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.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
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.
The Two-Piece
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Anyone who has grown up in the shadow of an older brother will sympathize with my situation. My brother Bill was taller, more talented, and carried a picture of one of the best looking girls in the school in his back pocket. “Bill has a picture in his wallet of Patsy wearing a two-piece swimsuit,” I said. Karen gave no response, just continued eating her school lunch. How irritating. How can I plan my next strategy when I don’t get a response? Maybe she was absorbed in other thoughts and didn’t hear what I said. “Did you hear what I said?” I asked. “Yes,” came her one word reply. This conversation wasn’t going well. Apparently there would be no discussion of photographs in a two-piece with this girl who was wearing my high school ring around her neck. Shouldn’t I have rights if she was going to go steady with me? At least I was entitled to an answer. “What do you think about that?” I asked. “About what?” she asked. “About Bill having a picture of Patsy in a two-piece,” I said in exasperation. “I don’t think about it,” she answered. The bell rang signaling the end of lunch break and we returned to our Spanish class. Just as we walked through the door to the classroom Karen said, “The answer to your other question is no.” “I didn’t ask another question,” I said. “I know, but you eventually will ask and the answer to that question that you haven’t asked is still no.”
The Spanish teacher surprised us with a pop quiz that took my attention for the next few minutes. I hate these classes where you go to lunch during the middle of the class period. It’s like having the same class twice in a row. I finished the little inconvenience of that quiz, passed it back to the girl behind me for grading, and soon had my score of 82. That wasn’t bad but Karen flashed her quiz sheet at me which showed a 98. I need to start dating someone dumber, I thought. Or at least date someone who will flash more than a pop quiz score. Class was over and I walked Karen to her next class before heading off to study hall. There was no more discussion of photos in a two-piece. Instead we talked about an argument that Leslie Duffel and Charles Hineman had this morning. How boring. Maybe Charles was asking Leslie for a picture of her in a two-piece to put in his wallet. That would just be my luck. Charles and Leslie were the ones instrumental in getting Karen and me together. Charles was my friend and Leslie was Karen’s friend. We often double dated and when they were having problems it seemed to be contagious: sort of like being exposed to the flu. Karen would tell me what Charles did. I would see nothing wrong with what he did and pretty soon I was the one in trouble.
In study hall I came up with my master plan or my new attack on the photo in the two-piece problem. I just wouldn’t say another word about it. That would drive Karen to curiosity and she would bring up the subject again or nothing would ever be said; either way I thought my chances of getting that photo was about as good as finding a catfish on every single hook of my trotline out at Cherokee Lake. That had never happened in case you are wondering.
After school I met Karen at our regular meeting place and walked her to her car. I carried her books as usual and treated her with the same respect regardless of the fact that she had said no to my request of wanting a picture of her in a two-piece. That’s not true. I had never got around to asking that question. I had never even seen her in a two-piece and I would have been content with a picture of her in a regular swimsuit. But with girls you need to ask for more than you want or you will always get less than you’re planning on. If that sounds complicated, it is. I’m not an expert on this subject; I just have a lot of experience getting less. Finding the 1962 white Chevrolet Belair in the parking lot, I opened the door for Karen and once she was in the car I handed her her books. Man, this woman packs a lot of books home each night. I’m glad I didn’t have that much homework. After she drove away I put my two feet in gear and headed back across the parking lot. These two feet are what I’d be driving home unless I found Charles and we went for a shake at the Golden Point drive-in on Highway 80. After drinking our shakes he would always drive me home. With the argument he and Leslie were having I knew he wouldn’t be taking her home after school. He was waiting for me as I suspected. I got a strawberry shake and Charles got a chocolate. He had woman problems and there wasn’t much I could do for him. I was just thankful that my relationship with Karen wasn’t so complicated. Who cares if she could guess my questions before I asked them? But I wasn’t giving up on that photo of her in a two-piece yet. Charles just laughed when I told him what I was trying to do.
Back in the sixties girls didn’t call guys on the phone unless it was an emergency or there was just a short question that needed to be answered like why haven’t you called me? Karen and I talked on the phone almost every night. I would take the phone in my parent’s bedroom closet and talk until mother came in and said, “It’s time for you to get off the phone.” That meant I had at least another fifteen minutes before she really got mad. Tonight was no different. I called Karen and we talked about the events of the day. I stayed true to my conviction and never brought up the topic of swimsuits and photographs. Right at the very end of our conversation when mom had given me my last warning, Karen said, “You can have a picture of me in a swimsuit if mother says that it is okay.”
Oh great. I bet Bill didn’t have to ask Patsy’s mother if it would be alright for him to have a picture of her in a two-piece snuggled warmly in his hip pocket. Why do I have to live by different rules? “You don’t think I’ll ask your mother, do you?” I said. “Can if you want. But that is the only way that I will let you take a picture of me in a swimsuit,” she explained. “How about in a two-piece?” I asked. “I don’t own a two-piece, have never worn one and I wouldn’t do that even if mother said it was okay.” I was pretty certain that the subject of the two-piece was closed to discussion.
