bullets passed completely through the statue leaving jagged protruding tares in the bronze metal. “What is the story behind Lady Justice being shot?” I asked the clerk at the desk. “I have no idea,” she replied. The young blond with her sparkling blue eyes and hair pulled back under a gold clip made me feel younger just looking in her eyes. She probably wasn’t even born when Lady Justice was assaulted. Striving to be helpful she said, “Vera, the oldest member of our staff may know something about the bullet holes. She works up on the second floor in the court clerk’s office if you would like to check with her.”
I took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and opened the door to the balcony that overlooked the foyer below. From where I stood I couldn’t see Lady Justice tucked away in the alcove but just knowing she was there was a reminder to me that truth will always tip the scales toward the right decision. “Clerk of the Court” said the sign over the door that lead to the office where I was looking for Vera. An older woman with her eyes and hands busy with a stack of papers looked up as I entered the room. “Are you Vera?” I asked. She nodded an affirmative gesture and her eyebrows raised but didn’t speak. “I was told that you might know why Lady Justice down in the foyer has three bullet holes in her,” I said. “What makes you think I know anything about that?” she said almost expressionless and returning her attention to her paper work. I wanted to say that the young lady in the tight sweater downstairs said that she was the oldest hen in the house and if anyone knew something it would be her, but I didn’t. I said, “The lady downstairs said that you had worked here the longest and you might know more than she did.” Vera looked up at me and asked in a cold impersonal voice, “Why do you want to know?” I was caught off guard by her question and my mind went back to many years ago.
As a small boy I sat in the window seal of my grandmother’s kitchen and asked her a thousand “Why” questions. Years later, as I returned to visit my grandmother she would tell me the story over again how I was the little boy so full of questions. Here I was like that little boy again, I didn’t have a real reason, I just wanted to know. “I guess you might say it is just curiosity,” I said. “Curiosity killed the cat,” replied Vera. I smiled and said, “I’m not a cat.” Her countenance softened and she invited me to sit down. What had started out as a stern expression that said, “Don’t bother me; I’m busy and I have important things to do,” melted into a warm friendly expression of, “Okay.”
It all happened in 1957, Vera began. I won’t give you their names because who they were isn’t the important part of the story. He was eighteen and she was seventeen and ten months old when it all started. No, not when it started but when they appeared before what you call Lady Justice. They had just graduated from high school. He was leaving for college in the fall and she was working at the J.C.Penny store in town. They planned to marry as soon as he graduated. He was accused of statutory rape. The charges were brought before this court by her father. She was in love and refused to testify against the only guy she had ever seriously cared about. They had dated all through high school and it was only by accident that the depth of their relationship was discovered. I think I understood what Vera meant when she used the term depth of their relationship. I had heard sex described in many ways but this one was a new one on me.
Her father was furious and placed all the blame for the violation of his daughter on the young man. The young man didn’t hire an attorney and one was appointed by the court. The day of his trial arrived and he took the witness chair, raised one hand to the square and placed the other on the bible and swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. He testified that they were both minors when their relationship first deepened and that he was guilty of such activity with her after his eighteenth birthday. When asked questions about the young woman’s participation and willingness in the activity, he declined to comment. He never spoke a word that would shed a negative light on her regardless of the humiliation and embarrassment they both were being exposed to in open court.
He was sentenced to five years in the state penitentiary and was removed from the courtroom in handcuffs. Before exiting the courtroom the judge asked if he had anything to say. He turned and faced his accuser, the father of the only girl he had ever loved, and said, “I’m so sorry. I would have gladly accepted a sentence twice as long if it would have saved your family this embarrassment. I will always love your daughter. I hope that someday your family will be able to heal from my selfish acts.” From that moment on he looked straight ahead and left the courtroom without uttering another word. The following morning he was transported to the Wyoming State Penitentiary where he began serving his sentence.
Early the next day three shots broke the still morning air over the town. When business as usual began at the courthouse, a note was found beneath a rock on the front step. It said, “I shot her three times, I hope I killed her.” No one understood the note. They thought it was a prank or someone confessing to a murder that would soon be discovered. Then a second note appeared one week later. It said, “Justice is indeed blind in this town. Look up you fools. I shot her in the neck as a symbol that her head and her heart weren’t connected in last week’s court decision. I shot her in her breast as a symbol that the beauty of justice was destroyed last week. I shot her in the appropriate spot, not in an attempt to violate her, but in hopes that she will never again reproduce the kind of justice that was delivered on a young man last week. If you find me, don’t expect me to do as he did, to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I will lie, I will deceive, I will hire the best attorney my money can afford and I will beat your system that you call justice. I want your bronze statue, Lady Justice to stand as a witness of the two lives that were destroyed last week by an insensitive father and an insensitive justice system.”
The court tried to keep the notes that were found on the steps secret but eventually the public became aware of what had happened to the bronze statue and why. The unknown shooter became a local hero of sorts. He was talked about in the restaurants and bars around town and members of the community expressed the sentiment that they hoped he was never caught. An all-out effort to find the shooter and bring him to justice was mounted. The angles of firing line were studied and eventually the hillside knoll was discovered where the shots had been fired. Three empty 30-30 rifle cartridges were still lying on the ground. Next to the brass cartridges were two small white crosses, each had a ribbon and bow attached to it, one pink and one blue.
Vera rose from her chair signaling that our visit was over. As I stood to leave, she came around her desk and gave me a hug. With a smile that could have melted my heart she said, “Thanks for asking.” As I turned to leave she said, “What’s your name?” “Why do you want to know?” I asked. “Remember, curiosity killed the cat.” “But you aren’t cat,” she said. “You are the only person I have ever told my story. I was that seventeen year old girl.” I stepped back toward her and we held one another once more, this time with more understanding. I felt her body trembling against my chest. She was struggling to hold back tears the way some people do when they feel like if they let one tear fall, a floodgate will open and they will not be able to stop. I said goodbye and stepped through the door and out of her life.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Do I Know You?
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
A phone call I received at 12:14 pm . . .
Phone ringing . . . (Me speaking) This is Jerry.
(Caller speaking) Who is this? (Me) Jerry Grubbs. Who were you looking for?
(Caller) I dialed 910-8986. (Me) No, you dialed 910-8989. You misdialed.
(Caller) I dialed 910-8986 so why did you answer the phone? (Me) You didn’t dial 910-8986, you dialed 910-8989. You need to hang up and redial the number you were trying to dial.
(Caller) Who are you? (Me) I’m Jerry Grubbs.
(Caller) Do I know you? (Me) No, I’m the guy you called by mistake.
(Caller) Are you a directory assistance person? (Me) No, I’m just the person you called when you misdialed.
(Caller) If you aren’t a directory assistance person, how do you know what number I should dial? (Me) You told me the number you were trying to dial when you misdialed and called me instead.
(Caller) Should I try to dial the other number 272-6781? (Me) I don’t know who you are trying to call. You just need to hang up and redial the original number 910-8986.
(Caller) Who is at that number? (Me) I don’t know, you were the one who told me that number.
(Caller) Should I try to call the other number? (Me) Which number?
(Caller) 272-6781. (Me) Just hang up and redial the same number you were trying to dial when you called me.
(Caller) Whose number is that? (Me) I don’t know whose number that is. You are the one who gave me that number.
(Caller) What number? (Me) Look, you just need to hang up and dial your same number 910-8986 again.
(Caller) I already dialed that number and you answered. (Me) No, you dialed 910-8989 which is my number not the number you were trying to dial.
(Caller) Are you a directory assistance person? No, I am Jerry Grubbs, the person you called by mistake.
(Caller) Who did you say you were? (Me) I’m Jerry Grubbs.
(Caller) How did you get my number? (Me) I didn’t get your number, you called me. Who are you trying to call?
(Caller) Loa. (Me) Who is Loa?
(Caller) My wife. (Me) Would you like for me to call your wife and have her give you a call?
(Caller) Do you think I should call her? (Me) No, I asked you if you would like for me to give Loa a call?
(Caller) Do you know her number? (Me) Yes, I have your wife’s number.
(Caller) Where did you get my wife’s number? (Me) From you.
(Caller) I didn’t give you Loa’s number. (Me) Would you like for me to call her and have her call you back?
(Caller) Okay.
Phone call I made at 12:21 pm . . .
Dailing 910-8986 . . . ringing . . . (Recorded Voice) I can not come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I will return your call.
(Me) Loa, this is Jerry Grubbs. You don’t know me but I have been speaking with your husband and I think you should give him a call. He seems to be confused about a few things. You are welcome to call me but please give your husband a call. I repeat, he just seems confused but I didn’t get the feeling that he was having an emergency.
Phone call I received at 12:38 pm . . .
Phone ringing.
(Me) This is Jerry. (Loa) Hello, Mister Jerry. This is Loa Clawson the person you called earlier.
(Me) I’m not a mister, I’m just Jerry. Loa, did you get my message? (Loa) Yes, and I am so sorry that my number is close to your number. My husband has Alzheimers and he has been very confused today.
(Me) Loa, please don’t apologize, that is the beauty of the telephone. If I hadn’t wanted to help I could have just hung up. What you are facing is much more challenging than a misdialed phone number. I wish you the best in your life’s struggles and challenges. (Loa) Thank you Jerry for being kind to my husband.
(Me) Loa, how would you have treated my mother in a similar situation? (Loa) With kindness.
(Me) Then we are even aren’t we. (Loa) Does your mother have Alzheimers?
(Me) Loa, that isn’t the point. The point is that you would have treated her with kindness. (Loa) But you didn’t know that when my husband called you.
(Me) I treated your husband the way I chose to see him. (Loa) I hope you never get this awful disease.
(Me) Me too. (Loa) Goodbye Jerry and thank you again.
(Me) Goodbye Loa.
Phone call at 1:49 pm . . .
(Me) This is Jerry. (Dad) Hello son. Where are you?
(Me) It is good to hear your voice dad. I’m glad you still know who I am. (Dad) What did you say?
(Me) Nothing.
A phone call I received at 12:14 pm . . .
Phone ringing . . . (Me speaking) This is Jerry.
(Caller speaking) Who is this? (Me) Jerry Grubbs. Who were you looking for?
(Caller) I dialed 910-8986. (Me) No, you dialed 910-8989. You misdialed.
(Caller) I dialed 910-8986 so why did you answer the phone? (Me) You didn’t dial 910-8986, you dialed 910-8989. You need to hang up and redial the number you were trying to dial.
(Caller) Who are you? (Me) I’m Jerry Grubbs.
(Caller) Do I know you? (Me) No, I’m the guy you called by mistake.
(Caller) Are you a directory assistance person? (Me) No, I’m just the person you called when you misdialed.
(Caller) If you aren’t a directory assistance person, how do you know what number I should dial? (Me) You told me the number you were trying to dial when you misdialed and called me instead.
(Caller) Should I try to dial the other number 272-6781? (Me) I don’t know who you are trying to call. You just need to hang up and redial the original number 910-8986.
(Caller) Who is at that number? (Me) I don’t know, you were the one who told me that number.
(Caller) Should I try to call the other number? (Me) Which number?
(Caller) 272-6781. (Me) Just hang up and redial the same number you were trying to dial when you called me.
(Caller) Whose number is that? (Me) I don’t know whose number that is. You are the one who gave me that number.
(Caller) What number? (Me) Look, you just need to hang up and dial your same number 910-8986 again.
(Caller) I already dialed that number and you answered. (Me) No, you dialed 910-8989 which is my number not the number you were trying to dial.
(Caller) Are you a directory assistance person? No, I am Jerry Grubbs, the person you called by mistake.
(Caller) Who did you say you were? (Me) I’m Jerry Grubbs.
(Caller) How did you get my number? (Me) I didn’t get your number, you called me. Who are you trying to call?
