Jerry Mack Grubbs

Sleeping Giant

2008-12-07T17:57:00.001-07:00

It was on a beautiful Sunday morning just like today sixty-seven years ago that the bombing of Pearl Harbor took place. This event that marked American history had been in the planning for many months. The element of surprise was essential for the successful completion of this mission by the Japanese Navy. It also required the pre arranged ultimate personal sacrifice of many pilots of the Japanese Air Force. As reports of the success of the mission were radioed back to the aircraft carriers where the fighter planes and bombers had been launched, there was great celebration and elation over what had been accomplished. The American fleet had been destroyed and the threat of American forces playing a vital role in the war was significantly diminished.

In sealed documents later made public, there were officers of the Japanese military who expressed concern that the bombing of the Hawaiian Islands would only serve to “awaken a sleeping giant.” And that was a prophecy that was fulfilled over the following months and years of the war. No other single event in American history since the war for independence had galvanized the American people more than this unprovoked attack.

By the end of the war many soldiers and civilians had lost their lives. Most of those who died had been ordered into combat by their governments and commanding officers. They were ordinary people leading ordinary lives with hopes and dreams. They were husbands, fathers and boyfriends with great anticipations of living long happy lives.

As the war waged on year after year, a callousness settled over the people. When the weekly news reports were released giving the estimated total dead of the enemy, great jubilation took place and when the numbers of allied deaths were reported, great mourning occurred. Whether mourning occurred or rejoicing took place was solely based on which side of the war someone drew their allegiance. Their perceptions were based on personal experiences, family dynamics and exposure to information regardless of whether that information was true or false.

As I have grown older, I have become more aware of the fallibility of my own perceptions and have endeavored to examine them more closely before arriving at a conclusion. “Are my perceptions defensible?” I ask myself. Notice I used the term “defensible” and not “defendable.” Defensible means capable of being defended, well founded: whereas, defendable means to maintain an unbending position under hostile criticism. It is human nature to want to be right and some will go to any lengths to defend a decision or idea long after common sense has suggested otherwise.

Being willing to actively listen to different viewpoints broadens understanding. And with a broader understanding comes the ability to better examine what occurred in the past, learn from it and hopefully make better decisions about pending challenges today. I’m grateful that I do not rely on the perceptions I had as a child to make decisions today. I am equally thankful that my perceptions I had as a teenager do not govern the decisions I make today. As I reflect on this topic I am reminded of a quote from the movie “First Knight” when King Arthur of Camelot said, “God grant us the wisdom to discover the right, the will to choose it, and the strength to make it endure.” I know of no better formula for evaluating a situation and making a defensible decision that will stand the test of time.

Just like Pearl Harbor awakened a “sleeping giant” in the American population, just being aware of and willing to examine our own perceptions will awaken a sleeping giant within each of us. We will be better husbands and wives, better mothers and fathers, better neighbors, whether that neighbor lives next door or across the border or even the broad expanse of the ocean.

Wiser Than Me

2008-11-27T00:47:00.002-07:00

My heart is full as I anticipate gathering as a family for another day of Thanksgiving. My eyes become moist with tears when I realize that each and every day should be a day of thanksgiving in my life.

Reflecting on my blessings helps me better understand how easy it is to get wrapped up in the blanket of ingratitude. One thing that has helped me peel off that blanket is the study of the tragic and sad parts of the history of the world where men have treaded upon the rights of their fellow men with impunity. I am humbled as I think about the pain, heartache, and suffering that millions have endured because of the greed, pride, and selfishness of a few. While there is sadness in my heart for all these atrocities of society there isn’t anything I can do to change the past. But there are things that I can do today to help make someone’s life less pained and less difficult.

I recently attended a cousin’s reunion back in the area where I grew up. There on those dusty country roads of East Texas years ago, I ran barefoot, played in the woods, found ancient Indian arrowheads and dammed up the creek to swim in the cool water that washed away the heat of a summer afternoon. As I washed away that heat I didn’t realize that at the same time I was bathing myself with memories that would remain with me all my life.

In those carefree days we ran shoeless and shirtless except when coming to the supper table. We felt safe and loved under the watchful eyes of parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. Within their care we weren’t able to stray too far from the course that those “wiser than we” had planned for us.

As youth we were full of energy and enthusiasm. There weren’t enough daylight hours to do all the things we wanted to do. As we ran through the house headed for the front door that opened the world to us, often the last words I’d hear were “Don’t slam the screen door.” We’d be gone until hunger drew us back to Granny’s house for hot rolls or pound cake and cold milk.

As an adult I gradually began to realize that not everyone had such an innocent childhood. “Why me?” I’d ask. Why was I so blessed? Then I realized I had very little to do with it. It was the people around me that made such a safe, watched-over childhood possible for me. Today, many of those adults who kept a close check on me are gone from this life. They may be physically gone but their memory is very much alive inside of me. I’m reminded of a saying I once saw on a grave marker, “A life well lived, lives on.” The lives of my deceased family members live on in my memory. And every good deed I have done in life is in part a result of their good example and love shown to me.

How grateful I am for my heritage. I owe so much to those who went before me; more than I can ever repay. What small repayment I can make is to help someone, lift someone, encourage someone, or compliment someone. There is a familiar saying, “I can’t do everything but I can do something. What I can do, I will do” with a feeling of gratitude for those who nurtured me in my youth and who were “Wiser than me.”

Each day of our lives can be a Day of Thanksgiving. Though we may not eat turkey, dressing and cranberries each day, we can certainly create a day of thanksgiving in our own lives and in the lives of others as we reach out and touch them in gentle ways. May Heavenly Father’s blessings rain down upon you and bathe you in the soft memories of those in your life who had a positive influence on you and at the time were “Wiser than you.”

Butterflies on the Wind

2008-11-16T21:51:00.000-07:00

It didn’t make sense but I decided it didn’t have to make sense to anyone but me. The cold water sliding over my bare feet sent a November chill up my body as I stepped out into the water and shoved my canoe down stream and jumped in. I had floated the Green River the previous six years and vowed that I’d do it again this year. Summer slipped into fall and other responsibilities crowded out my scheduled trip down the river.

The desire to experience the solitude and beauty of the river wasn’t dampened by the turning of the weather. True, slipping out of the canoe in the middle of the river and cooling off from the hot summer sun wouldn’t be my experience with this trip. But that didn’t discourage me from thinking of and looking for the blue herons, the turtles, and the occasional cougar footprints often seen down near the edge of the water. Dipping my paddle in the water using a modified “j” stroke that works best for maneuvering a canoe all alone, I set up a rhythm and the ripples that ran off my paddle and splashed back into the river with each stroke became music to my ears.

That music in my mind recalled another trip down the river when two of my daughters were paddling and singing, their voices drifting down the river like soft butterflies on the wind. Each time I thought of that day a lump rose in my throat and my eyes became wet with tears of tenderness. I was filled with gratitude as I reflected on the love that my children have shown me all my life.

All day long I paddled and enjoyed the wonders of the river. As darkness chased the winter sun close to the horizon and I began to see my breath on the calm air, I knew it was time to find a sandbar and camp for the evening. I took the wood from my dry pack and started a small fire. An Indian saying came to my mind as I sat and watched moths dance around the small flames. “An Indian builds a small fire and is warmed through and through while the white man builds a large fire and is too hot on one side and too cold on the back side.”

As I sat there in the darkening evening I was warmed by the memories of past river trips as much as I was warmed by the fire. I looked up and once more witnessed the multitude of stars in a moonless night and felt so much gratitude for all my blessings and opportunities in life: family, friends, freedoms fought for by others, and my health. Looking up at the night sky brought to my heart again and again that although I sat alone on a wintry riverbank I did not feel lonely in this vast universe. Appearing small and insignificant in comparison to the expanse of the huge star filled sky, I didn’t feel small when I thought of the love I feel from those I hold dear. They have treated my feelings as though they were soft butterflies on the wind just like the music my daughters created with their voices on this river one summer day in my life.

Two for One?

2008-03-30T19:23:00.002-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

A friend recently asked me a question. My answer to her question was, “Two for one.” When I said those words a memory of years ago came flooding across me and washed me up on the sands of my youth.

The Memory:

“I’ll trade you two cat-eyes for one of your steelies,” she said. “No, I wouldn’t trade you one of my steelies for a hundred cat-eyed marbles,” I said. “I don’t have a hundred cat-eyes,” she said with a look of forlorn disappointment. “I said I wouldn’t trade for a hundred cat-eyes so it doesn’t matter whether you have that many or not,” I said.

Playing marbles-for-keeps was the first form of gambling I was exposed to in my youth. It took place on the playground in the first grade at Gilmer Elementary. We played at recess, during lunch break and while waiting for the bus to take us home after school. I once got so engrossed in the game that I missed the bus and had to walk the seven miles home. I burst through the door of our home about the same time the family got worried enough to come looking for me. I was so excited. I had just won my second steelie.

I’ll explain the rules of the game for those of you who have never played marbles-for-keeps. First you draw a circle in the dirt. Each player tosses three marbles into the circle. Then the players take turns as they kneel down, curl the index finger around a marble called a “shooter” and position the thumb behind the marble in preparation of flipping the “shooter” marble toward its intended target. Any marble knocked out of the circle by the “shooter” marble becomes the property of the one who made the shot. If, by chance, the shooter marble fails to knock another marble out of the circle and it does not pass out of the circle either, then the shooter marble must remain in the circle and became free game for the other players to try to knock it out of the circle.

Playing marbles-for-keeps with someone who was using a steelie as his shooter was dangerous business. A steelie could easily knock other marbles out of the circle because of its additional weight. You could drop a steelie in the circle at the start of a game but you couldn’t use a steelie as your shooter marble unless you had previously won it fair-and-square in a marbles-for-keeps game.

When William (we called him Will) dropped a steelie into the circle I couldn’t believe my luck. It is almost impossible to knock a steelie out of the circle unless it was done by another steelie. Fortune was smiling on me that day. I had won my first steelie just two weeks earlier by sheer luck when other boys trying to win it had knocked it right next to the edge of the circle. I smacked it as hard as I could from across the ring drawn in the dirt. The steelie barely passed outside the circle. I immediately pocketed it and had no intention of gambling with it in the future. When Will dropped his steelie in the circle he had forgotten that I had a steelie buried deep in my pocket.

When the game was over I was the owner of two steelies. With two steelies I could afford to gamble a little more recklessly. Over the course of the next few weeks I had assembled a sack of fifty-four marbles. I had cat-eyes, swirls, blues, greens, whites, grays and even two crystal clear marbles. I never gambled my two crystal clear marbles. I considered them my good luck marbles. The two steelies and the two crystal clear marbles were not ever carried in my marble sack. I kept them in my pocket separate from everything else.

Once I forgot to take my special marbles out of my pant’s pocket. When mother was washing my clothes, as she fed the pants through the ringer to squeeze out the water and soap, the ringer rollers jerked, hesitated then bounced over something hard in the pant’s pocket. Fishing into the pocket mother found one of my steelies. When she told me she found one of my marbles I was gripped with fear. If she only found one then three others were missing because I kept them together. I ran to the old tub style washer and sloshed my hand through the dirty wash water. To my relief, I found the other three marbles and made a promise to myself to be more careful with them in the future.

My treasure sack of fifty-four marbles was due mainly to my tactic of placing one steelie in the circle where it would be hard to knock out and using the other steelie as my shooter. Now you know why I was unwilling to trade a steelie for two measly cat-eyes. Some things are too precious to trade away. “If you won’t trade for one of your steelies, will you trade one of your crystal clear marbles?” she asked. “Never,” I said without a moment’s hesitation. How could I trade one of them? They were my good luck.

Fast forward to 2003. I had those two crystal clear marbles with me when I was hiking with family and friends in the Black Box of the San Rafael Swell. As I sat in the shallow water at the take-out point of the hike I reached into my pocket and discovered that one of my marbles was missing. I hurriedly looked around the immediate area where I sat and cleaned the small pebbly gravel out of my tennis shoes but my crystal marble was not to be found. I was saddened by the loss of that marble but I had a group of family and friends who were relying on me to lead them back to the safety and comfort of our campsite.

Later I obtained another crystal clear marble to replace my lost one. When asked which one was the original marble I said, “I don’t know. It’s more about what the marble represents than whether it is an original.” Besides, I still had two steelies that were originals and they were safely tucked away with a few other boyhood artifacts. Their true value isn’t of a monetary nature but the value is in the memories that are wrapped around them. Too often we hold on too tightly to the marble instead of what it represents. No, I wouldn’t trade two for one, twenty for one or even a hundred for one. But I’m now speaking of the memories, not the marbles. Each and every memory is precious to me. Family and friends are wrapped up in the memories that make up the sum total of who I am. My memories are not for sale, nor for trade, but only for sharing. As I share them they are still retained. Only a few of you have seen my crystal clear and steelie marbles but many of you have been a part of my memories. For that I am most grateful. For that I am richly blessed.

I originally called this article, “Marbles & Memories” but later decided to just call it “Two for One?” As I move into the fall or winter of my life (depending on what you prefer to call it) my memories have become more precious than my marbles. However, I can still hold those marbles in my hand and when I do, the memories come flooding back. Today I would gladly trade two marbles to entice you to share just one of your precious memories with me. But don’t ask me to give up one of the steelies or crystal clear marbles of my youth for I will never travel that road again except in the memories of my mind.

Precious Memories: Today & Tomorrow

2008-03-23T17:50:00.001-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

There is a row of willow trees along the west boundary of the park near my home. I noticed today that their woody brown branches of winter are beginning to give way to a yellow-green hue. My brother said that was a sign that the trees were preparing to burst forth with the new buds of spring.

Although the trees are of the same relative height, one in particular stands out to me. Regardless of the season, in my mind I see that tree radiant with the dark green leaves of summer. I also see my first remote control motorized sailplane wedged between two of its branches. As far as planes go it was a sad sight. The propeller was broken and a severed wing was resting comfortably in the grass beneath the tree. I gathered up the damaged pieces of my plane and headed home to make the necessary repairs.

The amount of time I was spending repairing my plane in comparison to the time I was spending flying was disproportional. There was a root cause behind this situation. My son, who has flown remote control planes for years and was struggling to teach me the sport, had repeatedly cautioned me that I wasn’t ready to fly solo yet. But once alone, I began to rationalize my ability: not my skill, but my ability to save a bad situation, somehow to pull it out at the last moment when I got into trouble. Soon I’d be back at the park with my repaired plane ready to give it another try. I had been flying real planes for thirty-three years. Just how difficult could this be? After the total destruction of three motorized sailplanes, I finally got the message.

At the suggestion of my son, my next plane was an awkward looking set of wings and motor that barely resembled an aircraft. Gone were the sleek lines of the sailplanes. Gone was the ability to soar to heights where it was hard to see the tiny dot of a plane high in the sky. I named my new plane Slow Poke because I could almost outrun it. It was so slow it could actually fly backwards in a seven mile per hour wind. But this little plane was exactly what I needed: slow to react to wrong control input, gentle in inexperienced hands and forgiving in outright crashes. Even with all these attributes I have still crashed Slow Poke more times than I can keep track of. I’m not an expert remote control pilot yet but I have become expert at quick field repairs so I can fix the damage and get back to doing what I enjoy . . . flying.

So, as I pass the row of trees along the west border of our neighborhood park, my thoughts and memories of the broken sailplane wedged between two branches isn’t a sad memory. It is a memory of a progression of events. Without those heartbreak experiences of crashing my sailplanes I would have never met Slow Poke and come to love and appreciate things that move at a slower pace but get the job done.

My life is crammed full of precious memories that become the sum total of who I am today. With rare exception, the places I go and the things I do remind me of special occasions and unique happenings that take me back in time and caress my heart with a tender squeeze. I believe it was Mark Twain who said, “I am a part of all I have met.” Mother Teresa said, “I desire to share a part of me with all I meet.” While one quote is focused on receiving the other is focused on giving. I have received much more than I have given in return.

Whether it is a memory of a model plane wedged between the branches of a tree, reflecting on a special hike with family and friends, or simply a phone call to check up on someone, I feel like my memories make me one of the richest men alive. Isn’t that what Easter is about . . . remembering what others have done for us, especially the One who gave us eternal life. It was Eleanor Roosevelt who said, “When managing yourself, use your brain. When managing your relationships with others, use your heart.” Isn’t that basically what the Savior has asked of us? When the woody brown branches of winter give way to the yellow-green hue of spring, my mind doesn’t just dwell on my earthly experiences and the special people in my life but also on the great saving sacrifice made for you and me by the Son of God. The new buds of spring remind me of the precious renewal of life freely given to each of us.

A Few Minutes

2008-03-13T23:25:00.006-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Pulling into the airport area that was designated “Park & Wait,” I searched the electronic information board for Delta Flight #1826. The green lights on the board next to Honolulu flight #1826 flashed “En Route.” I eased the car into park and read the large billboard sign to my right. It said, “Do not leave car engine running.” I reached up and turned the ignition key to the off position. I glanced at my watch. It was 7:41 AM. A friend was scheduled to arrive at 7:53 AM after spending nine days on the Island of Kauai in Hawaii. I was looking forward to hearing first hand the highlights of her vacation, seeing her pictures and sharing in her excitement that had filtered down to me through her e-mails.

When the electronic sign that announces flight arrivals changed from “en route” to “pick-up” I cranked the engine and moved out of the parking area. The street curb area designated for picking up arriving passengers from the Delta flights was crowded except at the far end. I pulled in next to the curb down beyond all the other cars and backed up to get as close to the pedestrian crosswalk as possible where my friend would be exiting the terminal. My cell phone rang. “I’m here at the baggage area. Where are you?” she asked. “Right out side,” I said. “I would come in and help with your luggage but I can’t leave the car unattended.” “That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll be out in just a few minutes.”

A lot can happen in a few minutes. I left the engine running and stepped around the back of the car and on to the curb so I would have a better view of the crosswalk where she would be coming out of the terminal. “You’re a half-aborted excuse for a human,” said a man standing on the sidewalk about four feet away. “Excuse me,” I said. “Shut your face before I shut it for you,” came his reply. “Sir, I don’t know what I’ve done to upset you but whatever it is, I apologize,” I said. “I said shut your yap before I shut it for you,” he said in a raised tone. “Would you at least tell me what I did? I honestly don’t know what I did to offend you,” I said. “You took my parking place you son-of-a-beach." Before I could comment, he corrected his words although I already knew what he meant to say. "Now get back in your car before I kick the hell out of you,” he said. “I hope there isn’t a lot of hell left in me,” I said, trying to defuse the situation. I was puzzled because he was waiting to be picked up by someone who hadn’t arrived yet. There were no cars parked in front of me so I said, “If you would like, I will move forward and let you have your space back.” “Go to hell you moron,” he said as his face grew beet red almost matching the color of his sweatshirt. “I’m going to move forward and let you settle down before you have a coronary,” I said. “You move that car one inch and I’ll kick both you and the car across the street,” came his reply. “Sir, I apologize for upsetting you, it was not intentional,” I said. “Shut your face you abortion mistake,” were his final words to me. I turned and walked away in search of my friend. Looking back I saw that he had taken the eight or nine steps down the sidewalk past the front of my car and once more resumed his wait for his ride that still hadn't arrived.

When I saw her coming across the street her smile washed away the sadness I felt inside for the man in the red sweatshirt. On the front of the sweatshirt were written the words, “Just you and me Babe.” I felt sorry for him but I found myself feeling more sorry for whoever his babe might be. She is the one who lives with his explosive personality day in and day out. He and I only had a brief encounter, an encounter that was easy to deal with because I could go home and not have to be exposed to his ugliness and temper on a regular basis. I felt sorry for all the babes in the world who are connected to men with foul mouths, ill tempers and uncontrolled emotions.

As we drove away from the airport and began talking of her vacation to Hawaii, I soon forgot the red face, the caustic words, and even the references to my unfortunate birth. A nice tan on a smiling face coupled with soft words can wash away a lot of unpleasantness. On the surface I had acted pleasant to the angry man in the red sweatshirt but not all my feelings on the inside mirrored my outward actions. I wish that I could say they did but in truth they didn’t.

I had some unpleasant thoughts about the man. I reflected on my own life and what my reaction to him would have been at different stages of my maturity. I was actually reviewing those very thoughts while we were having our little conversation. I thought about how I would have responded as a teenager, as a young adult, and all the way up to who I am now. I think I prefer the person I am today. I don’t feel a need to prove my manhood or try to change someone else’s opinion of me. There are certainly advantages to a softer approach. I didn’t end up with a broken nose as I have on occasion. I didn’t do something that I would later regret. But most important, my choice of behavior didn’t place the man in the red sweatshirt between the Savior and me because the Savior knows the intent of my heart. It is much easier to be forgiven of poor thoughts than poor actions. Bad thoughts only hurt and diminish me while poor behavior impacts others as well. I have a long way to go but at least I am making better choices than I did when I was younger. I believe that is called progress. What a difference a few minutes can make. It only takes a few minutes of stress or unexpected confrontation to help us see how far we have come and how far we still have to go. Just yesterday my brother shared a quote with me: “If you aren’t nice, nothing else matters.”

Chasing Memories

2008-02-09T23:37:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

As each January fades into February I find time to push the plane out of the hangar, blow the winter cobwebs out of the exhaust pipes and fly over to Fremont Island for a rendezvous with the old memories that remind me of my visit to that island in 2004. At the time I didn’t know I was going to be invited to spend the night so I didn’t take along my pajamas and toothbrush. It proved to be the longest, coldest night of my life and one I do not wish to repeat. However, it is also a night that taught me a lot about myself. Just thinking about that night reminds me of a statement that Neal A. Maxwell made after a bout with cancer. Paraphrasing his words, “It humbled me and softened me for which I am eternally grateful but I don’t kneel by my bed at night and pray to relive the experience.”

The topic of that cold February night came up as I sat in the living room this week and visited with my son. He and a close friend were the ones who came looking for me in the dark of night as they flew over a windswept Great Salt Lake. Because of the winter conditions, snow covered landing strip and moonless night, they were not able to rescue me but they provided me with all that I had asked for. I did not want the ones I love to spend the night with no knowledge of my condition or whereabouts. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as the plane circling overhead flew away carrying information that I was uninjured and at least acting rational.

The following day I shoveled snow until I only had thirty minutes of daylight left to attempt a takeoff. During the day my sons along with two dear friends made several trips to the island and air dropped supplies, snow shovel, and whatever else they thought I might need. At a prearranged time they returned and were circling overhead just incase I crashed on takeoff and needed a rescue team sent in by helicopter.

Now, four years later, I still have a small shutter pass through me as I reflect on the events that followed. I have often wished that each and every person on this earth could have a similar experience occur in their individual lives. Coming from my radio headphones, I heard the words, “We just witnessed a miracle.” My sons and friends in the plane circling overhead saw and expressed into the radio microphone what I was experiencing first hand. The miracle wasn’t born on the wings of my flying skill but on wind that came from seemingly nowhere to lift my little plane out of the icy grasp of the winter snow. The plane didn’t have enough forward motion to be flying but it was flying. Even before I had time to scan the aircraft instruments and assure myself I wasn’t hallucinating, I was thinking of the song by Bette Midler called, “Wind Beneath My Wings.”

Once in a while we are blessed to view a miracle or at least witness an event that seems to defy our understanding. But in reality there are miracles occurring each and every day of our lives. Life itself is a miracle. The recuperative powers of the physical body are miracles. The ability our minds have of capturing and storing events of the past into memory is a miracle. Today I am thankful for the miracle that I can close my eyes and be transported back to that time and place, hear the music in my head and feel the wind beneath my wings once more.

I am grateful that my miracle on Fremont Island came on the one year anniversary of my father-in-law’s passing. I have often wondered if he had anything to do with the wind beneath my wings that cold February day in 2004. It was a great blessing to have him in our home during the last years of his life. It was a cold wintry day in February when we stood by his open grave and said our last earthly goodbyes. And it was a cold windy day just one year later when someone stirred the wind beneath my wings. Regardless of what people say about miracles, the five pilots on and circling above Fremont Island that day witnessed one. I haven’t tried to understand why or how but I am very grateful. Isn’t that what miracles are all about . . . helping us learn to have a grateful heart?

Becoming Great

2008-02-03T09:34:00.001-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

I’m propped up with several pillows behind my head trying to breathe this morning. I have rejected my wife’s miracle cures for the common chest cold so she has left me to my own devices. It is hard to take advice from the one who exposed you in the first place. It actually reminds me of the snake that was caught on a high mountain ridge in an early winter storm. With the wind whipping and blowing snow, the snake could hardly move. A young man passed by the snake on his way out of the wintry country. “Please take me along with you; I’m freezing to death,” said the snake. “You are a snake and will bite me if I pick you up,” replied the boy. “I won’t bite you. I will be forever grateful to you for saving my life,” said the snake. Reluctantly the boy picked up the snake and carried him down off the high mountain to the safety of the warmer air below. Just as the boy set the snake down, the snake bit him. In alarm the boy exclaimed, “You said you wouldn’t bite me if I saved your life.” As the snake slithered away he casually glances back and stated, “You knew what I was when you picked me up.” Well, I knew my wife had a chest cold when I chose to sit by her on a long airplane ride last week.

But today’s clicking of the computer key board isn’t about chest colds and miracle cures. My wife and I discuss my health choices “ad nauseam” when I’m not hidden away in the family sanctuary. I know that she means well but it is like being followed to the street to make sure I will look both ways before crossing. I’m sixty-one and haven’t been hit by a passing motorist yet. Just incase I might predispose myself to some hypnotic suggestion I will be very careful on my morning walks for the next few days.

Through the hacking and coughing from the chest cold some of my thoughts are still on the beauties that surround me and on those who have helped make those pleasant images possible. Hanging in our hall is an enlarged photograph taken of a granite mountain called Half Dome located in Yosemite National Park. Ansel Adams is the photographer. He brought nature to life although his pictures were taken in black and white. Ansel was able to capture the light in such a way that his pictures absorb you into them even if you have never visited the subjects of his photographs. He once made a statement that a photograph hasn’t done its job if its image doesn’t stay with you long after it has been removed from your physical sight.

Ansel Adams had another love besides photography. It was music and more precisely the piano. He longed to be a concert pianist and often practiced six hours a day during the most bitter winter months when he couldn’t be out capturing nature through the lenses of his camera. Eventually Ansel chose photography over being a concert pianist because he concluded that he couldn’t be the greatest at both professions. These two great loves that Ansel Adams possessed reminded me of another person who shared his enthusiasm for photography and music. I guess I could call him the Ansel Adams of our family.

Our Ansel Adams’ was my brother Bill. I called him Billy Boy and in time he came to understand that my nickname for him was out of affection. I could have called him William Edward Grubbs, Jr. or even just Junior but for some reason he became known to me as Billy Boy. Bill was and continues to this day to be fascinated with photography. He has shared with me many of his best works. The difference between Bill and Ansel Adams is that my brother Bill’s pictures were often taken of places that I had visited and developed cherished memories from.

It could be a picture of a darkening sky sweeping across the Lake Powell area. Bill rushed out in the storm wind that was whipping up the sand in front of the coming rain. I can look at that picture and it brings back all the sights and sounds of that family reunion on the lake in the old houseboat called the Sand Cabin. The fact that Bill had to take his camera in to be completely disassembled to remove all the tiny particles of sand didn’t stop him from capturing that moment in time.