My only problem now was in knowing when to approach her mother for permission. I could just say that she had given me permission but that would never fly. Karen would discuss it with her mom and I would probably end up looking for my class ring in the grass of her front yard like the last time I did something really stupid and she returned my ring via airmail. No. If I was going to get that picture I would have to face this problem head on or at least face to face with her mother.
The opportunity to speak with her mom about the swimsuit photo came just a few days later. I was invited to dinner at their home. Karen’s dad had passed away when she was twelve so there was just the three of us at the dinner table: Karen, her mom and me. After the meal was over I was helping her mother with the dishes while Karen worked on her homework in the family room. I finally got up the courage to discuss the question of the swimsuit photo. I thought I approached the subject in a rather mature manner. Karen’s mom was gentle with me but gentle didn’t mean she gave me the answer I was hoping for. Instead, she took the opportunity to express just how special the human body is. Then she explained how precious Karen was to her. I will never forget the question she asked me. “Which part of Karen is most important to you? If it is her body I don’t think you are the guy for her. Which ever part of her you want to carry with you all your life, take a mental picture of that and leave the swimsuit photos to the movie stars,” she said. I gave her a hug and I never brought the subject up again.
Karen Young’s mother passed away August 2, 1973. I still miss her and visit her grave each time I return home to Longview, Texas. I also drive by her home where they lived at 805 West Avalon. Just being there in front of her home helps me remember how I grew up a little that night as we stood in front of the kitchen sink drying dishes and feeling that closeness that comes between two people who love each other and overlook the immaturity of a skinny teenager’s weaknesses. She instilled in me a desire to be a better person.
Anyone who has grown up in the shadow of an older brother will sympathize with my situation. My brother Bill was taller, more talented, and carried a picture of one of the best looking girls in the school in his back pocket. “Bill has a picture in his wallet of Patsy wearing a two-piece swimsuit,” I said. Karen gave no response, just continued eating her school lunch. How irritating. How can I plan my next strategy when I don’t get a response? Maybe she was absorbed in other thoughts and didn’t hear what I said. “Did you hear what I said?” I asked. “Yes,” came her one word reply. This conversation wasn’t going well. Apparently there would be no discussion of photographs in a two-piece with this girl who was wearing my high school ring around her neck. Shouldn’t I have rights if she was going to go steady with me? At least I was entitled to an answer. “What do you think about that?” I asked. “About what?” she asked. “About Bill having a picture of Patsy in a two-piece,” I said in exasperation. “I don’t think about it,” she answered. The bell rang signaling the end of lunch break and we returned to our Spanish class. Just as we walked through the door to the classroom Karen said, “The answer to your other question is no.” “I didn’t ask another question,” I said. “I know, but you eventually will ask and the answer to that question that you haven’t asked is still no.”
The Spanish teacher surprised us with a pop quiz that took my attention for the next few minutes. I hate these classes where you go to lunch during the middle of the class period. It’s like having the same class twice in a row. I finished the little inconvenience of that quiz, passed it back to the girl behind me for grading, and soon had my score of 82. That wasn’t bad but Karen flashed her quiz sheet at me which showed a 98. I need to start dating someone dumber, I thought. Or at least date someone who will flash more than a pop quiz score. Class was over and I walked Karen to her next class before heading off to study hall. There was no more discussion of photos in a two-piece. Instead we talked about an argument that Leslie Duffel and Charles Hineman had this morning. How boring. Maybe Charles was asking Leslie for a picture of her in a two-piece to put in his wallet. That would just be my luck. Charles and Leslie were the ones instrumental in getting Karen and me together. Charles was my friend and Leslie was Karen’s friend. We often double dated and when they were having problems it seemed to be contagious: sort of like being exposed to the flu. Karen would tell me what Charles did. I would see nothing wrong with what he did and pretty soon I was the one in trouble.
In study hall I came up with my master plan or my new attack on the photo in the two-piece problem. I just wouldn’t say another word about it. That would drive Karen to curiosity and she would bring up the subject again or nothing would ever be said; either way I thought my chances of getting that photo was about as good as finding a catfish on every single hook of my trotline out at Cherokee Lake. That had never happened in case you are wondering.