(Caller) Loa. (Me) Who is Loa?
(Caller) My wife. (Me) Would you like for me to call your wife and have her give you a call?
(Caller) Do you think I should call her? (Me) No, I asked you if you would like for me to give Loa a call?
(Caller) Do you know her number? (Me) Yes, I have your wife’s number.
(Caller) Where did you get my wife’s number? (Me) From you.
(Caller) I didn’t give you Loa’s number. (Me) Would you like for me to call her and have her call you back?
(Caller) Okay.
Phone call I made at 12:21 pm . . .
Dailing 910-8986 . . . ringing . . . (Recorded Voice) I can not come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I will return your call.
(Me) Loa, this is Jerry Grubbs. You don’t know me but I have been speaking with your husband and I think you should give him a call. He seems to be confused about a few things. You are welcome to call me but please give your husband a call. I repeat, he just seems confused but I didn’t get the feeling that he was having an emergency.
Phone call I received at 12:38 pm . . .
Phone ringing.
(Me) This is Jerry. (Loa) Hello, Mister Jerry. This is Loa Clawson the person you called earlier.
(Me) I’m not a mister, I’m just Jerry. Loa, did you get my message? (Loa) Yes, and I am so sorry that my number is close to your number. My husband has Alzheimers and he has been very confused today.
(Me) Loa, please don’t apologize, that is the beauty of the telephone. If I hadn’t wanted to help I could have just hung up. What you are facing is much more challenging than a misdialed phone number. I wish you the best in your life’s struggles and challenges. (Loa) Thank you Jerry for being kind to my husband.
(Me) Loa, how would you have treated my mother in a similar situation? (Loa) With kindness.
(Me) Then we are even aren’t we. (Loa) Does your mother have Alzheimers?
(Me) Loa, that isn’t the point. The point is that you would have treated her with kindness. (Loa) But you didn’t know that when my husband called you.
(Me) I treated your husband the way I chose to see him. (Loa) I hope you never get this awful disease.
(Me) Me too. (Loa) Goodbye Jerry and thank you again.
(Me) Goodbye Loa.
Phone call at 1:49 pm . . .
(Me) This is Jerry. (Dad) Hello son. Where are you?
(Me) It is good to hear your voice dad. I’m glad you still know who I am. (Dad) What did you say?
(Me) Nothing.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Color It Green
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
From the title of this article you might surmise that I am referring to the color of the lawn, the color of money, or even the color of my old ’65 Volkswagen. Could it be about the lawn that isn’t green enough to suit my wife? Could it be about a friend who didn’t know the definition of what’s enough green when it came to the subject of money? Or maybe it will be about one of my adventures in the green Volkswagen bug that I purchased while I was in college. But today the subject of the color green isn’t about lawns, money or automobiles. It’s about the beauties of nature. If you haven’t taken a drive into the mountains to enjoy the changing of the season as evidenced by the colorful fall leaves you have missed a treat. And for those of you who live in Utah it may already be too late to see the flaming burnt orange colors which are the first to wither and fall to the ground.
I took a journey all along our mountain range this week to enjoy these pleasing-to-the-eye sights. In the past I have shared such experiences with some of you and on occasion I have gone all alone. This fall part of the trip wasn’t alone. My hiking partner was dubious in the beginning. We met at the parking lot where the asphalt narrowed to two lanes. She assumed we would be taking a leisurely ride. “Would you like to take a hike?” I asked. “Sure,” she said, with a little hesitancy in her voice. I pulled my hiking boots from my overnight bag, slipped them on and began to lace them up. “You’re serious aren’t you,” she said. “Yep,” I replied. Looking down and seeing that she was only wearing sandals, I said, “Did you bring hiking boots?” “No but I’ll be just fine,” she replied.
I slid a water bottle into my back pocket and we locked our cars and headed up the trail. Actually there was no trail. We were cutting our way towards a bluff overlooking the valley that we knew would give us a fantastic view of the world below. This wasn’t virgin land we were hiking in or in other words, others had been here before us. Once in a while we would come across a beer can carelessly tossed on the ground. Leaving this land a better place than we found it was one of our goals so I stomped the cans flat and we carried them along with us. We even found a plastic sign advertising a Cadillac dealership. “Do you know how this got here?” I asked. “No,” she replied. “By helium filled balloons,” I said as I pointed out the frayed remains of four balloons tied to blue ribbons and attached to the plastic sign. I wondered if anyone had stumbled onto one of my messages attached to helium balloons and thought of it as just litter. Hopefully the unsuspecting hiker who one day stumbled on my writings would find them more interesting than a sign advertising a Cadillac car.
As we climbed higher and higher the vistas became breathtaking. As I had done many times before I began to appreciate the color green. Can you imagine how tired you would get if all the green trees and grass were suddenly changed to pink or orange or yellow. True, each of these colors can take your breath away but a steady summer diet of them would soon grow tiresome. The contrast between the colors is what makes it such a beautiful sight; green as the base with the rainbow of fall colors sprinkled across the mountainside.
“Did you bring a camera?” she asked. “Yes,” I said, “the camera with the lens called my eye.” My internal camera has stored not only the beauty of nature in the fall but also the people that I have had the pleasure to share these experiences with. Some bends in the winding curves of these narrow two-lane roads that weave up through the high-mountain valleys actually bring back memories of people I have shared these sight-seeing trips with in the past. I even remember some of the conversations we shared as we inhaled the bursting colors of fall on our vision through the front windshield. I suppose that half the pleasure of the journey is the company that we invite along for the ride.
But today we were on foot. The going was steep and deeply forested. I had been here before but she hadn’t. She exhibited an unspoken level of trust in me that wasn’t deserved. Just because I had hiked this mountain before didn’t mean that I was capable of overcoming any obstacle or unforeseen emergency. Suddenly there was a crashing sound in the trees near us. “What was that?” she asked, with a worried voice. “It was an elk or moose but don’t worry, it was moving downhill away from us,” I said. “How do you know it wasn’t a mountain lion?” she asked. “If it was a mountain lion, you would have never heard it,” I replied. Suddenly it was important for her to know if I had my gun with me.
As we hiked we talked of family, friends, and the events that crowd our lives and yet, from time to time the conversation would stop abruptly and our breath would once more be taken away as we examined the results of nature’s paint brush. As we reached the summit, we stood upon what seemed to be the top of the world. As far as we could see in all directions laid the handiwork of something larger than all of us combined. These vistas were here long before the Indians inhabited these lands. The view from this summit was here before early fur trappers, pioneers, and later settlers came to claim the land as their own. Whether privately owned, state controlled or federally claimed, today, this moment in time, this land belonged to us. At least the view that my camera lens absorbed and recorded in my memory would always be mine. Just like the memories of previous trips that rest comfortably tucked away but not hidden too deep. Not too deep because I can roll them out and examine those memories as I would a parchment or scroll and retrace the details of my past.
Heading back down the mountain I felt light on my feet. I had been fed by nature’s honey. Suddenly my hiking partner exclaimed, “The seat of my pants has a tare in it. Did you know that all along?” she asked. “No, I hadn’t noticed,” I said. “I’ve been looking up most of the time.” We laughed, we talked, we shared experiences that we thought one another would enjoy hearing about. But something down deep inside of us brought a calm stillness that can only be explained by someone who had seen what we had seen on top of that summit. I wish you had been there with us so that my memory would have included you. Selfish of me, isn’t it. But I only wanted you to see what I saw, experience what I felt, taste nature’s honey with me. Color it green; color it the rainbow of autumn leaves as they turn as bright as a new blushing bride. Whether it is blue sky, white clouds and green trees or the pinks, yellows and reds of fall, it is all brighter when shared with the ones we love. Isn’t that what love is?
From the title of this article you might surmise that I am referring to the color of the lawn, the color of money, or even the color of my old ’65 Volkswagen. Could it be about the lawn that isn’t green enough to suit my wife? Could it be about a friend who didn’t know the definition of what’s enough green when it came to the subject of money? Or maybe it will be about one of my adventures in the green Volkswagen bug that I purchased while I was in college. But today the subject of the color green isn’t about lawns, money or automobiles. It’s about the beauties of nature. If you haven’t taken a drive into the mountains to enjoy the changing of the season as evidenced by the colorful fall leaves you have missed a treat. And for those of you who live in Utah it may already be too late to see the flaming burnt orange colors which are the first to wither and fall to the ground.
I took a journey all along our mountain range this week to enjoy these pleasing-to-the-eye sights. In the past I have shared such experiences with some of you and on occasion I have gone all alone. This fall part of the trip wasn’t alone. My hiking partner was dubious in the beginning. We met at the parking lot where the asphalt narrowed to two lanes. She assumed we would be taking a leisurely ride. “Would you like to take a hike?” I asked. “Sure,” she said, with a little hesitancy in her voice. I pulled my hiking boots from my overnight bag, slipped them on and began to lace them up. “You’re serious aren’t you,” she said. “Yep,” I replied. Looking down and seeing that she was only wearing sandals, I said, “Did you bring hiking boots?” “No but I’ll be just fine,” she replied.
I slid a water bottle into my back pocket and we locked our cars and headed up the trail. Actually there was no trail. We were cutting our way towards a bluff overlooking the valley that we knew would give us a fantastic view of the world below. This wasn’t virgin land we were hiking in or in other words, others had been here before us. Once in a while we would come across a beer can carelessly tossed on the ground. Leaving this land a better place than we found it was one of our goals so I stomped the cans flat and we carried them along with us. We even found a plastic sign advertising a Cadillac dealership. “Do you know how this got here?” I asked. “No,” she replied. “By helium filled balloons,” I said as I pointed out the frayed remains of four balloons tied to blue ribbons and attached to the plastic sign. I wondered if anyone had stumbled onto one of my messages attached to helium balloons and thought of it as just litter. Hopefully the unsuspecting hiker who one day stumbled on my writings would find them more interesting than a sign advertising a Cadillac car.
As we climbed higher and higher the vistas became breathtaking. As I had done many times before I began to appreciate the color green. Can you imagine how tired you would get if all the green trees and grass were suddenly changed to pink or orange or yellow. True, each of these colors can take your breath away but a steady summer diet of them would soon grow tiresome. The contrast between the colors is what makes it such a beautiful sight; green as the base with the rainbow of fall colors sprinkled across the mountainside.
“Did you bring a camera?” she asked. “Yes,” I said, “the camera with the lens called my eye.” My internal camera has stored not only the beauty of nature in the fall but also the people that I have had the pleasure to share these experiences with. Some bends in the winding curves of these narrow two-lane roads that weave up through the high-mountain valleys actually bring back memories of people I have shared these sight-seeing trips with in the past. I even remember some of the conversations we shared as we inhaled the bursting colors of fall on our vision through the front windshield. I suppose that half the pleasure of the journey is the company that we invite along for the ride.
But today we were on foot. The going was steep and deeply forested. I had been here before but she hadn’t. She exhibited an unspoken level of trust in me that wasn’t deserved. Just because I had hiked this mountain before didn’t mean that I was capable of overcoming any obstacle or unforeseen emergency. Suddenly there was a crashing sound in the trees near us. “What was that?” she asked, with a worried voice. “It was an elk or moose but don’t worry, it was moving downhill away from us,” I said. “How do you know it wasn’t a mountain lion?” she asked. “If it was a mountain lion, you would have never heard it,” I replied. Suddenly it was important for her to know if I had my gun with me.