Or the hike in the Subway of Zion National Park when Bill stepped off in deeper water than he anticipated. The only thing visible momentarily was his tripod and camera sticking out of the water above his head as he tried desperately to save camera and film. It was to no avail. Eventually the camera disappeared below the surface but before that took place Bill captured many beautiful pictures of the scenery of the canyon. One of those prints hangs in my room and often reminds me of the times we have spent in that beautiful part of nature. The picture also calls back to mind the family and friends who I have shared those special occasions with. Once again Bill’s camera had to be taken to the professionals for thorough disassembly and cleaning.

Bill has thousands of negatives and prints that have become part of his mark on our lives. His sunset picture with the LDS Bountiful Temple in the foreground shortly after its completion was chosen to be placed in every chapel in the temple district. That same picture appeared on the wallet sized cards that explained the schedule and times that the temple was open. My brother Bill has had a few moments in the spot light as he has worked to capture the light and imagery of still-print photography. Much of what you see in his photographs stays with you long after the physical picture has been removed from your view.

Bill has had his winter mountain adventures and has been bitten by a few emotional snakes along the way like sand and water in his camera. But he has continued to take his camera and capture for each of us the energy and excitement of times past. Ansel Adams has captured in print images that have become world famous. My brother Bill has captured in print the emotion of much of my life. Along with Ansel Adams, my brother also worked in black and white. He soon learned how to develop his own prints and catalogued them by the thousands. Just like Ansel Adams, Bill’s black and white work also included the keyboard of the family piano. He loved music and would play those black and white keys for hours without being prompted. He took joy in the journey of his musical pursuits. I would rather eat two jalapeño peppers than practice the mandatory thirty minutes per day. For me, those thirty minutes seemed like three hours. What became my torture chamber was my brother’s afternoon delight. Same piano: different experience. That’s the difference between becoming great at something and just getting by. Thank you Ansel Adams and thank you Billy Boy.

If Only

2008-01-25T15:03:00.002-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

I love the ocean and have never stepped onto a beach without it being a peaceful experience even when the wind is blowing and the waves appear angry. There is just something magical about it that makes me feel all warm inside. I’m not particular. It can be the Pacific Ocean, Atlantic, the Gulf of Mexico or even The Sea of Cortez. They each hold a special place in my heart and in my memory.

I enjoy slipping off my shoes and walking in the wet sand where the waves can gently wash over my feet and bathe them in the story of time. I often wonder where those water droplets have been as they are swept up from the sea by hot temperatures to be carried aloft for miles and miles only to be condensed back into water droplets and splashed on the ground to nourish the earth. Then gradually those droplets find their way to the streams and rivers that carry them ultimately back to the ocean to once more churn and bubble in the waves that wash over my feet once more.

As I walk along the beach I look for things that catch my interest. Years ago I would find shells that still contained their living creatures and regardless of the fate of the little ocean dwellers, I would haul them home. After a week or so the smell of dead and dying sea creatures would outweigh the beauty of the shells and I would throw them away in hopes of ridding myself of the putrid odor. Today I toss the living ones back into the surf and limit my treasure hunting to the shells and other artifacts that wash up at my feet.

On those days that I find nothing to take home, I still enjoy the sights and sounds of the ocean. Many of my dreams incorporate the sand, the sun, the breeze, and the waves of the ocean. I’m not sure if that is because we often went to the beach on our family vacations or because I am enthralled with distant horizons. A good friend once suggested that it might be because those horizons don’t block my imagination. I reminded her that there isn’t much that impedes my imagination. She agreed.

Today as I walked on the beach, most of the shells were trampled and broken from other beach combers looking for that perfect specimen to hold up in the air and say, “Look what I found.” As I strolled down the beach my wife ran ahead of me to make sure she would be the first to spot a trophy shell. “You see them before I get a chance to look,” she said as she sprinted twenty yards or so ahead. Walking in the wet sand or beach combing for treasures has never been a race for me. I casually moved out into the water so that I was walking in four inches of standing tide. The foam of the waves coming in momentarily blocked my view of the sandy bottom but after each wave passed the water would clear once more and I could see what was being tumbled and washed ashore.

During the course of my walk I found a sand dollar about the size of a silver dollar. I carefully cupped it in my hand to protect its fragile edges. A little further down the beach I came across a hand-woven necklace half buried in the sand. It had been broken or came untied because one end was moving around in the waves. Part of the necklace was buried in the sand. I gave it a gentle tug but it didn’t want to slide out of its wet sandy tomb. Bending over, I began to gently dig around the necklace. To my surprise the necklace contained a small gold ring. If I had been able to pull the necklace from the sand without having to do any digging, I would never have known that it contained the small gold ring. The ring would have slid off the necklace and remained buried in the sand for someone else to find or possible never be found.

Washing the wet sand off the ring I examined it for any inscription that might be on the inside. The only words I found were “14 K” embossed in tiny letters. My wife said, “You lucky duck.” “It wasn’t luck at all; you passed by it before I did,” I said. “You just chose to look in different places than I was looking.” Anyway, I didn’t feel lucky. I felt special that I had the opportunity to touch something that was probably very precious to someone else. I would tell the story of the ring “If Only” I knew its history. I would return the ring to its owner “If Only” I knew who she was. I would toss the ring back into the ocean “If Only” I knew that would be her desire. Until I do know, I will keep it and remember that I found it on January 25th. So, as I thought all along, there can be Christmas in January. I can hardly wait for February 25th. My daughter called to tell me that my eleventh grandchild is due on May 25th. Who was it that said, “If only we could have Christmas every month?” We can. It is only limited by our imagination.

One for You, More for Me

2008-01-10T12:20:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

With Mitt Romney, a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, seeking the Republican nomination for president of the United States, there has been much talk in the news about Mormons and their beliefs. One of those beliefs and early practices targeted by the media is the subject of polygamy. Although polygamy was routinely practiced in the mid 1800’s and only a small minority of members of the church practiced polygamy, the subject continues to be a topic of discussion when the word Mormon is mentioned.

In a recent discussion a good friend asked my opinion about Mitt Romney and my attitude about polygamy. When I responded that I wasn’t a good candidate to answer such a question, it pricked her curiosity. “Why not?” she asked. “Let’s get something to eat and I’ll explain it to you over lunch,” I said. We drove to the sandwich shop in virtual silence. I’m sure she was wondering what my response would be and I was contemplating how I would explain myself in such a way that she would understand not only my words but my heart. It was just past one o’clock so the crowd had dissipated at Crown Burger. I ordered a bacon cheese burger and onion rings. Don’t tell my wife, she already thinks I have a death wish. With my friend munching her health conscious salad I began my story.

When I was twelve years old I had a dream in which a girl came to visit me in my tree house. Over the years this same girl regularly appeared in my dreams and I became convinced that one day I would find her and we would get married. Somehow I thought that I would just see her and recognize her for who she was. And oh by the way, I naturally assumed that she would have a similar experience and recognize me also. At age twenty-two I decided that I must be mistaken and stopped searching for the girl in my dreams. I went to work to find a “wise choice” to be my companion and mother of our children.

When I found her I didn’t think it would be too difficult to convince her to marry me. She couldn’t be too picky. She was dating an old geezer in graduate school. He knew exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up and his name was Frankenberger. With a name like that it would be a piece of cake to convince her to switch to Grubbs. I told her on our first date that I was going to marry her. A note of clarification . . . I didn’t ask her to marry me on our first date; I just told her that I was going to marry her. I wasn’t in love with her yet, I barely knew her. I had only been in love three times if I didn’t count my fourth grade school teacher. But something inside of me said that this girl would be a “wise choice”. She didn’t buy into that “wise choice” business too easily. Getting her in that wedding dress was like rowing my boat out on the lake and trying to convince a fish to jump into my net.

I finally learned a few words in “the fish language” and we were married on September 5th, 1969. After a brief honeymoon on the north rim of the Grand Canyon we returned to our schooling. I don’t know why it was such a surprise to me but I discovered I had married a studyholic. It shouldn’t have been a surprise because every time I tried to get a date with her we ended up in the campus library until it closed. In case you are wondering what a studyholic is . . . convince an alcoholic that there are answers to his problems in books instead of booze and he’ll consume the library. Because the race was over and the trophy was sharing my living space, I stopped going to the library with her. Not spending my evenings at the library coupled with the fact that I had a cake of a job working for the university, I had more free time on my hands. With all this free time between work and class, my eyes began to wander. What would you expect when you have a wife who is too busy studying to watch a movie or even go for a drive?

Pretty soon I was noticing what lived next door. I didn’t see her much because she stayed inside most of the time but when she came out she could sure turn a head. She was usually dressed to be noticed if you know what I mean. It didn’t matter what she wore because by now I was hooked. I thought about her all the time. I fantasized about her. I know that I should have felt guilty about what was going on inside my head but I justified my behavior. Hadn’t other men learned how to have multiple loves? What about the guy who left his adoring family back east to earn his fortune trapping furs in the northwest territory of the 1800’s? I don’t think he was writing home and telling his wife about the Indian squaw snuggled up next to him at night to help drive out the cold wind sneaking through the cracks of his log cabin. Or what about the early pioneer who helped bury a fallen friend then married the widow in a wagon train ceremony taking in her and her children along with his own? Was she loved less because she wasn’t the first? Was the first loved less because part of his heart was burning from a different flame? Yes, I know these are weak arguments hurtled against a stone wall of tradition. But remember, I said that the one next door only turned my head. I was watching her from the window, not chasing after her or even trying to make conversation.

I know what you are thinking; the old Bible verse . . . “as a man thinketh, so is he.” Well I have some news for you. I never saw a man slapped for what he was thinking. I never saw a man in trouble for what he was dreaming, unless he was naive enough to share his dreams. I think that verse of scripture is telling us that if you think it long and hard enough, you will eventually figure out a way to get it or become it. Well, that’s what happened to me. Eventually just watching her from the safety of my living room window wasn’t enough. My fanaticizes grew to the point I thought I had to have her. As her door opened one day and she was maneuvering through the opening, and I think you can imagine what I mean when I say maneuvering, I raced over and met her just as she reached the curb of her drive. I didn’t know the guy who was with her but I blurted out, “Where can I find her twin sister?” “At the Kawasaki Dealership on Main Street,” he said. “There are two more just like her on the showroom floor.”

After a fitful two days, my wife finally consented to let me take out a student loan in her name and use the money to bring home my other love. And what a love affair it was. I would race home from school or work and head up into the mountains above our apartment and spend a glorious couple of hours revving her engine and shifting her gears until it was almost too dark to see the trail. My wife didn’t say too much at first. She was concerned about the amount of time I was spending away from home and not studying. She became more alarmed when I wanted to bring my other love into the living room at night because I didn’t want her left out in the cold.

Well, like I said in the beginning, I’m not the right man to ask about polygamy. I have been living polygamy most my life. When you allow a significant part of your heart, interest and desire to be focused on something or someone other than your spouse, isn’t that a mild form of Polygamy? I had a girl who came to me in my dreams before I met my wife. She still occupies a portion of my heart along with motorcycles, airplanes, boats and my latest love, writing. It drives my wife crazy thinking of all the things that I could be accomplishing around the house if I didn’t spend so much time pounding away at the keys of my computer or scribbling in one of my notebooks. It amazes me how, after thirty-eight years of being together, she thinks that if I put away all these other loves, I will magically become interested in whittling down that long list of honey-dos under the magnet on the fridge. Just thinking about that list causes my eye to start wandering once more but not in search of another wife. Two wives would mean two fridges. Two fridges would mean two separate honey-do lists reminding me of all the things I should be doing instead of what I am doing; pounding away on my laptop thinking of a clever way to say something that has already been said many times before. But at least I haven’t been completely deceitful; I wear two rings on my left hand; one for her and one for the other love(s) of my life.

Polygamy, the practice of having more than one wife was banned by the U.S. Supreme Court in 1879. A few daring, yet foolish men, have defied the laws set forth by this great country and have married more than one woman. As their deeds are discovered they are brought to justice. What about all the rest of us who aren’t breaking the law of the land but often do immeasurable damage by spending excessive time and energy where no growth occurs in ourselves or the ones around us. On a recent work project with my son-in-law, he stated that he didn’t have time for many of the things that interest the other men in his neighborhood. “I have three little boys who need a dad to wrestle with them and chase them around the yard,” he said. There is nothing wrong with a hobby or a special interest so long as it doesn’t compete with what is truly important. But in truth, how many of you women out there have been living my definition of polygamy for most of your married life? Have your children grown up being told to be quiet or stay in the other room so your husband won’t miss that critical play as his favorite team scores another basket or touchdown? Or when he slips out the door early Saturday morning with his golf clubs or fishing pole and says he’ll be back in a couple of hours knowing all along that you won’t see him until dark? Is it only when he wants to buy a king-sized bed so there will be ample room for three does the hair stand up on your neck and you shout, “That’s polygamy!”

I once had a dream that I was in bed snuggled down between two women (names not important to the story). They talked for what seemed like hours. As I laid there in the dark I realized they were talking about me as though I wasn’t even there. They discussed my shortcomings and all the changes they thought I should make. Note . . . I didn’t disagree with the shortcomings; I just didn’t enjoy hearing about them. One wife gave the other counsel about how she should handle me. I tried to get to sleep but it was no use. In my dream I concluded that any man who thought polygamy would be a pleasant feast of milk and honey should be required to spend a night in my dream (and these two women “liked” each other). When I wrote about my dream I titled it “Polygamy, Fact or Fantasy.” Now I ask the question, “Where is your heart, where is your interest, where do you focus your time, and where does your spouse fit into that picture?” Has your wife deceived herself by saying, “You know boys, their oversize toys come first.” That all seems to be okay in our society until that toy isn’t a motorcycle, isn’t an airplane, isn’t a favorite ball team, but another wife: then and only then is he breaking the law.

Well, enough said about polygamy. Now back to my opinion of Mitt Romney who, by the way, had a great grandfather who was a polygamist. That is why the news agencies have made such an issued of this subject. I don’t know if Mitt Romney or any other candidate currently running for that high office is the best qualified to lead this nation. I just finished reading books on the life of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington. These men weren’t perfect but their values were clear. They didn’t engage in doubletalk. I’m not convinced that we have a Lincoln or Washington running on either party’s ticket. I don’t think that someone should vote for a candidate just because he is a member of their church. But on the other hand, a candidate shouldn’t be ruled out as a viable choice on the basis that he belongs to an organization that once condoned the practice of polygamy prior to it being banned by the Supreme Court. If you go back far enough in your ancestry most will encounter polygamy or some other “now illegal” practice unless you are descended directly from the Pope (no pun on the Catholic Church intended). In the Bible, the Savior stated to the men about to stone the woman caught in adultery . . . “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

The puppeteers of the media determine what we as mainstream Americans see in the form of news. If they can get our attention away from the real issues and swallow us up in rhetoric of the past, they have accomplished their purpose of bringing negative publicity to any candidate who is not of their choice. I believe that we should vote our conscience after an examination of the values each candidate professes if those values are substantiated by his or her past behavior. If a presidential candidate’s words and actions do not mirror one another, believe their actions. If you trust their actions you will rarely be mistaken about who the person truly is. And you won’t have to try to determine what the definition of “is” is (if you catch my pun).

Scratched, Not Broken

2008-01-06T13:56:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

He was clutching the chain-link fence trying to maintain his balance as he shuffled along the icy sidewalk. As I came to a stop and rolled down my car window I asked, “Would you like a ride?” He didn’t respond. It appeared he was sorting through my words trying to decide what his answer should be. Because he appeared to be in trouble I stepped out of the car and walked over to see if I could help him in some way. I assumed he was coming from the grocery store just down the block because he was carrying a plastic sack containing a loaf of bread and two fruit drinks. “Hold on to me and I will help you into the car and I will take you home,” I said.

“I can’t, I can’t go, I can’t go home yet. I have, I have to, I have to go to work,” he stammered. He wasn’t stuttering. It appeared that his mental thought processes were getting stuck then starting over before he finished his thought. It reminded me of a CD that had been scratched and jumped back a track. The way this guy was hobbling and struggling just to walk made me curious as to what type of work he did. “Where do you work?” I asked. “I work, I work at, I work at Cesar’s Pizza,” he said.

My mind immediately began to dance through the possible jobs that this man might do for a pizza shop. He must work in the kitchen washing dishes, or making dough for the pizzas. Maybe he just mops floors. “What do you do for Cesar’s Pizza?” I asked. “I am, I am the, I am the sign man,” he said. “Oh, you stand out on the sidewalk and wear a sign encouraging people to come into Cesar’s Pizza?” I asked. “I wear, I wear a, I wear a pizza costume.”

As my rider pointed out the direction to Cesar’s Pizza he told me that his name was James. He rides the city bus to Smith’s Food Market were he waits for two hours before walking the six blocks to Cesar’s Pizza. He waits inside the grocery store to stay warm until he reports to work at 11:00 to begin wearing his pizza sign. James holds his grocery bag under the pizza costume and eats from the loaf of bread and drinks his juice. “Is that what you eat every day?” I asked. He answered yes. “Do you work every day?” I asked. He said that he worked every day except Sunday. “But I, but I am, but I am lucky to have a job,” he explained.

As we pulled into the Cesar’s Pizza parking lot James started to open the door to get out. I asked him if he had a few more minutes that we could talk. From what I had already learned from our conversation I knew that he would have to stand outside the pizza shop in the cold until just before 11:00. What good would I have accomplished if I transported him to work so he could get there early and then have to stand out in the cold until time to go in and put on his pizza suit? We sat in the warmth of the car for the next few minutes and talked about his life.

James’s speech reminded me of my favorite CD that is scratched and jumps tracks until I nudge it along beyond the damaged portion. I continue to listen to it because I love the music. Because it was difficult for James to express himself I will paraphrase what he had to say next. “I fell on the ice and hurt myself getting off the bus today. That is why I am having so much trouble walking. Three people got off the bus after me and no one stopped to help. I think it was because no one wanted to touch me. I was embarrassed as I struggled to my feet and the bus finally pulled away. My hip and elbow hurt and I felt sorry for myself. My mother taught me that when you feel sorry for yourself you become miserable for other people to be around. I heard her words in my mind but I still wondered if anyone in the world cared about me.”

I didn’t try to solve James’s problems. A twenty dollar bill pushed into his hand wouldn’t change his life. But he changed my life. After saying goodbye to James I drove away feeling more thankful for my own life and for the opportunities I have been blessed with. I reflected upon the special care I have received throughout my life. I never remember once feeling as though no one in the world cared about me. I only wish that James, along with everyone else, could have been helped as much as I have been throughout my life.

Later in the day, as I drove over to my brother’s office to wish him a happy birthday, I passed Cesar’s Pizza and there stood James in his pizza costume waving at the passing cars. Well, I assume it was James. I couldn’t see his face but I did recognize the yellow sleeves of his oversized frayed coat protruding from the pepperoni pizza costume. He may have already forgotten me but I hadn’t forgotten him. I smiled as I passed but I wasn’t just smiling at James. I was thinking about how fortunate I am. I had spent the day in a warm office while James limped along an icy sidewalk in front of Cesar’s Pizza thankful to have a job. James had helped me remember that a grateful attitude encourages a cheerful countenance. And a cheerful countenance . . . well, I think you get the idea. James may be scratched but he isn’t broken. I’ll bet I see him standing out in front of Cesar’s Pizza tomorrow regardless of whether it is blowing snow or bright sunshine.

Thank you, James.

The Samaritan

2007-11-30T00:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Good & Bad

2007-11-29T08:04:00.001-07:00

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.

Smoke In My Eyes

2007-11-25T23:18:00.000-07:00

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.

Perception

2007-10-28T17:26:00.000-06:00

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

Time to Fish

2007-10-14T01:16:00.000-06:00

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.

Lady Justice

2007-10-07T09:02:00.000-06:00

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.

Do I Know You?

2007-10-05T20:45:00.000-06:00

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.

Color It Green

2007-09-30T15:47:00.000-06:00

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?

All But One

2007-09-23T22:51:00.000-06:00

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?

Lacquer & Chrome

2007-09-16T22:45:00.000-06:00

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.

Knowing What to Look For

2007-09-09T22:43:00.000-06:00

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.

Don't Ruin My Reputation

2007-09-02T23:10:00.000-06:00

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.

The Loss of a Friend

2007-08-26T23:03:00.000-06:00

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.

The Window

2007-08-19T22:56:00.000-06:00

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.

Legacy of a Lady

2007-08-02T16:30:00.000-06:00

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.

The Two-Piece

2007-08-02T12:45:00.000-06:00

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.

The Wedding

2007-08-01T16:36:00.000-06:00

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.

Pillow Talk

2007-08-01T15:33:00.000-06:00

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.

When the Wind Blows

2007-08-01T14:30:00.000-06:00

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.

The Hollow of His Hand

2007-07-22T12:37:00.000-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

As the time approached for my release as Bishop of the Young Adult Ward, I became apprehensive about being able to emotionally let go of all those ward members whom I had come to love so much. My mind raced back to when the previous bishop had been released, and how he suffered during that adjustment. My release was not a surprise. I was instructed when I was called to be bishop that the call was for three years and my release would happen within a couple of weeks of that time frame.

The Stake President informed me that I would be replaced the coming Sunday. The night before that Sunday, I poured out my heart to Heavenly Father to help me through this adjustment. The main thing that I wanted to do was make sure that I did not create problems for the new bishop, yet I had come to view these young adults as my own. The instruction that had come from the Stake Presidency was: we love you; we appreciate what you have done for the ward, now please step aside and let the new bishop do his job. I had strong reservations about being able to emotionally step aside.
As I retired for the evening, I was very restless. I did not want the next day to ever come. I could not bear the thought of not being at the Ward with the young adults. I had no desire to return to my home ward. I just wanted things to stay the same way they had been for the last three years. At the beginning of my call as bishop I had never dreamed that I would come to love the members of the ward so much. Now it was all coming to a crashing end. As I drifted off to sleep I experienced the following dream:
We were on a ward outing up in the mountains. The surroundings were familiar, but I was not sure where we actually were. We were hiking up a river drainage with everyone having a great time. Some were having water fights and others were just enjoying the outdoors and nature. I engaged in light conversation with several members of the ward as we worked our way up the shallow river. The bottom of the river bed was rocky, and I remember having to be careful how we stepped because of the slipperiness of the rocks. A couple of members lightly sprained their ankles due to the condition of the river bottom.
I was swept away in thought of how much joy and happiness the ward members had brought into my life. It was indeed the best, most enjoyable calling I had experienced in the church. I do not make light of the calling or imply that everyday was a holiday, but through the thick and thin of it all, I was very happy to be serving where I was.
A couple of the young men got carried away with the water fighting and had to be toned down a little. I knew that they were doing nothing different than l had done as a young adult. While thinking about their actions and my own past experiences, I felt an uneasiness wash over me. I first searched inside myself for definition of the feeling, but finding nothing of significance there, I began to be more aware of my surroundings. I moved a little ahead of the group so that I might listen and hopefully learn something concerning what was going on. I heard nothing. I saw nothing that should be of any alarm. I returned to the group and actually participated in some of the water fighting.
One of the sisters slipped on the rocky bottom and injured her knee on a large stone. I assigned two men in the group to help her. As I, along with the two young men, examined her injury, I felt that same uneasiness wash over me again. This time it was an even stronger feeling. Once again I moved ahead of the group, and this time I vocally expressed my concern and feeling of uneasiness to my Heavenly Father. I plead with Him to give me assurance that He would not leave us to our own demise and that if there was danger ahead that He would make it known to us so that we might properly prepare. As I finished my silent prayer I realized that there were no longer any birds singing or any other of the normal forest sounds. All I could hear was the sound of the river and ward members laughing and playing in the water. Although I still had no definition of what danger might lay ahead, I felt strongly that we should move up the embankment and get out of the bottom of the riverbed.

The announcement to move out of the water and up the embankment was not accepted with much enthusiasm. I had to become quite forceful with some of the young men. Eventually everyone complied with the request to travel along the higher slope. I noticed that some did not question the decision. They just accepted the request and moved up the bank without any complaining. Others were more reluctant, needing an explanation of why we couldn't stay in the water where the traveling was much easier. A select few refused to come up the embankment without being issued a direct order to get out of the water. Those same few tried their best to make the journey miserable for the rest of us through their complaining and whining. I remember a sister in the ward suggesting that I allow them to go back down in the water so the rest of us could get some relief from their bickering. I told her that I was the bishop of all the members not just those who willingly obeyed.

The way became very difficult as we hiked along the embankment. It was overgrown with briers and vines which made the passage very arduous. For a brief time I even began to doubt my feelings about the supposed danger. As I thought about my responsibilities to the members of the ward, the same feeling of uneasiness swept over me again. This time it was so strong that I immediately told the ward that we were going to get even higher up the embankment. I wondered if my own imagination was getting the best of me. I heard one young man suggest that a group break away and have their own hike where they could have some fun. My faithful counselors put a stop to that talk immediately.

Moving further up the embankment had only added to the difficulty of the way. We were in such dense undergrowth that I was fearful that we would become lost. Some of the weaker members were beginning to fatigue from the exertion. I once again poured my heart out to Heavenly Father for help. This time I was not asking why, but what I should do to protect the members from harm. What should we do and where should we go for safety? As I closed my silent prayer one of the more ambitious and energetic young men shouted that he had found a trail. We quickly moved over to the trail and the way became easy once again.
We followed this trail until it led us to a small rundown cabin. There was a shed near the cabin and I could see an old Chevrolet pickup parked inside. It must not have been used in years judging by the amount of dust it carried. I went to the door and knocked without expecting to find anyone living there. To my surprise an elderly lady answered the door. After a pleasant exchange I obtained directions from her how we could get back to a main highway. I encouraged her to come with us because I felt that a danger lay ahead for the area, but I could not define it. She declined the offer and wished us well.

We traveled on this well defined dirt road for about an hour when we decided to stop and have our lunch. We gathered under a large oak tree near the road. It appeared to be a land mark for it was taller than anything else around. Many members were now exhausted and just wanted to lie down and rest instead of eat. Some were still talking about how stupid all this was. One suggested that I had concocted all this as some type of weird teaching tool. Five young men and one sister wanted to go ahead of the group on the dirt road and get back to their car as soon as possible. I knew from the elderly lady's comments that we still had half a day's walk before getting back to our vehicles. I was about to give in to their demands when the thought came into my mind to climb the large oak tree and see what was on the distant horizon.

Climbing the tree was no easy task. There were no lower branches to grab onto. The members built a pyramid of human bodies to help me reach the first branch. As I climbed higher and higher, I sensed that something terrible was about to happen to this land. As I neared the top of the tree I could see in the distance a large forest fire. It was destroying everything in its path and was moving directly toward us. Behind the fire was a flood of water. I momentarily felt that the water would quench the fire before it reached us, and we could deal with the flood of water by all getting to higher ground. As I began to formulate my plan of defense, the spirit literally shouted to me that the fire would reach us before the water, and we must escape the area if we were to survive. I looked below me, down at the ward members who trusted me and looked to me for guidance and safety. I knew that I would do anything in my power to save them from this harm. Now they were all mostly lying down and resting from the difficult journey that had brought us to this point.