After school I met Karen at our regular meeting place and walked her to her car. I carried her books as usual and treated her with the same respect regardless of the fact that she had said no to my request of wanting a picture of her in a two-piece. That’s not true. I had never got around to asking that question. I had never even seen her in a two-piece and I would have been content with a picture of her in a regular swimsuit. But with girls you need to ask for more than you want or you will always get less than you’re planning on. If that sounds complicated, it is. I’m not an expert on this subject; I just have a lot of experience getting less. Finding the 1962 white Chevrolet Belair in the parking lot, I opened the door for Karen and once she was in the car I handed her her books. Man, this woman packs a lot of books home each night. I’m glad I didn’t have that much homework. After she drove away I put my two feet in gear and headed back across the parking lot. These two feet are what I’d be driving home unless I found Charles and we went for a shake at the Golden Point drive-in on Highway 80. After drinking our shakes he would always drive me home. With the argument he and Leslie were having I knew he wouldn’t be taking her home after school. He was waiting for me as I suspected. I got a strawberry shake and Charles got a chocolate. He had woman problems and there wasn’t much I could do for him. I was just thankful that my relationship with Karen wasn’t so complicated. Who cares if she could guess my questions before I asked them? But I wasn’t giving up on that photo of her in a two-piece yet. Charles just laughed when I told him what I was trying to do.
Back in the sixties girls didn’t call guys on the phone unless it was an emergency or there was just a short question that needed to be answered like why haven’t you called me? Karen and I talked on the phone almost every night. I would take the phone in my parent’s bedroom closet and talk until mother came in and said, “It’s time for you to get off the phone.” That meant I had at least another fifteen minutes before she really got mad. Tonight was no different. I called Karen and we talked about the events of the day. I stayed true to my conviction and never brought up the topic of swimsuits and photographs. Right at the very end of our conversation when mom had given me my last warning, Karen said, “You can have a picture of me in a swimsuit if mother says that it is okay.”
Oh great. I bet Bill didn’t have to ask Patsy’s mother if it would be alright for him to have a picture of her in a two-piece snuggled warmly in his hip pocket. Why do I have to live by different rules? “You don’t think I’ll ask your mother, do you?” I said. “Can if you want. But that is the only way that I will let you take a picture of me in a swimsuit,” she explained. “How about in a two-piece?” I asked. “I don’t own a two-piece, have never worn one and I wouldn’t do that even if mother said it was okay.” I was pretty certain that the subject of the two-piece was closed to discussion.
My only problem now was in knowing when to approach her mother for permission. I could just say that she had given me permission but that would never fly. Karen would discuss it with her mom and I would probably end up looking for my class ring in the grass of her front yard like the last time I did something really stupid and she returned my ring via airmail. No. If I was going to get that picture I would have to face this problem head on or at least face to face with her mother.
The opportunity to speak with her mom about the swimsuit photo came just a few days later. I was invited to dinner at their home. Karen’s dad had passed away when she was twelve so there was just the three of us at the dinner table: Karen, her mom and me. After the meal was over I was helping her mother with the dishes while Karen worked on her homework in the family room. I finally got up the courage to discuss the question of the swimsuit photo. I thought I approached the subject in a rather mature manner. Karen’s mom was gentle with me but gentle didn’t mean she gave me the answer I was hoping for. Instead, she took the opportunity to express just how special the human body is. Then she explained how precious Karen was to her. I will never forget the question she asked me. “Which part of Karen is most important to you? If it is her body I don’t think you are the guy for her. Which ever part of her you want to carry with you all your life, take a mental picture of that and leave the swimsuit photos to the movie stars,” she said. I gave her a hug and I never brought the subject up again.
Karen Young’s mother passed away August 2, 1973. I still miss her and visit her grave each time I return home to Longview, Texas. I also drive by her home where they lived at 805 West Avalon. Just being there in front of her home helps me remember how I grew up a little that night as we stood in front of the kitchen sink drying dishes and feeling that closeness that comes between two people who love each other and overlook the immaturity of a skinny teenager’s weaknesses. She instilled in me a desire to be a better person.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
The Wedding
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
On occasion I will experience a dream in very sharp detail. When that occurs, I often take the time to record the specifics of that dream in what I call my other journal. I refer to it as my other journal because it is separate from the daily journal where I describe the events of the day and express my feelings on various subjects. On the night of July 24th of this year, I had a dream about a double wedding, a wedding in which my best friend and I were getting married.
It was a happy occasion. The facility where we would have a double reception was spacious enough to accommodate the invited guests of all four families involved. My best friend’s wedding was scheduled to take place at one o’clock and my wedding would be at two o’clock in the afternoon. I was originally scheduled to be married at the one o’clock time but my friend’s fiancée insisted that their wedding take place first. What difference would one hour make? My bride-to-be and I discussed the situation and concluded that we would let them go first. No harm done. My family, friends and the photographer were notified of the time change and we were set.
I remember thinking how happy I was that I wasn’t marrying the girl that my best friend had chosen. What would it be like over the years to be married to someone who created so much fuss about being first? She reminded me of my dog Walter who always had to be first. No matter where we were going, if his nose wasn’t at least an inch in front of everyone else, including the bumper of a four-wheeler, he was whining and unhappy. I started calling my best friend’s fiancée Walter although I didn’t tell her why I was referring to her by that name. When I told my future wife the definition behind my choice of nickname for my best friend’s fiancée she just chastised me for my pettiness.