As we hiked we talked of family, friends, and the events that crowd our lives and yet, from time to time the conversation would stop abruptly and our breath would once more be taken away as we examined the results of nature’s paint brush. As we reached the summit, we stood upon what seemed to be the top of the world. As far as we could see in all directions laid the handiwork of something larger than all of us combined. These vistas were here long before the Indians inhabited these lands. The view from this summit was here before early fur trappers, pioneers, and later settlers came to claim the land as their own. Whether privately owned, state controlled or federally claimed, today, this moment in time, this land belonged to us. At least the view that my camera lens absorbed and recorded in my memory would always be mine. Just like the memories of previous trips that rest comfortably tucked away but not hidden too deep. Not too deep because I can roll them out and examine those memories as I would a parchment or scroll and retrace the details of my past.
Heading back down the mountain I felt light on my feet. I had been fed by nature’s honey. Suddenly my hiking partner exclaimed, “The seat of my pants has a tare in it. Did you know that all along?” she asked. “No, I hadn’t noticed,” I said. “I’ve been looking up most of the time.” We laughed, we talked, we shared experiences that we thought one another would enjoy hearing about. But something down deep inside of us brought a calm stillness that can only be explained by someone who had seen what we had seen on top of that summit. I wish you had been there with us so that my memory would have included you. Selfish of me, isn’t it. But I only wanted you to see what I saw, experience what I felt, taste nature’s honey with me. Color it green; color it the rainbow of autumn leaves as they turn as bright as a new blushing bride. Whether it is blue sky, white clouds and green trees or the pinks, yellows and reds of fall, it is all brighter when shared with the ones we love. Isn’t that what love is?
Sunday, September 23, 2007
All But One
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
My occupation involves discouraging migratory waterfowl from landing on toxic water. These migratory birds fly at twelve to fifteen thousand feet. They travel from as far as the North West Territories of Canada to Mexico where they spend the winter months. Then as the ice comes off the northern waters, they take flight and head back to those fresh, clear, fish filled lakes where they were born. As the birds grow weary from flight during the migration they begin to descend in altitude to look for a place to rest, drink and feed in order to restore their energy. Today I counted forty-seven Canada geese as they approached a pond that I was doing service work on. Or rather, the radar counted forty-seven targets. The radar picked them up long before I could see them. As the flock grew closer I went outside the radar trailer and watched as they circled into the wind to land.
The strobe lights flashed, the loud speakers squawked, and the manikin falcons flapped their wings just like the hazing system is designed to do. Although the geese had set their wings in preparation for landing, when the system activated, those energy-depleted birds aborted their landing and with much exertion changed their plans and flew on. Laboring to gain altitude, the geese gradually established formation and continued north-bound. They don’t fly in a “V” formation just because it looks good or the lead bird is the only one who knows the way home. The lead position is rotated and each member of the flock gets a chance or responsibility to fly at the point of the “V”. They rotate because the lead bird does a third more work than the others. Each bird trailing just behind and off to the side of the bird ahead receives what is called “free lift” from the downward thrust of the wings of the bird directly in front of it.
Watching the geese was like watching a graceful dance in the sky. If I believed in reincarnation, I would want one of my return trips to earth to be as a bird. The peaceful witnessing their flight was shattered by one lone goose that was struggling to form up with the rest of the flock. One bird was too exhausted to continue on. It aborted its initial landing and labored to join the others but it never gained more than a few feet of altitude off the water. As the goose approached the far end of the pond it gave up and landed in the toxic water. If it was too weak to continue on with the flock, it would never leave that poison water without help.
I abandoned my work, slipped on my life jacket and took Uncle Buck down to the water’s edge. Uncle Buck is the name I call my work boat. For the next two hours I chased that goose around the pond. I didn’t have a net with me to scoop it up so I had to get close enough to grab it with my hands. I knew that chasing the bird would only add to its exhaustion and lessen its chance of survival. I also knew that without help it had no chance of staying alive.
Eventually I was successful in getting the goose into the boat. It didn’t want to be there so I had to hold it down on the floor with one hand while I tried to steer the boat with the other. Once I got to shore I took the goose up to the maintenance shop and washed its feathers in warm soapy water. Soap strips the oil from the feathers and leaves a bird vulnerable but soap must be used to remove the harsh chemicals from the bird’s body.
The environmental officer at the coal fired electrical power plant where I was working said, “I hope you don’t plan to charge us for the half a day you wasted getting that bird out of the pond? We’re allowed a certain number of bird mortalities with your BirdAvert system in place you know.” “I’ve decided to charge the bird,” I said. Ignoring my response, he said, “The system saved all but one and that’s good enough for us,” I suppose you are right unless you are the one left behind,” I said. “It’s just a duck,” he snapped.
There has been someone there to help me when I was tired and hungry and couldn’t seem to find the energy to go on. I’m glad that that someone didn’t shrug their shoulders and say, “He’s just a duck,” or say, “I would stop and help but there is no way he could ever repay me.” The goose didn’t leave a forwarding address so it will be difficult to find where to send the bill for getting him out of the pond. It doesn’t matter. I was paid in full when, after a couple of hours of drying, I took the goose out of the makeshift cage and watched it fly up, circle to obtain its bearings and head north, hopefully to catch up with the other forty-six birds.
Catching up will be difficult because this straggler goose will have no bird ahead of it providing additional lift like we talked about. It will be as though it is flying lead position in the “V” for the entire journey until it catches up with the flock. Catching up isn’t likely. It has a better chance of forming up with another flock. Before you get too teary eyed thinking about the fact that geese mate for life, remember two things: first, if that goose had a mate in the flock it would have circled back, landed and remained with it’s partner until it was ready to move on or died, and second, the key word is mate “for life,” or “until death do you part.” Sound familiar?
My occupation involves discouraging migratory waterfowl from landing on toxic water. These migratory birds fly at twelve to fifteen thousand feet. They travel from as far as the North West Territories of Canada to Mexico where they spend the winter months. Then as the ice comes off the northern waters, they take flight and head back to those fresh, clear, fish filled lakes where they were born. As the birds grow weary from flight during the migration they begin to descend in altitude to look for a place to rest, drink and feed in order to restore their energy. Today I counted forty-seven Canada geese as they approached a pond that I was doing service work on. Or rather, the radar counted forty-seven targets. The radar picked them up long before I could see them. As the flock grew closer I went outside the radar trailer and watched as they circled into the wind to land.
The strobe lights flashed, the loud speakers squawked, and the manikin falcons flapped their wings just like the hazing system is designed to do. Although the geese had set their wings in preparation for landing, when the system activated, those energy-depleted birds aborted their landing and with much exertion changed their plans and flew on. Laboring to gain altitude, the geese gradually established formation and continued north-bound. They don’t fly in a “V” formation just because it looks good or the lead bird is the only one who knows the way home. The lead position is rotated and each member of the flock gets a chance or responsibility to fly at the point of the “V”. They rotate because the lead bird does a third more work than the others. Each bird trailing just behind and off to the side of the bird ahead receives what is called “free lift” from the downward thrust of the wings of the bird directly in front of it.
Watching the geese was like watching a graceful dance in the sky. If I believed in reincarnation, I would want one of my return trips to earth to be as a bird. The peaceful witnessing their flight was shattered by one lone goose that was struggling to form up with the rest of the flock. One bird was too exhausted to continue on. It aborted its initial landing and labored to join the others but it never gained more than a few feet of altitude off the water. As the goose approached the far end of the pond it gave up and landed in the toxic water. If it was too weak to continue on with the flock, it would never leave that poison water without help.
I abandoned my work, slipped on my life jacket and took Uncle Buck down to the water’s edge. Uncle Buck is the name I call my work boat. For the next two hours I chased that goose around the pond. I didn’t have a net with me to scoop it up so I had to get close enough to grab it with my hands. I knew that chasing the bird would only add to its exhaustion and lessen its chance of survival. I also knew that without help it had no chance of staying alive.
Eventually I was successful in getting the goose into the boat. It didn’t want to be there so I had to hold it down on the floor with one hand while I tried to steer the boat with the other. Once I got to shore I took the goose up to the maintenance shop and washed its feathers in warm soapy water. Soap strips the oil from the feathers and leaves a bird vulnerable but soap must be used to remove the harsh chemicals from the bird’s body.
The environmental officer at the coal fired electrical power plant where I was working said, “I hope you don’t plan to charge us for the half a day you wasted getting that bird out of the pond? We’re allowed a certain number of bird mortalities with your BirdAvert system in place you know.” “I’ve decided to charge the bird,” I said. Ignoring my response, he said, “The system saved all but one and that’s good enough for us,” I suppose you are right unless you are the one left behind,” I said. “It’s just a duck,” he snapped.
There has been someone there to help me when I was tired and hungry and couldn’t seem to find the energy to go on. I’m glad that that someone didn’t shrug their shoulders and say, “He’s just a duck,” or say, “I would stop and help but there is no way he could ever repay me.” The goose didn’t leave a forwarding address so it will be difficult to find where to send the bill for getting him out of the pond. It doesn’t matter. I was paid in full when, after a couple of hours of drying, I took the goose out of the makeshift cage and watched it fly up, circle to obtain its bearings and head north, hopefully to catch up with the other forty-six birds.
Catching up will be difficult because this straggler goose will have no bird ahead of it providing additional lift like we talked about. It will be as though it is flying lead position in the “V” for the entire journey until it catches up with the flock. Catching up isn’t likely. It has a better chance of forming up with another flock. Before you get too teary eyed thinking about the fact that geese mate for life, remember two things: first, if that goose had a mate in the flock it would have circled back, landed and remained with it’s partner until it was ready to move on or died, and second, the key word is mate “for life,” or “until death do you part.” Sound familiar?
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Lacquer & Chrome
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Harold was excited to tell me about the twenty-two coats of lacquer over the jet black paint on his vintage Harley motorcycle. The deep shine of the paint reflected my image as clearly as the polished chrome that trimmed out this beautiful road machine. When I looked at Harold a little closer, I wondered why he took so much pride in his motorcycle yet took so little pride in his personal appearance.
On the knuckles of his right hand were the letters H.A.T.E. etched from a home-made tattoo. On his left knuckles were the letters L.O.V.E. printed in the same fashion. On his right arm was a tattoo of the American flag and on his left arm was a swastika of the German Reich. When I asked the significance of his tattoos he said, “I love America and I hate Nazis.” “Who are the Nazis in your life?” I asked. “Anyone who doesn’t accept me just the way I am,” answered Harold.
I was about to make a comment about Harold’s statement when his biker partner emerged from the convenience store. She had a carton of cigarettes and a six-pack of Budweiser beer. It was actually Bud Light. I don’t know the difference between Bud and Bud Light but if it has anything to do with calories, she should have made a different choice of beer. She needed all the calories she could get. This hardened biker looked like dried up leather. So that’s what years of riding in the wind and sun does to the skin. Ignoring me, she said in a harsh voice, “Scoot back Harold.” Without a word, Harold slid to the back of the bike seat while Brenda climbed aboard. I assumed her name was Brenda or she was wearing Brenda’s sleeveless leather vest because that was the name stitched across the back in red letters. So much for those images of halter tops pressed against tight firm skin as Harley motorcycles race down the highways of America. You know what I mean.
I was reminded of the time back in June when I helped my son Trevor move his family to Kentucky. I was driving the largest Penski haul-your-own-furniture rental truck that is available. It was about 10:00 in the morning and there was still chill in the air. My mind was on cruise control. I was eating my cashew nuts one at a time making sure that the can would last the entire journey. A familiar sound began to gradually bring me back to the present. It was that deep throaty rumble of a Harley pulling along side of me in the truck. As I looked down it wasn’t just one Harley but two passing by me. I took a double look because those two bikes were being ridden by young women. They both looked up at me at the same time and smiled just like the scene had been choreographed.
The bikes were black and polished to perfection. There were leather tassels attached to the ends of the raised handlebars whipping in the wind. The women’s hair was cut short and flowing back behind their heads like soft moss in a swift moving stream. The lady on the motorcycle closest to me was wearing a thin white halter top and the wind pressed the material tight enough against her body to reveal no other clothing beneath. She was traveling very light and I’m not just referring to her clothing. All she had for luggage strapped to her motorcycle was a rolled up sleeping bag.
