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.”
Showing posts with label Life's Lessons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life's Lessons. Show all posts
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Becoming Great
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.
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.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
One for You, More for Me
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).
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).
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Scratched, Not Broken
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.
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.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Good & Bad
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Good isn’t always readily distinguishable from bad. Is it good to want life to be easier for our children than what we experienced when we grew up? Is it bad to want those punished who do us harm? Too much of a good thing no matter how good it is can sometimes end up being bad for us. So, is it correct to say that good and bad are relative; that they change with the circumstance before us? I do not believe that good and bad are relative terms that change depending on the situation. I believe that good and bad are constants but by our individual choices we can warp something good into something detrimental to our wellbeing.
Good and bad are often camouflaged to our biased eyes. I use the term biased to describe how we see things. The eye records the object or event. The optic nerve sends the recorded image to the brain where it is identified. After the object or experience is identified the brain goes through a series of processes that ultimately open the door to our emotions based on our knowledge and experience.
Two people can look at the same object or have a similar experience and come away with a totally different feeling or interpretation. On my walk this morning I passed a black Malibu LS Chevrolet sedan parked on the side of the street. In the back window of the car was a sticker/picture of two females in silhouette. The images reminded me of the type of chrome female silhouettes that adorn the mud flaps of eighteen-wheelers: long legs, super thin waists, and ample youthful busts. These two silhouettes were identical with the exception that one was portrayed as an angel and the other as a devil. The angel silhouette had wings and a halo while the devil silhouette had horns and a tail. Remove these items just described from the silhouettes and you wouldn’t be able to tell the two figures apart. Which one was the angel and which was the devil? It would all be left up to how you saw them or imagined them to be.
That’s what we discover in life much of the time . . . good and bad packaged in the same wrapping paper. I have decided to not share the rest of the this story in hopes that you think about it and come up with your own ending.
Good isn’t always readily distinguishable from bad. Is it good to want life to be easier for our children than what we experienced when we grew up? Is it bad to want those punished who do us harm? Too much of a good thing no matter how good it is can sometimes end up being bad for us. So, is it correct to say that good and bad are relative; that they change with the circumstance before us? I do not believe that good and bad are relative terms that change depending on the situation. I believe that good and bad are constants but by our individual choices we can warp something good into something detrimental to our wellbeing.
Good and bad are often camouflaged to our biased eyes. I use the term biased to describe how we see things. The eye records the object or event. The optic nerve sends the recorded image to the brain where it is identified. After the object or experience is identified the brain goes through a series of processes that ultimately open the door to our emotions based on our knowledge and experience.
Two people can look at the same object or have a similar experience and come away with a totally different feeling or interpretation. On my walk this morning I passed a black Malibu LS Chevrolet sedan parked on the side of the street. In the back window of the car was a sticker/picture of two females in silhouette. The images reminded me of the type of chrome female silhouettes that adorn the mud flaps of eighteen-wheelers: long legs, super thin waists, and ample youthful busts. These two silhouettes were identical with the exception that one was portrayed as an angel and the other as a devil. The angel silhouette had wings and a halo while the devil silhouette had horns and a tail. Remove these items just described from the silhouettes and you wouldn’t be able to tell the two figures apart. Which one was the angel and which was the devil? It would all be left up to how you saw them or imagined them to be.
That’s what we discover in life much of the time . . . good and bad packaged in the same wrapping paper. I have decided to not share the rest of the this story in hopes that you think about it and come up with your own ending.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Smoke In My Eyes
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Confessing someone else’s sins is easy. Confessing my own sins is more difficult. As I grow older and take opportunity to reflect on my youth certain events come to mind that although serious at the time, today are almost comical.
In the fifth grade attending Valley View Elementary, I occasionally visited the corner market and purchased Lucky Strike candy cigarettes. Walking home from school I would hang one of those candy cigarettes out the corner of my mouth and on cue reach up, pinch the cigarette between my index and middle fingers, remove the cigarette and exhale as though it was a blessed moment.
As I approached home the pack of Lucky Strikes would find a secure hiding place because mother would take them away from me. “Avoid the very appearance of evil,” she said so many times. I knew smoking was against the rules I had been taught but dad was saying, “Do as I say, not as I do.” Even with dad’s example before me every day I do not hold him responsible for my behavior. I didn’t even use him as my excuse for what would follow.