While descending the tree I made the decision to tell no one what I had seen with the exception of my counselors, the Elders Quorum Presidency and the Relief Society Presidency. I called a planning meeting and laid out the plan that I would return to the cabin with one strong elder and one strong sister. The rest would remain with the ward members to insure that they remained together until I returned. I selected physically strong members to accompany me because I knew that we would have to run all the way if we were going to get there and back in time to save the ward members. I took a sister to help persuade the elderly lady to come with us. I took a strong elder to help me get the old pickup started if possible. I knew that our only chance of getting out of there in time to beat the fire was with the old pickup. I didn't know how we could all possibly fit into the truck, but that was a problem I would face later.

Arriving back at the cabin, we found the elderly lady in her same congenial mood. She assured us that she would be fine and did not want to go with us. Before we could even ask, she suggested that if we could get the truck started we were welcome to take it to aid in our evacuation. As previously thought, the old Chevy pickup hadn't run in years. The three of us, with pushing, pleading and praying were finally able to get it running. We returned once more to the cabin and begged the lady to come with us, but she refused. Reluctantly we left her and headed back for the ward family.
By the time we returned, the smell of smoke was in the air and the ward members were almost in hysteria. Two young men had left on their own, stating that the rest were fools for waiting any longer. We loaded everyone into the pickup. To use the term "into the pickup" would be a lie. We had members on the hood, on the bumpers, in the back and on the roof. I counted eleven just in the cab and I still had to get in to drive. There was a feeling of excitement in the air. We had made a plan and that plan had worked thus far. We said a prayer of thanksgiving and prayed for our continued success. I began to squeeze myself under the steering wheel of the truck. I was almost in, but I couldn't get the door closed. No matter how hard I pulled, the door just wouldn't close. I turned my head back to see what the problem might be. There was another man's hand on the door, preventing it from closing. Just as I. saw the hand a voice said, "Bishop Grubbs, you will not be making the rest of this journey. Your job is complete. I'll be taking your place behind the wheel."
At first I was resistive to the voice. I said that the members were counting on me. They looked to me for safety and assurance of the future. Then, without another word being spoken, I knew that the voice was right and that my mission was complete. I stepped out of the truck and another slipped under the wheel. Some of the members upon seeing that I had gotten out of the truck jumped down and said that they were not going if I was not going. All of a sudden I knew that no matter what happened to me I had to persuade them to get back on the truck and flee the impending firestorm. With some coaxing they all got back on the truck with a promise that they would look for the others who had not chosen to wait.

As the old Chevy pickup slowly began to move forward the members turned and waived farewell to me. At first I was sad, but then I realized that although I may never see some of them again, no one could take away the sweet memories they had brought into my life; how they had accepted me, taught me, and loved me.
As the truck lumbered down the dirt road carrying its heavy load, I could hear the ward members singing the song "In the Hollow of Thy Hand." As the truck disappeared around a curve in the road, suddenly I was all alone. The thought came into my mind, what will happen to me? Is this where I will loose my life? Then, just as strong as any feeling I have ever experienced from the spirit, a voice whispered inside of me, "No, not yet, you have an elderly lady back at the cabin to take care of." I began to run with all my might and strength back down the dirt road toward the cabin. As I ran I began to plan how I would get her to go with me and how we would shield ourselves from this fire and survive the flood.
Most of my dreams are of little significance. But this dream did have significance. It rested upon my soul. It brought me the peace that I sought from my Heavenly Father to help me through this transition in my life. Did my dream make the transition and release as the bishop of the young adult ward easy? No, but it made it less difficult. I felt as though I was in the Hollow of His hand.

Too Proud to Pray

2007-07-15T12:52:00.000-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

I have a saying on my desk that I look at each day. It states "The truly important things of life are not found in worldly wealth and earthly possessions but in the relationships we build with family and friends." After reading that saying, a visitor to my office said, "It was probably a poor man trying to make himself feel better who made that statement." I said in response, "If you truly believe what you just said, you probably also embrace the philosophy that 'religion is merely the opium of the uneducated,' a poor man trying to feel better about himself." Why is it that as a nation, the more successful we are, the more difficult it becomes to recognize the hand of God in our lives?

I invited my visitor to have lunch with me. With a roll of his eyes he said, "You will probably insist that we bless the food at the restaurant." "No, I wouldn't want to embarrass you or cause you to feel uncomfortable," I said. "Many prayers are offered in silence, formulated in the mind and nestled softly in the heart. A prayer offered for show is no prayer at all but merely a one-act play with no curtain call.

I'm thankful I live in a country where our president isn't too proud to admit that he prays. I am grateful that our Founding Fathers weren't too proud to pray as they struggled to create a constitution that would stand the test of time. I'm glad I live among people who remember the God of heaven and earth when turmoil and conflict enter their lives. It was a humbled and frightened nation that returned to prayer following 9-11.

I was certainly offering prayers of pleading the night of July 10th when those precious little ones of our family were in peril. As our boat sped through the darkness, our path being illuminated by a 400,000 candle power search light, I was thankful that I wasn't a stranger to prayer. Those prayers became prayers of gratitude the following day as we were able to reflect upon how blessed we are as a family. The family prayer that I was requested to give that morning was the most emotionally challenging assignment I have had in a long time. How thankful I am that I belong to a family where prayer is a daily part of our lives. That night of July 10th helped remind us just how unimportant worldly wealth and earthly possessions are when compared to the precious relationships of family and friends. How blessed I feel for each of you; for your safety, your example to me, and what I learn through my association with you.

It has been said that you measure a man by what makes him angry. I believe that you also measure a man by what he expresses gratitude for. It is often fear and anguish that brings a man to his knees in prayer; it is gratitude that keeps him on his knees.

Eighty Proof

2007-07-08T16:03:00.001-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Dinner was at a restaurant specializing in barbequed ribs. We ate with our fingers and laughed about the people around us who were trying to eat their plate of ribs with a knife and fork. The meal was delicious and the atmosphere softly lit. Our waitress was pleasant as she presented us with the bill and thanked us for our patronage.

We argued over who would pay the bill. Although I had been invited to dinner, I wanted to pay my own way in this world of business. Should I decide to reject the services of the company she represented I didn’t want the slightest string of obligation to tangle me up. Plus it felt strange having a woman pay for my dinner. We tussled over the bill until I suggested a solution I thought would be fair and agreeable. “How about we toss a coin to determine who pays?” I said. Without hesitation I withdrew a dime from my pocket and said, “I’ll toss, you call.” She called heads. That wasn’t what I wanted to hear so I quickly said, “Heads I buy, tails, you buy.” She agreed. Since my coin was a two headed dime that I carried for just such occasions, she lost the toss. I paid the dinner bill and we headed for the restaurant parking lot.

I walked her to her car and opened the door for her. We said our goodbyes and I proceeded to my rental car. As I slid into the seat and was about to close the door I saw her walking back toward me. She must have forgotten something she wanted to tell me. She stepped between me and the open car door. Before I realized what she was doing, she leaned over and planted a kiss on my lips. I was surprised and startled by her action. She withdrew before I had time to react. Without saying a word she tossed a motel key on my lap and walked back to her own car.

I grew up in the south where gals mature early and guys are said to be slow on the uptake but I knew what she was suggesting. I studied the plastic tag attached to the key and realized she was staying at the same motel where I was registered. I wondered if that was a coincidence. She hadn’t even given me a chance to say something polite like thanks but no thanks. Upon returning to the motel, I left her room key with the clerk sitting behind the desk. He asked no questions and I volunteered no answers.

Just before eleven o’clock a knock came on my motel door. When I opened the door she was standing there in a silk or satin dress. I’m not an expert on fabric. But it was apparent she wore no supporting equipment beneath her dress. “May I come in?” she asked. She had a bottle of alcohol in her hand. In her other hand she held two tiny glasses. In the western movies I grew up watching, they were called shot glasses. I stood in the doorway blocking the entrance or I think she would have come into the room like she was expected. Sensing that the evening wasn’t going the way she had played it out in her mind, she reached out her hand in an attempt to hand me the bottle. I didn’t accept the gift. She said, “A friend suggested you could use a taste of what the world has to offer.” “I’ve never tasted alcohol in my life. I’ve always wanted to remember what I did. I hear you are responsible for what you do, drunk or sober,” I said. She stepped forward to kiss me once more but I was better prepared. I placed my hand on her shoulder stopping her forward movement and said, “No thank you.” She placed the bottle on a small shelf just inside the door and said, “If you change your mind drop by anytime.” With that comment she tossed her room key down by the bottle and walked away. I closed the door, slid the security lock in place and returned to the project notes I was working on.

The next morning I gathered up my belongings and prepared to check out of my motel room. I picked up the bottle. The label said Crown Royal, Blended Canadian Whiskey, 80 Proof. Now what was a boy from Texas who had never tasted alcohol going to do with a bottle of 80 proof whiskey? I kept it as a reminder of that world I had never tasted.

Six months later while sitting in an airport waiting for my flight to be called, a lady sat down next to me. As I looked over she said, “Do you remember me?” How could I ever forget her! “I still have the bottle of whiskey you gave me,” I said. We talked like old friends. She shared what was going on in her life at that time. She talked of the motivating forces behind her actions that night at dinner and later at the motel. She apologized. I accepted her apology. We gave one another a polite hug and prepared to go our separate ways with no intention of ever seeing one another again. Then we realized we were booked on the same flight. I was headed for Salt Lake City. She had a stop over in Salt Lake then the flight would carry her on to Billings, Montana.

On the flight we sat together and talked about our families and how our lives intersected. As the plane pulled into the terminal gate at Salt Lake, she wrote her phone number and address on a slip of paper and said, “Keep in touch.” As an after thought she said, “By the way, that blue dress was silk. I don’t suppose it would have made a difference if the dress had been satin” I just smiled. As I walked through the terminal to retrieve my luggage, I slipped the piece of paper containing her phone number and address into a waste can. I never saw her again but I have held on to the bottle of 80 proof . . . the cap is still sealed. The world might say I missed a great opportunity to get lucky. Luck had nothing to do with it. It was all about choice. There are some things in this world I don’t need to taste.

Prior to elevating me to sainthood over turning down an evening with an attractive woman and a bottle of 80 proof that would give me a taste of what the world has to offer, you should know that there are other things in my life that I have tasted. But you will only discover those shortcomings and weaknesses in the unabridged version of this article. I’ve rarely turned down coconut cream pie, homemade ice cream, cashew nuts, an opportunity to go flying, or sitting by a campfire watching the flicker of the flames with someone who cares.

A Place in Time

2007-07-01T15:54:00.000-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Prologue: I watched an old movie called Cast Away staring Tom Hanks. In the movie Tom Hanks is marooned on a remote island after a plane crash. He learns to survive on the contents of FedEx packages that wash ashore from the crash. I fell asleep thinking about what I would want to have with me if I became stranded on a deserted island for an extended period of time.

The Dream: It was Sunday evening and we had enjoyed a family dinner together. I was slumped back on the living room couch with a contented full stomach and one of my grandsons on my lap. Laziness had already crept up my spine and I felt glued to the couch. The grandchildren were running in and out so the front door was open. Without knocking, a tall man dressed in a dark grey suit and sunglasses stepped through the door and into the foyer. He asked, “Is this the Grubbs home?” I said yes and asked who he was looking for. He didn’t answer my question but said, “I came to give you a message. Someone dear to you has been sentenced to spend three years on a deserted island. Anyone present in your home tonight can serve the sentence in this person’s place if they choose.” “Who is this person who is dear to me?” I asked. “You will not be given that information,” he replied. “What was the crime and what purpose will be served by someone spending three years on a remote island?” I asked. “The act may or may not have been intentional but whether a person falls or is pushed from a cliff, the resulting injury at the end of the fall is the same,” he said. “If no one comes forward and volunteers to meet our requirements, I will return in seven days to escort the guilty person to the island. Just remember, whoever you select to serve this sentence will have no contact with the outside world for three years.”

I must have decided in my heart that I would be the one to go because I handed my grandson to his mother and immediately went to my room and began gathering items for a survival pack to take with me. I selected a knife, a folding saw, two aluminum space blankets, a nylon rope and two watertight cases of matches. I packed my halogen headlamp and twenty-four fresh batteries along with a water purification pump. I gathered a complete change of clothes including a large brimmed hat and sunglasses. I went to the garden shed and put corn and tomato seeds into plastic Ziploc bags. Last of all I put six writing tablets along with pens and pencils into my backpack. I wanted to record my experiences on the island or at least let someone know what became of me.

Just one day prior to my scheduled departure I was told that I would be allowed to take one person chosen from those who had been present at the family dinner to stay on the island with me. My dad immediately volunteered but I knew his health would be compromised by such an ordeal. In reality I couldn’t ask him or any other person at the dinner to put their life on hold for three years. As much as I didn’t want to spend that time all alone, the idea of someone else making that sacrifice tore at my heartstrings. I was adamant that no one else would be going with me. On the outside I was standing brave. On the inside I revealed my personality flaws even if it was only to myself by wishing that someone would argue with my decision or suggest taking my place. I knew what my answer would be but it would have been nice for someone to offer. I chided myself for such childish and immature feelings. Everyone present that night knew that I was the best choice to make this sacrifice. My children were grown and I was healthy and willing.

The visitor to our home was true to his word. Just seven days after that visit it was time to leave for the island. Everyone present at the family dinner was invited to join me on a beautiful ocean yacht for the journey to the island. The yacht had every amenity you could imagine. Beautiful state rooms and a banquet style kitchen open from six in the morning until midnight was at our disposal. We lived in luxury those seven days it took for us to reach sight of the island where I would spend the next three years of my life. On the eighth day, with the yacht anchored some distance off shore, my family and friends gathered on the front deck to bid me farewell. A motorized dingy was lowered down to the water in preparation for my departure. With the hugs and well-wishes complete I told the man in the dark grey suit and sunglasses that I was ready to be taken to the island. He motioned for two large men to join him. With no warning they grabbed me and threw me to the deck of the yacht. They removed my backpack, hat, shoes, socks, belt and the items in my pockets. As the two men held me down on the deck the man in the sunglasses picked up my backpack and dumped its contents over the side of the ship, making sure that the Ziploc bags filled with corn and tomato seeds were torn, spilling the seeds into the ocean. My family and friends stood in shocked disbelief.

Without saying a word the two men lifted me off the deck of the ship and threw me over the side. I tried to prepare for the impact with the water below but only managed to flail in the air as I descended and hit the ocean in a slightly vertical position. The dingy was only a hundred feet away but as I began to swim toward it, the yacht put its engines in reverse and backed away from me with the dingy still tied to its hull. I was left all alone to swim a long distance to the island. I was frightened by what might be lurking in the water beneath me. Fear also gripped me just thinking about what else the man in the dark grey suit and sunglasses might not have told me about the island where I would spend the next three years of my life. True, he had not told me that I could take anything with me but he knew I had prepared a backpack and he had said nothing. As the yacht moved toward the distant horizon, I realized that my loved ones would not even know if I made it to the island. I began to swim.

Hours later, the waves lapped at my tired body as I lay exhausted on the beach. I was totally spent from the swim after I had been thrown from the yacht that carried my family and friends away. As my mental faculties returned, the first thing I noticed was my head being stroked in a familiar way by a gentle hand. Looking up with surprise I said, “What are you doing here?” “I came to be with you,” was the reply. “You can’t stay here,” I said. “I have to stay. My fate was sealed with yours when the yacht sailed away. I knew you would never agree with my decision to stay with you so I came to the island ahead of you. The man in the grey suit and sunglasses brought me over before sunrise. I have been waiting for you. I chose to do it this way so that there would not be an argument between us about my decision,” explained my island companion.

As I sat up in the wet sand and looked around, I noticed six cornels of corn seed that had washed ashore from my spilled backpack. I wondered if the salt water of the ocean had damaged the seeds. I quickly calculated that if I planted those six cornels and each grew and produced two ears of corn, in seventy-eight days I would have plenty of corn seed to plant and harvest in the future. I washed the seeds off in rain water that had collected in an upturned seashell and we went to look for a suitable place to plant them. Although it would require twice as much food to feed two people, I was glad I wasn’t alone. What would people say when the yacht returned in three years to pick us up? I decided to not worry about things I had no control over.

After planting the corn we explored part of the island. We scratched a mark on a large rock symbolizing day one with one thousand and ninety-four days remaining. Of course that didn’t take into account leap year. But what difference would one day make? We walked on the beach and were dazzled by a beautiful sunset. As night fell, we covered ourselves in sun-warmed sand to block the chill of the night breeze. Lying on my back and looking up at the stars that began to appear in the sky, I whispered a silent prayer of gratitude that I wasn’t alone. We called this island home A Place in Time.

Droplets of Diamonds

2007-06-24T11:57:00.000-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

It was called Rattlesnake Canyon before a more inviting name was adopted. As I climbed the trail that crisscrossed the creek I encountered two rattlesnakes. No wonder this place was called Rattlesnake Canyon. Several times I started to turn back and find another place to do my hike and get my exercise. Something inside nudged me on. I wanted to make it to the top of the canyon and see the source of this stream. I pushed on until noon where I stopped by the creek and ate a sandwich from my daypack. After a brief rest I pushed on up the canyon.

In the early afternoon I came upon a third rattlesnake. This one was stretched out sunning in the middle of the trail. I found a long stick and poked the snake to encourage it to move out of my way. The snake refused to move. It would give a brief rattle of its tail to warn me off. Because of the steepness of the terrain I couldn't get around the snake. I felt like an intruder into the snake's territory but it was blocking me from my destination so I continued to agitate the snake in hopes it would move away and let me pass. Finally the snake moved into the heavy brush next to the trail. Now I had a worse situation. I could no longer see the snake or the threat it imposed. I had to decide whether I would take the chance to move on up the path in hopes that the snake had moved away or at least would let me pass unharmed.

Although it is difficult to explain now, at the time I felt compelled to go on. I crowded the far side of the trail and cautiously moved along, listening for the tale tale sign of those rattlers signaling a state of agitation by the snake. I passed by unharmed and proceeded on my journey. The trail became steeper and more difficult. The vegetation became denser. For a while the images of the snakes I encountered on my hike dominated my thoughts. Behind every log, nestled next to every bush that crowded the trail, my imagination saw another deadly rattlesnake lying in wait to plant it sharp fangs into my unprotected ankle.

As time passed I began to look up more and enjoy the creations of nature around me. Eventually I came to the headwaters of the creek that fed this canyon. The crystal clear water came pouring out of the rocks from an underground source fed by snowmelt from higher mountains. It sparkled in the afternoon sun. Just below this feature was a natural pool about four feet deep. I slipped off my boots and cooled my feet in the water. I decided that more than just my feet would enjoy a refreshing soak so I slipped off my clothes and slid into the pool. I laid my head back on the bank and let my submerged body lap up the experience.

I must have dozed off because I awoke with a start. The noise that awakened me was a woman standing in the middle of the pool. She acted as though I wasn't even there. I assumed she stood with her back to me to safeguard my privacy. I covered myself with my hands and said nothing but continued to observe her. I watched in silence as she dipped her hair into the pool and let rivulets of water streaming from her hair cool her neck and back. She did this repeatedly, each time pushing her hair back out of her face. Droplets of water beaded on her shoulders and back and sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. I felt so relaxed I forgot I was undressed. Then she looked over at me and smiled I knew her. When our eyes met, I awoke. I had been dreaming. The experience was so vivid I looked around to see where she had disappeared to. But she was gone. I closed my eyes and tried to will her back into my mind. It was no use.

I climbed out the pool and dried in the warmth of the afternoon sun. After dressing and lacing up my hiking boots, I gathered up my daypack and headed back down the canyon. I saw no rattlesnakes but maybe I wasn't looking for any. My eyes were looking up, not down.

This experience came to me on the 6th of August, 2004, almost three years ago, but it is as fresh in my mind today as it was then. I would paint you a picture if I were an artist and could convey on canvas what my dream showed me that day. But then, you are entitled to your own dreams and your own interpretations. I wouldn't spoil that for anything.

The Tree House

2007-06-17T12:48:00.000-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

She was agile as a boy when she climbed up into the tree. This girl was the only female I had ever invited to my tree house. I didn't actually invite her; she just stepped into my mind as I slept. This girl, this dream girl appeared at the base of the tree and said, "I want to share your tree house." She didn't say, "I want to visit your tree house."

This was a girl. Could she even climb the rope? Pushing through all that mental fog I said, "Do you need some help getting up the tree?" Before she could respond I began climbing down to help her. She acted irritated that I would think she needed my help. Irritation wasn't a feeling I wanted there in my secluded world. "This girl better get a different attitude if she is going to share my tree house," I thought. From the moment she sat down on the elevated platform next to me she became a co-owner of all my building efforts. Every board hauled up the rope, every nail driven into the tree and every hour spent planning how I would build my hideaway gave way to a feeling that it had never felt complete until she sat there next to me.

Accepting her was like drinking a glass of refreshing cold milk. She wore all white: white shorts, white blouse, white canvas shoes. She was fair complexioned and had blondish brown hair. When she saw that I was barefoot she removed her shoes. The irritation she originally stirred in me from her independent attitude faded as I watched her remove her shoes. But what drew me in to her were her eyes and her smile. She told me that she was eleven.

Touching her with my eyes, she spilled into me and covered all my insides. Although I didn't realize it at that moment, I would soon learn that I would never feel alone again. She stayed with me in my mind as I journeyed through my life, not necessarily as a living personage but more as a feeling. Down in the woods up in that tree house I forged a relationship with her that would stand the test of time. The tree no longer stands. Development has overrun and obliterated the forest that grew just beyond the home of my youth.

Before leaving for college in 1964 I returned to the tree house and renewed the memories I had created there through the years. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, the 5th of September 1965, before leaving for my mission for the LDS Church, I went back to the tree house and spent some quiet time. It would be the last time I ever sat and dangled my feet off the edge of that platform and looked down on the world below. Four years to the day of that last visit high up in the tree house, I walked through the doors of the Salt Lake LDS Temple and was married to my wife Kaye. Although it has been forty-two years since that last day I climbed up into the tree house it continues to be a place I can go to in my mind and find peace in my heart and a renewed resolve to strive to love others unconditionally as the girl in my dreams loved me.

The Whistle Stop

2007-06-10T16:08:00.000-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

The day had been long and hot. I was looking forward to stopping by the train station to buy a bottle of root beer as I walked home from work. Sometimes the electricity would be off at the station and the drinks would not be cold. I was hoping that was not the case today. My wish was granted. The drink box was ice cold and so was the bottle of root beer. I walked outside so I could enjoy the little breeze that stirred around the building. I settled into a chair, leaned back against the wall and began to let my mind wander as I sipped my root beer. I was startled out of my daydreaming by the blast of a train whistle.

I remember so clearly, leaning back in my chair that day as the train slowly approached and came to a stop. I knew that the train would only be there briefly for passengers to board. I wondered why the train had stopped because there were no passengers scurrying around, saying last goodbyes and arranging luggage. No one ever got off the train in our little town except locals returning home so I was quite surprised when a beautiful young lady stepped off the train. I brought my chair down and leaned forward to get a getter look. She wore a white blouse that buttoned down the front and her blue jeans were tight against her hips. She wasn’t married. At least she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

From the moment I saw her I knew I would talk to her and find out what brought her to our little town. I approached her with no clue of what I would say. Before I had a chance to gather my thoughts she said, “Do you know where I could get a cold root beer?” I fumbled in my pocket for another nickel and said, “I’ll be right back.” She thanked me for the root beer and offered to reimburse me but I declined. In her kind way she explained that she was on a long journey and had just stepped off the train to stretch her legs. I asked if I could walk with her and she cautiously agreed. Her words seemed reluctant but her eyes said, “Yes.” We walked in silence for a while and then it was as if I had known her all my life. I told her about my family and what it was like growing up in a small town. I even shared the feelings that washed over me when I saw her step down off the train. She blushed slightly but said nothing. My openness about my feelings probably made her a little uncomfortable but it was like she was a part of me and could sense what was going on inside of me regardless of whether I told her or not. I talked, she listened. I knew as we walked together along the train tracks that I would never forget that day: that I would carry a memory of her with me for the rest of my life.

The whistle blew signaling that the train would soon depart the station. I savored the last few moments we spent together and then she casually stepped back on the train and was gone. I strained to see if she would step back out of the doorway, wave, and acknowledge me in some small way. She didn’t. As the train pulled out of the station I hoped that by some miracle she had stepped off the train on the other side and would be standing there smiling at me. She wasn’t. Some people come into our lives and are soon gone. Others touch us in a way that we are never ever the same again. I cherish those moments spent with her.

As time passes and the sound of the train whistle grows dim, I still remember the feelings of that day. As I lean back in my chair against the clapboard wall of the train station, I close my eyes and wait for the sound of the whistle that will bring the memories of her flooding back. And along with those memories is a lingering hope that she might pass my way again. She hasn’t. Not at the train station anyway, but at other times and in other places.

Bringing me back to my senses the station clerk said, “You owe me a deposit for that pop bottle the young lady took.” I reached into my pocket, withdrew a penny and handed it to the clerk. It was the best penny I ever spent. For sometime thereafter, I carried a penny in my back pocket. When I thought of the young woman who stepped off that train and came into my life I would reach into my pocket, touch the penny, and instantly feel closer to her. I no longer carry the penny but I still have it. I no longer think I will dream of her stepping off that train again but I have the memory and that is enough. She looked straight ahead as she stepped back on the train. I still wish that she had looked back if only for a moment. Remember, the best memories are measured not in days, not in hours but in brief moments, moments that change our lives.

Where Dad Thrived

2007-06-03T13:08:00.000-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Dad had gone home and the ranch was left unattended through the winter. I tried to get up there each week to check on the buildings and give an appearance of activity taking place. It was Sunday afternoon and as I thought about the busy schedule of the upcoming week, I decided that I would slip up to the ranch, spend the night and come home in the morning.

I normally flew a small plane to the ranch but there was a light snow falling so I decided to drive. I was looking forward to the solitude of the drive assuming the roads didn't become snow-packed and slick. Once I left the interstate the little towns I passed appeared deserted. It was a peaceful drive. I arrived at the gate to the ranch just as it was getting dark. I had not bothered to change my shoes and the fresh snow wetted my socks as I stepped from the cab of the truck. That wasn't very smart, I thought. Oh well, I had my boots in the truck and I could change when I got to the house.

As I opened the gate that straddled the cattle guard at the entrance to the ranch I thought about dad and how much he loved this place. I wished he was here tonight. I would enjoy sitting by a warm fire and visiting with him and listening to the stories he had to tell about his adventures around the place. But he had gone south before the winter winds hit Wyoming. With snowdrifts four feet deep around the cabins I didn't blame him. The fact that dad wasn't here didn't stop the memories from flowing through me like clear water on a sunlit stream.

When dad first came to the ranch he said, "Mack, I'll take care of this place but I won't take any part in shooting the beavers that continue to dam up the culverts on the roads around the lake. I agreed that dad could deal peacefully with the beavers and any shooting that needed to be done, I would do. One day dad called and explained that he had spent five hours up to his waist in fifty degree water digging out a culvert plugged by a beaver. The next day dad called and told me that the beaver had plugged that same culvert again. He spent several hours in fifty degree water dragging out the limbs that chocked the culvert. The third day dad called and said, "Mack, I shot a beaver last night."