The lady on the other bike wore a pair of cutoff blue jeans and a white tee shirt rolled up to reveal her midriff. There had to be goose bumps the size of grapes on her exposed skin from the chilly air but I couldn’t see them. She had a small backpack bungeed to the backrest of her motorcycle seat. As they moved past me I was puzzled by how skimpy they were traveling. Between the two of them they had one sleeping bag and one small backpack. They wore no helmets and no protective leather chaps in the event of a mishap. Traveling at seventy miles an hour I shuttered to think what would be their fate in an accidental slide on the asphalt.
As the two female motorcyclists moved out past me, I was thankful that they weren’t two of my loved ones out on the highways of America traveling all alone, smiling up at truck drivers as they passed. What would posses two women to wear so little, travel so fast and unprepared in the chill of the morning air? I have this old saying, “If it doesn’t make sense it’s because you don’t have all the facts.”
Before I could slide too deeply in thought along came two men on black Harleys. They were overloaded with gear; backpacks, sleeping bags, and spare helmets. Suddenly I realized that these two men who were completely covered in protective gear against the morning chill were the backup team of the ladies who just passed a few minutes earlier. The two ladies riding out front didn’t resemble Brenda but they weren’t old enough to have been biking for thirty years. Brenda probably once wore halter tops as she cruised the highways of America. Back then she was most likely riding her own bike out ahead of old Harold or some other casual partner while he hauled all the personal gear.
If those guys tagging along behind their women, carrying all the gear could see old Harold today and hear Brenda say, “Slide back Harold,” they may just take a slight detour and end up some where far far away from Millie and Mollie Motorcycle. Now those aren’t their real names. I don’t know their names, but Harold and Brenda have helped me see those young women’s wind blown, sun dried future if they continue to spend their days cruising the highways of America.
I paused to reflect on what highways I am traveling and where I will end up if I stay on the same course in life. Will I end up one day with my own version of twenty-two coats of lacquer and polished chrome as my most prized possession?
Epilogue:
Remember the old saying, “If it doesn’t make sense, you don’t have all the facts.” There is probably more to the Harold and Brenda story. Traveling along I-84 in the wide open spaces of Wyoming last year a Harley passed me with two riders. The man casually looked over and nodded as he passed. His companion also looked over, smiled and slid down the strap of her halter top and shared with me her endowment. I doubt her partner had a clue what had just taken place. Maybe that’s why Harold was riding on the back; to keep an eye on Brenda.
Harold was excited to tell me about the twenty-two coats of lacquer over the jet black paint on his vintage Harley motorcycle. The deep shine of the paint reflected my image as clearly as the polished chrome that trimmed out this beautiful road machine. When I looked at Harold a little closer, I wondered why he took so much pride in his motorcycle yet took so little pride in his personal appearance.
On the knuckles of his right hand were the letters H.A.T.E. etched from a home-made tattoo. On his left knuckles were the letters L.O.V.E. printed in the same fashion. On his right arm was a tattoo of the American flag and on his left arm was a swastika of the German Reich. When I asked the significance of his tattoos he said, “I love America and I hate Nazis.” “Who are the Nazis in your life?” I asked. “Anyone who doesn’t accept me just the way I am,” answered Harold.
I was about to make a comment about Harold’s statement when his biker partner emerged from the convenience store. She had a carton of cigarettes and a six-pack of Budweiser beer. It was actually Bud Light. I don’t know the difference between Bud and Bud Light but if it has anything to do with calories, she should have made a different choice of beer. She needed all the calories she could get. This hardened biker looked like dried up leather. So that’s what years of riding in the wind and sun does to the skin. Ignoring me, she said in a harsh voice, “Scoot back Harold.” Without a word, Harold slid to the back of the bike seat while Brenda climbed aboard. I assumed her name was Brenda or she was wearing Brenda’s sleeveless leather vest because that was the name stitched across the back in red letters. So much for those images of halter tops pressed against tight firm skin as Harley motorcycles race down the highways of America. You know what I mean.
I was reminded of the time back in June when I helped my son Trevor move his family to Kentucky. I was driving the largest Penski haul-your-own-furniture rental truck that is available. It was about 10:00 in the morning and there was still chill in the air. My mind was on cruise control. I was eating my cashew nuts one at a time making sure that the can would last the entire journey. A familiar sound began to gradually bring me back to the present. It was that deep throaty rumble of a Harley pulling along side of me in the truck. As I looked down it wasn’t just one Harley but two passing by me. I took a double look because those two bikes were being ridden by young women. They both looked up at me at the same time and smiled just like the scene had been choreographed.
The bikes were black and polished to perfection. There were leather tassels attached to the ends of the raised handlebars whipping in the wind. The women’s hair was cut short and flowing back behind their heads like soft moss in a swift moving stream. The lady on the motorcycle closest to me was wearing a thin white halter top and the wind pressed the material tight enough against her body to reveal no other clothing beneath. She was traveling very light and I’m not just referring to her clothing. All she had for luggage strapped to her motorcycle was a rolled up sleeping bag.
The lady on the other bike wore a pair of cutoff blue jeans and a white tee shirt rolled up to reveal her midriff. There had to be goose bumps the size of grapes on her exposed skin from the chilly air but I couldn’t see them. She had a small backpack bungeed to the backrest of her motorcycle seat. As they moved past me I was puzzled by how skimpy they were traveling. Between the two of them they had one sleeping bag and one small backpack. They wore no helmets and no protective leather chaps in the event of a mishap. Traveling at seventy miles an hour I shuttered to think what would be their fate in an accidental slide on the asphalt.
As the two female motorcyclists moved out past me, I was thankful that they weren’t two of my loved ones out on the highways of America traveling all alone, smiling up at truck drivers as they passed. What would posses two women to wear so little, travel so fast and unprepared in the chill of the morning air? I have this old saying, “If it doesn’t make sense it’s because you don’t have all the facts.”
Before I could slide too deeply in thought along came two men on black Harleys. They were overloaded with gear; backpacks, sleeping bags, and spare helmets. Suddenly I realized that these two men who were completely covered in protective gear against the morning chill were the backup team of the ladies who just passed a few minutes earlier. The two ladies riding out front didn’t resemble Brenda but they weren’t old enough to have been biking for thirty years. Brenda probably once wore halter tops as she cruised the highways of America. Back then she was most likely riding her own bike out ahead of old Harold or some other casual partner while he hauled all the personal gear.
If those guys tagging along behind their women, carrying all the gear could see old Harold today and hear Brenda say, “Slide back Harold,” they may just take a slight detour and end up some where far far away from Millie and Mollie Motorcycle. Now those aren’t their real names. I don’t know their names, but Harold and Brenda have helped me see those young women’s wind blown, sun dried future if they continue to spend their days cruising the highways of America.
I paused to reflect on what highways I am traveling and where I will end up if I stay on the same course in life. Will I end up one day with my own version of twenty-two coats of lacquer and polished chrome as my most prized possession?
Epilogue:
Remember the old saying, “If it doesn’t make sense, you don’t have all the facts.” There is probably more to the Harold and Brenda story. Traveling along I-84 in the wide open spaces of Wyoming last year a Harley passed me with two riders. The man casually looked over and nodded as he passed. His companion also looked over, smiled and slid down the strap of her halter top and shared with me her endowment. I doubt her partner had a clue what had just taken place. Maybe that’s why Harold was riding on the back; to keep an eye on Brenda.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Knowing What to Look For
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
We had been told that there were Indians in the region so upon entering this scarcely populated area of the Southwest, we pulled our mounts to the side of the trail, checked our ammunition, laced our holsters to our belts and continued our journey into the unknown. I call this region unknown only because I had never been here before. Have you ever gone somewhere and had the feeling that you had been there before? Well, this wasn't one of those times. I was moving into uncharted territory other than the fact that a friend had told me what to expect.
Based on those expectations I selected a five shot revolver as my sidearm just incase we ran into quarrelsome Indians. I usually carry a forty-caliber semi automatic hidden beneath a flapping shirttail but a revolver will fire under almost any condition as long as you keep your bullets dry. This world we were descending into was dusty and not an ideal place for a gun that would easily jam under such conditions; therefore, the revolver was my choice for this trip.
We began the last phase of our journey traveling on foot. The trail was steep and unforgiving to an errant step or stumble. Our mounts would have to stay tethered at the top of the canyon rim as we explored an area almost entirely forgotten by our busy world. After adjusting our backpacks and lacing our boots tight we questioned one another just to make sure that nothing of significance was being left behind. What more did I need besides a rope for safety, a camera to record our trip, a gun for protection and a good friend to share the experience? How about a little water, a headlamp in the event we were delayed beyond dark and a bulging pocket of cashew nuts for that burst of sustained energy to make the climb back out of the canyon? These items were all accounted for along with a lot of other things I won't take time to mention.
A message stenciled on the back of my brain said, "Leave only footprints and take nothing home except pictures as you visit these fragile areas of past civilizations." We weren't even leaving footprints to retrace our path as we hiked on the sandstone slickrock of southern Utah. Some geologists have referred to these slickrock formations as "wind blown and rain swept" but I think it has mostly been wind blown because there is little evidence of rain. Route finding was easy because little stacks of rocks called cairns were placed here and there to mark an otherwise invisible trail across the sandstone landscape leading down into the canyon.
My partner led the way and I lingered behind about ten feet eating cashew nuts and drinking cold orange juice as we proceeded down the trail. I might as well drink the orange juice while it is still cold. Besides, nourishment left in my pack can't give my body strength. If I'm going to carry it I might as well carry it where it will do the most good; in my stomach. Kaye, my wife and hiking partner just gave a disapproving expression when I explained my reasoning for starting my munching so early in the trip. She said nothing else and I assumed that she was following that old rule of hiking logic . . . don't criticize until it is too late for your partner to turn back. Sort of like marriage.
I was excited to finally be going to explore the Indian canyon-dwelling called Moonhouse. My only lingering mental frown was that all those I love and hold dear weren't here with me, talking, sharing, and just being together. But soon my thoughts focused on the steepness of the terrain below. I chose a crisscross method of descending the slope, cutting across the sandstone diagonally working my way down a little at a time. My partner chose the sit and slide method. She wore an expensive pair of hiking boots that were advertised as being able to cling even to moss covered granite yet she scooted her way down the slope on her backside. I passed her and came to a feature called a pour-off. That is where the rain water reaches a vertical drop and spills over the edge like a waterfall. I tied a nylon strap to a rock and dangled the end over the edge so Kaye would have something to hold onto as she negotiated the drop-off. The rest of the hike was filled with breathtaking vistas of a harsh canyon divided by a ribbon of green trees meandering along the bottom creek bank.
As we descended deeper into the canyon we were so focused on our footing and making sure that we remained on the correct path, we didn't see the Indian ruins in plain view built into the wall across the canyon from us. A feeling of slight embarrassment would grab our attention later when we climbed out of the canyon and realized that the Indian dwellings were right there in front of us all along. I was just amazed at how the dwellings blended into the landscape unless you knew what to look for. If those Indians had high powered rifles they could have picked us off like rabbits in a cage. If nothing else, they could certainly have seen us coming from a long way off.
But we continued our hike down to the canyon floor and up the other side until we came over a rise and there it was. Instantly we felt as though we were on hallowed ground. That feeling came over us even before we entered the first dwelling. Families had lived here. Children had been born in these rooms. Crops had been planted, grown and harvested in the canyon below and stored in granaries high in these crevices. Ceremonies had been preformed and burials took place as the struggle for life continued through the years. We had planned to spend an hour at the ruins but stayed four hours instead.