A plan began to formulate in my mind. If I saved my lunch milk money for a week I would soon have enough to purchase a real pack of cigarettes. With money in hand and having rehearsed what I would say, I took a deep breath, opened the screen door and stepped to the counter. “I want to buy a package of Camels,” I said. “You’re too young to buy cigarettes,” said the store clerk. “Oh, they’re for my dad,” I replied. Looking at me with a questioning expression he said, “Does your dad smoke filtered or unfiltered?” With all my rehearsing what I would say, it never occurred to me whether dad smoked filtered or unfiltered cigarettes. Stumbling over my words I said, “He doesn’t care.” “Are you sure you are buying cigarettes for your dad?” he asked. Seeing that my plan was beginning to unravel, I had to act quickly. I almost turned and ran out the door but something inside me said this situation was still winnable. With as much emotion as I could muster and with manufactured tears welling up in my eyes I blurted out, “Dad is going to be so mad if I don’t come home with his cigarettes.” Without saying another word the store clerk slipped a pack of unfiltered Camels from the rack on the wall, laid them on the counter and gathered up my change. Grabbing the cigarettes I quickly left the store.
Step one of the plan was complete. I was so proud of myself. I had duped that old man. Walking home I didn’t realize that I had become less of a person. That realization would come much later. Nothing had changed in the store clerk. He was just the same as before I entered the store
To my delight no one was home when I arrived. Dropping my books in the kitchen and finding some matches I headed for the back yard. Standing behind the storage shed, I lit up my first Camel. Drawing in the smoke I immediately wondered, “Where is the pleasure?” Finishing one cigarette I immediately lit up another thinking I must have overlooked something. Those were the only two cigarettes I have ever smoked. I buried the rest of the pack in the backyard flowerbed. That wasn’t very smart because mother dug them up a few weeks later. There was hell to pay. What mom didn’t realize was that I had already decided that smoking wasn’t going to be part of my life. She didn’t believe me so she proceeded to reinforce my decision. Before you start feeling sorry for me you need to understand . . . I don’t remember ever getting a lickin’ I didn’t deserve.
Confessing someone else’s sins is easy. Confessing my own sins is more difficult. As I grow older and take opportunity to reflect on my youth certain events come to mind that although serious at the time, today are almost comical.
In the fifth grade attending Valley View Elementary, I occasionally visited the corner market and purchased Lucky Strike candy cigarettes. Walking home from school I would hang one of those candy cigarettes out the corner of my mouth and on cue reach up, pinch the cigarette between my index and middle fingers, remove the cigarette and exhale as though it was a blessed moment.
As I approached home the pack of Lucky Strikes would find a secure hiding place because mother would take them away from me. “Avoid the very appearance of evil,” she said so many times. I knew smoking was against the rules I had been taught but dad was saying, “Do as I say, not as I do.” Even with dad’s example before me every day I do not hold him responsible for my behavior. I didn’t even use him as my excuse for what would follow.
A plan began to formulate in my mind. If I saved my lunch milk money for a week I would soon have enough to purchase a real pack of cigarettes. With money in hand and having rehearsed what I would say, I took a deep breath, opened the screen door and stepped to the counter. “I want to buy a package of Camels,” I said. “You’re too young to buy cigarettes,” said the store clerk. “Oh, they’re for my dad,” I replied. Looking at me with a questioning expression he said, “Does your dad smoke filtered or unfiltered?” With all my rehearsing what I would say, it never occurred to me whether dad smoked filtered or unfiltered cigarettes. Stumbling over my words I said, “He doesn’t care.” “Are you sure you are buying cigarettes for your dad?” he asked. Seeing that my plan was beginning to unravel, I had to act quickly. I almost turned and ran out the door but something inside me said this situation was still winnable. With as much emotion as I could muster and with manufactured tears welling up in my eyes I blurted out, “Dad is going to be so mad if I don’t come home with his cigarettes.” Without saying another word the store clerk slipped a pack of unfiltered Camels from the rack on the wall, laid them on the counter and gathered up my change. Grabbing the cigarettes I quickly left the store.
Step one of the plan was complete. I was so proud of myself. I had duped that old man. Walking home I didn’t realize that I had become less of a person. That realization would come much later. Nothing had changed in the store clerk. He was just the same as before I entered the store
To my delight no one was home when I arrived. Dropping my books in the kitchen and finding some matches I headed for the back yard. Standing behind the storage shed, I lit up my first Camel. Drawing in the smoke I immediately wondered, “Where is the pleasure?” Finishing one cigarette I immediately lit up another thinking I must have overlooked something. Those were the only two cigarettes I have ever smoked. I buried the rest of the pack in the backyard flowerbed. That wasn’t very smart because mother dug them up a few weeks later. There was hell to pay. What mom didn’t realize was that I had already decided that smoking wasn’t going to be part of my life. She didn’t believe me so she proceeded to reinforce my decision. Before you start feeling sorry for me you need to understand . . . I don’t remember ever getting a lickin’ I didn’t deserve.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Lady Justice
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
She stood eleven feet eleven inches tall and held a set of scales in her left hand. Why justice is always portrayed as a woman wearing a blindfold makes sense but why she is draped in a robe with her right breast exposed is a mystery to me.