The wedding day finally arrived. It was early morning and I went over to the reception center to see how the setup was going. I couldn’t believe the attention to detail that was taking place. People were scurrying around dusting, arranging flowers, and setting up punch bowl fountains. From the looks of things there was anticipation of a large turnout of invited guests. I walked around surveying the decorations but mostly I just watched the people as they worked. An elderly woman was setting up tables and I went over to help. She said, “You shouldn’t be do this, it’s your wedding day.” I ignored her comment and continued setting up tables. Two elderly men were setting up a display area for gifts. I went over and offered a helping hand. They looked at me and said, “You shouldn’t be doing this, it’s your wedding day.”
What should I be doing on my wedding day? I wasn’t getting married until 2:00 thanks to Miss has to go first or Walter as I now called her. Thank goodness she doesn’t know the meaning behind her new nickname. As I stood looking around in the middle of the reception center, my future wife came through the door. She gave me a full body hug and I kissed her lightly on the lips. We both knew that we were the focus of all the eyes in the room. “I thought it was bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” I said. “No, you just shouldn’t see me in my wedding dress before the wedding,” she replied. “I think that’s a bunch of bunk,” I said. “So do I and to prove it you can come over and watch me dress if you like,” she said. I was caught off guard. She saw my surprised look and replied, “Just kidding. You can watch me dress all you want after today. But until 2:00 I still belong to my daddy.” “Does that mean your daddy is going to watch you get dressed?” I responded with a grin. Without answering my question, she kissed me on the lips again signaling that the conversation was over. “Let’s see what we can do to help get this place set up,” she said. “You can forget that. They don’t want our help,” I said. “We’ll see about that. Your Miss Walter, as you call her, won’t be very happy unless everything is just right,” she said, as she marched off to the kitchen.
At noon my fiancée’s cell phone rang. Upon answering, she broadcast a concerned look on her face and headed for the door. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “I need to go start getting ready for the wedding,” she replied. I guess so; we’re getting married in two hours. But knowing her, everything would already be laid out just waiting for her to slip into. Just think, after today I can watch her slip into whatever she is wearing. This is a strange world we live in. What is inappropriate today becomes a-okay after a few commitments to love, cherish, hold in sickness and in health . . . until death do you part. Wait a minute. I’m marrying this girl forever. Well, this marriage can be forever if that’s what we choose and keep our commitments. There is no free lunch in this world according to my mother. Mother must have never met someone on welfare.
I felt like a welfare recipient because I was certainly getting more than I deserved in my future wife. My dad said that he couldn’t have made a better choice if he had picked her out himself. Others had commented that I had bested myself and I should marry this girl quick before she wised up to the real me. That’s what I was doing today and after 2:00 I hoped that she would never look back. I know I didn’t want to give her a reason to want to look back. It’s a scary thing when half of all marriages are ending in divorce. This marriage forever stuff is serious business not to say that any marriage isn’t serious business. As a word of fatherly counsel dad took me aside and said, “If this marriage lasts it’ll be because of you. If this marriage fails, it will be because of you.” Where does he come up with this stuff? It reminded me of the counsel he gave me when I left on my mission for the LDS Church. “Son, you made this decision to serve a mission all on your own. No one pressured you to do it. Now there are only two ways to come back home: either with an honorable release for a job well done or in a box.” That didn’t leave many options. I certainly wasn’t going to choose the box method.
Now dad was telling me that if this marriage failed it would be because of my behavior. At least my situation was improving. If this marriage truly was forever, at least the box wasn’t going to undo what would take place at 2:00. If you haven’t figured out what dad meant by “the box” give him a call. He’s eighty-five and probably thinking more about the box than most of you.
I hurried home to change clothes so I wouldn’t be late for my best friend’s wedding. Wow, the room where the wedding was scheduled to take place was packed. The bride, draped in her wedding veil, was already seated in the room waiting for the ceremony to begin. She turned and looked at me when I entered the room. Her head turned but her face was concealed by the veil. I felt a little sheepish for having nicknamed her Walter. If we remained friends over the coming years I would probably tell her the truth. On the other hand, maybe I wouldn’t. It was bad enough that my future wife knew the significance of the nickname but she knew everything about me. From the beginning, I didn’t hold anything back from her. I told her things that she probably wished I had kept to myself. But I wanted her to know all of me. I felt like I had known her my entire life and I was just catching her up on the cracks and crevices that she might have missed.