Ancient Indians didn't choose this place for the view or live here seeking an easy lifestyle. They most likely chose this secluded barren place for safety and peace. According to the archeologists these dwellings were constructed around 1200 A.D. and inhabited until about 1450 A.D. No one knows why they left or what happened to them. Assuming the findings of the archeologists to be correct, these people conducted the business of life for two hundred and fifty years here in this remote and unforgiving region. Like I mentioned earlier, they didn't choose this place just for the view. Why did they come here? Why did they build here? Why did they remain for two and a half centuries? Why did they eventually leave . . . leaving behind their pottery, their tools, their sleeping mats, and their history? The answers are blowing in the wind.
As we prepared to leave I pulled out my pistol and fired a five shot salute to the people of this land, a people I admire and reverence for their ability to survive in such a harsh environment. Not counting the echoes down the canyon, I was certain I heard a sixth shot. How could a five shot revolver deliver six shots? I turned and asked Kaye how many shots she heard. "I wasn't counting but I felt them all," she said, as we gathered our packs and prepared to leave this enchanted canyon where the past and the present collided. Maybe we weren't as alone as we thought. Climbing back out of the canyon we couldn't help but turn and look back across to the other side at the mud, stone and sand structures tucked under the overhangs. We were amazed that those structures hadn't been visible to our eyes as we hiked into the canyon. We just didn't know what to look for before. Maybe that is what life is about . . . knowing what to look for.
We had been told that there were Indians in the region so upon entering this scarcely populated area of the Southwest, we pulled our mounts to the side of the trail, checked our ammunition, laced our holsters to our belts and continued our journey into the unknown. I call this region unknown only because I had never been here before. Have you ever gone somewhere and had the feeling that you had been there before? Well, this wasn't one of those times. I was moving into uncharted territory other than the fact that a friend had told me what to expect.
Based on those expectations I selected a five shot revolver as my sidearm just incase we ran into quarrelsome Indians. I usually carry a forty-caliber semi automatic hidden beneath a flapping shirttail but a revolver will fire under almost any condition as long as you keep your bullets dry. This world we were descending into was dusty and not an ideal place for a gun that would easily jam under such conditions; therefore, the revolver was my choice for this trip.
We began the last phase of our journey traveling on foot. The trail was steep and unforgiving to an errant step or stumble. Our mounts would have to stay tethered at the top of the canyon rim as we explored an area almost entirely forgotten by our busy world. After adjusting our backpacks and lacing our boots tight we questioned one another just to make sure that nothing of significance was being left behind. What more did I need besides a rope for safety, a camera to record our trip, a gun for protection and a good friend to share the experience? How about a little water, a headlamp in the event we were delayed beyond dark and a bulging pocket of cashew nuts for that burst of sustained energy to make the climb back out of the canyon? These items were all accounted for along with a lot of other things I won't take time to mention.
A message stenciled on the back of my brain said, "Leave only footprints and take nothing home except pictures as you visit these fragile areas of past civilizations." We weren't even leaving footprints to retrace our path as we hiked on the sandstone slickrock of southern Utah. Some geologists have referred to these slickrock formations as "wind blown and rain swept" but I think it has mostly been wind blown because there is little evidence of rain. Route finding was easy because little stacks of rocks called cairns were placed here and there to mark an otherwise invisible trail across the sandstone landscape leading down into the canyon.
My partner led the way and I lingered behind about ten feet eating cashew nuts and drinking cold orange juice as we proceeded down the trail. I might as well drink the orange juice while it is still cold. Besides, nourishment left in my pack can't give my body strength. If I'm going to carry it I might as well carry it where it will do the most good; in my stomach. Kaye, my wife and hiking partner just gave a disapproving expression when I explained my reasoning for starting my munching so early in the trip. She said nothing else and I assumed that she was following that old rule of hiking logic . . . don't criticize until it is too late for your partner to turn back. Sort of like marriage.
I was excited to finally be going to explore the Indian canyon-dwelling called Moonhouse. My only lingering mental frown was that all those I love and hold dear weren't here with me, talking, sharing, and just being together. But soon my thoughts focused on the steepness of the terrain below. I chose a crisscross method of descending the slope, cutting across the sandstone diagonally working my way down a little at a time. My partner chose the sit and slide method. She wore an expensive pair of hiking boots that were advertised as being able to cling even to moss covered granite yet she scooted her way down the slope on her backside. I passed her and came to a feature called a pour-off. That is where the rain water reaches a vertical drop and spills over the edge like a waterfall. I tied a nylon strap to a rock and dangled the end over the edge so Kaye would have something to hold onto as she negotiated the drop-off. The rest of the hike was filled with breathtaking vistas of a harsh canyon divided by a ribbon of green trees meandering along the bottom creek bank.
As we descended deeper into the canyon we were so focused on our footing and making sure that we remained on the correct path, we didn't see the Indian ruins in plain view built into the wall across the canyon from us. A feeling of slight embarrassment would grab our attention later when we climbed out of the canyon and realized that the Indian dwellings were right there in front of us all along. I was just amazed at how the dwellings blended into the landscape unless you knew what to look for. If those Indians had high powered rifles they could have picked us off like rabbits in a cage. If nothing else, they could certainly have seen us coming from a long way off.
But we continued our hike down to the canyon floor and up the other side until we came over a rise and there it was. Instantly we felt as though we were on hallowed ground. That feeling came over us even before we entered the first dwelling. Families had lived here. Children had been born in these rooms. Crops had been planted, grown and harvested in the canyon below and stored in granaries high in these crevices. Ceremonies had been preformed and burials took place as the struggle for life continued through the years. We had planned to spend an hour at the ruins but stayed four hours instead.
Ancient Indians didn't choose this place for the view or live here seeking an easy lifestyle. They most likely chose this secluded barren place for safety and peace. According to the archeologists these dwellings were constructed around 1200 A.D. and inhabited until about 1450 A.D. No one knows why they left or what happened to them. Assuming the findings of the archeologists to be correct, these people conducted the business of life for two hundred and fifty years here in this remote and unforgiving region. Like I mentioned earlier, they didn't choose this place just for the view. Why did they come here? Why did they build here? Why did they remain for two and a half centuries? Why did they eventually leave . . . leaving behind their pottery, their tools, their sleeping mats, and their history? The answers are blowing in the wind.
As we prepared to leave I pulled out my pistol and fired a five shot salute to the people of this land, a people I admire and reverence for their ability to survive in such a harsh environment. Not counting the echoes down the canyon, I was certain I heard a sixth shot. How could a five shot revolver deliver six shots? I turned and asked Kaye how many shots she heard. "I wasn't counting but I felt them all," she said, as we gathered our packs and prepared to leave this enchanted canyon where the past and the present collided. Maybe we weren't as alone as we thought. Climbing back out of the canyon we couldn't help but turn and look back across to the other side at the mud, stone and sand structures tucked under the overhangs. We were amazed that those structures hadn't been visible to our eyes as we hiked into the canyon. We just didn't know what to look for before. Maybe that is what life is about . . . knowing what to look for.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Don't Ruin My Reputation
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
I think it was Tom Hanks in the1994 movie Forrest Gump that made the statement Stupid is as stupid does famous. I don’t like the word stupid but sometimes there just isn’t another word in the English language that does justice to some of the things we do.
The year was 1973. My son Todd was three and my daughter, Leslie was just a few months old. Our little family was gathered around the dinner table for the evening meal. We were struggling financially to pay off the debts of one of my previous adventures. In the middle of dinner I casually said that I would like to get my pilot’s license. My wife Kaye stopped eating; looked over at me and said, “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Realizing that right now might not be the most opportune time to discuss this idea; I dropped the subject and said nothing more about flying. What Kaye didn’t realize was that each day after work I had been dropping by the airport and watching planes taking off. I had been going to the airport long before Kaye came into my life. There was a small private grass runway near our home that I visited as often as mother would let me ride my bike that far. Many of my childhood dreams contained flights of fancy.
The local airport advertised sucker lessons. A sucker lesson is an introductory flight where you only paid for the gas that the plane used for your first ride into the air. From then on, grab hold of your wallet because you were going to be opening it every time you got near one of those fancy flying machines.
Whether the plane was fancy or not, flying was an expensive hobby. My first flight was in an old Piper Cherokee 140. As we climbed into the cockpit I notice that the wing had missing rivets and oil smears along the cowling of the engine. But I was hooked. Yes I was one of those suckers but I worried about those missing rivets and oil streaks on that old plane. The answer to my worries came the next day when the flight manager showed me a little 1967 Cessna 150 that was for sale. It was just what I needed. Well, I also needed a partner to help pay for this little bird of the sky. The answer to that problem came in the form of Mike Hill. Two days later we were the proud new owners of N2701S. In aviation jargon the plane’s call sign was November 2701 Sierra or for radio transmissions the abbreviated call sign was 01 Sierra. I lovingly referred to our little plane as 01 SugarBabe. I later flew 01 SugarBabe to Utah when I moved there and I still see her occasionally at the Salt Lake Airport. But I am getting too far ahead of my story.
Mike Hill and I studied for the written exam together. Well, Mike studied and I read aviation magazines. One day he informed me that he was ready to take the written exam and wanted to know if I desired to tag along. I agreed. Once at the testing center I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to see if I could pass the test without studying. A score of 70 was required to pass the exam and I suppose I was fortunate to only make 67. Had I scored 70 I know that I would have never cracked the books and burned those concepts into my brain.
Next came the actual flight training. I had the misfortune to pick a teacher who just received his instructor’s license. I was his very first student. I think he was more nervous than I was. Or maybe I was too naive to be nervous. We flew hour after hour and each lesson I would ask when I would get to solo (fly the plane all alone). He would put me off by saying something like maybe next time. To me next time seemed like it would never come.
In frustration one day I finally said, “If you don’t let me solo today, I am going to fire you as my flight instructor. I don’t care how many hours we fly or how many landings we practice, when the sun goes down if I haven’t flown this plane solo, tomorrow I will start looking for a new teacher.” “You can’t intimidate me to send you into the air all alone before I think you are ready,” said my instructor. “I’m not trying to intimidate you, I’m telling you what you need to do if you want to keep your job as my instructor,” I said.
I did solo that day. I think my instructor was more frightened than I was. After multiple landings he told me to bring the plane to a stop. My instructor opened the door of the plane, stepped out and said, “Don’t ruin my reputation.” I was scared and excited at the same time. Singing at the top of my lungs I pushed in the throttle and away I went. From there I went on to get my private pilot license which meant it was legal for me to entice other people to squeeze into the tiny cockpit and put their lives at risk.
On the day that I got my license I called Kaye and told her to see if mom could watch the kids because I wanted to take her out to dinner. I failed to mention that after dinner I was going to take her for a night flight over the city in our airplane. We went to dinner. We flew over the city. The lights were beautiful. But by the time we got home I knew that this was a very stupid idea. Well, I knew it was wrong from the start but remember, stupid is as stupid does.
Have you ever heard the saying I can forgive but I will never forget? I somehow knew that tonight would be one of those events. She didn’t blackmail me. She didn’t threaten me. It’s like she has a hidden card that can be drawn out of her back pocket and played at any time. It would be okay if the card could only be played once and it would be all over but that isn’t the case. After the card is played it is put back into the pocket and the game can begin all over again.
If you are stupid enough to buy a plane and learn to fly without telling your wife, don’t expect her to congratulate you on your accomplishment.
I think it was Tom Hanks in the1994 movie Forrest Gump that made the statement Stupid is as stupid does famous. I don’t like the word stupid but sometimes there just isn’t another word in the English language that does justice to some of the things we do.