Skunks were also a serious problem for the ranch. They were nesting under one of the cabins and dad decided that he should trap them and remove the problem. The first skunk to end up in the trap created a new dilemma. How would dad get the skunk out of the trap without getting sprayed? Dad decided to shoot the skunk. He found out that shooting a skunk doesn't stop him from spraying. Not to be deterred, dad tied a twenty foot rope to the trap so the next skunk he caught, dad drug skunk, trap and all down to the lake and eased him into the water. I guess a skunk can't do two things at once: spray and drown.

The next group of creatures that came under the bead of dad's rifle was the raccoons. He would bate them with watermelon rinds and send them to the raccoon Promise Land with that rifle. Dad hadn't changed his tender feelings about the animals. He didn't enjoy taking their lives. But he loved the ranch and realized that sometimes difficult things have to be done to protect it. If a roof begins to leak and no one repairs it, nature will soon reclaim the entire cabin. Just as a nest of mice will destroy a sack of grain, beavers, skunks and raccoons will infest and wreak havoc on a ranch.

Dad taught me to respect life. He taught me that if I was going to take a life, I should be prepared to use that life for what it was created for. Growing up, dad caught me shooting blue jays and said that I would have the opportunity to pluck and eat the next blue jay I killed. I never shot another blue jay or any other animal that I didn't eat. At least that is how it was until I came to the ranch and grew weary of trying to persuade the pesky creatures of Wyoming to go be a nuisance somewhere else. Just like dad, I didn't enjoy taking the life of the raccoons, the beavers, and the skunks. But I had grown to love the ranch and the special times dad and I spent together there during the previous summer.

These memories of dad washed across my mind during the few moments it took to open the gate that straddled the cattle guard at the entrance of the ranch. I felt lonely for dad's company. I was happy to be here in a place that is close to his heart even if he wasn't here now. Stepping back across the cattle guard, I slipped and fell. Extending my arms to catch my fall, my right arm slipped through the rails of the cattle guard and my forward motion caused a dislocation at my shoulder socket. I became dizzy with pain as I struggled to my feet. My arm hung limp and didn't obey the commands from my brain. I knew I was in trouble. It was almost dark and the snow was now coming down hard. I was a long way from help and I knew once my damaged shoulder began to swell I would not be able to get my arm back into the shoulder socket.

Just moments earlier all I needed to be content was a wealth of good memories swirling around in my head. But all the memories in the world wouldn't help relocate my shoulder. Where was dad when I needed him? I stumbled back to the truck and slid inside the warm cab to consider my options. The nearest town where medical help would be available was at least an hour's drive away but it was night and snowing hard. I decided that I needed to get my arm back into the shoulder socket before I did anything else.

Although my arm was almost useless I could still grip with my hand. I stepped out of the truck, closed the door and lifted my damaged arm with my other hand so I could grasp hold of the door handle of the truck. If I could hold on tight enough and jerk my body forward maybe the arm would slip back into place. Taking a deep breath and gripping the door handle, I jerked my body forward in hopes of forcing the shoulder joint back together. I crumpled to my knees in pain. Kneeling in the snow with my head against the side of the truck, I prayed out loud for help. Help didn't come. I struggled to my feet, took hold of the door handle once more and made a harder lunge to force my arm and shoulder back together. This time I cried out in pain as I sagged to my knees and slid down on my side until I lay in the snow cradling my injured arm.

I could feel my clothes becoming wet from the snow but I wasn't cold. Lying in the snow, I pleaded for help. There was no traffic on the road and I knew that what help I received would have to come from my own efforts. Once more I stood, took hold of the door handle and took a deep breath. I turned sideways, raised my left foot in the air and stepped forward like I was going to throw a rock as far as I could. As I gripped the door handle I let the full weight of my body carry me forward and this time I felt my arm pop back into place. Instantly the pain became less intense. I climbed back into the truck, reached over with my left hand and slipped the truck into reverse. As I backed out of the driveway to go to the hospital I noticed the open gate. I didn't want to leave the ranch unsecured nor did I want to walk across that slippery cattle guard again. I drove through the gate and up to the ranch house. Once inside, I took two strong painkillers that I carried in my bag just for occasions such as this. I stripped a spread off one of the beds and wrapped it around my chest and shoulder as tight as I could with my good arm.

I pulled the couch in the family room over by the fireplace and made a hot fire to warm my spirit. Lying on the couch I thought of all my blessings; of life, of family, of close friends, of the good times dad and I had here at the ranch. I would worry about my arm tomorrow when the sun would be bright upon the newly fallen snow and a fresh look at the world around me would make my problems a minor inconvenience. I slipped into the world of my dreams.

I recorded the dream I had that night. I still hold it close to my heart. Some dreams you share and some you tuck away. This dream I tucked away. I tucked the written words away but the dream is as alive in me today as when it filled my sleep filled mind. That night, amid the thoughts of dad at the ranch, the pain in my shoulder and the crackling fire that danced in my eyes and warmed my spirit, I made another memory even if it was only a dream. My grandpa told me to chase my dreams. He probably meant a different kind of dream. My grandpa is dead now but the dream lives on. I am thankful for all the men in my life who have helped shape and lift me when I was reaching out but couldn't quite touch my dream.

Dad and I still talk often and share fond memories of when I visited him at the ranch. I still dream of that ranch . . . where dad thrived.

The Cabin

2007-05-20T12:33:00.000-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Forward: Last week I was invited to spend some time at my sister-in-law, Diane's cabin. As I turned the corner and the cabin came into view, it was as though I had been there before in a dream. My dream took place three years ago and I recorded it in what I call my other journal. I'm like a packrat; I bury things that I'm not quite ready to get rid of but have no plans of sharing with others. I wanted to remember the details of that dream so I flew out to Fremont Island and dug up the plastic container that housed those pages of my experiences and dreams.

My son-in-law, Wade, told me that chronically depressed people are people who live in the past and anxiety prone people are those who constantly worry and fret over the future. He didn't have a definition for people who are chronic dreamers. Whether by curse or by blessing, I am of that category. I tell my family that I have a special cream I call my dream cream that I rub on my face and hands each night before falling asleep.

Prologue: It was the winter of our lives. I say winter because of the grey in our hair. Well, mostly the grey in my hair. How we came to live in this high mountain cabin or where it is located is a mystery to me. But a dream doesn't cry out for details of the past. You know how dreams are . . .

The Dream: Our cabin is so remote that our mail is dropped in by plane once every two weeks. But that is okay. We have no utility bills to pay because we have no utilities. Our mail consists of letters from our children and an occasional catalogue informing us of all that we are missing in the latest fashions. Our provisions are meager but our garden supplemented by wild game keeps us a little larger around the middle than is needful.

We work hard but we work at what brings us pleasure. When the day is done we also rest hard. Our pastime is reading good books; taking long walks and sitting on the cabin porch watching the breeze disturb the aspen leaves of the trees that surround our little home.

After supper we sit on the porch and talk about what we did today although we did it together. We discuss the book we took turns reading out loud to one another. As we crawl between the sheets that sun-dried on the clothesline she draws her knee up over me and rests her arm on my chest. I fall asleep listening to her little puffs of restful breathing.

At breakfast we talk about going to town. Town is a two day horseback ride. We go four or five times a year and spend a week in a local motel as we gather supplies, call the children who catch us up on their busy lives and always remind us of how crazy we are. I suppose we are crazy. By the end of the week we are lonesome for home and the beauties of nature that can only be appreciated when you sit still long enough to watch an ant crawl across the porch or a robin build a nest one twig at a time.

The hurry has been taken out of this phase of our lives. We move in a simple, natural way just like the garden by our cabin that only responds to the laws of nature. Just try to force a seed to spout and you'll soon discover how little power you really have. We are powerless to turn back the clock of time or see clearly what the future holds. With no one to keep the roof repaired our little cabin in the mountains will one day be gone just as each of us will be gone. But today we still repair the roof and plant the garden. We have agreed that should I die first, she will not try to stay here alone. Should she die first, I know I will not stay here alone. It wouldn't be the same without her. The snow wouldn't be as white in winter. The trees wouldn't be as green in spring. And the nights would be too lonely without her arm across my chest and the sound of her peaceful breathing.

We are told that the pine beetles are infesting and killing the trees but there will still be trees when we are gone. We see more contrails from jet aircraft crossing the blue sky carrying busy travelers to their destinations but the wind always blows them away. Occasionally we hear the report of a distant rifle from a big game hunt. But it is a rare occasion in deed for us to have an unexpected dinner guest. If someone finds us, they are most likely lost. She feeds them, makes them comfortable for the night and after a hearty breakfast, we send them on their way. They are usually in a hurry to get back to their real lives. They will miss the robin as she builds her nest for her future family. They will miss the golden eagle that soars above the ridge that overlooks our cabin each morning. They may miss these things but they won't long for them. They will be content to lean back in a swivel chair and for a brief moment look up at a painting of a majestic scene framed and hanging on an office wall.

How fortunate they are to be where they want to be, doing what they want to do. How blessed I feel to be here where the stars are bright and the sky is blue; where she and I communicate more with a momentary glance than most say with a mouthful of words.

Too Weak to Fish

2007-05-13T16:13:00.001-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Prologue to a Dream: On April 26th of this year I fell asleep reading a book about Mother Teresa called “The Simple Path.” A particular quote from the book caught my attention. At one time Mother Teresa was chastised for providing too much help to the poor. When she was reminded of the phrase, feed a man a fish and you have fed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you have fed him for a life time, she simply stated, “The people we feed are too weak to fish.” I fell asleep with her comment on my mind . . .

“I wish we had two fishing poles?” she complained. “I’m glad we have two hooks to put on our fishing line. It’s almost the same as having two poles,” I said. “Why can’t we have two poles?” she asked. “Because we have no money to buy another pole,” I answered. “I get tired of just sitting here watching you fish,” she said. “Here, you take the pole and fish for a while and I will just sit and watch you.” “Don’t you ever get tired of looking at me?” she asked. “Not yet,” I said. “What does that mean?” she asked. “It means, not yet.” “You’re going to drive me crazy with that kind of answer.” “I don’t want to drive you crazy but if you go crazy, I will still love you.”

“I wish we had a boat. If we had a boat we could paddle over to those reeds were the big fish hide,” she said. “I’m glad that old fisherman took pity on us and gave us this fishing pole. We have been able to catch enough fish for our needs each day. We are blessed,” I said. “Well, I don’t feel blessed,” came her reply. I just smiled. I knew she was just giving me a hard time. I knew her heart.

“We already have three fish, let’s go swimming,” she said. “It’s only spring and the water will be too cold; besides, we didn’t bring anything to swim in,” I said. “I don’t need anything if you don’t,” she teased. “We are not going swimming,” I said with clinched teeth to slam the door on the subject. “Why do you always have to get your way?” she whined. I didn’t answer her. But I wondered if she felt protected and safe with me or just bullied. I pulled the wire basket from the edge of the water that contained our catch of three fish. She would cook two fish for our dinner and we would share the third for tomorrow’s breakfast before we came back down to the river to fish again. I knew we couldn’t live on fish alone but fish was certainly better than nothing. Fish would have to do until we figured out something to go with it.

She was a good cook but I would have loved her even if she couldn’t cook. Thinking of her cooking, my mind went back to the time before our world turned upside down, money became worthless and the economy was in shambles. When I look at our life now I realize how simple it was before the change. Although it was simple, we were happy then and we are happy now.

After returning from the river we sat in front of our little home and she cleaned the fish while I straightened out the tangled fishing line and sharpened the two hooks against a smooth river stone. I thought of the nights we had gone to bed hungry before the old fisherman came by our home on his way to the river. She took a drink of water out to him and because it was getting late she invited him to have dinner with us. That’s how she was; it didn’t matter that all we had to eat was potatoes and rice. The old fisherman slept on our couch that night and before he left the next morning, he gave us one of his fishing poles. I protested the gift but he insisted, saying that he only carried two poles in case one broke. After he left I saw that he had tied two hooks about six feet apart to the fishing line. It was the next best thing to having two poles. She and I could now catch food at the river.

I rarely think of my life before I met her. And I didn’t want to think about life without her. She had been married before and her husband had died in a fiery accident. She seldom talked about him and when I asked questions, her answers were always short and the message she sent to me was I don’t want to talk about it. So we didn’t talk about him. The way she looked at me and touched me caused any shred of jealously about her former life to flee from my mind like a mouse being chased by a famished cat.

That’s how it was between us that day as we sat in front of our little home and cleaned fish, straightened out fishing lines and sharpened the two hooks for tomorrow. Just before it was time to go in for the evening a man came walking down the road. She reached over and touched my arm but I had already spotted him. He had a severe limp and was struggling to maintain his balance as he walked. She was sitting by my side but just a little back of me so I couldn’t see her expression but I knew what she was going to say before she said it, “Looks like that man could use some help. You suppose he likes fish?” I knew that there would be three fish cooked tonight and a guest would be spending the night on our couch with as much comfort as she could provide.

As the lame man grew close she made a small gasping sound. I turned to look at her but her expression caused me to return my attention to the man coming toward us. That was the first I noticed that he didn’t have any lips and his face and head were covered with scars and skin grafts. There were tiny sprigs of hair scattered here and there on his bald head like patches of weeds in an unkempt garden. He had no ears and one eye lid only partially closed when he blinked. My first thought was that this man needed far more help than just a fish to eat and a comfortable couch to spend a night on. But how could we help, we could barely feed ourselves?

“It’s so good to be home,” he said. Because he had no lips his words came out in a hissing sound but there was no question what he had said. She gasped again but didn’t say a word. He walked past us and started toward the front door and said once again, “It’s so good to be home.” I didn’t know what to say but I knew who he was. He was horribly burned. He was home. This had been their home before his accident. If he was alive then we weren’t legally married. I sat there in a stupor not knowing what to say or do. As he struggled to the door, a part of me wanted to jump up and help him but the other part felt frozen to my chair, not knowing what to do. While my mind was in turmoil my body went into motion and I ran to help him inside.

As he sat down on the edge of the bed I could tell that his feet were hurting so I asked if he would like for me to remove his shoes. He nodded, “Yes.” I knelt down before him and unlaced them. When I pulled off his shoes, the skin on his feet sloughed away also. The sight of his damaged feet caused me to throw up but I held it in my mouth and swallowed it back down. He told me not to worry; his body was rejecting the skin grafts on his feet. I carefully slid my arms under he legs and eased them down on the bed so he could rest.

All this time she stood behind me, watching every thing that took place. It was as though she was unable to speak, needing to assess her life, her future. That’s when it occurred to me that it wasn’t just my life that had changed. She would care for this man for as long as he lived, no matter what. I knew her. She couldn’t squash a bug on the floor but would carry it outside and let it go. She would care for her husband as long as he drew breath in the same tender way she had cared for me.

I couldn’t look at her. I knew if I looked at her I would break down and that wasn’t what she needed right now. I turned to leave and the first words she uttered to me since her husband had come back into her life were, “Will you be taking the fishing pole?” “No, it is as much yours as it is mine. You said this afternoon that you wanted your own pole. Be careful what you wish for.” “You should at least take one of the fishing hooks,” she said. “You keep them both; your husband is too weak to fish. Besides, I still have the rifle.” “But you don’t have any bullets,” she said. It didn’t matter. There was a time when she and I didn’t have a fishing pole and we were happy. There was a time when she invited a stranger to have a meager supper of potatoes and rice and spend the night. And we were happy.

She followed me across the room and as I opened the door to leave, she spoke in a whisper so as not to disturb her resting husband and said, “What do you wish?” Our eyes met as I turned to face her. It was the first time we had looked at each other since her husband had walked back into our lives. “You know the old saying,” I said. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” “You always say that. I hate that saying,” she said. I knew she wanted me to say that I wished he had died in the fire. I had never lied to her and I wouldn’t start now. I reached up and touched her cheek as I said, “What I wish is that we had swam in the river today when you only had eyes for me.” I turned, stepped through the doorway and didn’t look back. Walking down the crumbling asphalt road I avoided the cracks and repeated the phrase, “Step on a crack, break your back, step on a crack, break your back.” Dodging the cracks in the asphalt and saying those words helped me shut out the other feelings trying to peal me like an onion and expose my pain. I didn’t look back. I was afraid she wouldn’t be standing in the doorway with tear filled eyes watching me walk away.

Mohair & More

2007-04-22T12:17:00.000-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Prologue: I wish I could say this article was a creation of my active imagination but it actually transpired. The year was 1962 and I was a junior in high school. The article is taken from my writings under the category called Pathetic. I would share something from my writings titled Hero, but you would probably doubt their authenticity. The clock turns back and the story begins . . .

I hated geometry. I'm not sure exactly why; maybe it was because of all the formulas we had to memorize. Memorizing wasn't difficult for me, I just wasn't motivated. I couldn't figure out for the life of me why I would ever need to know geometry. It is comical how some things turn out. Years later, as I became involved in the construction industry, I would use geometry more than any other math I was exposed to in my education. But I was sixteen at the time and more interested in what was being served at the school lunch cafeteria than memorizing formulas. Who cared how much square area was in a triangle or how many gallons of water would fit in a pyramid?

Just before class started I glanced at my watch and noticed I had fifty seconds before the tardy bell rang. I dashed out of the classroom to get a drink of water before having to endure the next hour of sheer boredom. As I hurriedly stepped into the hallway and turned to my left toward the drinking fountain, I was hit by a midget running down the hall trying to get to his class before the bell rang. He wasn't really a midget; I could have just as easily referred to him as a runt. He was just shorter than I was. In high school it was SOP (standard operating procedure) to use derogatory labels on people. His forehead hit me right in the nose. We both went sprawling to the floor. I was knocked out cold and would later discover at the doctor's office that my nose had been broken.

Needless to say, I missed geometry class and lunch. The next day as I slid into my seat for another day of A-squared plus B-squared equals C-squared, Judy handed me a copy of the previous day's homework assignment. Judy was the girl who sat next to me in class. As I looked down at the paper she handed me, I noticed that it was all filled out; the geometry problems were already solved. I looked up at Judy and her smile said, "You're welcome." Without a sound coming from my lips I mouthed the words, "Thank you."

A beautiful friendship developed from Judy's smile and her act of kindness. I say beautiful because from that day on, Judy did my geometry homework. A little chit chat before class each day was all she required in return for her services. It wasn't hard duty. She was easy to talk to and pleasant to be with so this arrangement was made in heaven. Notice I didn't capitalize the word heaven. I knew that cheating on homework wasn't pointing me in the direction of that heaven that you spell with a capital H but what the heck, I was only sixteen and I had plenty of time to make better choices later.

Our homework was kept in a folder that we turned in at the end of each term. There were three terms in each semester. I had earned a B- first term and we were just starting the second term. Before long, Judy was keeping my completed homework assignments and placing them in a folder. Her little smile each day at the beginning of geometry class told me not to worry, my homework folder was in good hands. Having my homework in good hand was important because it constituted one third of my term grade. My actual grade for the first term had been an A- but the teacher took ten points of my total grade because I turned my homework folder in two weeks late. It was two weeks late because it took the teacher a week to convince me that I was going to fail geometry if I didn't turn in a homework folder. How could you turn in something that didn't exist? Well, it existed but it just wasn't very current. I had sixteen missing assignments and she wouldn't accept the folder until it was complete. It took me another week of staying up late at night to get the back assignments completed. But with Judy on my team, this term would be a cake walk. I don't know where that term "cake walk" came from because it doesn't make sense but it made sense to keep smiling back at Judy and asking her those innocent questions like, "What did you do last period?"

Judy would always ask me how my nose was healing. My nose was fine and we both knew it. That was just an easy, safe subject to start our daily conversation. My only regret about our relationship was that I didn't have more classes with Judy. I could sure use her to do my English homework. But that wouldn't have worked out too well because Karen was in my English class. Karen was my steady. In fact she was the only steady I ever had in high school. Karen would have thought it disgraceful for me to let someone do my homework so I did the appropriate thing and promptly asked Judy to stop doing my homework assignments. Just kidding. I did the wise thing and didn't tell Karen about Judy doing my geometry homework.

I know I should have felt guilty letting Judy do my homework and concealing my relationship with her from Karen. But there really wasn't any relationship to conceal. I was just being friendly with the girl who sat next to me in geometry. When the teacher passed out the mimeographed pages of geometry problems for the next homework assignment each day, I would lift the papers to my nose and smell the chemical residue left on the paper before slipping them over to Judy for her to complete that evening.

For those of you old enough to remember the old duplicating machines before photo copiers, the ink was a faded bluish purple color and the chemicals from the duplicating process remained with the paper for hours after the copies were made. I loved that smell until I volunteered to operate the duplicating machine for my Spanish teacher. Too much of a good thing can spoil the experience. Enjoying the smell of the fumes from the mimeographed homework pages wasn't the only thing about to be spoiled in my life.

It started out like any other day in geometry. Judy wore her usual soft smile as I came down the isle toward her. As I leaned over to slide my books into the shelf below the seat of my desk, Judy turned toward me and said, "How do you like my new sweater?" "It looks great," I said. "It's made of real mohair," Judy said. "What's mohair?" I asked. "I don't know but if feels real smooth against my skin." When Judy said the word skin, my attention was drawn to those two pyramids hidden under her sweater. I couldn't remember the formula for figuring out the volume of a pyramid but there was a lot of volume under that mohair sweater. I don't know how long I stared, maybe only seconds, but suddenly I realized that Judy was looking at me as I stared at her gifts from Heaven. When our eyes met she was still smiling. That was a good sign. I felt my face go red with embarrassment and for some reason I didn't quite understand, I knew our relationship had changed.

Getting caught staring at a girl's pyramids isn't what you do if you just want to remain friends. That boy-girl stuff complicates friendships. What had that mohair sweater done to us? I had certainly seen girls in sweaters before. If a girl's sweater fit tight it drew attention to her parts. It the sweater fit loose it was just another sweater. But Judy's sweater was so tight it could have belonged to her little sister if she had one. I didn't even know if Judy had a little sister. I realized I didn't know anything about Judy except that she smiled a lot, made pleasant conversation in geometry class and she did my homework. I felt strange inside. Like I was in trouble but not certain what I had done wrong. It was like being on a rollercoaster ride and seeing the dip or curve up ahead and not being able to do anything about it: no steering wheel to grab hold of and no brake pedal to press. You had no control . . . you gave up control when you paid your twenty-five cents and strapped yourself into the seat of the rollercoaster. The ticket taker strolled by to make sure your lap belt was secure, took your ticket and said, "Have a great ride." I had a feeling that my friendship with Judy was going to turn into an emotional rollercoaster ride that wasn't going to be so great. I hoped I was just imagining things.

The bell rang and I bolted from my chair and headed for the door as quickly as possible. I didn't look back. As soon as I entered the hallway I was lost in the crowd of students moving to their next class. I wondered if I had blown our homework arrangement but the next day Judy acted as though nothing had happened. When the mimeographed homework assignments were passed back down the rows she made sure that I saw she had taken two copies: one for her and one for me. She had never done that before so this was a good sign that getting caught staring at her pyramids the day before hadn't damaged our friendship. With two copies of the assignment already in her hand we wouldn't have to go through the awkward moment of trying to slip my papers to her without being noticed. All of that worrying yesterday was for nothing. Life was good.

A week went by and it was evident that our friendship had not been damaged by that boy-girl stuff. At least that was what I thought until Judy showed up in the mohair sweater again. I started to say, "I see you're wearing your real mohair sweater again," but I didn't. Judy didn't mention the sweater either but she did show me the folder that contained my homework assignments. We smiled at each other and she said, "Would you like to take a look at your homework folder after school?" I can't, I work after school," I said. "Maybe you could come over and look at it when you get off work?" she said. "I don't get off work until midnight," I responded. I suggested that she just slip the folder to me as we left the classroom but she didn't think that was a good idea. I'm not totally naive. I had just dodged the big bullet. Judy was hinting in a polite way that she would like for our friendship to extend beyond the classroom. I liked things the way they were and I wanted to keep it that way, tight fitting mohair sweater or not.

I knew I was nearing a dangerous curve on this emotional rollercoaster ride with Judy. If I didn't do the right thing, Judy could get hurt. I didn't care so much about the homework. If she didn't want to make a duplicate of her homework assignment and put it in my folder anymore, that was okay with me. I never asked her to do my homework. She just started doing it when I got my nose broken by the guy who ran into me in the hallway. Although I had not asked her to do the work, my quiet acceptance of her efforts signaled that I was in agreement with her actions. But I wasn't stupid. For me to have asked her to stop doing my homework would be like having my mother come into my room and say, "Mack, I've been washing and ironing your clothes but if you would rather do it yourself, I can stop anytime." Now who's going to say, "Oh mother, I've missed a great opportunity by not doing my own laundry." Give me a break! If Judy was willing to do my homework why should I disrupt a good thing? I know what some of you are thinking about now . . . why didn't this guy's mother find something better to do with her time than give birth to this guy? I'm not claiming to be innocent, just content.

The following Friday Judy was wearing that tight mohair sweater again. I kept thinking about what she had said about how smooth and soft if felt against her skin. I was a little uneasy because I already had two uncomfortable experiences when Judy was in that sweater. It was like the sweater made her into a different person. Just before the bell rang for geometry class to be over, Judy slipped me a note and got up and was gone from the room before I had a chance to open the note and read what she had written. This note was not a hastily scribbled "enjoyed talking with you today" kind of note. As I opened the carefully folded paper and began to read her words, my emotional rollercoaster took a sharp curve and steep drop at the same time. My stomach was in my throat and I felt sick all over.

"Would you go to the Girl's Preference dance with me?" the note said. What was she doing to me? She knew I had a steady girlfriend. Besides, the dance was two months away. I hadn't heard of anyone even talking about that stupid dance yet. My weekend was ruined. I now knew why she had left the classroom so quickly. She wanted me to have to think about this all weekend. I couldn't go to the dance with her. And I wasn't about to let my girlfriend Karen know that Judy had even asked me. I could just see her reaction. "What have you been doing or saying that would cause Judy to ask you on a date?" Why is it always the guy's fault? I made classroom conversation, let her do my homework and admired her sweater. How could I have been so stupid to get caught looking at those pyramids? Why did I make "I had to work" excuses when she invited me over to her home? I wouldn't be in this mess if I had told her the truth at that time.

I wanted Monday morning to never come. I wanted to change schools, join the army or fake my own death. Monday did come. In fact it came screaming around the corner and before I knew it, second period was over and I was dragging myself down the hall to geometry class. "Maybe she changed her mind," I thought. Are you dreaming? Wake up, Idiot. I could see the headlines of the school paper. Student strangled with mohair sweater for turning down date to Girl's Preference . . . see page two for the rest of the story. If I didn't already have three unexcused absences I would have skipped class. Avoid, avoid, avoid had been my method of operation and now it would be my downfall. It was time to face the music.