As I sat there waiting for the ceremony to begin I gradually developed an odd feeling. As I looked around the room I recognized more of these people than I should have known. I couldn’t figure out why so many of my future wife’s family were here at the ceremony. Why would they be attending my best friend’s wedding? I shrugged my shoulders and thought that maybe they were still confused about what time our marriage was to take place. Remember we had traded times with Miss has to go first or Walter as I affectionately referred to her. I didn’t have to trouble my brain for long. The door closed and the ceremony began. My best friend led his bride-to-be to the alter and assisted her as she knelt on the left side. He then came around and knelt opposite of her on the right side of the alter.
When I saw him reach across the alter and take her by the right hand I suddenly knew why my future wife’s family was in the room. That hand resting upon the alter was her hand, the hand that I had held so many evenings as we sat and talked about our future together. That same hand had wrapped around me and drew me to her this very morning as she hugged me and gave me a kiss and teased me about coming to watch her dress for the wedding. I started to stand and put a stop to what was taking place but a firm hand rested upon my shoulder and held me in my seat. A man I had never seen before leaned over and whispered, “The parents got together this morning and decided that you would learn more about life if you married the girl you refer to a Walter. Your choice of a wife was only yours to make so long as that choice was acceptable to the parents involved. Don’t worry, your marriage will still take place at 2:00. And by the way, remember the counsel your father gave you about a successful marriage.”
If I were to tell you that I awoke from my dream at this point with a cold sweat it wouldn’t be the complete truth. The dream didn’t end here but my story ends here. Microsoft Word says that I am telling this dream on a 6.4 grade level. In my dream world I must still be in elementary school. At this rate I won’t graduate to junior high school dreams before I am dead. I can’t wait to see what my junior high dreams will be like. They will probably be similar to my sixth grade dreams; some pleasant, others not so pleasant. Just like life.
On occasion I will experience a dream in very sharp detail. When that occurs, I often take the time to record the specifics of that dream in what I call my other journal. I refer to it as my other journal because it is separate from the daily journal where I describe the events of the day and express my feelings on various subjects. On the night of July 24th of this year, I had a dream about a double wedding, a wedding in which my best friend and I were getting married.
It was a happy occasion. The facility where we would have a double reception was spacious enough to accommodate the invited guests of all four families involved. My best friend’s wedding was scheduled to take place at one o’clock and my wedding would be at two o’clock in the afternoon. I was originally scheduled to be married at the one o’clock time but my friend’s fiancée insisted that their wedding take place first. What difference would one hour make? My bride-to-be and I discussed the situation and concluded that we would let them go first. No harm done. My family, friends and the photographer were notified of the time change and we were set.
I remember thinking how happy I was that I wasn’t marrying the girl that my best friend had chosen. What would it be like over the years to be married to someone who created so much fuss about being first? She reminded me of my dog Walter who always had to be first. No matter where we were going, if his nose wasn’t at least an inch in front of everyone else, including the bumper of a four-wheeler, he was whining and unhappy. I started calling my best friend’s fiancée Walter although I didn’t tell her why I was referring to her by that name. When I told my future wife the definition behind my choice of nickname for my best friend’s fiancée she just chastised me for my pettiness.
The wedding day finally arrived. It was early morning and I went over to the reception center to see how the setup was going. I couldn’t believe the attention to detail that was taking place. People were scurrying around dusting, arranging flowers, and setting up punch bowl fountains. From the looks of things there was anticipation of a large turnout of invited guests. I walked around surveying the decorations but mostly I just watched the people as they worked. An elderly woman was setting up tables and I went over to help. She said, “You shouldn’t be do this, it’s your wedding day.” I ignored her comment and continued setting up tables. Two elderly men were setting up a display area for gifts. I went over and offered a helping hand. They looked at me and said, “You shouldn’t be doing this, it’s your wedding day.”
What should I be doing on my wedding day? I wasn’t getting married until 2:00 thanks to Miss has to go first or Walter as I now called her. Thank goodness she doesn’t know the meaning behind her new nickname. As I stood looking around in the middle of the reception center, my future wife came through the door. She gave me a full body hug and I kissed her lightly on the lips. We both knew that we were the focus of all the eyes in the room. “I thought it was bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” I said. “No, you just shouldn’t see me in my wedding dress before the wedding,” she replied. “I think that’s a bunch of bunk,” I said. “So do I and to prove it you can come over and watch me dress if you like,” she said. I was caught off guard. She saw my surprised look and replied, “Just kidding. You can watch me dress all you want after today. But until 2:00 I still belong to my daddy.” “Does that mean your daddy is going to watch you get dressed?” I responded with a grin. Without answering my question, she kissed me on the lips again signaling that the conversation was over. “Let’s see what we can do to help get this place set up,” she said. “You can forget that. They don’t want our help,” I said. “We’ll see about that. Your Miss Walter, as you call her, won’t be very happy unless everything is just right,” she said, as she marched off to the kitchen.