This bronze statue of a lady stood atop the dome and oversaw the affairs of justice at the Lincoln County Courthouse in Kemmerer, Wyoming until the building was remodeled in 2003. She was placed there when the courthouse was constructed in 1925 and looked down on the court proceedings of those presumed innocent until proven guilty by that court of law.
Having served faithfully for seventy-eight years, Lincoln County couldn’t let her go to the scrap yard and be melted down once she was replaced by a shiny new lady of justice. The bronze statue was tucked into a corner of the remodeled courthouse just inside the front door where she could be honored for her years of service. Looking atop the building the new Lady Justice was draped in a bronze robe with her right breast exposed just like the former Lady Justice. Now the accused shoplifters, thieves, drunk drivers, rapists, and murderers pass under the non-seeing, all sensing new lady as they experience their day in court.
“What is the significance of Lady Justice being eleven feet and eleven inches tall?” I asked. Most court decisions are arrived at without all the facts. Lady Justice isn’t built to full height because she must often balance the scales of justice with less than a full measure of truth. How challenging that assignment must be. She is blindfolded as a symbol of impartiality. I still haven’t figured out why she has her right breast exposed.
Stepping up to examine the former Lady Justice a little closer, I noticed she had sustained three bullet holes. One bullet passed through her neck, one through her right breast just below the nipple and a third bullet penetrated near a depression in the robe covering her female fold. Stepping around to the rear of the statue I saw where the bullets passed completely through the statue leaving jagged protruding tares in the bronze metal. “What is the story behind Lady Justice being shot?” I asked the clerk at the desk. “I have no idea,” she replied. The young blond with her sparkling blue eyes and hair pulled back under a gold clip made me feel younger just looking in her eyes. She probably wasn’t even born when Lady Justice was assaulted. Striving to be helpful she said, “Vera, the oldest member of our staff may know something about the bullet holes. She works up on the second floor in the court clerk’s office if you would like to check with her.”
I took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and opened the door to the balcony that overlooked the foyer below. From where I stood I couldn’t see Lady Justice tucked away in the alcove but just knowing she was there was a reminder to me that truth will always tip the scales toward the right decision. “Clerk of the Court” said the sign over the door that lead to the office where I was looking for Vera. An older woman with her eyes and hands busy with a stack of papers looked up as I entered the room. “Are you Vera?” I asked. She nodded an affirmative gesture and her eyebrows raised but didn’t speak. “I was told that you might know why Lady Justice down in the foyer has three bullet holes in her,” I said. “What makes you think I know anything about that?” she said almost expressionless and returning her attention to her paper work. I wanted to say that the young lady in the tight sweater downstairs said that she was the oldest hen in the house and if anyone knew something it would be her, but I didn’t. I said, “The lady downstairs said that you had worked here the longest and you might know more than she did.” Vera looked up at me and asked in a cold impersonal voice, “Why do you want to know?” I was caught off guard by her question and my mind went back to many years ago.
As a small boy I sat in the window seal of my grandmother’s kitchen and asked her a thousand “Why” questions. Years later, as I returned to visit my grandmother she would tell me the story over again how I was the little boy so full of questions. Here I was like that little boy again, I didn’t have a real reason, I just wanted to know. “I guess you might say it is just curiosity,” I said. “Curiosity killed the cat,” replied Vera. I smiled and said, “I’m not a cat.” Her countenance softened and she invited me to sit down. What had started out as a stern expression that said, “Don’t bother me; I’m busy and I have important things to do,” melted into a warm friendly expression of, “Okay.”
It all happened in 1957, Vera began. I won’t give you their names because who they were isn’t the important part of the story. He was eighteen and she was seventeen and ten months old when it all started. No, not when it started but when they appeared before what you call Lady Justice. They had just graduated from high school. He was leaving for college in the fall and she was working at the J.C.Penny store in town. They planned to marry as soon as he graduated. He was accused of statutory rape. The charges were brought before this court by her father. She was in love and refused to testify against the only guy she had ever seriously cared about. They had dated all through high school and it was only by accident that the depth of their relationship was discovered. I think I understood what Vera meant when she used the term depth of their relationship. I had heard sex described in many ways but this one was a new one on me.