The year was 1973. My son Todd was three and my daughter, Leslie was just a few months old. Our little family was gathered around the dinner table for the evening meal. We were struggling financially to pay off the debts of one of my previous adventures. In the middle of dinner I casually said that I would like to get my pilot’s license. My wife Kaye stopped eating; looked over at me and said, “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Realizing that right now might not be the most opportune time to discuss this idea; I dropped the subject and said nothing more about flying. What Kaye didn’t realize was that each day after work I had been dropping by the airport and watching planes taking off. I had been going to the airport long before Kaye came into my life. There was a small private grass runway near our home that I visited as often as mother would let me ride my bike that far. Many of my childhood dreams contained flights of fancy.
The local airport advertised sucker lessons. A sucker lesson is an introductory flight where you only paid for the gas that the plane used for your first ride into the air. From then on, grab hold of your wallet because you were going to be opening it every time you got near one of those fancy flying machines.
Whether the plane was fancy or not, flying was an expensive hobby. My first flight was in an old Piper Cherokee 140. As we climbed into the cockpit I notice that the wing had missing rivets and oil smears along the cowling of the engine. But I was hooked. Yes I was one of those suckers but I worried about those missing rivets and oil streaks on that old plane. The answer to my worries came the next day when the flight manager showed me a little 1967 Cessna 150 that was for sale. It was just what I needed. Well, I also needed a partner to help pay for this little bird of the sky. The answer to that problem came in the form of Mike Hill. Two days later we were the proud new owners of N2701S. In aviation jargon the plane’s call sign was November 2701 Sierra or for radio transmissions the abbreviated call sign was 01 Sierra. I lovingly referred to our little plane as 01 SugarBabe. I later flew 01 SugarBabe to Utah when I moved there and I still see her occasionally at the Salt Lake Airport. But I am getting too far ahead of my story.
Mike Hill and I studied for the written exam together. Well, Mike studied and I read aviation magazines. One day he informed me that he was ready to take the written exam and wanted to know if I desired to tag along. I agreed. Once at the testing center I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to see if I could pass the test without studying. A score of 70 was required to pass the exam and I suppose I was fortunate to only make 67. Had I scored 70 I know that I would have never cracked the books and burned those concepts into my brain.
Next came the actual flight training. I had the misfortune to pick a teacher who just received his instructor’s license. I was his very first student. I think he was more nervous than I was. Or maybe I was too naive to be nervous. We flew hour after hour and each lesson I would ask when I would get to solo (fly the plane all alone). He would put me off by saying something like maybe next time. To me next time seemed like it would never come.
In frustration one day I finally said, “If you don’t let me solo today, I am going to fire you as my flight instructor. I don’t care how many hours we fly or how many landings we practice, when the sun goes down if I haven’t flown this plane solo, tomorrow I will start looking for a new teacher.” “You can’t intimidate me to send you into the air all alone before I think you are ready,” said my instructor. “I’m not trying to intimidate you, I’m telling you what you need to do if you want to keep your job as my instructor,” I said.
I did solo that day. I think my instructor was more frightened than I was. After multiple landings he told me to bring the plane to a stop. My instructor opened the door of the plane, stepped out and said, “Don’t ruin my reputation.” I was scared and excited at the same time. Singing at the top of my lungs I pushed in the throttle and away I went. From there I went on to get my private pilot license which meant it was legal for me to entice other people to squeeze into the tiny cockpit and put their lives at risk.
On the day that I got my license I called Kaye and told her to see if mom could watch the kids because I wanted to take her out to dinner. I failed to mention that after dinner I was going to take her for a night flight over the city in our airplane. We went to dinner. We flew over the city. The lights were beautiful. But by the time we got home I knew that this was a very stupid idea. Well, I knew it was wrong from the start but remember, stupid is as stupid does.
Have you ever heard the saying I can forgive but I will never forget? I somehow knew that tonight would be one of those events. She didn’t blackmail me. She didn’t threaten me. It’s like she has a hidden card that can be drawn out of her back pocket and played at any time. It would be okay if the card could only be played once and it would be all over but that isn’t the case. After the card is played it is put back into the pocket and the game can begin all over again.
If you are stupid enough to buy a plane and learn to fly without telling your wife, don’t expect her to congratulate you on your accomplishment.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
The Loss of a Friend
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Friends are lost in different ways. Some die while others just drift away because of changing interests. Some friends are sacrificed through misunderstandings and disagreements. Then there are those whose friendship weather the storms of adversity and reach out even through miles of physical separation and remain attached regardless of life’s situations.
I was blessed to know such a friend. We met in Kmart of all places and struck up a conversation that developed into a friendship that has lasted many years. The sales lady who introduced us or was there at the counter with us was a petite girl who looked as though she should still be in junior high. I told her she looked too young to be working and she informed me that she was eighteen and working to save money to go to college. My newly discovered friend introduced himself as Tex and when I asked if that was a nickname he said, “Yes,” but offered no additional information.
I have long since forgotten the sales clerk’s name. I remember that she commented that I should be the one with the name Tex because of my southern accent. It is strange how I remember her smile but can’t remember her name. I also remember the necklace she wore. It was a gold chain with a small elongated flat piece of gold with an inscription. With her permission I reached over and took the small piece of gold in my hands and examined the words. The inscription said, “Love You.” “Is there a story behind those words,” I asked, thinking that it was probably from a boyfriend. “It belonged to my mother. My father gave it to me when she died six years ago. I never take it off,” she said. You were twelve when your mother passed away?” I asked. “Yes,” she commented. “And you have never had the necklace off since the day your father placed it around your neck?” I questioned. “That’s right,” she stated.
As I stared into the eyes of the sales clerk I suddenly remembered Tex. I had almost totally ignored him while I was caught up in the story of the sales clerk’s necklace. An unspoken communication had been taking place between the sales clerk and me during those brief moments of silence after she stopped talking. But remembering my manners, I looked Tex right in the face and said, “We should do something special for this young lady for introducing us.” Her face reddened just a little as she said, “Oh I couldn’t accept anything.” Her comment didn’t surprise me. Tex and I said our goodbyes to the sales clerk and headed out the door to get better acquainted.
We hit it off right from the start. I told Tex about my hobbies. He had never been up in a small plane so I encouraged him to come to the airport with me for a flight into the wild blue yonder. He agreed and off we went. That was the first of many adventures we shared. We became close friends and once or twice we went back to Kmart to visit the petite sales clerk who wore the necklace with the inscription “Love You” written on it. We never saw her again but we often reflected on what might have happened to her as she carved her way through life without the influence of a mother to laugh with her and console her when necessary. We kidded ourselves that when our batteries went low we would drop by Kmart and have her recharge us with her inviting smile.
Tex and I saw or talked to one another almost every day. I’m surprise that my wife Kaye didn’t complain about the time we spent together. She seemed to sense that there was a special bond between us. One day Tex disappeared and I had no contact with him for a year or so. I missed him but friendships don’t last long that travel a one-way street. Then one day he showed back up and we renewed our friendship immediately. It was like we had never been separated. He and I flew together, boated together, hunted together, and camped together many times. Other than the year we were lost to each other that I previously spoke of, we were almost inseparable. I have lost track of all the things we did together. Then, while I was on a canoe trip down the Green River of southern Utah, it happened. As I was paddling the canoe a feeling swept over me and I knew that something had happened to Tex. I knew he was gone. I told my wife Kaye that I just lost a good friend, one who had been with me on more expeditions than I could remember.
Sensing my loss, Kaye immediately jumped into the river to see if she could find Tex. See, Tex was my wristwatch. Tex was short for Timex Expedition. I knew I would never find Tex in that river. I chuckled at Kaye for thinking that she could find him in the fast moving muddy water. But bless her heart that didn’t stop her from trying. I finally persuaded her to get back into the canoe. I was saddened but not because I had lost a valuable watch. Tex was inexpensive but I’m a sentimental guy. I thought of how long we had been together and how many adventures or expeditions we had shared. I can replace the watch. I can’t replace all the years he gave me his time, served as my alarm clock, challenged me with his stopwatch and made sure I knew what day of the month it was. He never let me down except when his batteries died. A quick trip to Kmart always solved his battery problem and he went right back to ticking as before.
As I told you, I once lost Tex for a year but one Sunday morning, a young man came up to me and told me who had my watch. When I asked for the watch back, it was returned accompanied with an apology. In the meantime I had purchased another Timex Expedition but as soon as Tex was given back to me, I removed the newer watch and started wearing Tex once more. I don’t think Tex will be coming back this time. Tex is waterproof so he will continue to tick in the water and sand of the Green River until the battery fades and the electronic ticking stops. Then he will be silent and become part of the elements of nature. Before the ticking stops maybe some fish will learn how to tell time. Do you think the fish will be happier if they know what time of day it is? Probably not. When we were on the river, we didn’t worry about what time it was either.
I had a premonition that I shouldn’t wear Tex while I was on the river. The band was worn and he had slipped off my wrist a couple of times before. As I look back I don’t focus on what might-have-been had I heeded the premonition and not worn Tex on the river. I chose instead to reflect on the great expeditions we shared over the years. I also think of the petite Kmart sales clerk who sold Tex to me. Remember, she was the girl who wore the necklace with the inscription “Love You” written on it. I don’t remember her name but I do remember her smile. “Some friends come into our lives and are soon gone. Others last a lifetime.” I never expected Tex to last a lifetime but I will miss him just like I miss the smile of the young sales clerk at Kmart. Oh, the worth of a smile.
I grew to love that watch but it was just a watch. What I will always love are the adventures and memories we shared. No matter where Tex is now, I will always have my memories. Those of you who know me well know that I keep a daily journal. And each day in that journal I list the highlight of my day, the regret of the day, and what I am grateful for. You probably think that I listed loosing my friend Tex as my regret of that day on the river but you would be wrong. What I listed as the regret-of-the-day was that I didn’t have more of you there with me so I could enjoy your company and companionship. Just think I had Tex longer than the Kmart sales clerk had her mother by her side.
Friends are lost in different ways. Some die while others just drift away because of changing interests. Some friends are sacrificed through misunderstandings and disagreements. Then there are those whose friendship weather the storms of adversity and reach out even through miles of physical separation and remain attached regardless of life’s situations.
I was blessed to know such a friend. We met in Kmart of all places and struck up a conversation that developed into a friendship that has lasted many years. The sales lady who introduced us or was there at the counter with us was a petite girl who looked as though she should still be in junior high. I told her she looked too young to be working and she informed me that she was eighteen and working to save money to go to college. My newly discovered friend introduced himself as Tex and when I asked if that was a nickname he said, “Yes,” but offered no additional information.
I have long since forgotten the sales clerk’s name. I remember that she commented that I should be the one with the name Tex because of my southern accent. It is strange how I remember her smile but can’t remember her name. I also remember the necklace she wore. It was a gold chain with a small elongated flat piece of gold with an inscription. With her permission I reached over and took the small piece of gold in my hands and examined the words. The inscription said, “Love You.” “Is there a story behind those words,” I asked, thinking that it was probably from a boyfriend. “It belonged to my mother. My father gave it to me when she died six years ago. I never take it off,” she said. You were twelve when your mother passed away?” I asked. “Yes,” she commented. “And you have never had the necklace off since the day your father placed it around your neck?” I questioned. “That’s right,” she stated.
As I stared into the eyes of the sales clerk I suddenly remembered Tex. I had almost totally ignored him while I was caught up in the story of the sales clerk’s necklace. An unspoken communication had been taking place between the sales clerk and me during those brief moments of silence after she stopped talking. But remembering my manners, I looked Tex right in the face and said, “We should do something special for this young lady for introducing us.” Her face reddened just a little as she said, “Oh I couldn’t accept anything.” Her comment didn’t surprise me. Tex and I said our goodbyes to the sales clerk and headed out the door to get better acquainted.