At noon my fiancée’s cell phone rang. Upon answering, she broadcast a concerned look on her face and headed for the door. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “I need to go start getting ready for the wedding,” she replied. I guess so; we’re getting married in two hours. But knowing her, everything would already be laid out just waiting for her to slip into. Just think, after today I can watch her slip into whatever she is wearing. This is a strange world we live in. What is inappropriate today becomes a-okay after a few commitments to love, cherish, hold in sickness and in health . . . until death do you part. Wait a minute. I’m marrying this girl forever. Well, this marriage can be forever if that’s what we choose and keep our commitments. There is no free lunch in this world according to my mother. Mother must have never met someone on welfare.
I felt like a welfare recipient because I was certainly getting more than I deserved in my future wife. My dad said that he couldn’t have made a better choice if he had picked her out himself. Others had commented that I had bested myself and I should marry this girl quick before she wised up to the real me. That’s what I was doing today and after 2:00 I hoped that she would never look back. I know I didn’t want to give her a reason to want to look back. It’s a scary thing when half of all marriages are ending in divorce. This marriage forever stuff is serious business not to say that any marriage isn’t serious business. As a word of fatherly counsel dad took me aside and said, “If this marriage lasts it’ll be because of you. If this marriage fails, it will be because of you.” Where does he come up with this stuff? It reminded me of the counsel he gave me when I left on my mission for the LDS Church. “Son, you made this decision to serve a mission all on your own. No one pressured you to do it. Now there are only two ways to come back home: either with an honorable release for a job well done or in a box.” That didn’t leave many options. I certainly wasn’t going to choose the box method.
Now dad was telling me that if this marriage failed it would be because of my behavior. At least my situation was improving. If this marriage truly was forever, at least the box wasn’t going to undo what would take place at 2:00. If you haven’t figured out what dad meant by “the box” give him a call. He’s eighty-five and probably thinking more about the box than most of you.
I hurried home to change clothes so I wouldn’t be late for my best friend’s wedding. Wow, the room where the wedding was scheduled to take place was packed. The bride, draped in her wedding veil, was already seated in the room waiting for the ceremony to begin. She turned and looked at me when I entered the room. Her head turned but her face was concealed by the veil. I felt a little sheepish for having nicknamed her Walter. If we remained friends over the coming years I would probably tell her the truth. On the other hand, maybe I wouldn’t. It was bad enough that my future wife knew the significance of the nickname but she knew everything about me. From the beginning, I didn’t hold anything back from her. I told her things that she probably wished I had kept to myself. But I wanted her to know all of me. I felt like I had known her my entire life and I was just catching her up on the cracks and crevices that she might have missed.
As I sat there waiting for the ceremony to begin I gradually developed an odd feeling. As I looked around the room I recognized more of these people than I should have known. I couldn’t figure out why so many of my future wife’s family were here at the ceremony. Why would they be attending my best friend’s wedding? I shrugged my shoulders and thought that maybe they were still confused about what time our marriage was to take place. Remember we had traded times with Miss has to go first or Walter as I affectionately referred to her. I didn’t have to trouble my brain for long. The door closed and the ceremony began. My best friend led his bride-to-be to the alter and assisted her as she knelt on the left side. He then came around and knelt opposite of her on the right side of the alter.
When I saw him reach across the alter and take her by the right hand I suddenly knew why my future wife’s family was in the room. That hand resting upon the alter was her hand, the hand that I had held so many evenings as we sat and talked about our future together. That same hand had wrapped around me and drew me to her this very morning as she hugged me and gave me a kiss and teased me about coming to watch her dress for the wedding. I started to stand and put a stop to what was taking place but a firm hand rested upon my shoulder and held me in my seat. A man I had never seen before leaned over and whispered, “The parents got together this morning and decided that you would learn more about life if you married the girl you refer to a Walter. Your choice of a wife was only yours to make so long as that choice was acceptable to the parents involved. Don’t worry, your marriage will still take place at 2:00. And by the way, remember the counsel your father gave you about a successful marriage.”
If I were to tell you that I awoke from my dream at this point with a cold sweat it wouldn’t be the complete truth. The dream didn’t end here but my story ends here. Microsoft Word says that I am telling this dream on a 6.4 grade level. In my dream world I must still be in elementary school. At this rate I won’t graduate to junior high school dreams before I am dead. I can’t wait to see what my junior high dreams will be like. They will probably be similar to my sixth grade dreams; some pleasant, others not so pleasant. Just like life.