I looked in Judy's direction as I entered the classroom. Yes she was there and she was wearing that blasted tight mohair sweater again. What had she done with the rest of her clothes? The sweater had become a bad omen for me. I confess; I took the chicken-way-out and during my previous class I constructed what I thought was a well written note thanking her for wanting to spend that evening with me but . . . there is always a "but" in this kind of note. After reading the note Judy looked straight ahead and didn't say a word. I thought, "Now that went well. Why was I so worried all weekend? And besides, she has plenty of time to ask someone else to the dance." Toward the end of the class when homework assignments were being passed back down the rows as usual, I was surprised that Judy took two sets of the homework papers. Apparently my emotional rollercoaster ride was over. At least that was what I thought until the bell rang and Judy jumped up and followed me out the door. She stuck right next to me as we left the classroom. I could almost feel her mohair sweater against my back. I'm certain I wasn't just imagining her breath on my neck.

As we entered the hallway Judy tugged at my arm and like an obedient puppy I turned to face her and prepared myself for whatever punishment she had planned for me. Breathing so heavy I could see her chest moving in and out, she stared right into my cowering brown eyes and said, "What does that skinny, toothpick of a figure blond you are dating have that I don't have?" I was taken back by the anger in her voice. It must have been a subconscious reaction. I momentarily glanced down at those pyramids covered by her tight mohair sweater, thought about that skinny blond she was talking about and quietly said, "Plenty." I didn't actually say the word, "Plenty." I just thought it. Some questions are better left unanswered.

Epilogue: I wish the story ended here but fat chance of that. We learn from the things we experience and it was evident I had a lot more to learn about girls.

Mohair & More (Part Two)   by Jerry Mack Grubbs

Prologue: I keep three journals. The first journal captures the events, feelings, highlights, regrets and things I am grateful for in my daily life. The second journal catches glimpses of my mistakes, my successes, my pathetic choices, and my dreams. The third journal details the secrets buried in the deepest chamber of my heart. Last week I shared with you the first portion of an article taken from the category called pathetic choices. Today's continuation of that article will not make sense unless you have read Mohair & More (Part One). My purpose in sharing this story with you is two fold. First, I desire to put a smile on your face as I share my experience and secondly, I hope to unlock your memories and encourage you to reflect upon some of the choices you made in your youth.

To refresh your memory, last week the story ended with me pinned against the wall by Judy's pyramids and her glaring gaze as she took the opportunity to point out a few of my weaknesses. You might as well know from the start that I never saw Judy in that mohair sweater again. So, if your sole purpose in reading this article is to learn more about tight fitting sweaters and pyramids you will be disappointed. Although Judy never wore the mohair sweater again I did get the courage to ask her what happened to it.

My story continues . . .

If Judy had been a guy instead of a girl when she said those hateful things about my girlfriend Karen, my response would have been quite different. When she made those accusations it just helped me realize how lucky I was to have someone in my life like Karen. When Judy asked me what Karen had that she didn't have and my answer was, "Plenty," I wasn't referring to how she filled out a sweater. She was skinny. I made the mistake once of calling her a toothpick. For you guys still in the learning curve, that kind of comment won't get you to first base. But this all happened before I understood that dating was like a baseball game; first base, second base, etc. Karen may have been thin but she had plenty to offer. She played varsity volleyball and basketball, rode a horse like she was born on one and won many awards competing in rodeo events on her horse called King, but most important of all, she was willing to spend her high school years wearing my ring around her neck. Well, she wore my ring except for the times she took it off when I did stupid things like allowing Judy to do my geometry homework.

Actually Karen didn't find out about my deal with Judy until much later. After Judy confronted me in the hallway I was certain that my homework arrangement with her was terminated. She probably went home that night and burned my homework folder. But there was several weeks left in the term so I could still make up all those assignments if I had to. The optimum thing would be for Judy to just hand my homework over to me and tell me that she wasn't going to do the assignments anymore. Was I surprised! The next day when the teacher passed out the homework pages, Judy took two sets of homework just like before. She made sure that I saw what she had done. I guess we were going to be friends whether I went to the Girl's Preference dance with her or not. Like I said before, she had plenty of time to ask someone else to the dance. Judy even passed me a note and apologized for what she had said about Karen. This was turning out sweeter than I could have ever imagined. After a couple of weeks I was even beginning to wonder if I would ever get to see her in that mohair sweater again. No one ever went blind or got their fingers broken for just looking.

Things couldn't be better. The school term was ending and it was time to take the geometry final. The teacher's method for computing our class grade was simple. One third of our grade was an average of the midterm and final test scores. Another third of the grade was the average of our pop quizzes. I don't know why the teacher called them pop quizzes. We had a quiz every Monday and Thursday. These quizzes weren't just randomly popping up. The quiz might come at the first of class or toward the end but bet-your bottom-dollar you weren't leaving her class on those two days without being quizzed. Our homework folder constituted the last third of our grade. As I said before, things were looking good. I had a B+ average on my quizzes and I had an A- on my midterm.

As the teacher passed out the papers for our geometry final, Judy slipped me a note. On the front of the note were the words, Read this before you start your test. Opening the note it said, I thought you should know before you take your test that I threw your homework folder away last night.   I looked over at her in hopes of seeing that familiar smile on her lips to let me know that she was just playing a joke on me. Her head was down and she had already begun taking her test. I quickly looked away for fear that the teacher might think I was trying to cheat by looking at her test answers. As I tried to concentrate on my test I kept telling myself that she must be kidding.

I finished my final before Judy did but I stayed at my desk and waited for her to complete her test. I was in hopes that we could talk about the true whereabouts of my homework folder. As she gathered up her books and turned in her test papers along with her homework folder, I followed her out of the classroom. The teacher called after me and asked where my homework folder was. I turned back momentarily and told the teacher that I had an urgent matter to take care of and I continued out the door. Lucky for me the teacher didn't say anything else.

Looking down the hall both ways I spotted Judy. I ran and caught up with her. "I need my homework folder," I said. The moment she opened her mouth I knew I was dead. Well, not actually dead dead but when mom got my geometry report card I might as well be dead. I would be grounded for life: no car privileges, no dates, and no life for me except school, church and chores. I never did anything bad enough to get grounded from church. I wonder how bad I would have to be for mom to say, "Mack, you can't attend church for three months." Mom and I once had a discussion about that very subject. She informed me that the only way I would get out of my church meetings was to be dead. Well, I wasn't going to kill myself over a bad grade in geometry.

I won't bore you with the details of what Judy shared with me there in the hallway about my shortcomings as a human being but her words are still etched on the wall of my brain like an ancient pictograph. Suffice it to say she made it abundantly clear that I would never see that homework folder much less use it to obtain a grade I did not earn and did not deserve. Her choice of words, earn or deserve, were puzzling to me. If I had agreed to go to the Girl's Preference dance with her, would I have earned and deserved my homework folder? If I had gone to her home after school and checked out my folder, would I have earned and deserved my folder?

Shake it off, let it go, get on with finding a solution to my problem, I thought. The solution certainly wasn't going to come from Judy. I went back to the teacher and told her I had misplaced my folder and would need some time to find it. She said I had one day to get that folder on her desk or I would fail the term. I failed the term. It was the first "F" of my school career. I couldn't imagine all the changes that were going to occur in my life over this one tiny "F". Why is it that something so unimportant to one person can be so catastrophic to another? Maybe mother was faking and pretending to be more upset about my past grades than she really was in hopes of motivating me to do better. No, her face got too red for her to be faking.

Our grades came out on three by five cards printed by the school. The front of the card was divided into the three terms of the semester and this is where the teacher recorded our term grades. The back of the card was for a parent's signature indicating that the grade had been reviewed. We had three days to return the report cards to the teachers. I tucked my report cards in my shirt pocked and headed home dreading the look on mom's face when she saw that "F". I had to do something. Mother didn't deserve the unhappiness my geometry grade was going to cause.

A beautiful thought entered my mind. I pulled the cards back out of my pocket and studied how the teacher had formed the letter "F" in the grade column. Sure enough, I could take a black pen and by just adding one line to that letter "F" it would transform into an "A". My problem was solved. You know the saying: what mom doesn't know won't hurt me. Mother signed the back of my report card and I promptly threw it away and told the teacher that I lost it. Lucky for me the teacher didn't call mom to verify that she had seen my report card.

I knew from a previous experience when I really did loose a report card that the teacher would not take the time to re-write all the information of previous term grades. With a B+ for the first term and an F for second term, I figured I could still pass the semester. There wasn't anything to get too excited about. Lying to the teacher and lying to mom by changing my grade was painful but not as painful as the truth would have been. If mom wasn't so strict I could afford to be more honest. My plan worked like an accomplished musician playing a precision instrument. Mom was happy. I was happy.

Epilogue: Happy endings are sometimes not an ending at all but just a momentary euphoria. I didn't realize it at the time but I had merely postponed a battle that could have easily escalated into my personal Armageddon, that final battle spoken of in the Book of Revelations in the Bible. Mom had an unbelievable memory. At the end of the semester she wanted to know how I could end up with a "C" in geometry when my three term grades had been B+, A and A. I decided enough time had passed that it wouldn't be a big deal for her to know what I had done so I told the truth. Boy, was that a mistake. I thought she would be proud of the way I buckled down and saved my geometry grade. Talk about a big deal! You would have thought I carved my initials in my little sister's arm the way mother acted. I have forgotten now how many things I was grounded from but I do remember that church wasn't one of them.

I continued to sit next to Judy and in time we became friends again. I once asked her why she never wore the mohair sweater anymore. "Are you stupid? It's hot out side. Besides, mother said it was too small and made me give it to my little sister." I missed that mohair sweater but I never mentioned it to Karen. Some things are better left unsaid, especially if you are trying to get to second base.

No Talking Allowed

2007-04-15T23:14:00.000-06:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Peering down from my hiding place I see far below a gentle surf lapping against the white sandy beach. The receding waves act like the tongues of thirsty dogs licking at the sand. As each wave releases its energy and slides back into the sea it carries with it part of this beach that is the front door to my view of the world.

But it isn’t just sand being drawn into the ocean that alters the view from my front door. Everything around me is in constant change if I just stand still long enough to notice. Maybe the fact that I have to stay very still and I am not allowed to speak to anyone gives me more time to watch the events taking place before me. Sometimes I feel like a spy looking down on the lives of people way down there on the beach. I can see them but they have no idea my eyes are upon them so they do things that they otherwise might not do.

As the sun was breaking over the distant horizon this morning I strained to bring into focus a jogger coming down the beach. Running alongside of him was a large black dog. The dog wasn’t on a leash although this beach had a strict leash-law. Occasionally the jogger would stop, pick up a piece of drift wood and toss it into the surf for the dog to chase after. The jogger and his dog were having a great time.

Almost right down in front of my hiding place the dog stopped and eliminated the remains of what must have been a large meal from the previous evening. What the dog did was perfectly normal behavior for a dog. The jogger stood patiently by as the dog finished his business. I saw that the man had a plastic bag tucked inside the waist band of his jogging shorts. That plastic bag was for the purpose of complying with another beach law, “scoop it up and pack it out” so the beach can remain clean and beautiful for other visitors to the sand of the seashore.

The dog completed his task and returned to his playful manner, coaxing his master to chase and play in the surf once more. The jogger looked down at the soiled beach but instead of retrieving his dog’s “beach present,” I noticed that he looked one way and then the next, searching for what I could only guess was to see if someone else on the beach might have seen what transpired. I can’t judge what was in his mind; I can only observe his actions. I looked both ways down the beach also and saw that it was deserted all except for me hiding way up above out of the jogger’s view. When he side-stepped the mess his dog left on the beach I wanted to shout down and tell him to clean up after his dog but I remained silent. I remembered one of the rules of my hiding place, no talking allowed. No one asked or wanted me to be the “Beach Gestapo” or “Poop Patrol.” I was only allowed to silently observe and there were many things to notice.

That huge orange ball we call the sun quickly pulled itself free of the horizon and began its steady climb into the sky, bringing with it the warmth of another beautiful summer day at the beach. I wondered what visitors would come to my front door of the world today. I had been so intent upon watching the jogger with his dog I had forgotten to turn off my lamp. I had left my light burning all night because I love to watch the light chase away the darkness. Some would call leaving my light on a waste of energy but I don’t tell others what to do with their light just like I didn’t remind the jogger of the “scoop-it-up and pack-it-out” rule of the beach.

I was anxious to see more visitors to the beach but I knew I would have to be patient. They didn’t come to entertain me; they didn’t even notice me. But not noticing me was okay. If visitors to the beach didn’t notice me, they would be themselves, acting just like the jogger who didn’t clean up after his dog because no one was looking.

My next visitors were two women taking a morning stroll. I imagined them to be vacationers who had grown tired of the novels they were reading back at their beach house and the sound of the surf had invited them to take a leisure walk. They looked happy and were enjoying one another’s company. They carried their sandals in their hands and walked barefoot in the wet sand letting the dying energy of the waves wash over their feet. I could see their lips moving and I strained to hear what they were saying but the sound of the surf muffled their voices. I knew I was too far away to hear what was being said so I just made up pleasant words and placed them on their lips.

The lady closest to the water was wearing a white swimsuit with blue markings. She had on a white blouse unbuttoned down the front that shielded her shoulders from the morning sun. Her shirttails flapped in the coastal breeze like the wings of a seagull taking flight. She had blonde hair and a smile that would melt your heart. She looked familiar but I was sure I had not seen her pass this way before or I would have remembered her. Her figure was filling out in places she would probably rather ignore but that didn’t matter to me. I am old enough to understand that a soft glance and a gentle touch are remembered by the senses long after the footprints in the sand are washed away by the incoming tide. And as long as I have been watching this beach, the tide has ebbed and flowed, washing away any evidence of trespassers on nature. I decided to name this lady Soft & Gentle for how she made me feel as I touched her with my eyes.

The other lady, the one closest to me, was much thinner and walked as though she wanted someone to notice her. She looked like she could go the distance . . . like a runner or an aerobics instructor. Her swimsuit was color coordinated in cream and copper to match a perfectly tanned body. I instantly nicknamed her Tanned & Toned. Here I was watching Soft & Gentle walking with Tanned & Toned as they strolled along the beach of life. I felt somewhat guilty tucked away in my hiding place and observing their every move. I wasn’t trying to deprive these two ladies of their privacy, I just enjoyed watching them as they leisurely strolled along the beach in what I called the front door to my world. I knew the pleasure of their company wouldn’t last long. They would soon be out of sight and I could only hope that they would pass by me on their return to their beach house. I wanted to run down to the beach before they came by again and remove the dropping left by the jogger’s dog but I couldn’t. I wasn’t on beach patrol; besides I wasn’t allowed to leave my hiding place.

I loose track of the days here in the cliff above the beach below. Today is either a holiday or the weekend because people began to show up just after lunch and stake out their own private spot of beach. They plopped down coolers, lawn chairs, towels and food baskets of all shapes and sizes. A volleyball net was set up for afternoon entertainment. This was turning into a wonderful way to pass the hours that can be sheer boredom when the beach is deserted. I’m not saying that I don’t enjoy the private solitude that a quiet beach can invite. I’m just suggesting that there can be a healthy balance between solitude and life-in-motion. With the erection of that volleyball net I knew instantly that there would be a lot of life in motion today. There would be young women in smaller than practical bikinis revealing enough of their assets to distract their male counterparts in the volleyball game. I wasn’t disappointed as the afternoon crowd gathered and the flirtation games began. Remember, disappointment comes from unmet expectations. Although the scenery was pleasant I felt a little saddened that so much emphasis is placed on physical appearance. But looking beyond the physical appearance is easier for an older generation where there have been too many cookies and milkshakes to tuck into a bikini or a Speedo.

I didn’t learn too much from this festive party because they were too busy worrying about how they looked to their friends. If you want to discover who someone really is, watch them when they think no one is looking. Like the little boy looking to make sure his mother wasn’t watching before he picked his nose. The only person who would chastise him was his mother, consequently; she was the only person who counted as he turned his back to her and performed his nasal ritual. Ten years from now when he would be one of the young men playing sand volleyball, wearing his Speedo and flexing his budding muscles, he wouldn’t dare put his finger anywhere near his nose for fear someone would have the slightest suspicion he was digging in that direction. Oh, the things we do when we think no one is looking. But today I was looking from my hiding place high up in the rocks above this happy crowd.

As afternoon burned into evening and most of the beach goers had retreated to their cars and headed for home, some lingered and built a campfire to roast marshmallows and hot dogs. From high up in my hiding place above the beach they became dancing shadows against the flames of the fire. I could still see their faces in the flickering light. One couple in particular stood out to me as I watched their eyes meet and lock on one another for long moments. I played a game in my mind and chose them to be the last hangers-on. In other words, no matter how long it took or how late it got these two would be the last ones to leave so that they could enjoy the quiet peaceful darkness together. I did not know what would happen once they were alone but I did know that there would be an expression of their feelings for one another.

I was right about the couple, not because I am smart but because I have observed visitors to the beach on other occasions. The pattern is the same. Once they are alone, they begin to explore each other physically or mentally or both. Tonight it was physical. The couple first sat by the dying fire and held each other close. Gradually as the fire turned to nothing more than glowing embers, they slid off the log they were sitting on and laid next to one another in the damp sand. It was only by a sliver of moon that I was able to see that things were taking place down on that beach that were meant for their eyes only. I know that a better one than I would have turned away and given them their privacy but instead, I turned on my light and let it shine down upon them. You see, I am a lighthouse and I am not allowed to talk. But I can turn on my light and chase away the darkness.

That is what I do each evening as I try to help others find their way on the darkest of nights. Some are caught in the unsuspected light, surprised and possibly embarrassed like the couple lying in the sand below. Others are grateful for that beacon that can guide them safely home. I could not leave the light off to accommodate the couple on the beach for fear that someone else was lost and floundering in a dark unfriendly sea. I started to name this article “If Lighthouses Could Talk,” but then it would have given away my hiding place. If a lighthouse could talk, think of the stories it would have to tell. If it could write, think of the pages of journals that a lighthouse could fill. If a lighthouse had a heart, imagine all the romantic sunsets it would experience.

A Soft Presence

2007-03-04T15:59:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Taking the stairs two at a time I sidestepped around a middle aged woman as I made my way up the stairwell to level 5 of the parking lot. As I climbed the stairs above her, I looked back and saw that her blonde hair revealed graying roots. There was a bounce in my step. My youthful exuberance was from holding my newest grandson Campbell as I visited with his parents at the hospital. Just as I opened the door to exit the stairwell I looked back and the lady I had passed was lumbering up the last flight of stairs not far behind me. I decided to wait and hold the door for her. She looked up and smiled a thank you as she passed through the doorway.

As the door began to close I glanced back into the stairwell and suddenly an old familiar feeling gripped me. I felt the presence of an unseen person in that stairwell. I have experienced similar feelings in the past; of sensing the presence of someone who I could not see. The feeling is usually the same. I am emotionally drawn to her and I want to protect her and keep her from harm. Who is this person? Where is this feeling coming from? Why am I so concerned about her safety? She isn’t my mother, my wife, my daughters, or my daughters-in-law. She is apart from them but I have an emotional attachment to her. As I try to put definition on those emotions I can’t even decide whether I feel responsible for her or responsible to her.

I hope that someday I will understand these feelings. I know there is someone lingering near me, reaching out to me. It isn’t a ghost but a soft presence of someone near. It is like my heart knows more than my brain and my heart isn’t willing to tell my brain who is standing there and what it all means. Although this experience has repeated itself on other occasions, prior to today my most recent feeling that her soft presence was near me came in September of last year. While my wife and I were having dinner at the home of friends I felt this lady standing right next to my chair.

Some would say that I am crazy, that it is all a figment of my imagination. Maybe it is my imagination and maybe it isn’t. But to me she is real and I look forward to understanding the meaning of it all. I know a little more than I am telling but not much more; not enough for you to make any sense out of what floods over me when I feel her soft presence near me.

I have heard stories of other people having similar experiences when they have lost a loved one through accident or illness. These people often struggle in frustration as they strive to put into words that a soft presence was felt and a comforting feeling was experienced. I have never felt that my experiences are coming form someone deceased nor have I thought that this soft presence I feel near me is trying to bring me a message from beyond this world. She is just there . . . unseen but felt. And the feeling remains with me for days and I want to hold her, shield her and protect her from anyone who would harm her in any way. She was in the parking lot stairwell today. Why? I do not know. But I was flooded with warmth by her soft presence.

Vanished

2007-02-25T16:24:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

With only the barrel of my gun poking out from under the leaves of my hiding place, I aimed at the head of my target. I moved the gun just enough to allow the crosshairs of my scope to center over his heart. I was only seconds away from firing the shot that would take the life of a living breathing creature. Once the trigger was pulled the bullet could not be called back. The decision would be final but if I hesitated I might be spotted and the opportunity for a clean shot would vanish. I exhaled slowly to expel all the air from my lungs. With my body rock still and steady, I squeezed the trigger. My Remington 270 bolt-action rifle kicked and the bullet left the barrel and traveled toward its mark. By the time I heard the crack of the rifle he toppled over from the impact of the bullet.

I had spent considerable time preparing for this moment. The previous day I scouted the area, first finding were the herd bedded down at night and the trail that the elk made as they moved to and from that secluded place. The same afternoon I spent some quiet time sitting and observing the surroundings. I wanted to determine the general direction of the wind so that I could position myself downwind of the incoming animals because elk have a keen sense of smell. Being positioned downwind of these wild creatures was essential for a successful takedown. Today I didn’t want the slightest movement to be noticed so I camouflaged my gun barrel with mud because it was shiny and made of stainless steel. Elk do not distinguish color but they are easily alerted by movement. I found a fallen tree about fifty yards from the trail. Lying prone behind that tree, I covered myself with a blanket of leaves as though the wind had blown them against the log. Now it was time for the hardest part . . . patiently wait and remain as still as possible.

This would be my third elk to take home if I proved successful in my hunt. The first was a cow elk that my son shot proxy for me. Proxy means to stand in for or to take the place of. I know it is illegal to shoot a game animal by proxy but it was the last day of the hunt and I injured my back lifting snowmobiles for the trip into the woods. I was in so much pain I could not raise my rifle and hold it still long enough to take a shot. I’m not trying to justify my behavior of having my son shoot the elk. I am just explaining what led up to that decision. I named that first elk Ethyl. You might think it odd to give a name to an animal that you were going to kill and eat. I have always valued life and the sacrifice that is made by an animal that gives its live for my benefit. This tradition of naming the animals I personally shoot started when I shot a hog in the back woods of South Georgia. I named that hog Dexter and we recognized him for his sacrifice each time he showed up on our dinner plates.

The second elk to be served at our table was Nate. His real name was Nathaniel but I shortened it to Nate. Today I employed the same technique I used when I successfully tracked and shot Nate. Nate followed textbook behavioral patterns just like the guide on my first hunt, Cal Haskell, taught me. Nate, the bull elk waited for all the cow elk to cross the clearing before he ventured into the open. For a few moments I was upset at myself for not going ahead and taking an available shot at the largest cow. I was mentally kicking myself for all the time I had laid in the snow behind a fallen tree in the mountains of Southwest Wyoming and now I would probably go home empty handed. Snow was falling and light was fading. As I was about to stand and brush the snow from my clothing, the bull elk stepped into the edge of the clearing. Sniffing the air for danger and sensing no alarm, he eased out into the meadow and followed the path that the cows had previously walked. A bull elk is always willing to sacrifice the cow elk for his own safety. The bull lets the lead cow saunter out into the unprotected open area. The remaining cows follow her and if they experience no danger crossing the clearing, about two minutes later the bull elk makes his way across the clearing. That certainly doesn’t sound very chivalrous but I didn’t write the rules of nature. I just studied them to try and use them to my advantage. If a hunter shoots one of the cows as they cross the open meadow, the bull reverses course and heads into the safety of the dense vegetation. The hunter never even knows that a bull was present.

Today my hunting permit was a combination permit that allowed me to shoot either a bull or a cow elk. I decided that I would hunt for a young bull. He would be larger than the cows and provide more meat but he wouldn’t be tough to eat like the old larger bulls of the forest. These younger bulls usually had only eight to ten cows that they had successfully stolen from a larger heard. I wasn’t worried about the survival of the herd if I shot the bull. There were always young bulls lingering beyond the tree line waiting for an opportunity to move in and take over. As you can see, the bull elk doesn’t provide protection for his harem. He uses them for his own protection and is willing to sacrifice them to preserve his own life. He will desert them once they were heavy with calf and he will spend the winter months either alone or with other bulls. It is like joining a bachelor club with other bull elk who were your arch enemies just a few months ago. In some ways these bulls are like men; they get along great together until they fall in love with the same female and then the swords are drawn. Or in the case of bull elk, the antlers begin to clash.

Today things looked perfect. I moved into position in the mid afternoon so that I would be in place well ahead of the herd’s return to the secluded bedding place. That is provided that the elk made the decision to return to this same place they had used for sleeping for several nights. If it is a moonlit night the elk will often feed through the night and sleep during the day. Tonight would be dark and they would bed down until dawn. There was a light breeze in the air that worked to my advantage for two reasons. First the wind was in the direction that carried my sent away from the trail and second, the rustling of the leaves in the wind helped muffle any rustling of leaves I might make as I adjusted in my hiding place behind the log. The time spent waiting wasn’t nearly as bad as I sometimes make it sound. I love the solitude of the forest. It brings peace to my heart as I hold perfectly still, only moving my eyes as I observe nature in all its glory. I use this quiet time to engage my mind and reflect upon pleasant memories of my yesterdays. Keeping my mind active reliving old memories also helps me not focus on how cold or wet or uncomfortable I might be at the moment.

This elk hunt was taking place in the Canadian Rockies so I decided to name my bull elk something that started with a “C” for Canada. I chose the name Clayton and I could already imagine the family referring to Clayton when we sat around the dinner table. At least I hoped that I would be successful and that Clayton would be invited to dinner on many future occasions. But what happened next changed all that. Sitting around the table enjoying a home cooked meal with family and friends was part of my past, not my future. I would not be going home and Clayton would not even be a name known by my family.

As the sun began to set the elk herd did return to the secluded bedding place just like I hoped. The cows all followed the lead cow in single file like dairy cows headed for the barn to be milked. They were a beautiful site and I could have easily shot one of them but I was waiting for Clayton to come along. If my plan worked, the bull elk would soon follow them up the trail. One minute passed then two minutes and Clayton didn’t show. Maybe something had spooked him. I decided to give him more time. I knew that I could easily wait until just before dark and work my way down to were the cows were grouped together and possibly get a shot at one of them before they startled and fled all directions. Down deep inside I was mentally begging for Clayton to come into my view. All the preparation, all the planning was for this one minute . . . and it looked like Clayton was going to be a no-show.

Then above the rustling of the leaves I could hear a noise that I did not recognize at first. To my surprise it was a group of men talking in hushed tones as they walked along the tree line of the clearing. Eyeing them through my scope I could see that they all carried guns but the guns were not hunting rifles. They were automatic military combat style weapons. No wonder Clayton hadn’t shown. He was probably two miles away by now with all the noise this group was making even though they were speaking in muffled tones.

With all this noise my plans were collapsing around me. Clayton would not be coming this way. He would probably not come back all season unless it was to gather up his harem. And he would only do that if some of the cows had not conceived yet. It was certain that my bull elk Clayton would not be paying us a visit at the dinner table this season. There would be no stories of how I outsmarted the young bull. I never really understood this macho business anyway. Take a creature of the forest who can easily travel forty miles a day or stand perfectly still for an hour to evade detection and pit him against a rifle bullet that travels in excess of thirty-one hundred feet per second with a knock down force of a hundred pound sledge hammer and where is the macho in all that.