We hit it off right from the start. I told Tex about my hobbies. He had never been up in a small plane so I encouraged him to come to the airport with me for a flight into the wild blue yonder. He agreed and off we went. That was the first of many adventures we shared. We became close friends and once or twice we went back to Kmart to visit the petite sales clerk who wore the necklace with the inscription “Love You” written on it. We never saw her again but we often reflected on what might have happened to her as she carved her way through life without the influence of a mother to laugh with her and console her when necessary. We kidded ourselves that when our batteries went low we would drop by Kmart and have her recharge us with her inviting smile.
Tex and I saw or talked to one another almost every day. I’m surprise that my wife Kaye didn’t complain about the time we spent together. She seemed to sense that there was a special bond between us. One day Tex disappeared and I had no contact with him for a year or so. I missed him but friendships don’t last long that travel a one-way street. Then one day he showed back up and we renewed our friendship immediately. It was like we had never been separated. He and I flew together, boated together, hunted together, and camped together many times. Other than the year we were lost to each other that I previously spoke of, we were almost inseparable. I have lost track of all the things we did together. Then, while I was on a canoe trip down the Green River of southern Utah, it happened. As I was paddling the canoe a feeling swept over me and I knew that something had happened to Tex. I knew he was gone. I told my wife Kaye that I just lost a good friend, one who had been with me on more expeditions than I could remember.
Sensing my loss, Kaye immediately jumped into the river to see if she could find Tex. See, Tex was my wristwatch. Tex was short for Timex Expedition. I knew I would never find Tex in that river. I chuckled at Kaye for thinking that she could find him in the fast moving muddy water. But bless her heart that didn’t stop her from trying. I finally persuaded her to get back into the canoe. I was saddened but not because I had lost a valuable watch. Tex was inexpensive but I’m a sentimental guy. I thought of how long we had been together and how many adventures or expeditions we had shared. I can replace the watch. I can’t replace all the years he gave me his time, served as my alarm clock, challenged me with his stopwatch and made sure I knew what day of the month it was. He never let me down except when his batteries died. A quick trip to Kmart always solved his battery problem and he went right back to ticking as before.
As I told you, I once lost Tex for a year but one Sunday morning, a young man came up to me and told me who had my watch. When I asked for the watch back, it was returned accompanied with an apology. In the meantime I had purchased another Timex Expedition but as soon as Tex was given back to me, I removed the newer watch and started wearing Tex once more. I don’t think Tex will be coming back this time. Tex is waterproof so he will continue to tick in the water and sand of the Green River until the battery fades and the electronic ticking stops. Then he will be silent and become part of the elements of nature. Before the ticking stops maybe some fish will learn how to tell time. Do you think the fish will be happier if they know what time of day it is? Probably not. When we were on the river, we didn’t worry about what time it was either.
I had a premonition that I shouldn’t wear Tex while I was on the river. The band was worn and he had slipped off my wrist a couple of times before. As I look back I don’t focus on what might-have-been had I heeded the premonition and not worn Tex on the river. I chose instead to reflect on the great expeditions we shared over the years. I also think of the petite Kmart sales clerk who sold Tex to me. Remember, she was the girl who wore the necklace with the inscription “Love You” written on it. I don’t remember her name but I do remember her smile. “Some friends come into our lives and are soon gone. Others last a lifetime.” I never expected Tex to last a lifetime but I will miss him just like I miss the smile of the young sales clerk at Kmart. Oh, the worth of a smile.
I grew to love that watch but it was just a watch. What I will always love are the adventures and memories we shared. No matter where Tex is now, I will always have my memories. Those of you who know me well know that I keep a daily journal. And each day in that journal I list the highlight of my day, the regret of the day, and what I am grateful for. You probably think that I listed loosing my friend Tex as my regret of that day on the river but you would be wrong. What I listed as the regret-of-the-day was that I didn’t have more of you there with me so I could enjoy your company and companionship. Just think I had Tex longer than the Kmart sales clerk had her mother by her side.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
The Window
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
A few months ago I attended a scholarship recognition banquet for Katie Campbell. On the printed program was a saying that has remained with me. It states that your view of the world is through your own window. Since that evening I have developed the habit of taking a few moments to look out my bedroom window before going to bed. On most occasions I am filed with gratitude as I look out into the vastness of our world. Sometimes my focus is on roof tops, trees, mountains and clouds. Other times, my focus is on street noises as cars drive by, a few with loud music, others just passing by.
Then there are times when I look out into the expanse of space beyond the moon and stars. It is at these moments when I realize how tiny I am in this vast universe. Tiny doesn't mean helpless. Tiny doesn't mean I can't make a difference. Efforts no matter how small can create good results.
Think of a tiny seed. Who can look at two seeds and determine which will sprout and which will not? Not me. But I can plant both seeds. And when the tender shouts push up through the damp soil, I can care for them.
Each of us is at our individual stage of development and maturity. It is so easy to become judgmental of others because they may not be at the same stage of development as we wish. Some seeds may never sprout and grow into our expectations. As I stand at my window looking at the world before me, I realize that my open window also allows the world to see into my room. What do they see? Do they see kindness in my heart? Is my love of others visible through my countenance? I don't know what others see because their view of me and of the world around them is seen through their own window.
I am thankful for the feelings inside of me that draw me to the window. I am thankful for eyes that allow me to take in the beauty of our world. I am no longer embarrassed when tears of gratitude stream down my cheeks for all those who have influenced my life for good. I often stand by my window and have tears originate in my heart and find their way to my eyes. Many of my tears can trace their beginning in my heart. The acceptance and love of family and friends have caused my tears to make that journey many times. Thank you for the patience and love each of you show me. I think of you often as I stand looking out my window, enjoying the moon and stars and memories of you.
A few months ago I attended a scholarship recognition banquet for Katie Campbell. On the printed program was a saying that has remained with me. It states that your view of the world is through your own window. Since that evening I have developed the habit of taking a few moments to look out my bedroom window before going to bed. On most occasions I am filed with gratitude as I look out into the vastness of our world. Sometimes my focus is on roof tops, trees, mountains and clouds. Other times, my focus is on street noises as cars drive by, a few with loud music, others just passing by.
Then there are times when I look out into the expanse of space beyond the moon and stars. It is at these moments when I realize how tiny I am in this vast universe. Tiny doesn't mean helpless. Tiny doesn't mean I can't make a difference. Efforts no matter how small can create good results.
Think of a tiny seed. Who can look at two seeds and determine which will sprout and which will not? Not me. But I can plant both seeds. And when the tender shouts push up through the damp soil, I can care for them.
Each of us is at our individual stage of development and maturity. It is so easy to become judgmental of others because they may not be at the same stage of development as we wish. Some seeds may never sprout and grow into our expectations. As I stand at my window looking at the world before me, I realize that my open window also allows the world to see into my room. What do they see? Do they see kindness in my heart? Is my love of others visible through my countenance? I don't know what others see because their view of me and of the world around them is seen through their own window.
I am thankful for the feelings inside of me that draw me to the window. I am thankful for eyes that allow me to take in the beauty of our world. I am no longer embarrassed when tears of gratitude stream down my cheeks for all those who have influenced my life for good. I often stand by my window and have tears originate in my heart and find their way to my eyes. Many of my tears can trace their beginning in my heart. The acceptance and love of family and friends have caused my tears to make that journey many times. Thank you for the patience and love each of you show me. I think of you often as I stand looking out my window, enjoying the moon and stars and memories of you.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Legacy of a Lady
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Today is August 2nd and I will quietly reflect and mark the thirty-fourth anniversary of the passing of someone very special to me. She wasn’t my peer. She wasn’t even related to me. But she had a significant impact on my life when I was a skinny teenage boy. I wasn’t just skinny physically; I was skinny emotionally if you know what I mean. In other words, I still had a lot to learn about life although I thought I was all grown up. Thank goodness this lady helped me realize that I still had miles to go on the road of life marked wisdom.
She was the first of two women in my life who would be instrumental in encouraging me in my pastime of writing. This lady became the driving force behind my desire to convey my thoughts and experiences in print. In way of explanation, in August of 1993 I had three separate yet identical dreams relating to her that inspired me to begin writing about the influence this lady had on my life. I felt driven by some indescribable force to allow others to get to know her through my writings. It was as though if I didn’t do it, no one else would. And her influence on this world would be buried as sure as if it had died along with her physical body. I titled those first short stories about my experiences with her a “Legacy of a Lady” and bound them in a folder. There were forty short stories chronicling my memories of life with her.
Forces at work inside of me suggested that there was a deeper meaning behind my dreams than just writing about my life with her. I decided to contact Karen and seek permission to have her parent’s temple work done. I was unsuccessful in locating her. I was unaware that Karen had divorced her first husband and remarried. One Sunday evening Karen called my home and said, “I understand you are looking for me.” I had not heard Karen’s voice or spoken to her since I visited her in the hospital twenty-two years earlier. In fact, that occasion in the hospital was the last time I would ever see her mother alive. Karen declined my request for permission to have her parent’s temple work performed.
Seven years passed with no contact with Karen. I was in her hometown on business for one day. It was Friday, June 5th, 2000. I tried repeatedly to contact Karen by phone but it rang busy each time. I thought that either she or her husband must be on the internet or the phone was off the hook. I stopped at a local convenience store and purchased a city map that would provide directions to their home. I knocked on the door and Karen answered. Because of our previous relationship and out of respect for my wife and Karen’s husband, I asked if she and I could visit out in her front yard instead of entering her home. We stood apart, no handshakes, no embraces, just talking and catching up on our lives. The last time I saw her prior to this occasion was at her mother’s funeral in 1973. After a few minutes I slipped back into my rental car and headed for the airport to continue the next leg of my business trip.
During that importune visit in her front yard, I told Karen about my writings I called Legacy of a Lady and asked her if she would like a copy. She said yes and I agreed to send it when I returned home form my trip. Karen seemed anxious for her adult children, Chris and Gay, to be able to read the stories and become better acquainted with their grandmother who had passed away before they were old enough to remember her.
Previously, I have told only one person all the specific details about the rest of this story. This is where a dark shadow began to fall over my brief reunion with Karen that took place in her front yard. Many of you have questioned the sanity of my destroying some of my early writings. Maybe you will better understand my actions as I share with you the events that took place.
I did send Karen a copy of Legacy of a Lady. It wasn’t the complete set of my writings but a selection that I thought would be most appropriate for her children to gain a greater appreciation of their grandmother. During the next two months I e-mailed Karen a few times and sent her a copy of an article I wrote about our brief reunion in her front yard. I wish I had retained a copy of that article but after I read it to my family and sent Karen a copy I purged it from my computer. What followed was a heart blistering e-mail from Karen’s husband accusing me of trying to stir up old feelings in Karen of a bygone era. He threatened to bring criminal stalking charges against me if I ever contacted her again. Danny proclaimed that Karen lived in constant fear that I would show up unannounced in her life again. He said that my stories were lies and figments of a sick imagination.
I was devastated that I had been the impetus for such frustration and anger. A part of me wanted to strike back, deny his accusations and attempt to justify my own behavior. But after reading Danny’s e-mail once more, I closed the door to my office, knelt by my desk and sought guidance before I made a response to his accusations. Returning to my computer, I apologized to Danny for any hurt, heartache or sorrow that I had caused him and his wife. I told him that I would never contact either of them again as long as I lived and that I would destroy the writings about his mother-in-law. That way he would be in control of what happened to the only copy left of what he labeled the writings of a sick imagination. I reread my written e-mail to him, made sure that I could live up to my stated commitments, sought confirmation of the spirit that it was the right thing to do and pressed the send button on my computer.