Pillow Talk
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Is it possible that during all these years I didn’t know who I was sleeping with? Or better still, did I just take it for granted that if I lost my bed partner I could easily replace it with another. I never thought much about my pillow until it turned up missing. How can something turn up and still be missing is a mystery to me. Or at least that phrase is what I would call an oxymoron; turning up and being missing all at the same time. The loss of my pillow was like a good friend had disappeared. Funny how comforting a pillow can be. You fluff it, fold it and wrap your arms around it as you drift off to sleep. During the night you might push it aside or even push it off the bed onto the floor, but eventually you awaken, stretch, and wonder where that pillow went. With eyes half open and consciousness teetering back and forth like a staggering drunk, you grope here and there for that pillow. Clutching it once more you tug and pull at it until you get it positioned comfortably back under your head and drift of to sleep.
When morning comes you fluff it, pat it into shape and cover it with the bedspread and think nothing more about the pillow until it is time once more to lie down for another night’s sleep. If we aren’t careful that is what we begin to do in our relationships with others. We pull them close to us when we have a need and think little of them when we are busy with the cares and challenges of life. In all honesty, I don’t think that anyone would choose to be someone else’s pillow, to be fluffed and patted and pushed away until a need arises. Then, when that need presents itself, expect the pillow to be right there where it was left just waiting to be of service once more.
Now I’m not suggesting that we carry our pillows around under our arm all day. We would get strange looks for sure. And heaven forbid what others might think. But if we are mindful during the day of the benefit those comforting pillows bring as we slumber through the night, we would be more appreciative and respectful of them. Do you have pillows in your life that you use at will and discard when you no longer have a need? I wonder how the pillows would feel if they had feelings. Thank goodness they don’t have feelings. We punch them, stuff them, fold them, and then drool on them at the very moment they are providing us the best level of comfort. Even when we travel it is comforting to snuggle down into a familiar pillow and close our eyes in search of that dream that tantalizes the imagination.
As I conclude my journal writings tonight and list the things that I am grateful for I should list the pillows of my life, the ones who have listened to my complaints, my disappointments and have even been witnesses to my prayers that often reach no farther than the bed covers because my heart has wandered while my lips recited the words.
But they have never complained, never given unsolicited advice but have silently fulfilled their duty as we punch them, fluff them, and fold them to meet our own needs.
Do you have people in your life that you have treated as pillows? I imagine you are somewhat like me, ready to think of someone else you know who could certainly use this little message. “It’s too bad old Charlie didn’t hear this. Someone needs to give him a good Indian burn for the way he treats his wife and kids.” Yes, it is easier to point out the faults of others than make that inward assessment and pluck the cactus needles in our own rear end. We often choose to sit on our own problems no matter how painful they are and point with a judgmental finger at the weaknesses of another. Even if you sit on your pillow instead of lay your head on it, you can still feel the cactus needles in your rear end. I’ve never heard a pillow complain or blame someone else for its problems, even when someone is sitting on it. I know a few people like that. But not many.
Is it possible that during all these years I didn’t know who I was sleeping with? Or better still, did I just take it for granted that if I lost my bed partner I could easily replace it with another. I never thought much about my pillow until it turned up missing. How can something turn up and still be missing is a mystery to me. Or at least that phrase is what I would call an oxymoron; turning up and being missing all at the same time. The loss of my pillow was like a good friend had disappeared. Funny how comforting a pillow can be. You fluff it, fold it and wrap your arms around it as you drift off to sleep. During the night you might push it aside or even push it off the bed onto the floor, but eventually you awaken, stretch, and wonder where that pillow went. With eyes half open and consciousness teetering back and forth like a staggering drunk, you grope here and there for that pillow. Clutching it once more you tug and pull at it until you get it positioned comfortably back under your head and drift of to sleep.
When morning comes you fluff it, pat it into shape and cover it with the bedspread and think nothing more about the pillow until it is time once more to lie down for another night’s sleep. If we aren’t careful that is what we begin to do in our relationships with others. We pull them close to us when we have a need and think little of them when we are busy with the cares and challenges of life. In all honesty, I don’t think that anyone would choose to be someone else’s pillow, to be fluffed and patted and pushed away until a need arises. Then, when that need presents itself, expect the pillow to be right there where it was left just waiting to be of service once more.
Now I’m not suggesting that we carry our pillows around under our arm all day. We would get strange looks for sure. And heaven forbid what others might think. But if we are mindful during the day of the benefit those comforting pillows bring as we slumber through the night, we would be more appreciative and respectful of them. Do you have pillows in your life that you use at will and discard when you no longer have a need? I wonder how the pillows would feel if they had feelings. Thank goodness they don’t have feelings. We punch them, stuff them, fold them, and then drool on them at the very moment they are providing us the best level of comfort. Even when we travel it is comforting to snuggle down into a familiar pillow and close our eyes in search of that dream that tantalizes the imagination.
As I conclude my journal writings tonight and list the things that I am grateful for I should list the pillows of my life, the ones who have listened to my complaints, my disappointments and have even been witnesses to my prayers that often reach no farther than the bed covers because my heart has wandered while my lips recited the words.
But they have never complained, never given unsolicited advice but have silently fulfilled their duty as we punch them, fluff them, and fold them to meet our own needs.