Suddenly everything was reversed; I felt like the one being hunted. Although these men didn’t know that I was even there, I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck as I realized that these men were of Middle Eastern descent. I was afraid. Lying by the fallen tree trunk under the cover of leaves I was so focused on what was taking place that I forgot to breathe. Suddenly my lungs were about to burst for lack of oxygen and I had to force myself to breathe steady and slow. This was no time to panic and reveal my hiding place.

What were these men doing out in the mountains of the Canadian Rockies? The small packs on their backs revealed that they were not prepared for long term camping but were most likely just moving through the area. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying although they were only fifty yards from me. With a sickening feeling it occurred to me that these men may be attempting to travel through the country undetected? If this were the case they would kill me on sight. I had to remain unseen and somehow get back to civilization and warn the authorities of what I had discovered. Hunting was no longer on my mind. In fact, hunting for that bull elk Clayton seemed like an event that occurred days ago instead of just moments in the past. Surviving to warn someone about what was going on was my only concern. I now wished that the barrel of my gun was not even poking out of the leaves of my hiding place. I wanted to be invisible, to disappear into the ground until danger passed.

The large sniper’s scope mounted on my rifle only added to the possibility that I would be spotted. My sons had chided me about having a sniper’s scope on my rifle. The scope was a present from a friend who thought I needed every advantage possible. Not wanting to move anymore than necessary I decided to leave my rifle in place although it was visible if someone looked directly at it. Through the powerful light-gathering sniper’s scope I slowly scanned the faces of the men. I was stabbed with fear and my mind didn’t want to believe what my eyes were seeing. I recognized one of the men in the middle of the group as Bin Laden, the most hunted terrorist in modern history. I recognized him from having seen him on TV. My heart raced. I brought his face into sharp focus just to make sure my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. Yes, this was the man I had grown to despise. Not because of anything he did to me personally but for his open declaration to destroy us as a nation. The government and news media judged him guilty and now I had the chance to eliminate him. I knew that killing him would mean forfeiting my own life. I continued to shift the view in my scope back and forth between his heart and his head. A battle was raging inside of me. I knew that if I did not act soon I might be discovered and any chance of eliminating the world of this terrorist would be gone. I thought of my family. I thought how insignificant my sacrifice would be compared to the alternative of letting him live and continue to wage war against my country.

As I lay there under the cover of leaves behind the fallen tree I wondered what had brought me here. Why was I here at this moment in time with a high powered rifle equipped with a sniper’s scope? In the chamber was a 140 grain Boat-Tail Special-Performance bullet. The safety was off and the most hunted fugitive in the world was unaware that he was in the crosshairs of my scope? I didn’t feel brave. I didn’t feel lucky. I only felt duty. I wished that someone who wanted to be a hero was here in my place. I wish that someone who had trained for years and years for this very moment was here to realize the fulfillment of his lifelong training. But it was me. I was the one lying behind this tree covered in leaves with a gun pointed at this fugitive.

I knew that whether I was successful in taking this terrorist’s life or not, I would not be heard from again. My family would never know what happened to me. I just went hunting one day and never came home. I just vanished. My situation reminded me of the story of my great great grandfather. One morning after breakfast he put on his hat and went out to plow the field. When he didn’t return at suppertime a family member was sent to find him. The old mule was standing in the middle of the field still harnessed to the plow. And my great great grandfather’s hat was lying on the ground nearby. That was all that was ever found of him. He was never seen or heard from again. He just vanished. After days pasted and he did not return, the family decided that their father and husband just grew weary of his responsibilities and walked away. Will my loved ones have similar thoughts about me when they never heard from me again? That thought pained my heart even more than the thought of dying.

Whether anyone ever knew what happed to me or not, if I took this terrorist’s life I understood that his legacy might live on for years with the world continuing to believe that he was alive. There would probably be news reports and sightings of him to make the public think that he was still leading his followers. But one American would know that blood no longer flowed through his veins. And this little Remington 270 bolt-action rifle would instantly become the most famous rifle in the world. But it would never be auctioned off to the highest bidder. It would be lost to history; left to rust away in a high mountain Canadian meadow next to me, buried in a hastily dug shallow grave to hide the evidence of what occurred this day.

I thought of my wallet inside my hip pocket and what personal information it might contain that could lead to retribution on my family. I desired to destroy all items of personal identification that I didn’t want found by these men. If I hid the whole wallet they would probably look for it. I scraped out a shallow area of dirt beneath the fallen tree and hid my identification information. I left a copy of a poem in my wallet I had written some years earlier. The poem was about love and I wanted these men who seemed so full of hate to know that I knew what love was. Even though I would be despised by them for what I was about to do, I now understood what it meant to give your life for what you believe.

I thought of the families who had lost loved ones during the 9-11 attack on the World Trade Center Towers. I reflected on other acts of violence around the world such as the attack on the USS Cole in Yemen and the attack on the Marine barracks in Beirut, Lebanon. I not only thought of the Americans who had lost their lives through these terrorist attacks but the tragedy and heartache on the other side of this battle as well. What about all the young men and women being recruited by these terrorist organizations who are teaching them to hate and to kill? What about the families of the suicide bombers? They were often unwilling participants to this tragedy as they lost loved ones also. Was this terrorist positioned in the crosshairs of my sniper’s scope the personification of evil hidden under the costume of human skin? Were all these questions and thoughts bombarding my mind merely my self-justification for taking a human life?

I was only seconds away from firing the shot that would take the life of a living breathing creature. Once the trigger was pulled the bullet could not be called back. The decision would be final but if I hesitated I might be spotted and the opportunity for a clean shot would vanish. I exhaled slowly to expel all the air from my lungs. With my body rock still and steady, I squeezed the trigger. My Remington 270 bolt-action rifle kicked and the bullet left the barrel and traveled toward its mark. By the time I heard the crack of the rifle he toppled over from the impact of the bullet. Instantly all heads turned toward the direction of my rifle fire. There was an explosion of noise from the sound of their automatic weapons and my world went dark.

Epilogue:

The beauty of a dream is that your mind doesn’t require the insertion of a lot of background information. A dream starts and a dream ends and you take it for what it is. Sometimes it is worth nothing more than a passing thought. And other times it lingers with you and won’t let go. In a dream and in awaking life, a personal sacrifice is sometimes required for a greater good. In this dream my personal sacrifice seemed small compared to the sacrifice I brought upon my loved ones . . . never knowing what happened to me. I just went hunting one day and never came home. I just vanished. But I was not the first member of my family to vanish. I wonder what story my great great grandfather will tell us some future day when the past collides with the present. I’m interested to know what happened that day more than a hundred years ago when he went to plow the field and never came home. He just vanished.

Hopefully Forgiven, Never Forgotten

2007-02-18T12:00:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

On December 3rd it was warm and sunny in Longview, Texas. I had returned to my home town to celebrate my mother's birthday. That afternoon I slipped away to visit some of the old familiar places of my youth. The next few hours were spent in a whirlwind of emotion and memories of days gone by. My stops included 614 Idlewood Drive where I spent three years of my grade-school life. The front yard looked smaller than I remembered. The tree I fell out of and broke my arm was no longer there. But that didn't stop the memories from rushing forward and engulfing me as though it were yesterday. I only wish I could take you by the hand and carry you back in time with me and let you see what I saw, feel what I felt. But you have your own memories, the things that molded you into who you are today. I have many happy memories of when I lived on Idlewood Drive but it was also the birthplace of one of my most painful learning experiences. And so the story goes . . . .

"I will run away if you make me do that," I said. It was my last ditch effort to control my mother's behavior. She had become more and more resistive to my tactics. During the eight short years of my life, mom had come to know and anticipate my moves almost before I played them. If she played chess, I would have never won a game. When I said I would run away, she just looked at me and without so much as a hesitation; asked if I wanted to eat dinner first. Well, if she didn't believe me I would show her. We'll see how calm she is when I never come back. Mom would regret that she forced me to run away from home.

I didn't wait for dinner. With my luck it would probably be my night to do dishes. I never could keep the schedule straight. I thought of all the things I would miss: my family, visits to Granny's, TV. But there were also things I wouldn't miss: doing dishes and other chores around the house, not to mention always being told what to do. For certain there would be no TV out in the woods or in a hobo camp where I would have to live the rest of my life. No matter what I would miss, I was determined to do whatever was necessary to keep from being labeled a thief, humiliated in front of my classmates and probably spending the rest of my life in jail.

Mother didn't seem bothered in the least that I could be sent to jail. I have no recollection of her exact words but it was probably something like "You knew what you did was wrong when you did it and now you have to make it right." Where was the mercy and charity she would later teach me about? Was there nothing but the cold hard steel of justice in my future? I saw no option except to run away and start a new life far away where no one knew about me and my crime. As I passed through the kitchen I grabbed two slices of Wonder Bread, stuck them inside my shirt and headed out the front door. I made sure that the door slammed so that mom would know that I had left for good. Normally I would hear her say, "Don't slam the door." But I heard no response from her as I passed through that door for the last time in my life.

I was out the door and walking down the road with only my thoughts for company. I began to reflect on the events that brought me to this point in my short life. School had been in session for two weeks. As third graders we were still getting acquainted with our classmates. The boy sitting in front of me (name-long-forgotten) brought a collection of foreign money to school from several different countries. Name-Long-Forgotten sounds like an Indian name but he wasn't Indian, I just can't remember his name. His father served in World War II and collected the money as he marched from place to place.

I wanted that folder of money more that anything I could think of. A scheme started to develop in my mind how I could become the new owner of that treasure. The final bell rang signaling the end of the school day. I waited around until the school was almost empty before I slipped back into the classroom. I moved quickly to Name-Long-Forgotten's desk and to my delight, the folder containing the foreign money was right where it had been when we left the room. My plan was working perfectly. I slipped the folder inside my notebook and made my way out of the school as quickly as possible. As I crossed Mobberly Avenue in front of the school I knew that I had gotten away clean.

As I walked home I was surprised at how easy getting the folder had been. Now the second part of my plan began to take shape. I would dig a hole under the house and bury the folder for a few days. On the weekend I would play as usual under the house and pretend that I discovered the buried money. It was damp under the house so I had to be careful to keep the money collection from getting damaged. This stealing business was so easy. No wonder people stole what they wanted. No one saw anything and no one questioned me. I would now wait and let things cool down.

A great stir swept over the classroom the next morning when Name-Long-Forgotten discovered that his money collection was missing. Someone was a thief. The teacher said that she knew it was someone from the class and the money better be returned by the next day or the police would be called. Police! Thief! I knew I was a thief but being labeled a thief was almost worse than being one, I thought. Police? It never occurred to me that the police would be called. I panicked. I didn't panic and confess; I just panicked on the inside. There was no reason to panic on the outside and do something stupid because no one knew that I was the thief who had taken the money. Well, no one knew except me and God. Others couldn't possibly know because I hadn't made my great discovery from under the house where the money was hidden. I could just leave it there and no one would ever know. Well, no one but me and God. I considered digging up the money and quietly returning it early the next morning but I decided that would be too risky. What if I were to get caught returning the folder? It wasn't worth the chance. Besides, there had to be some way of working out these unforeseen problems and still be able to keep the money collection.

My conscience was doing battle with my brain. I knew what I had done was wrong. I also knew that I would not want Name-Long-Forgotten or anyone else to steal something from me. Mother had been trying to teach me that golden rule stuff as long as I could remember but I guess her words hadn't stuck in my heart. Your brain can talk to your heart all day long but if your heart doesn't want to listen it doesn't do any good. When no one's looking, you'll follow your heart. I knew that there must be some way to save the day and get the money back without being caught. But the biggest problem I faced wasn't the police or getting caught returning the money. The problem was that I still wanted to keep the money collection. A wrestling match between my heart and my brain was still going on. In the end my heart won. I wanted the money more than I wanted to do the right thing. The right thing was to have never become a thief in the first place but it was too late for that. This stealing business was getting in my blood and my blood had to pass right through my heart. With stealing in my heart I wasn't just a thief on the outside; I was a thief on the inside. I had never stolen anything before with the exception of Halloween candy from my cousins and I wasn't sure that was really stealing. But that was all part of the past. I was a thief for sure now. I knew it and Heavenly Father knew it but He didn't seem to mind one way or the other. He didn't shock my fingers or give me some other sign to try and stop me when I first touched the money folder. I knew that one day I would face Heavenly Father but I didn't think too much about my future visit with Him. I wasn't going to see Him anytime soon because I was only eight years old. Besides, I could repent someday and then I wouldn't have to worry one way or the other, all would be forgiven.

The decision was made; I would keep the money and proceed with my original plan. I would just wait a little longer and let things cool down before digging up the money from under the house and becoming a modern day pirate discovering buried treasure. There would be a little excitement, my brother would be insanely jealous of my good luck and most important, I would have my very on foreign money collection. My very own collection of foreign money . . . man those words sounded nice. How lucky can a guy be? In this world you can make your own luck.

I couldn't wait to dig up my money and show it to mother. The waiting was driving me nuts. Each afternoon as I came home from school I would slip under the house and dig up the corner of my treasure just to make sure it was still there and hadn't been stolen. See, once you become a thief you naturally begin to think that everyone is a thief just waiting for an opportunity to take what is yours. I don't remember ever worrying about someone stealing my stuff before I stole the money collection but now I was obsessed with protecting what was mine. I carried an image in my mind of the money collection just sitting under that desk waiting for someone to steal it. If I hadn't gotten to it first surely someone else would have taken it. But now it was mine, all mine.

I guess the teacher decided that whoever took the money collection wasn't going to bring it back because she stopped threatening us and to my relief the police never came. I was sure glad I hadn't caved in to her pressure and confessed. If I had panicked and confessed, all the other thieves in school would be laughing at me, my classmates would never speak to me again and I might even have to go to jail. But for now life couldn't be better. I had gotten away with stealing the money and no one would ever know. It's the dumb ones who get caught or the weak ones who loose their nerve and spill their guts. I didn't have to worry about any of that because so far my plan had been perfect. In fact, things were going so well I decided I didn't need to wait any longer before making my great discovery of the buried treasure. I asked mother if I could go out and play under the house. I had never asked mother if I could play under the house before but this time I wanted to make sure there would be no question in mother's mind where the money came from.

Crawling under the house next to the back stairs, I quickly dug up the money collection and set it aside. I needed to wait a few minutes before declaring my new discovery. I'm sure it was only minutes but it seemed like hours and soon I could wait no longer. Climbing out from under the house, I painted a look of surprised delight on my face and went running into the house to show mother what I found. That was my last happy moment. Mother took one look at the folder of money and said, "You didn't find that under the house." How could she know? Fear stuck to me like molasses but I quickly caught myself and said, "How do you know?" "Because if it had been under the house like you said, it would be wet from the damp ground." I had sprinkled a little dirt through the pages so it would appear older than it was. Rats, I hadn't thought of that. I continued to proclaim my innocence all that afternoon. Mother bombarded me with questions and accusations and refused to believe my story. My own mother had turned on me and was making my life miserable.

Over and over mother said, "I don't believe you Mack. Where did the money come from?" I stuck to my story but she was melting me down like a hot sun glaring on an ice cream cone. It couldn't have been worse if she had tied me to a chair and turned a spotlight on me. Mother had not laid a hand on me but anyone will break under severe pressure. I broke. I confessed. Oh, at that moment, how I wished I had never seen that money collection. How I wished I had never taken it or at least taken the gamble to return it even if it meant getting caught. This was the darkest day of my life. I thought it couldn't get any worse but then it did. Mother told me that I would have to return the collection, tell the teacher I stole it and apologize to Name-Long-Forgotten. I begged for her to let me just sneak the money back into the classroom but she said, "No." "Mom, I can't do it; I won't do I," I said. "Oh yes you will Mack and you are going to do it tomorrow," mother said.

I didn't want tomorrow to ever come. That's why I ran away. If mom couldn't find me she couldn't make me take the money back and face all that humiliation. The street in front of our house was unique to the neighborhood. There was an island of grass and shrubs running the full length of the street dividing the east and west traffic. Months earlier I discovered that the center of one of those shrubs had died out and I could crawl right up inside and be totally concealed from view. Twice I had hidden there to keep from having to take my piano lesson from Mrs. Schaffer who lived at the end of the street. I disliked Mrs. Schaffer and her mouse-infested piano almost as much as I hated piano lessons but I wasn't worried about a piano lesson today. I crawled into the shrub and prepared to wait until I could come up with my next plan of action. I didn't eat my slices of Wonder Bread. I was feeling too miserable to be hungry.

I was hoping that mother would collapse in hysterical sobs over the loss of her son, come find me and tell me that she would not make me return the money and be humiliated in front of the whole class. I wanted mom to step in and sweep my pain away like she was sweeping dirt off the front porch. But she did not come. It began to get dark and she still didn't come. It wasn't the darkness of night that bothered me. I learned when we lived in the country to overcome my fear of the dark. Gradually it became clear that my plan wasn't going to work . . . I had played my last card and lost. Mother wasn't going to give in to the wishes of a misguided little boy whose heart had been wrong from the moment he thought about stealing that money collection. Looking back on it now, to give in to my demands would have been the worst thing she could have done. I would have to return the money collection and face whatever punishment I had coming to me. I crawled out from the safety of the hollowed out hedge and slowly headed for home. My heart was heavy and my brain was numb. I felt like both my heart and my brain had let me down. But I knew the truth.

I had left home by defiantly slamming the front door and now I was sneaking in the back door like a skinny mouse with its tail between its legs. My brother and I slept on the screened-in porch at the back of our house. The room was dark and there was no one home when I came in the back door. Bill and I had bunk beds and each year we traded off who got to be on the top bunk. This was my year to be on the bottom. I slipped into bed and covered my head. I wanted to just disappear but I was all out of magic tricks. After a while I heard the screen door open and mother quietly came through the door. I reached out in the darkness and touched her leg as she went past me. I wanted her to know that I was home. Neither one of us spoke. There would be plenty of time for us to talk tomorrow. Oh how I wanted tomorrow to never come.

But tomorrow did come and I was soon on my way to school with the folder of foreign money to return to Name-Long-Forgotten. I hated this mess I was in. If I had paid closer attention to the Bible story about David and Bathsheba that my Sunday school teacher taught me I wouldn't be in this mess. My teacher was Sister Nimtz. It didn't make sense that Mrs. Nimtz could be my sister but when you are eight there are a lot of things that don't make sense. One thing in particular that didn't make sense was why I couldn't just quietly slip the money collection back into the classroom. Anyway, what happened next might have never taken place if I had learned from Sister Nimtz's bible story that things can go from bad to worse when you try to cover up the stink of being a thief. Remember, David knew Bathsheba and she was found with child (that's the way they say it in the Bible) . . . sort of like she stumbled, fell down and when she got up, discovered she was going to have a baby. But David had another problem. Bathsheba was already married to someone else. David didn't want Bathsheba's husband to find out what he had done to Bathsheba so he had her husband killed. That's what I mean when I say things can go from bad to worse when you try to cover up what you did wrong.

Just like David, this morning I was filled with dread for having gotten myself in such a pickle. At least I wasn't as bad as David. I hadn't resorted to having anyone killed over this little money problem. That's how the mind of a thief operates; they compare themselves to someone who did something worse, then they don't feel so bad about their own mistakes. Last night I had been defeated, worn down, smeared with the agony of worldly sorrow. But my sorrow was not for what I had done. It was for having been caught. With this fresh new day, my brain began to scheme my way out of this unfortunate situation. See how a thief begins to think when he gets in a jam . . . he starts distancing himself from the foul act by referring to it as an unfortunate situation.

The problem in this unfortunate situation was the evidence. I needed to get rid of the evidence. David in the bible couldn't get rid of his evidence; he loved Bathsheba too much to let her go. I no longer loved or wanted this money collection, I hated it. Four days ago I thought I couldn't live without the money and now I couldn't stand the sight of it. When you think about something night and day your mind goes crazy wanting it. That foreign money was worthless because I couldn't even spend it. You couldn't buy a hamburger with the whole lot of it. Mother would have said something like, "There isn't enough money there to buy a pot to pee in." I would never spend my money on a pot; a boy can always find a bush to go behind. If I could get rid of this evidence no one could ever prove I was the one who took the money. I made my decision. I wasn't going to confess and I wasn't going to ask Name-Long-Forgotten to forgive me for stealing his money collection and no one could make me.

To get rid of the evidence by just burying it wouldn't be good enough. With the way my luck was going, someone would find the money collection and I would be dead meat. I had to destroy the evidence. After school I ran home as fast as I could. I already had a box of matches hidden under the house for lighting small forbidden fires. I lit the folder of foreign money on fire but just the edges of the pages burned. I soon realized that I would have to burn one page at a time. I watched as the fire first blackened each page with the money taped to it and then it turned to ashes. I felt like I was watching something take place that I would regret all my life but that feeling did not stop me. Once all the pages were burned I stirred the ashes into the dirt to destroy the evidence of the fire. The money was gone. I couldn't give back what didn't exist. I was free! But it was just another lie I told myself. I didn't believe the lie but I wanted to. When you begin to believe your on lies you are really in trouble.

I was in trouble but I wasn't a goner. I hadn't started to believe my own lies yet. I knew what I was doing was wrong. It was wrong to steal the money collection. I could say the devil made me do it but that would just be another lie. He may have tempted me but he didn't put my hand on the money. I stole the money because I wanted it more than I wanted to be honest. Destroying the evidence by burning the money was worse than the original theft. I burned the money to cover my wrongdoing.

I was acting just like David in the bible. When David discovered that Bathsheba was found with child, his solution to the problem was to have her husband killed. It didn't matter to him that he had taken another man's wife. David, the king sent the husband of Bathsheba into the heat of a terrible battle and commanded his men to withdraw from him leaving him alone to be surrounded and killed. I imagine that when David first received the news that Bathsheba's husband Uriah had been slain in battle, he exclaimed, "I'm free." His happiness probably lasted about as long as mine did.

Like David, I had slain my Uriah so to speak by eliminating the money collection but I wasn't free. Mother would be in the house waiting for a report on how my day of confession and restitution had gone. I crawled out from under the house where the evidence had been burned and buried. I painted on my sad face and went inside. To my surprise mother did not immediately descend upon me with a bunch of questions. Eventually she did ask how my day went and I told her it was the worst day of my life. I had become a liar as well as a thief. I now understood the saying, "Show me a thief and I'll show you a liar. Show me a liar and I'll show you a thief." Once again I lied to myself when I thought, "I'm home free." I felt free because mother never checked with the school to see if I had followed through with her demands that I confess, make restitution by returning the stolen money collection and asking Name-Long-Forgotten to forgive me.

But I was not free. Through the years there have been many times that if I could, I would have pushed the rewind button and made different choices those days long ago in the third grade. But you can't change the past, you can only learn from it. The decisions I made back then were wrong but there was a rainbow at the end of that third grader's sad story. Throughout my life each time I have been tempted to take something that did not belong to me, I have immediately thought of the feelings I experienced in that damp crawl space under our house on 614 Idlewood Drive. There, I experienced worldly sorrow for having been caught and chose to burn the evidence of my wrong choices.

I have learned the difference between worldly sorrow and Godly sorrow. Worldly sorrow causes you to try to hide your mistakes. Godly sorrow prompts you to do everything you can to undo the damage you have caused and wish with all your heart it had never happened. This experience I have shared with you became a benchmark in my life. As I gradually became truly sorry for my actions or in other words experienced Godly sorrow, I knew that I would have to find Name-Long-Forgotten and express my heart felt regret for having taken something that did not belong to me.

The Untouchables

2007-02-04T12:49:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

The acceptable kill rate was four to one. I could fulfill my obligation to my country if I killed four of the enemy before I got killed. After that, my body could be shipped back to the states draped publicly in an American flag and delivered home for my family to mourn privately. My government would provide three hundred dollars for my burial expenses and my name would appear on the wall of the Vietnam Memorial. But there would be no future, no wife, and no children to bounce on my knee.

It would be years before I realized how discriminating the war was. Poor blacks and whites not in college were hit the hardest. The poor were targeted as though they were the most dispensable. I guess that is the way it has always been. The poor filled the ranks of the bulging surge of humanity being shipped to South East Asia. Fifty-eight thousand would not return alive. Many more would come home with serious wounds both physical and emotional. This was the destiny of many men during the Vietnam years. For those who lived, what they saw and what they endured changed them forever.

But war would not be my destiny, my future. The knowledge of my destiny was not derived from the ability to see into the future. It came from a priesthood blessing I received in which I was promised that I would be sealed up against the war. I have never understood why I should be sealed up against that war while so many others were not. But I have an outpouring of gratitude that I was spared the experiences that transpired in that foreign land.

For us here at home the message was clear. You want to stay out of Vietnam? Go to college. That wasn't a problem for me because I always planned to go to college. Upon high school graduation I registered for the draft as required by law. I also turned in all the necessary papers showing my college acceptance and received a 2-S deferment. I became one of the untouchables. I could not be drafted so long as I held a 2-S deferment. I didn't go to college to dodge the draft although I didn't want to go to war. However, regardless of my circumstances I would not have fled to Canada or Mexico to evade the hungry war machine gobbling up young me by the thousands. Although I was temporarily protected from war with my deferment, I was not in sympathy with the demonstrations taking place on campuses across the nation. I felt it would have been a betrayal of the servicemen already caught in a crushing vice between the Viet Cong and politics.

Our country was being torn apart. The irony of it all was that in Vietnam the military leaders were hovering above the firefight high enough to stay clear of enemy fire while others suffered and died on both sides. On college campuses and in the city streets the principal instigators of the demonstrations would stir up the populace and when the threat of police interaction was present, they would conveniently slink away, leaving the stirred-up students to take the brunt of the fight. No matter where you were, here at home or in South East Asia, the rhetoric was the same: propaganda, propaganda, and more propaganda. I struggled to understand the truth and where it was hiding.

After my freshman year of college I planned to serve a mission for the LDS Church. A problem arose almost immediately. My local draft board refused to issue me a 4-F deferment for missionary service. Without that deferment I could not serve a mission. The draft board accused me of requesting to serve a mission to avoid the draft. I reminded the draft board that I already had a college deferment and could retain that 2-S status for four years by staying in school. I desired to serve a mission because I wanted to make a difference in people's lives. On appeal, the draft board agreed to grant me a 4-F deferment on the condition that I would voluntarily extend my draft eligibility by ten years.

The draft board expected me to choke on that stipulation and withdraw my appeal. But I knew something they did not know. I had a blessing that sealed me up against the war. I signed the draft extension papers and within three months I was saying goodbye to my family and heading to the language training center to learn Spanish. I had been called to serve in the West Spanish American Mission. After three months of language training, I boarded a night train with seven other missionaries headed for the mission headquarters in East Los Angeles. Los Angeles had the second largest Spanish speaking population on this continent next to Mexico City. When I filled out my missionary papers there was a place to list my requested area of service. I requested an English speaking mission outside of the United States. I received a mission call to serve Spanish speaking people in California, Arizona and Nevada. Someone had more faith in me than I had in myself by sending me to a Spanish speaking mission. I had two years of high school Spanish and I wasn't a star pupil.