On August 2, 2000, the twenty-seventh anniversary of her death, as I previously promised I would do; I went back to my computer and deleted each of the articles written about this lady. It had been seven years since I had those three dreams and commenced to feverishly write about this special lady in my life. I then took the original bound copy of Legacy of a Lady which comprised a total of forty short stories to Lake Powell with me. As I flew over the barren desert of southern Utah on my way to the lake, I reread each of the stories I had written about the influence this lady had on my life. Once I finished reading them for what would be the last time, I removed the pages from the binder, opened the window of my plane and tossed them to the wind. I had completed what I told Danny that I would do. The only thing left was for me to never contact him or his wife again. I knew that I could do that also; not out of hurt or anger, but out of respect for his wishes.
I was chastised by family and friends for my actions. I was even told that I was too soft, that I should get him told instead of playing into the hands of a jealous husband and doing exactly what he wanted me to do. My answer to those comments was, “So what.” In a tug-of-war, if one party refuses to pick up the rope and pull, there is no war. I decided to not pick up my end of the rope. I owed no one an explanation. I owed Karen’s husband Danny an apology for the uncomfortable feelings welling up inside of him that I had been a party to. I felt sadness for him and for Karen. I felt sadness for me that what was so special to me, reflections of my relationship with her mom, was twisted into something ugly and misshapen.
I was surprised by Karen’s husband’s reaction since there was nothing in my comments during the front yard visit with Karen and nothing in my writings about her mom that focused on memories and experiences of mine and Karen’s dating years. But he was not able to see into my heart and no amount of explanation to an angry or frustrated man would convince him otherwise; therefore, I didn’t try. It was best to place all the power back into his hands. He was the one holding the rope and challenging me to a tug-of-war. I can only guess he got my email stating my apology and decisions. I never heard from him again after his heart blistering e-mail. See, the e-mail he sent was prior to talking e-mails so his words at least didn’t burn my ears.
But all his threats and accusations didn’t dampen my love and appreciation for his mother-in-law whom he never knew. She passed away twenty-one years before he and Karen married. It has now been seven years since that day I flew to Lake Powell, a favorite destination for me, and tossed my written reflections of the Legacy of a Lady out the window of the plane. As I said previously, only the written words were tossed to the wind. My memories of her are still alive in me. I have now begun to rewrite about some of those memories but out of respect for sensitive hearts, I have left off the name of this lady who had such an impact in my life. Although she doesn’t get her name in the bright lights of recognition, her spirit shines as bright on my life now as it did when she lovingly and tenderly guided me through some of the challenges of teenage life.
Maybe family members and friends puzzled by my behavior of destroying my writings will have a better understanding of why I tossed my written words to the wind. If I haven’t already bored you beyond consciousness, you can read the first of my rewritten reminisings of this Legacy of a Lady. The article is titled “The Two Piece.” The original short story was called “The Swimsuit.” This story will not be new to my children. They have heard me speak many times of my experiences with this lady who shared my own mother’s first name. She treated me and loved me like a son. Her attention to my shortcomings and her motives for encouraging me to make good choices in life may have been based on fear. Fear that I might marry her daughter one day. The forbidden wigi board said that we would marry. The yearbook singled us out as the most likely couple to marry after high school but dreams sent us in different directions. Karen’s mother probably breathed a huge sigh of relief. You can access the article “The Two Piece” by going to www.jerrygrubbs.com or just scroll down to the next article on this website.
It was fourteen years ago this month that I first wrote this article. All the short stories in Legacy of a Lady will not be reconstructed. As I gaze out the window of my life and reflect upon the people who influenced me for good, I will always remember this special lady who gave me a part of her by giving me her time, sharing her insights and loving me in spite of my shortcomings. This world could benefit from more people like her. Although she has been gone thirty-four years and I haven’t heard her voice other than in my dreams for all this time, I still miss her. And I will continue to miss you EGY until we meet again.
Today is August 2nd and I will quietly reflect and mark the thirty-fourth anniversary of the passing of someone very special to me. She wasn’t my peer. She wasn’t even related to me. But she had a significant impact on my life when I was a skinny teenage boy. I wasn’t just skinny physically; I was skinny emotionally if you know what I mean. In other words, I still had a lot to learn about life although I thought I was all grown up. Thank goodness this lady helped me realize that I still had miles to go on the road of life marked wisdom.
She was the first of two women in my life who would be instrumental in encouraging me in my pastime of writing. This lady became the driving force behind my desire to convey my thoughts and experiences in print. In way of explanation, in August of 1993 I had three separate yet identical dreams relating to her that inspired me to begin writing about the influence this lady had on my life. I felt driven by some indescribable force to allow others to get to know her through my writings. It was as though if I didn’t do it, no one else would. And her influence on this world would be buried as sure as if it had died along with her physical body. I titled those first short stories about my experiences with her a “Legacy of a Lady” and bound them in a folder. There were forty short stories chronicling my memories of life with her.
Forces at work inside of me suggested that there was a deeper meaning behind my dreams than just writing about my life with her. I decided to contact Karen and seek permission to have her parent’s temple work done. I was unsuccessful in locating her. I was unaware that Karen had divorced her first husband and remarried. One Sunday evening Karen called my home and said, “I understand you are looking for me.” I had not heard Karen’s voice or spoken to her since I visited her in the hospital twenty-two years earlier. In fact, that occasion in the hospital was the last time I would ever see her mother alive. Karen declined my request for permission to have her parent’s temple work performed.
Seven years passed with no contact with Karen. I was in her hometown on business for one day. It was Friday, June 5th, 2000. I tried repeatedly to contact Karen by phone but it rang busy each time. I thought that either she or her husband must be on the internet or the phone was off the hook. I stopped at a local convenience store and purchased a city map that would provide directions to their home. I knocked on the door and Karen answered. Because of our previous relationship and out of respect for my wife and Karen’s husband, I asked if she and I could visit out in her front yard instead of entering her home. We stood apart, no handshakes, no embraces, just talking and catching up on our lives. The last time I saw her prior to this occasion was at her mother’s funeral in 1973. After a few minutes I slipped back into my rental car and headed for the airport to continue the next leg of my business trip.
During that importune visit in her front yard, I told Karen about my writings I called Legacy of a Lady and asked her if she would like a copy. She said yes and I agreed to send it when I returned home form my trip. Karen seemed anxious for her adult children, Chris and Gay, to be able to read the stories and become better acquainted with their grandmother who had passed away before they were old enough to remember her.
Previously, I have told only one person all the specific details about the rest of this story. This is where a dark shadow began to fall over my brief reunion with Karen that took place in her front yard. Many of you have questioned the sanity of my destroying some of my early writings. Maybe you will better understand my actions as I share with you the events that took place.
I did send Karen a copy of Legacy of a Lady. It wasn’t the complete set of my writings but a selection that I thought would be most appropriate for her children to gain a greater appreciation of their grandmother. During the next two months I e-mailed Karen a few times and sent her a copy of an article I wrote about our brief reunion in her front yard. I wish I had retained a copy of that article but after I read it to my family and sent Karen a copy I purged it from my computer. What followed was a heart blistering e-mail from Karen’s husband accusing me of trying to stir up old feelings in Karen of a bygone era. He threatened to bring criminal stalking charges against me if I ever contacted her again. Danny proclaimed that Karen lived in constant fear that I would show up unannounced in her life again. He said that my stories were lies and figments of a sick imagination.
I was devastated that I had been the impetus for such frustration and anger. A part of me wanted to strike back, deny his accusations and attempt to justify my own behavior. But after reading Danny’s e-mail once more, I closed the door to my office, knelt by my desk and sought guidance before I made a response to his accusations. Returning to my computer, I apologized to Danny for any hurt, heartache or sorrow that I had caused him and his wife. I told him that I would never contact either of them again as long as I lived and that I would destroy the writings about his mother-in-law. That way he would be in control of what happened to the only copy left of what he labeled the writings of a sick imagination. I reread my written e-mail to him, made sure that I could live up to my stated commitments, sought confirmation of the spirit that it was the right thing to do and pressed the send button on my computer.
On August 2, 2000, the twenty-seventh anniversary of her death, as I previously promised I would do; I went back to my computer and deleted each of the articles written about this lady. It had been seven years since I had those three dreams and commenced to feverishly write about this special lady in my life. I then took the original bound copy of Legacy of a Lady which comprised a total of forty short stories to Lake Powell with me. As I flew over the barren desert of southern Utah on my way to the lake, I reread each of the stories I had written about the influence this lady had on my life. Once I finished reading them for what would be the last time, I removed the pages from the binder, opened the window of my plane and tossed them to the wind. I had completed what I told Danny that I would do. The only thing left was for me to never contact him or his wife again. I knew that I could do that also; not out of hurt or anger, but out of respect for his wishes.
I was chastised by family and friends for my actions. I was even told that I was too soft, that I should get him told instead of playing into the hands of a jealous husband and doing exactly what he wanted me to do. My answer to those comments was, “So what.” In a tug-of-war, if one party refuses to pick up the rope and pull, there is no war. I decided to not pick up my end of the rope. I owed no one an explanation. I owed Karen’s husband Danny an apology for the uncomfortable feelings welling up inside of him that I had been a party to. I felt sadness for him and for Karen. I felt sadness for me that what was so special to me, reflections of my relationship with her mom, was twisted into something ugly and misshapen.
I was surprised by Karen’s husband’s reaction since there was nothing in my comments during the front yard visit with Karen and nothing in my writings about her mom that focused on memories and experiences of mine and Karen’s dating years. But he was not able to see into my heart and no amount of explanation to an angry or frustrated man would convince him otherwise; therefore, I didn’t try. It was best to place all the power back into his hands. He was the one holding the rope and challenging me to a tug-of-war. I can only guess he got my email stating my apology and decisions. I never heard from him again after his heart blistering e-mail. See, the e-mail he sent was prior to talking e-mails so his words at least didn’t burn my ears.
But all his threats and accusations didn’t dampen my love and appreciation for his mother-in-law whom he never knew. She passed away twenty-one years before he and Karen married. It has now been seven years since that day I flew to Lake Powell, a favorite destination for me, and tossed my written reflections of the Legacy of a Lady out the window of the plane. As I said previously, only the written words were tossed to the wind. My memories of her are still alive in me. I have now begun to rewrite about some of those memories but out of respect for sensitive hearts, I have left off the name of this lady who had such an impact in my life. Although she doesn’t get her name in the bright lights of recognition, her spirit shines as bright on my life now as it did when she lovingly and tenderly guided me through some of the challenges of teenage life.
Maybe family members and friends puzzled by my behavior of destroying my writings will have a better understanding of why I tossed my written words to the wind. If I haven’t already bored you beyond consciousness, you can read the first of my rewritten reminisings of this Legacy of a Lady. The article is titled “The Two Piece.” The original short story was called “The Swimsuit.” This story will not be new to my children. They have heard me speak many times of my experiences with this lady who shared my own mother’s first name. She treated me and loved me like a son. Her attention to my shortcomings and her motives for encouraging me to make good choices in life may have been based on fear. Fear that I might marry her daughter one day. The forbidden wigi board said that we would marry. The yearbook singled us out as the most likely couple to marry after high school but dreams sent us in different directions. Karen’s mother probably breathed a huge sigh of relief. You can access the article “The Two Piece” by going to www.jerrygrubbs.com or just scroll down to the next article on this website.
It was fourteen years ago this month that I first wrote this article. All the short stories in Legacy of a Lady will not be reconstructed. As I gaze out the window of my life and reflect upon the people who influenced me for good, I will always remember this special lady who gave me a part of her by giving me her time, sharing her insights and loving me in spite of my shortcomings. This world could benefit from more people like her. Although she has been gone thirty-four years and I haven’t heard her voice other than in my dreams for all this time, I still miss her. And I will continue to miss you EGY until we meet again.
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