Do you have people in your life that you have treated as pillows? I imagine you are somewhat like me, ready to think of someone else you know who could certainly use this little message. “It’s too bad old Charlie didn’t hear this. Someone needs to give him a good Indian burn for the way he treats his wife and kids.” Yes, it is easier to point out the faults of others than make that inward assessment and pluck the cactus needles in our own rear end. We often choose to sit on our own problems no matter how painful they are and point with a judgmental finger at the weaknesses of another. Even if you sit on your pillow instead of lay your head on it, you can still feel the cactus needles in your rear end. I’ve never heard a pillow complain or blame someone else for its problems, even when someone is sitting on it. I know a few people like that. But not many.
When the Wind Blows
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
As the old story goes, the farm boy could sleep when the wind blew because he was prepared in all things. I have usually been able to sleep regardless of whether the wind blew. One night not long ago the wind was blowing against our family. It wasn’t a natural wind caused by the atmospheric pressure of one air mass rushing to meet another. It was the constant gentle breeze coming from the air conditioning vents of the houseboat.
That cool air coming from those vents was designed to refresh us as we enjoyed being together on a houseboat at Lake Powell in celebration of our thirty-third family reunion. But in truth that cool air, that gentle artificial breeze was gradually poisoning us with carbon monoxide. With hind sight we could have done more to be prepared but this night, July 10th, 2007, we would have our metal tested as we dealt with an emergency far more serious than wind rocking our houseboat.
The natural wind did rock our houseboat later that night. As the wind increased in velocity one shore anchor gave way allowing the houseboat to weathervane into the wind. Sleeping bags, pillows, towels and clothing left lying on the deck of the houseboat were being blown into the water. Much of the effort to secure personal possessions that had not already been blown into the water was accomplished before I arrived back at the houseboat.
As I returned to the houseboat my mind wasn’t on the wind or on the houseboat. I was just going through the mechanical motions to secure the boat. We cranked the engines, letting the props hold the boat steady in the wind while we drilled more anchor holes in the sandstone rock of the shore. Within minutes we had four additional ropes securing the houseboat against the storm. I knew that the wind would stop blowing and personal gear could be replaced. My worry and concern was for my family members who were at the Bullfrog Emergency Medical Clinic being treated for carbon monoxide poisoning. Thirty-two people were transported to the clinic and twenty-two tested with levels of poisoning high enough to be admitted for treatment.
As the real wind of adversity blew against our family that night, I am thankful that emergency personnel were on duty and prepared to give us assistance. I am also mindful and grateful for the events that seemed to just fall into place as we grappled with our emergency. You may call those events coincidences. Neal A. Maxwell is quoted as having said, “There are no coincidences in life.” I agree with his statement. I believe we were in larger hands that night.
As the old story goes, the farm boy could sleep when the wind blew because he was prepared in all things. I have usually been able to sleep regardless of whether the wind blew. One night not long ago the wind was blowing against our family. It wasn’t a natural wind caused by the atmospheric pressure of one air mass rushing to meet another. It was the constant gentle breeze coming from the air conditioning vents of the houseboat.
That cool air coming from those vents was designed to refresh us as we enjoyed being together on a houseboat at Lake Powell in celebration of our thirty-third family reunion. But in truth that cool air, that gentle artificial breeze was gradually poisoning us with carbon monoxide. With hind sight we could have done more to be prepared but this night, July 10th, 2007, we would have our metal tested as we dealt with an emergency far more serious than wind rocking our houseboat.
The natural wind did rock our houseboat later that night. As the wind increased in velocity one shore anchor gave way allowing the houseboat to weathervane into the wind. Sleeping bags, pillows, towels and clothing left lying on the deck of the houseboat were being blown into the water. Much of the effort to secure personal possessions that had not already been blown into the water was accomplished before I arrived back at the houseboat.
As I returned to the houseboat my mind wasn’t on the wind or on the houseboat. I was just going through the mechanical motions to secure the boat. We cranked the engines, letting the props hold the boat steady in the wind while we drilled more anchor holes in the sandstone rock of the shore. Within minutes we had four additional ropes securing the houseboat against the storm. I knew that the wind would stop blowing and personal gear could be replaced. My worry and concern was for my family members who were at the Bullfrog Emergency Medical Clinic being treated for carbon monoxide poisoning. Thirty-two people were transported to the clinic and twenty-two tested with levels of poisoning high enough to be admitted for treatment.
As the real wind of adversity blew against our family that night, I am thankful that emergency personnel were on duty and prepared to give us assistance. I am also mindful and grateful for the events that seemed to just fall into place as we grappled with our emergency. You may call those events coincidences. Neal A. Maxwell is quoted as having said, “There are no coincidences in life.” I agree with his statement. I believe we were in larger hands that night.
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