On that night train to Los Angeles as I sorted through my papers it occurred to me that my 4-F deferment would expire three months before the completion of my mission. I had been granted a two year deferment and not one day more. When requesting the missionary deferment I did not know that I would be called to serve a foreign speaking mission. The three months spent in the language training center did not count toward my two years of missionary service. I gulped and my throat went dry as cotton. I would be reclassified 1-A for the draft three months before I completed my mission. What this meant was that there was a high probability that I would be drafted before I was able to get reenrolled in college. Then I remembered the blessing I received and my heart was quieted. I shrugged my shoulders and said to myself that it would all work out.

True to their word the draft board reclassified me 1-A September 7th, 1967, three months before returning home from my mission. Within a week after my arrival I was ordered to report to the Gregg County Draft Board. As I opened the letter and read the instructions, I momentarily wavered in my faith of the blessing I received several years earlier. Had I misinterpreted the meaning of "sealed up against the war"? Maybe sealed up meant sealed up in a coffin, or maybe it meant sealed up against death but I would still be required to go to South East Asia. Then I remembered an old familiar saying about life, "shallow brooks are noisy but still waters run deep." Although I didn't fully understand why at the time, that little saying calmed me. My blessing was not from a shallow source and the noise of fear I was hearing in my mind wasn't from still waters. I remember telling myself, "Be still, be calm, I can do this, whatever comes."

It was difficult to be still and calm. My life was a tangle of emotions. My old girlfriend was engaged to marry Pat Cunningham. My mind knew that this was the right thing for her but my heart wasn't playing a different tune. I also had to report to the draft board in just a few days. I was shuffling around the house, just home from my mission with nothing to keep me busy. Mark, an old high school friend who heard that I was home called and asked if I wanted to go to a rally. "What kind of rally?" I asked. "An anti-war demonstration," Mark said. I thought it was strange that Mark would be interested in an anti-war demonstration since he just returned from Vietnam. But we were bored and decided we would go check it out. The crowd was peaceful but disorganized. They were milling around on the steps of the courthouse. I wondered what good a demonstration would do at eight o'clock in the evening in front the courthouse. The only people who would be in there at this time of evening would be the janitors.

I approached a shaggy haired young man who appeared to be in his early twenties. He was wear bell-bottom knit pants with an orange tie-dyed tee shirt a couple of sizes too small. I no longer remember what was printed on the back of his shirt. I asked him why they were demonstrating after the courthouse was closed. He looked at me as if he was staring right through me and said, "Peace, brother and free love." I didn't know very much about love but I was smart enough to know that love wasn't free. Mark and I stood around on the outer fringe of the crowd for a few minutes but most of what I was hearing were trite sayings like "make love, not war," and all manner of degrading names for the president and the government. I turned to Mark and said, "I've seen enough and heard enough, let's go get a shake at the Golden Point drive-in." With a shrug of his shoulders Mark and I headed across the courthouse lawn toward his dad's pickup. He was quiet. We glanced back one more time to look at the small crowd that had gathered. I said, "They sounded like a bunch of broken records just saying the same thing over and over, repeating each other." Mark said, "Those kids are loaded on pot and their brains are in neutral. That's why they call it spaced out. I've seen a lot of it in the military."

As Mark and I enjoyed our ice cream shakes he spoke of his experiences in Vietnam and said that he hoped I'd never have to see what he had seen. Much of what he described was unimaginable to me. Our mood turned somber and after a while he took me home. As we said our goodbyes Mark looked at me and said, "Jerry, I'm not a hero and I didn't volunteer for duty in Vietnam. I hated every minute of every day I spent there. I was scared the entire year but what I see here at home scares me in a different way. I witnessed an anti-war demonstration outside the military gates of Fort Benning, Georgia before being sent home on leave. I'm not an expert on the Peace and Free Love Movement, but I haven't seen one person at those demonstrations I'd want to share a foxhole with. There was sadness in his countenance as he turned, got in the pickup and drove away.

Two days later as I prepared to report to the draft board I was still thinking about the demonstrators on the courthouse steps a few nights earlier. In the Old Testament when Cain slew Abel it wasn't difficult to determine who was the good guy and who was the bad guy. The demonstrators referred to the president as a baby killer and all sorts of other degrading names. They didn't have one good thing to say about this country; the greatest country on earth. I wanted to be on the right side and I didn't want to give my life for an unjust cause but what was the right side? Then that same little saying came back to my mind, "shallow brooks are noisy but still waters run deep." Once again I told myself, "Be still, be calm, you can do this, whatever comes."

Looking back it seems odd that I was surprised to discover that I wasn't the only young man reporting to the draft board that day. We stood in a line and waited for our names to be called. As each person's name was called he stepped up to the front of the enlistment desk. When I heard my name called I moved forward to the desk as directed. An older woman with kind eyes and streaks of grey in her hair was seated at the desk. I waited for the list of questions that I had been hearing directed at each young man who had gone before me. Studying my papers for a moment she looked up at me and said, "Are you the Jerry Grubbs that dated Karen Young?" Surprised by her comment and while still trying to remember how I knew this lady, I said, "I am."   "Well young man, Karen's mother thinks very highly of you. Do you want to go to Vietnam?" she asked. "No, I want to go back to college but I got called up before I could get back into school." I explained. Without taking her eyes off me she took my draft papers, slid them into the top drawer of her desk and instructed me to turn around, walk out of the office without saying a word to anyone and send her verification of my readmission to college when it was official.

I did exactly as she instructed. I didn't even know her name until I was outside the courthouse and looked down at the small card she handed me that read, "Edie Brown, Secretary, Gregg County Draft Board." After learning her name, I still didn't know who she was. At that time all I knew was that she was a friend of Karen's mother and because of that association I had become one of the untouchables once more.

The country was still deeply divided concerning the war as I returned to college in the spring of 1968. Edie Brown had been true to her word. My 2-S deferment declaring me untouchable arrived in the mail as promised. That demonstration I went to was the only one I ever attended. Ironically, I never witnessed more words of hate than I heard at that peace demonstration on those courthouse steps in December 1967. I wasn't envious of the soldiers in harm's way nor was I willing to join forces with the demonstrators. Both soldiers and demonstrators seemed to be caught up in the propaganda of the moment . . . while some were following orders to kill, others were being incited to riot. I would have been wounded by the actions of the demonstrators if I had been a draftee crawling my way through a dangerous jungle trying to stay alive, fighting a war I did not understand but choosing to fight rather than slither across the border and hide.

After Karen's mother passed away, I found Edie Brown and we spent an afternoon together. She was confined to a wheelchair and living alone. Edie was experiencing the challenges and debilitating effects of sugar diabetes. It was the first time I had seen her or talked to her since that day long ago when I stood in front of her desk at the county draft board. She shared her life story with me and how she became acquainted with Karen's mother. The two of them attended high school together in Ohio. With another mutual friend they moved to Longview, Texas in 1940 and remained close friends all their lives, meeting regularly to play bridge. It was at those bridge games that Edie Brown came to know who Jerry Grubbs was and what he meant to her lifelong friend. Karen's mother shared with Edie the feelings she had for this boy whom she referred to as the son she always wanted.

Karen's mother had touched my life in a way that I never imagined. When I began dating her daughter in 1960, I could not have guessed that she would be the influence that brought about the fulfilled my blessing of being sealed up against the war. By my promise, I never discussed with Karen's mother Edie Brown's involvement in my draft deferment. But I had experienced a miracle in my life and I have discovered that not all miracles are performed by unseen hands. Karen's mother's influence had spared me from the draft. What did I do to deserve that? I do not know. There were many men far better than I who suffered and died in that foreign land.

I had the opportunity to thank Edie Brown in person. One day, beyond this earth, I will thank Karen's mother; not just for her influence in keeping me untouchable from the draft but for all she taught me and her unconditional acceptance of me. I continue to be grateful for a blessing that sealed me up against the war that divided our nation forty years ago and as I look back, what a treat it was to have Karen's mom a part of the fulfillment of that blessing. Regardless of who was right and who was wrong in that war, the lesson I learned was to be still, be calm, there are forces at work that I may not understand at the moment.

The Senior Prom

2007-01-28T12:43:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

The events leading up to this date started months earlier. I actually didn't ask Karen to the senior prom. We had been dating exclusively since the beginning of our sophomore year and some things were just understood between us. At least that's the way it was until the summer of 1963.

That summer the Cobb family moved into the house next door to Karen's home on Avalon Drive. Their son Glenn was a year younger than us. As Karen and I dated through the summer, Glenn's name surfaced more and more. I became agitated at the mere mention of his name. I knew that it was jealousy on my part that Glenn had daily access to my girlfriend. My feelings of jealousy were not so much directed against Glenn, I didn't even know him other than by sight. The ups and downs of my relationship with Karen had always been out in the open. But I lived across town and our time together was limited to a couple of times a week during the summer. The only reason I was excited for school to start was because I would get to see her more often.

Summer ended and the new school year began. School activities and football games were in full swing. Life at Longview High School seemed normal on the outside but inwardly I knew something had changed. Our lives were on autopilot which included plans for the senior prom. We laughed and joked with classmates and friends. The laughing and joking was only skin deep for me. There was an unseen enemy invading the calm of my life but I couldn't identify it much less put a name on it. I could only wait and let life unfold.

My life didn't unfold, it unraveled. You could say that my train derailed. My train ride began in biology class my sophomore year when a skinny little blonde traded places with my lab partner and began sitting next to me the first week of school. If it was a setup I didn't resist. You have to know you are being setup before you can resist or go along with a plan. I was actually too naive to even realize what was going on. A couple of weeks after the skinny blonde became my lab partner I still wasn't getting the picture.

My future wasn't in the hands of fate; Karen was leading this military maneuver and I wasn't even aware that I had been drafted although her mother would one day save me from the real draft. Plans were put in place to insure that I would get a clear picture of the battlefield. My friend Charles Hineman was dating Karen's best friend Leslie Duffel. Leslie asked Charles to tell me that my biology lab partner would say yes if I asked her out on a date. I remember asking Charles, "How do you know that?" His response was typical, "Are you stupid. She sits by you in biology and English plus she has traded lockers so her locker is right across the hall from yours." It now made sense why I had been running into her so much. I finally mustered the courage to ask her on a date and our emotional train pulled out of the station, picked up speed, and Karen and I traveled together along the curves and straight stretches of high school life. We had traveled a long way since those early sophomore days but Karen decided to change trains soon after the beginning of our senior year.

For her it was like stepping off one train and onto another. The train she boarded was ridden by her next door neighbor, Glenn Cobb. From hindsight it was easy to understand what had happened. She said all the right things; even shed a few tears of sadness that our journey was over. It is easier to be gracious when you aren't the one left at the train station. Karen assured me that we would always be good friends but our life together had become boring. I didn't ask any questions, I just listened. She said that I was also too predictable, I didn't appreciate her and I often chose to be with my friends instead of her. I'm sure all those things were true. By the time she was through I wondered why she had ever gone out with me in the first place. Even if my brain had been encased in cement, I would have gotten the picture this time. I didn't need to hear anymore. Like an injured animal, I licked my wounds in the privacy of my own mind and dropped a curtain over my heart to protect it. It took me a while before I realized that some people need to build a case against you so their actions are your fault.

I had no conversations with Karen until several weeks later. With the casualness of a princess addressing one of her subjects she said, "Jerry, I thought I should let you know the color of my prom dress." I didn't answer her. I was too surprised to utter a response. It had never entered my mind that we were still going to the senior prom. "You're still taking me to the prom aren't you?" she asked. "You can drop dead if you think I am going anywhere with you," I said. "You know I have always planned to go to the prom with you," she replied. "When we talked about the prom you were dating me, not someone else. Get Glenn to take you if you want to go to the prom," I said. "I can't go with Glenn. He had already asked someone else before we started going steady," she said as her voice raised a few notches. "Raise your voice if you want, I'm not going to the senior prom with you or anyone else," I said. I walked away, shaking my head and wondering if my pain would ever end.

Well, my pain wasn't going to end soon. After school I went to work at the Salad Bowl Restaurant located in the Holiday Inn Motel on Highway 80. The restaurant closed at eleven but it took us until midnight to get everything cleaned up and ready for the next day. It only took about twenty minutes to walk home. I resisted having mother pick me up after work because I was fearful that she would eventually make me quit because of the inconvenience of the hour. She was always up when I came in the door and would have something for me to eat although I had already eaten at the restaurant. Mother said that she had something to discuss with me. It had not occurred to me that Karen or her mom would call and discuss the prom with my mother.

I no longer remember who placed the call to mom but it didn't matter. Mother thought it was my duty to take Karen to the prom. It wasn't right for a senior to not be able to attend her last prom of high school, besides she was one of the ladies in waiting, whatever that meant. I told mother that I didn't care if Karen was a lady in waiting or how long Karen had to wait. She could ground me, punish me any way she could dream up, I was not taking Karen to the prom. I think I was enjoying some sadistic pleasure in this dilemma that my old girlfriend had wedged herself into. She got herself in the crack. She could get herself out. It wasn't my problem.

Wasn't my problem? My problems were just beginning. I thought my train derailment when she gave me all the reasons why she was bringing our relationship to an end was the last scene, the closing act of this painful play. The next call was from Karen's mother. She wanted me to drop by her insurance office for a chat. I knew what that meant. We met at her office when we were going to discuss the skinny little blonde without her being present. I knew Karen had put her up to this little discussion and I wasn't happy but I thought too much of this lady to say no. Was this pain ever going to end?

Apparently not yet. Karen's mom and my mother shared the same name. They also shared the same opinion that I should take Karen to the prom. I could understand Karen's mother siding with her but I was puzzled why my own mother would want to subject me to the pain and humiliation of doing this. It was asking too much to take someone whom I deeply cared for to the prom while all along she would be wishing that she could be with her new Mister Right. The more these two women pressed me the more stubborn I became. If Karen was panicking, I didn't care. If she was embarrassed by all the discussion of her missing the senior prom, it was not my problem. I was nursing a wounded heart and that heart just needed to be left alone. My friend Charles Hineman thought it was the funniest thing. His girlfriend Leslie Duffel had stiffed him months earlier and he was now over the hump and able to take a deep breath without feeling like he was going to break in half. I knew I would get over the hump too if people would just leave me alone.

But mom knew that leaving me alone wouldn't get Karen to the prom. She had a long talk with me about whether I was going to be a boy or a man. She pulled several cards out of the deck: the shame card, the guilt card, etc. I didn't budge. Mother knew where my stubborn streak originated and some of it was coursing through her own veins. She spoke of doing the right thing even when it was hard. I battled her over the subject of what the right thing was. When all else had failed mother asked me to pray about it and promised that she would not bother me anymore about the subject if I would agree to follow the promptings I felt. I agreed. I didn't have to worry. I knew I was in the right.

But I still had a problem. Being right doesn't make you good. Being right doesn't place you above the responsibility to extend charity. If you withhold charity when it is within your power to extend it, don't count on charity when you are in need of it. Mother knew me better than I knew myself. She taught me these things from my youth. I just buried them somewhere down deep and mom knew in the quiet moments of my mind I would rediscover them.

Karen's mother called and asked for a second meeting with me. She could usually point out things in a way that I hadn't thought of before. She explained that she wasn't siding with Karen. She said, "I love you like a son and I love my daughter. I don't want to see either one of you hurt. Karen is just following her heart. What are you following, Jerry?" Her question was like a revelation to me. I had already decided to take Karen to the prom because it was what my heart told me to do. But now I would take her as a man, not a boy. I would take her out of love, not out of duty, not because it was the right thing to do but because it was a good thing to do.

Karen looked beautiful that night. I treated her with tenderness. I opened the car door for her but she didn't slide over next to me as I got in. That part of our lives had changed. At the prom we danced cordially and traded partners with other couples. I'm sure that Glenn found her and they danced some but I didn't watch for her or require anything special of her. My arrangement was to take her to the prom itself, not to the rest of the all night activities. Leaving the dance, as we approached her home Karen asked if I would like to go somewhere and talk for a while. I declined. I thought about saying something catty like, "I don't think Glenn would like that," but I didn't. "Would you do it for me?" she asked. "Do what?" I asked. "Go somewhere so that we can talk for a few minutes," she said. "Yes," I said.

I drove to a spot near her home that we had visited often at the close of a date. It was awkward at first. All we had shared over the years seemed to be walled off from us like it had been two other people and we were just watching memories of them from a distance. She leaned over to give me a kiss but I touched my hand to her lips. She said that she had something serious to discuss with me. "I've heard that you have been seeing Susie. You know what kind of reputation she has. I'm not interested in second-hand merchandise. If you expect us to ever get married you better stop spending time with her," she said. I hadn't been out with Susie or anyone else. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I wanted to say, "I'll date whomever I please, but I didn't. I just looked at her, cranked the car and drove her home.

I gave her mom a hug as we entered the house. We visited for a few minutes and talked about the events of the dance. The look her mother gave me as I turned to leave was worth every minute of that evening I had spent with the skinny little blonde I met in biology long ago. I excused myself and headed home. I was glad that I did it and I was glad it was over. Looking back on it, both my mom and Karen's mom were right. . .taking her to the prom was the right thing to do but it wasn't easy. And sometimes we make things harder than they need to be. Maybe I was slowly and painfully becoming a man.

Snapshots

2007-01-14T12:25:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

A book I read suggested that there are three major dates in our recent history that caused Americans to pause and take stock of themselves. These dates were the attack on Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941, the assassination of President Kennedy, November 22, 1963, and the attack on the World Trade Center, September 11, 2001. When I read that statement I was instantly drawn back into the past like there was a snapshot of November 22, 1963. I didn't remember the specific date but I certainly remembered the events of that day as they unfolded. Here is what I saw as I opened the pages of that old mental photo album.

"Jerry Grubbs please report to the principal's office immediately!" said a voice over the intercom. The guys sitting at the table with me in the high school cafeteria roared with laughter. I had been warned that the call was coming but I was surprised that Mr. Fields was going to give me an adjustment during my lunch break. By adjustment I'm not suggesting that the principal was a chiropractor in a prior profession. "Why couldn't he call for me during Spanish or English class? Just my luck to have my lunch time gobbled up. What was left of my meal would probably be gone when I got back to the cafeteria. If it was still sitting on the table no telling what my friends would have done to it. I resigned myself to the fact that lunch break was over for me. I pushed my chair back, rose to my feet and headed up the stairs to Mr. Fields' office that was located on the floor above the cafeteria.

Casually walking into the office I found no one there. The secretary was gone and from the open door to the principal's office, I could see that no one was there either. There was a radio tuned to a news station on the secretary's desk. As I sat waiting for someone to return, I heard on the radio that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas and was being rushed to the hospital. I decided this was headline news and I was going to be the Paul Revere who announced it to the cafeteria crowd.

Running down the stairs taking two or three steps at a time, I came into the Cafeteria and shouted that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. No one believed me until Mr. Fields came on the intercom system and confirmed the truth about what I had said. My excitement of being the first to announce this news was short lived. The principal instructed us to return to our classrooms where we would be given the details of this tragedy. A hush fell over the students and a somber mood prevailed throughout the entire school. We were shocked and saddened that such an event had occurred and we were collectively embarrassed that it had taken place in our native state of Texas.

That afternoon in my study hall class I was busy playing tic-tac-toe with Ronnie Brown. Ronnie and I had previous history together. I still carry a scar on my lip from when he smacked me in the mouth, cutting my lip on my own teeth. The fight had occurred the previous year when we were on our way to band practice. He was trying to pick a fight with my brother Bill who chose to turn and walk away from him. Furious that he couldn't agitate Bill into a fight Ronnie picked up a broken brick and hit Bill in the back. Seeing what had taken place I thought that if Ronnie wanted a piece of a Grubbs I would give him one. I plowed into him with fists flailing. If Ronnie had any lasting scars from the fight I would point them out to boast of my prowess. I later figured out that Bill had no need to fight with Ronnie. Ronnie wanted to date my brother's girlfriend Patsy Walker and Bill had no need to fight for what he already had. But the day President Kennedy was shot, Ronnie and I were passing the time playing tic-tac-toe. That's how guys are; they can be mortal enemies one day and sit together and play a game on another day.

Ronnie and I were busy with our game in study hall when my old girlfriend Karen Young started walking toward our table. "Here comes trouble," Ronnie said. I looked up and saw Karen looking at me and heading straight for our table. She and I used to sit together in study hall but we had been separated for talking too much. That was long before she decided I was too boring to go steady with. She said it was like we had become an old married couple; same disagreements, same reconciliations, same weekend dates and so on and so on plus I was always working when she wanted to do something. That is why I referred to her as my old girlfriend although she was eight days older than me. I still cared about her but a two thousand pound bull sitting on my chest wouldn't be able to get me to admit it. She and I hadn't spoken in months. She was busy parading around in Glenn Cobb's football jacket that was six sizes too big for her. The tips of her fingers barely protruded out of the coat sleeves. Besides, it wasn't even cold enough to wear a coat yet. I was a senior and Glenn was a junior. It was humiliating that a junior had stolen my girlfriend. Isn't it interesting how some of us blame others for our problems. Glenn didn't steal Karen. She just changed trains.

But now Karen was walking straight toward our table. At first I thought she was just passing by but that didn't make sense. She had avoided me completely since the last time she tried to make light conversation with me and I told her to drop dead. I wish I could say that those words popped out of my mouth before I had time to think, sort of like being startled by a mouse in your lunch sack. But that wasn't the case. My mother taught me to guard another person's feelings as I would my own and to never intentionally hurt someone using the lame excuse that I was just getting even. Getting even when it is meant to hurt someone else only exposes how small you are. I was a small person that day, I knew it and Karen suffered because of how immature I acted. You don't treat someone you really care about that way. In spite of my previous behavior and to my surprise, Karen stopped right by my chair. I thought she must be going to make a comment about the death of President Kennedy. See, by now we had been informed that it wasn't just an assassination attempt; the president had died at the hospital.

Standing next to my chair, Karen simply said, "Would you like to go to a Cowboys football game with me in Dallas next weekend?" I hadn't been that close to her in months much less looked into those sky-blue eyes. During that time I had been very careful to not let our eyes meet in case she could read what was in my heart. At least she wasn't wearing Glenn Cobb's jacket when she came to visit. My heart raced as I thought about the implications of her question. Before my brain was fully engaged and I could think of something hurtful or sarcastic to say, my tongue revealed my heart and I said, "Sure I would like to see a Cowboys' game." "But do you want to go with me?" she asked. I hesitated. Before I could answer, Ronnie Brown said, "If he doesn't want to go, I will." I wanted to punch his lights out right there in study hall but from previous experience I knew he was a scrapper and I remembered the scar on my lip from his knuckle sandwich last year. The last thing I needed at that moment was a fist fight in study hall.

I could tell that Karen was nervous. She wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue and her eyelids blinked irregular. She was waiting for my answer. A part of me wanted to stand up and give her a hug but my pride wouldn't allow me to go down that easy. I knew it took a lot of courage for her to talk to me, especially after that last time she tried to have a conversation and I told her to drop dead. How do you tell someone with your lips that you will have to think about it but your eyes are saying, "Yes, yes, yes"? I resolved to say nothing that would wound this special person in my life. She never looked away, never took her eyes off me from the time she started speaking to me. She reminded me of an innocent lamb waiting to either be pardoned or executed. I have never forgotten that tender look on her face that day.

There is an old Indian saying that within each of us lives two wolves, a vicious one and a kind one. The one that prevails within us is the one we feed. I had tried feeding the vicious wolf and it only brought me pain. Today I would feed the kind wolf. Trying to appear calm on the outside while erupting with excitement on the inside, I couldn't afford to get too excited about the prospects of spending the weekend in Dallas with Karen. I was still grounded at home for the same reason I had been called to Principal Fields' office for an adjustment. I was grounded from everything except school, work and church. I suggested that mom ground me from church also but she just stood there with that stern look of disappointment. I knew that look and it meant "not in your wildest dreams, buckwheat."

The bell rang and study hall was over. I had been saved by the bell so I thought. The bad wolf part of me wanted to keep Karen in suspense for a while but I was honest with her. I told her that I was grounded and couldn't give her an answer until I spoke to my mother. When I explained my situation to Karen she suggested that we leave that problem up to her mom. "Answer my question. Do you want to be with me?" she asked. My eyes told her yes and I left it at that as I gathered my books and moved toward the door.

School was over and it was time for me to head to the restaurant at the Holiday Inn Motel were I worked as a dishwasher and busboy from four until midnight. The talk at every table that evening was about the assassination of the president. As I walked home after work that night, I thought of the events of the day and wondered if my world would ever be the same again. Few days are burned into my memory as vividly as the snapshot of that day when the shutter clicked; a picture was taken and stored in my mind over forty years ago. Where were you and what where you doing on November 22, 1963 when a president died in Texas?

If you are too young to remember the death of President Kennedy, you can share a remembrance of 9-11 or another snapshot of your life. My mother said that April 12, 1945 created a snapshot in her life. It was the day President Roosevelt died in Warm Springs, Georgia.

The Little Red Wagon

2006-12-31T12:39:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

It was the 21st day of December and I had spent a few moments at the cemetery remembering a close friend and visiting old memories. It was a beautiful day, crisp and clear with a gentle breeze blowing. I tucked my neck down into the collar of my coat as I finished writing a few thoughts, closed my notebook and headed back to the car.

I turned left as I exited the cemetery and headed for a Christmas visit with another friend from my past. I see her only once each year now and yet twenty years ago we were together every working day. I knew a little of her hopes and dreams and some of her disappointments. But today she and I will reflect on days gone by, catch up on the events of the current year and after a brief hug, say our goodbyes for another year. Oh, we will promise to get together more often; go to lunch and have Mexican food, but it will not happen.

It will not happen because life gets busy with obligations and routine commitments. But mostly it will not happen because our lives become intertwined for a season and then a pruning separates the old from the new. This year she will once again say, "I wondered if you would come this year." And I will think, "We prune, gather, stack and burn but no one can prune away my memories." We lived and laughed and worked and played. We even shared that friend who is now silent that I visited in the cemetery. She will ask if I know what day this is and we will both know it is the anniversary of his passing.

While sitting at a red light and thinking about the upcoming visit with her, I noticed a black BMW sedan pass by in front of me. It was spotless, so spotless it caught my eye. But what really caught my attention was a red wagon full of Christmas presents in the back seat of that car. When the light changed I impulsively decided to follow the BMW. Pulling in close behind the black car I noticed that it was a 530xi. That didn't mean anything to me but I was sure it meant something to the owner. I wanted to jot down the license plate number but I didn't. The BMW was headed east on Fourth South Street and I decided to pull up beside it to get a closer look at the red wagon in the back seat. But my attention was drawn to the occupants of the car.

It is interesting what you can see in a person if you look close enough. I'm not talking about receding hairlines on men and turtleneck sweaters on women to hide what cosmetic surgery can't roll back the clock on. I'm talking about the look of happiness, contentment, worry or grief. Today I saw worry and grief chiseled in stone on the faces of the couple in the spotless black BMW sedan. They were well dressed. The lady passenger didn't have a single blond hair out of place and the morning sun danced on her golden necklace. The driver wore a heavy starched white shirt with monogrammed cuffs. They each had an unopened water bottle cradled in the console cup holders. They appeared to be in their mid thirties but the strain on their faces gave them the appearance of statues devoid of life or manikins in a department store window.

They did not speak. They did not look at each other or toward me but stared straight ahead as though in a trance. I wanted to know their story. I wanted to know who the little red wagon full of Christmas presents was for. As I continued to follow the BMW, it turned toward the University of Utah Hospital. I began to imagine that this couple had a young son or daughter gravely ill and that they were filled with despair. I lost them in the hospital parking terrace but I wasn't too concerned. How many couples would be pulling a red wagon full of Christmas presents through the corridor of the hospital? To my dismay the couple was just entering the elevator when I reached the main foyer. All I knew was that they were headed up. I was blocked by a sea of people. Something was wrong. There had been a "Code Pink" issued just as I entered the hospital. Code Pink meant there had been an infant abduction and every exit to the hospital was being closed off. It took several minutes before everyone knew that it was just a security drill.

Security drill or not, I had lost the couple with the red wagon full of Christmas presents. But what I could not forget was that look of despair on their faces. There are some things that money cannot buy. It cannot buy health and it cannot buy happiness. The look on the faces of that couple told me that they would trade anything for what they did not have, a healthy child. A spotless black BMW sedan, starched white shirts and gold necklaces become nothing more than pruned limbs, gathered, stacked and prepared for burning if that sacrifice would restore what that couple had lost.

While wandering the halls of the hospital in search of the little red wagon full of Christmas presents, I came across another friend from the past. What a pleasant yet unexpected reunion we enjoyed. We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet for lunch one day. I left the hospital with a lighter step because of a friendship renewed coupled with a pain in my heart for a couple I did not know. I returned to my car and continued on my journey to visit that friend with whom I had laughed and worked and played so many years ago. I didn't have a little red wagon full of Christmas presents for her but I did have memories to share and moments to remember. I heard her voice. I enjoyed her smile. Our friendship has survived the pruning, gathering, stacking and burning that separates the old from the new. After the pruning comes the tender new growth. Oh, how good it is to be alive and pull my little red wagon along the road of my mind and fill it with memories, hopes and dreams and friendships renewed.

The Look of Christmas

2006-12-24T12:41:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

The year was 1952. I was six years old and anxious for Christmas to come. I had written my letter to Santa requesting a 24" J.C. Higgins bicycle. I didn't know how to ride a bike but I was sure that in no time I would be sailing up and down the dirt road in front of my home.

My joy was complete Christmas morning as I entered the room and saw my candy apple red bicycle next to the tree. There were other presents with my name on them but I had only one thought…get outside and learn to ride my new bike. My brother Bill got a bike also but he was seven and he already knew how to ride. Bill climbed on his bike and was soon out of sight. I quickly discovered that a 24" bicycle was too tall for a six year old. It was impossible to sit on the seat and keep my feet on the pedals. Sometime the bicycle cross bar was even a challenge. My dad assured me that I would grow into the bike.

Learning to ride this oversize bicycle proved very challenging for me. I couldn't pedal with enough momentum to keep my balance so my brother came up with a plan. I pushed my bike over to a gently sloping hill. Holding the bike while I straddled the cross bar and got my feet on the pedals, my brother gave me a gentle shove down the incline. If I could have remembered my birth this would have been the second most frightening experience of my life. I was convinced that I was about to die. I crashed. I survived, but the candy apple red paint on my bike didn't do as well. I cried as I pushed my bike home. My brother was still laughing as we came into the front yard. I thought how strange it was that he got so serious and concerned about my welfare when my mother appeared in the doorway. She consoled me and assured me that my bike would function just as well with the paint scuffed up a little.

I eventually learned to ride my candy apple red bike with the white side wall tires. The world was different in those days. Mother let us ride our bicycles to town seven miles away. After we moved to the city, my brother and I rode all the way to granny's house thirty-three miles away. Young boys on a two lane country road traveling so far away made us feel all grown up. We eventually rode the tread off the tires of those bikes. That was okay because with bald tires we could slam on the brakes and skid farther which was a great pastime.

I no longer worried about the scrapes and scratches on my candy apple red bike. I left it out in the rain. I occasionally left it in the neighbor's yard and took little regard for it unless I couldn't find it when I was ready to travel once more. One day I looked and looked for my bike and couldn't find it anywhere. When I asked mother if she knew where my bike was, she said, "Yes, I gave your bike away to some needy children who will appreciate it and keep it out of the weather." I was so angry with her that I could cuss but cussing would get me the "you know what." Of course I never tried cussing my mother but I got the "you know what" for other things and I wasn't going to invite that experience into my life intentionally. I was in a bad mood for days. I even ran away for four hours but I decided that wasn't a good plan. No matter what I did or what I said, my candy apple red bicycle did not come home.

As Christmas approached I requested a new bike. Mother said I couldn't ask for another bike because I didn't take care of the bike I had. I told her if I couldn't have a bike I didn't want anything; apply the pressure, right. I knew my parents would eventually cave under the pressure and I'd get a new bike. As Christmas neared I looked high and low for evidence of a new bike tucked away in a safe place. See, when you live out in the country your parents sometimes loose faith in Santa and they stash a few things here and there just incase Santa can't find your place on Christmas Eve.

With all my snooping and searching I could find no evidence of a new bicycle that would be standing shining and bright in our living room on Christmas morning just waiting to make me the happiest boy alive. Mother said that if I didn't decide what I wanted for Christmas she would ask Santa to just bring me some clothes. With a reluctant heart I made other choices for the coming Christmas. Mother reminded us that there were many children on Santa's list so we needed to be careful about how much we asked for. Her comment reminded me of that poor little boy who was riding my candy apple red bike. I hoped he crashed and I didn't even know who he was.

Christmas morning finally arrived. I planned to act excited although I was still unhappy about not getting a bicycle. To my surprise there were two shiny green bicycles with white trim; one for me and one for my brother. I ran across the living room to claim my new bike. Coming closer, I realized the bike wasn't new. It was my old 24" J.C. Higgins bike painted a different color. It wasn't even a good paint job. I was angry at mother for lying to me about giving my bike away. I thought of all the months I had missed riding my bike. She had lied to me. Even with my old bike back I was still unhappy that I wasn't getting a new bicycle for Christmas. This was turning out to be the worst Christmas of my life. I looked at my brother and I could see the same disappointment in his eyes. I turned to my mother and as our eyes met I knew at that instant that I held her happiness in my hands. I saw a longing in her eyes that even a ten year old boy could recognize. Would I do the right thing? Would my light burn bright this day? I knew my mother had painted my bike with her own hands. The unsteady lines and brush strokes of the green paint took on new meaning to me. I ran to mother and threw my arms around her, hugging her has tight as I could and thanking her for my bicycle. As my brother and I took our bikes outside to ride, we decided it was nice to have new tires and fresh paint. We grinned at each other and peddled down the road. I never forgot the power we held in our hands that morning when we looked up into the eyes of our mother on a Christmas long ago when there were so many children on Santa's list.

Gone From My View

2006-12-17T13:56:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

I lost a friend this week. I didn’t loose him like you loose a shiny penny that drops out of your pocket. I didn’t loose him like a favorite book that is temporarily misplaced. I lost him in life. He is gone from my view but not from my heart. His name is James Marvin Moore but everyone called him Jimmy. He had rough edges just like the rest of us but his personal battle with cancer began to smooth and polish his imperfections.

I felt fortunate to be counted as one of his many friends. He was always anxious to help anyone in need. His voice still rings in my ears. “Mister Jerry, I can get that old dump truck running for you,” he said. And fountains of memories gush forth and flood that day we worked on the old truck together. “Mister Jerry, I’ll help you rebuild that washed out dam if my boss will give me a few days off,” he said. And the next six days were filled with hard work and pleasant conversation.

From our first introduction I asked Jimmy to not call me Mister Jerry. I’m just plain Jerry I told him. “You’re not plain to me,” he said. “When you do something to loose my respect I’ll stop calling you Mister Jerry.” That is how Jimmy was . . . once he set his mind on something there was no changing him. For the most part that attitude about life served him well.

Jimmy didn’t amass the treasures of the earth but he gathered about himself a multitude of friends. Those who judge a man by the cost of his coat would take no notice of Jimmy. While those who view a man from where he started and where he finished the day found a warm friendship in this man who always offered a strong handshake and a soft countenance. I can hear in my mind Jimmy saying, “That man is doing the best he can.”

How grateful I am that I was able to visit Jimmy one last time. During his struggle he lost his life but he didn’t loose his positive attitude. He lost his fight with cancer but he didn’t loose the love and caring concern of his companion and wife. Jimmy lost his beloved pickup to the creditors but on one could repossess his friends. They had been purchased and paid for in full. That price was his loyalty. That price was his love. That price was his gentle open acceptance of others. I will miss him and I will not forget him.

We were friends in life and we are friends in death. Some things are not lost even in death. James Marvin Moore, you may be gone from my view but you are not gone from my heart. I am a better person today because of the tenderness you pointed out in me. In reality, it was through your eyes that you saw that tenderness. It is my responsibility to strive to live up to what you saw in me. I’m still trying.

Going Home

2006-12-06T13:51:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

My dream world has been active again. This week I dreamed I was walking across this vast land of ours. I walked over mountains, through valleys and across the grassy plains of the Midwest. I waded across streams and swam rivers. I seemed to be driven by an inner voice moving me eastward. I took in deep breaths of air and was humbled by the scenery of this beautiful country.

I thought how much faster it would be if I could fly or drive but I wasn’t dissatisfied that I was relegated to walking this tremendous distance. I never felt tired. Looking down I was surprised to see that I was barefoot but my feet weren’t sore or bothered in the least. I remember being thankful that it wasn’t wintertime. I could survive the heat much easier than the cold.

I was being mentally pulled eastward toward an unknown destination. I was aware of the fact that I was going to find someone and bring them home. I didn’t know where this journey would take me but I was certain that I would learn many valuable lessons on the way there. Nothing slowed me down. I walked through blazing sun, strong winds and sometimes heavy rain but I continued placing one foot in front of the other. I sang songs and made up stories in my mind to pass the time. I relived memories long buried in the recesses of the deepest chamber of my heart. I was happy. I was content. I was going home.

But I wasn’t going home. I was moving a direction that was taking me far away from home. Why did I feel like I was going home? I was puzzled by this strange sensation. As the foot steps and miles passed under my feet I gradually became aware that home isn’t necessarily a place. It can be a feeling. It can be anywhere you feel safe, loved and appreciated. Who was this person that I was looking for that would make me feel at home once I found them? The one thing I knew for certain was that once we were together we would be so close that we could share a single raindrop. Home would be wherever we were together. I was filled with a love that is difficult for me to describe; as difficult as it is to describe a beautiful sunset to someone who has never seen one.

I realized it was this feeling of love that energized me and gave me a determination to continue my journey. I knew that nothing would stop me, not weather, not mountains, not the heat of day or the cold of night. I would find what was lost to me and I would be home. I was going home.

Memory Lane

2006-12-03T12:15:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

It was just two pennies and a nickel. But even in 1958 when I first stood on this spot seven cents would no longer buy a soda pop. Today it would barely cover the tax on the purchase of a bottle of water. But when I looked down and discovered the two pennies and a nickel on the asphalt parking lot of the Magnolia Ridge Condominiums, I was standing very near the spot where the mighty oak tree grew so many years ago that served as the lofty perch for my tree house. Change had come to these piney woods of East Texas. Buildings, asphalt and fences adorned the landscape that once was the playground of a young boy filled with imagination, hopes and dreams. My dreams eventually carried me far from home and away from these peaceful woods of summer.

Reaching down, I picked up the two pennies and a nickel. They were scratched and marred from being run over by the wheels of vehicles coming and going on peoples' journey through life. But like the scratches on those coins, I have had my share of nicks and scratches as I have traveled in search of my dreams. My hope is that in that process I haven't left painful scratches on the memories of those I have met.

As I enjoyed the thoughts of many wonderful times spent in that grand old oak tree, I continued my walk down memory lane. The summer of 1958 came to a close and having graduated from Valley View Elementary, I was off to a new school. My brother Bill was a year ahead of me in school and he had been walking to Forest Park Junior High for a year. When you grow up with an older brother there are lots of things that you don't have to figure out on your own. I don't know if that is a blessing or not. On the road to school was a home with a red door. Bill told me that the red door meant a prostitute lived there. I watched every day to see if I could see what a prostitute looked like but there was never anyone out in the yard when I passed by.

In 1964, the night of my high school graduation, Charles Hineman, Eddy Gilmore and I headed for Galveston, Texas for a few days of R&R on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. Late that night as we passed through downtown Houston, Texas, Charles pointed to two women standing near the curb and said, "Now there are a couple of real prostitutes." When Charles made that comment about the prostitutes I though once more of what was said about the woman who lived in the house with the red door on our way to school. As I walk by that home these many years later the door is still painted red. I wonder how old that prostitute must be today. What I really wonder is how long does a label stick even if there is no basis of truth in it.

Walking on down memory lane I noticed the large concrete culverts that carried the storm water away form the surrounding development of homes and school. During those junior high days I played in those culverts for hours on end. That was where my friends thought it was time for me to have my first smoke. They didn't realize I had already had my first and last smoke. It was when I was in the fourth grade. I hadn't told anyone about my smoking and I wouldn't tell anyone unless I found that special dream girl who would melt my heart. When that happened I knew I would spill my guts, share all of me, secretly feeling glad that someone on this earth knew me completely, warts and all.

Leaving the memory of the culverts, I walked onto the school grounds. The first building I came to was where I took a drafting class. In that drafting class the teacher made me learn to print all over again. He wasn't satisfied with just regular printing but all the words had to be in neat precise block letters. I spent years practicing my cursive penmanship and now my teacher said that wasn't good enough for those drafting assignments. Mother said that was when I began to loose my flowing penmanship that she always complimented me on. Mother had to find something to brag on me about. There was my older brother Bill with his piano accomplishments, teachers saying he should be in voice lessons and he was already sitting first chair trombonist in the band even though he was only an eighth grader.

I don't remember him crowing like a young rooster about his talents. He didn't have to. Mother was crowing enough for him. If you grew up with an older brother, I'm sure you heard the words, "Why can't you be more like your brother?" Well, we are each different and my parents finally figured that out. I don't remember resenting them for their comments. I often wondered why I wasn't more like my older brother also. The big problem was that I liked being me.

I peered into many other classrooms and memories flooded back, too many to share with you today. But looking west of the school at the forest of pine trees that gave our school the name, Forest Park Junior High, I remembered the pinecone fights that erupted with little provocation. Those pinecone wars were not conducted with fluffy open pedal brown pinecones that have dropped their seeds. They were hard green torpedoes with sharp spikes all over them. There was never an argument whether or not you scored a hit. The victim would have blood oozing from each of those needle pricks. The pinecone wars of Forest Park raged at lunch break all through my junior high days.

We bragged and displayed our war wounds until we returned to afternoon classes. There would be no more talk of what went on at lunch time. To be caught hurdling those hard green missiles at another student was grounds for a trip to the principal's office for a brief but painful encounter with his behavioral modification program. The principal's name has slipped my mind but I still remember what his paddle looked like.

My best friend Nick and I always tried to be on the same side as we divided up before the pinecone war games began. At least that was the way it was until Nick blew off two of his fingers making home made fireworks. Cherry bombs weren't powerful enough for Nick. Going to school one morning, I stopped by Nick's home to walk the rest of the way to school with him. Nick's mother greeted me at the door and asked if I heard the sirens the previous evening. Nick wouldn't return to the pinecone wars for the rest of that year. I stayed behind with him for several weeks but eventually I was drawn back to the games down in the woods and Nick busied himself with other interests as his hand continued to heal. Soon we weren't walking home from school together anymore. Nick had been the only friend who stood by me and helped fight the boys trying to force me to take a puff on a cigarette down in the storm sewer culverts. Where was I when he needed a friend?

But this is a walk down memory lane; a walk that includes reflections of the good choices and the not so good. I made some of both. If it were possible, I would open my chest and reveal my heart but you might not like all you see. So I'll just provide glimpses of me here and there in hopes that if there are any tears they are from laughter not boredom or sadness. Even my poor choices taught me much about life. I'm not proud of all my choices but I'm thankful I learned lessons from a good share of them.

Within Four Hours

2006-11-26T13:10:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

The scriptures suggest that it is by our fruit that we are known. Before a ripe fruit is plucked from the vine much effort has proceeded that day. There had to first be a preparing of the soil, a sowing of the seed, nurturing of the tender plant and many other acts of labor prior to the enjoyment of the fruit.

Fruit comes in many flavors, sizes and shapes, most of which I have tasted on occasion. In almost all cases, a flower precedes the development of the fruit. Just like fruit, flowers come in all colors, sizes and shapes also. These flowers make up the beautiful bouquets of our lives.

Most women have received a bouquet of flowers at some time in their life. The sound of the door bell caught my wife Kaye's attention. As she opened the door a beautiful bouquet was thrust into her hands with the delivery man hurriedly making sure he was at the Grubbs' residence. What was interesting was that from a distance the bouquet looked like flowers but up close, everything was carved from fruit. What a treat. It was beautiful to look at and wonderful to the taste.

But what was even better was reflecting on the friendship of the one who sent the bouquet. This bouquet was an outward expression of an inner feeling. Over the years I have enjoyed the fruit of the labors of so many others. As my family sat around the table and plucked and ate the flower carved fruit from the bouquet, I thought of how fortunate I am. Thoughtful friends often go out of their way to share a tender feeling of the heart or perform a special act of kindness such as this bouquet of fruit.

Attached to a ribbon on the bouquet was a little note that said, "Best when consumed within four hours." I thought about that little suggestion. Often we receive promptings to perform an act of kindness or express our appreciation in a note. Attached to each of those feelings should be the admonition, "Follow your heart within four hours." When we don't heed the promptings, when we don't act on the feeling, that feeling begins to subside and soon it is nothing more than something we wished we had done.

In the Blink of an Eye

2006-11-12T12:01:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

His name is Richard Day but we called him Dick. He came into my life as my brother's best friend. At least Bill and Dick were best friends until Patsy; a well proportioned cheerleader performed a few cart wheels in front of my brother. She was a real looker but so was my brother and somehow he snagged her on his fishing line. If you have ever fished, you know the thrill that comes when you feel the tug on your line. All your attention is focused on getting that big one in the boat. As my brother was struggling to get Patsy in his boat, there was time for me to slip into Dick's life. What a blessing that was for me.

Dick's father died when he was young but a loving mother made sure that he was plowing a straight course. Actually, I think Dick had an inborn tendency to do the right thing regardless of whether anyone was watching. He never spoke ill of anyone. He found no humor in hearing or sharing off-color jokes. Dick loved trains and photography. He once enticed me to be a two-day hobo. We hopped a freight train to Saint Louis, Missouri. Before jumping on the train I removed the heel of my shoe and hid $40 inside. The money did little good. You can't buy anything to eat on a freight train. We didn't even take a water bottle. My Saint Louis experience consisted of washing up in a dirty bathroom of a gas station located near the train tracks. I rinsed out an empty whiskey bottle I found along the tracks and filled it with water for the return trip home.

We had quite an adventure: dirt, flies, meeting real hobos, hopping the wrong train home and having to bale off when it took an unexpected turn North, sunburn, windburn, and hunger. But in the blink of an eye I can open that memory and the joy of being with Dick cascades across my mind and a smile forms on my lips. That says it all. I took his companionship for granted when I was young but I always knew the value of his friendship. It is a friendship that remains in my heart to this day although I haven't seen him in years.

Dick's other passion was photography. He carried a camera most of the time and he captured much of my life in print. Dick created a book of my high school years. Under each picture was a personalized caption with his unique comments and humor. After high school graduation he gave the book to my girl friend, Karen Young. When I asked him why she got the book, Dick said, "If I gave it to you, you would look at it once and forget where it was. This way, you will always know where it is." Well, Dicks comment was prophetic. I know where the book is but I can't look at it, hold it, share it or even misplace it. It just never occurred to Dick that Karen and I would go separate ways.

Although I don't have access to the high school photo album, I can access the memories of my experiences. I am continually grateful for the ability to remember the past, reflect on the present and look forward to the future. I am thankful for the good friend Richard Byron Day was to me. He encouraged me to be my better self; not by his words but by his example. In the blink of an eye I am drawn back in time to a place where I can see his contented smile, relive our shared experiences and express gratitude for his friendship.
Richard has contributed two articles to the Point to Ponder section of our family website.

"Journey to Life"
http://www.grubbsfamily.org/ponder/item?item_id=20227

"What the Railroad Taught Me"
http://www.grubbsfamily.org/ponder/item?item_id=18755

Making a Difference

2006-10-29T12:10:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

There was no explosion or earthquake that disrupted our lives. It was referred to as a civil unrest. Someone must have thought that the term "civil unrest" was more pleasing to the ear than the truth. Like when Vietnam was called a conflict instead of a war. Whatever you choose to call it, it was a dangerous time. Gangs were roving the streets, taking what they wanted by force. Law and order was nonexistent in our community. It was dangerous to be out on the street. The only means of transportation was by foot or bicycle since there was no gasoline for vehicles.

With a desire to be together as a family during this turmoil, my son Trevor brought his little family along with my daughter Leslie and her boys to our home. It was a long walk for the little children. The parents were exhausted not so much from the long walk but from the threatening and unsafe circumstances. Leslie's husband Ty had gone to help my son Todd take care of his neighbors. As soon as they were safe within the walls of our home, Trevor left again to help bring Todd's family to our home. I wanted to go with him because I knew there was safety in numbers but he desired for me to stay home incase there was trouble in our neighborhood.

Todd's family lived closer and the walk wasn't as far but it was still a relief when they arrived under Trevor's care. The stories Trevor told of what he had seen on his journey made me realize that the situation in our community was worsening. We had no way of knowing if the situation was as bad in the southern end of the valley where Linda Jean had moved. Since she lived the greatest distance away we had previously mapped out a route that she would start following and we would come meet her if anything of this nature occurred. For fear that she might be out on the road and in danger I now wished I had asked her to just stay put in her own home until we came for her.

As soon as Trevor returned I started preparing to go for Linda Jean and her son William. Once again, Trevor stopped me and suggested that I stay with the family and he would go find them. I gave him the course that Linda Jean would be following and my wife Kaye packed food for him to take. It could require the better part of two days for him to make the trip under the current circumstances. I hated to send him out alone but I knew it was best that I stay with the family until the other men, Todd and Ty arrived.

To our surprise and relief, Trevor was back home with Linda Jean four hours later. Family members gathered around her, hugging her and celebrating her safe arrival. The spirit of that celebration was dampened when we were told that William had not been willing to come. He said that he needed to stay in their home to protect it from looters. Sadness fell over the family and there was a feeling of loss without him there. True, Todd and Ty were not back yet either but we knew they were together and could protect one another. William was all alone.

I went upstairs and began preparing to bring William home if at all possible. There would be plenty of time while on my walk to think of some way to convince him that he should be with us instead of all alone. I loaded my shotgun and put other shells in my jacket pocket. I didn't want to hurt anyone. I just wanted to be left alone. I took the food pack that Kaye had prepared for Trevor and started out the door. Linda Jean met me in the foyer and said that she was coming with me and that she had only come without William in order to get help convincing him to come stay with us. In unison, the family pleaded with me to not let her go. She was safe inside the walls of our home and I would be able to travel faster alone which meant that I would reach William sooner. She reluctantly agreed and as I stepped out the door she opened a small plastic case and handed me a baby tooth belonging to William and asked me to not return without him. She already knew that I would not come home without him if he was still alive. This act of entrusting me with his baby tooth was merely a symbol that we both understood. The last sound I heard as I stepped away from the door was the dead bolt being locked behind me. I looked back and there stood my family gathered at the front window waving goodbye.

As I walked, I thought of what had transpired over the last few days; the collapse of law and order and the shutting down of goods being transported across the country that created shortages. There was panic buying that stripped the shelves in the stores within hours. Selfishness ruled as did the cruelty of people toward one another when such circumstances should have brought out the best in humanity. I wanted to find William and get back home as soon as possible. I knew that until we returned there would be no peace in the hearts of those locked behind the walls of our home. My thoughts turned to Todd and Ty, wondering if they were home safe yet. Suddenly I realized I had forgotten to ask Linda Jean if she had given William the route that he should follow if he decided to come on his own. Doubt began to creep into my mind. What if I passed him and didn't even know it. What if I went all the way to his home and at the same time he was arriving at our home. I felt foolish for not being better prepared. Subconsciously, I reached into my pocket and touched William's baby tooth that Linda Jean had given me just as I left the house. All I could do was my best with what I had and knew at the time. I picked up my pace to find William.

In the distance ahead I could see three men coming toward me. I felt uneasy. Although I had my shotgun and a pistol, I didn't want any trouble nor did I want to hurt anyone. I angled my direction of travel so as not to come face to face with them but as I did so they shifted their direction also and continued to advance toward me. I eased my shotgun out of its holster and held it in a non-threatening position. Then I recognized the three men coming toward me. To my relief it was Todd and Ty. And they had William with them. After they had finished helping Todd's neighbors they immediately took off to get Linda Jean and William. Arriving at their home they found only William there and brought him with them.

I never asked how they convinced William to join them and they never offered an explanation. I was just happy that the four of us were on our way home. We would have enough challenges ahead without worrying about the past. We arrived home long after dark. Most were bedded down but except for the children not many were sleeping. It is difficult to describe the feeling that swept over me as I realized that we were all there, all safe, all accounted for.

As night turned to day we began to stir around the house. At breakfast Todd gave a little speech about how thankful he was that Kaye had been so diligent in preparing for an emergency such as this. We held a family council and it was decided that we couldn't just remain locked behind the walls of our home while others were struggling and less prepared. Unbeknown to me, Kaye, Linda Jean, Julie and Kim had spend the better part of the night doing an inventory of our food supplies. Everything was categorized and a basic menu had been developed.

With gangs roaming the streets and going into the homes and taking food supplies from other people we decided that we should help out in whatever way we could. There were five men in our home. We decided that four men would take food prepared by the family and go out and share it with those in need. Each day one man would stay behind to defend our home. The other four would go out, locate hungry, tired families and share the food with them. They not only shared food but the four would stay and guard over a family while they ate and rested. These men were soon being referred to as the "Peace Warriors." They carried enough fire power to defend a small neighborhood but focused their attention on helping, not hurting. When they extended a hand it was filled with food, not a weapon.

The highlight of each evening was when the Peace Warriors returned home safe once more. After dinner the family would gather and listen to the stories and experiences that they had that day. While our own food supply satisfied our physical hunger, the sharing of our food and the gratitude of those who received it filled our hearts to overflowing. However small it might be, we were making a difference.

I dream every night but most dreams are just bits and pieces of disconnected events. On occasion I have a dream that is so vivid and detailed that I feel compelled to write it down. This dream is not a foretelling of events to come. It is not an omen of impending doom. It is just a dream that both saddened me and enriched me. However, the people of my dream are real. They are precious to me. I hope there is something within this dream that reaches out to you and touches you for good. That's my only purpose in sharing it with you.