Her father was furious and placed all the blame for the violation of his daughter on the young man. The young man didn’t hire an attorney and one was appointed by the court. The day of his trial arrived and he took the witness chair, raised one hand to the square and placed the other on the bible and swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. He testified that they were both minors when their relationship first deepened and that he was guilty of such activity with her after his eighteenth birthday. When asked questions about the young woman’s participation and willingness in the activity, he declined to comment. He never spoke a word that would shed a negative light on her regardless of the humiliation and embarrassment they both were being exposed to in open court.
He was sentenced to five years in the state penitentiary and was removed from the courtroom in handcuffs. Before exiting the courtroom the judge asked if he had anything to say. He turned and faced his accuser, the father of the only girl he had ever loved, and said, “I’m so sorry. I would have gladly accepted a sentence twice as long if it would have saved your family this embarrassment. I will always love your daughter. I hope that someday your family will be able to heal from my selfish acts.” From that moment on he looked straight ahead and left the courtroom without uttering another word. The following morning he was transported to the Wyoming State Penitentiary where he began serving his sentence.
Early the next day three shots broke the still morning air over the town. When business as usual began at the courthouse, a note was found beneath a rock on the front step. It said, “I shot her three times, I hope I killed her.” No one understood the note. They thought it was a prank or someone confessing to a murder that would soon be discovered. Then a second note appeared one week later. It said, “Justice is indeed blind in this town. Look up you fools. I shot her in the neck as a symbol that her head and her heart weren’t connected in last week’s court decision. I shot her in her breast as a symbol that the beauty of justice was destroyed last week. I shot her in the appropriate spot, not in an attempt to violate her, but in hopes that she will never again reproduce the kind of justice that was delivered on a young man last week. If you find me, don’t expect me to do as he did, to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I will lie, I will deceive, I will hire the best attorney my money can afford and I will beat your system that you call justice. I want your bronze statue, Lady Justice to stand as a witness of the two lives that were destroyed last week by an insensitive father and an insensitive justice system.”
The court tried to keep the notes that were found on the steps secret but eventually the public became aware of what had happened to the bronze statue and why. The unknown shooter became a local hero of sorts. He was talked about in the restaurants and bars around town and members of the community expressed the sentiment that they hoped he was never caught. An all-out effort to find the shooter and bring him to justice was mounted. The angles of firing line were studied and eventually the hillside knoll was discovered where the shots had been fired. Three empty 30-30 rifle cartridges were still lying on the ground. Next to the brass cartridges were two small white crosses, each had a ribbon and bow attached to it, one pink and one blue.
Vera rose from her chair signaling that our visit was over. As I stood to leave, she came around her desk and gave me a hug. With a smile that could have melted my heart she said, “Thanks for asking.” As I turned to leave she said, “What’s your name?” “Why do you want to know?” I asked. “Remember, curiosity killed the cat.” “But you aren’t cat,” she said. “You are the only person I have ever told my story. I was that seventeen year old girl.” I stepped back toward her and we held one another once more, this time with more understanding. I felt her body trembling against my chest. She was struggling to hold back tears the way some people do when they feel like if they let one tear fall, a floodgate will open and they will not be able to stop. I said goodbye and stepped through the door and out of her life.
She stood eleven feet eleven inches tall and held a set of scales in her left hand. Why justice is always portrayed as a woman wearing a blindfold makes sense but why she is draped in a robe with her right breast exposed is a mystery to me.
This bronze statue of a lady stood atop the dome and oversaw the affairs of justice at the Lincoln County Courthouse in Kemmerer, Wyoming until the building was remodeled in 2003. She was placed there when the courthouse was constructed in 1925 and looked down on the court proceedings of those presumed innocent until proven guilty by that court of law.
Having served faithfully for seventy-eight years, Lincoln County couldn’t let her go to the scrap yard and be melted down once she was replaced by a shiny new lady of justice. The bronze statue was tucked into a corner of the remodeled courthouse just inside the front door where she could be honored for her years of service. Looking atop the building the new Lady Justice was draped in a bronze robe with her right breast exposed just like the former Lady Justice. Now the accused shoplifters, thieves, drunk drivers, rapists, and murderers pass under the non-seeing, all sensing new lady as they experience their day in court.
“What is the significance of Lady Justice being eleven feet and eleven inches tall?” I asked. Most court decisions are arrived at without all the facts. Lady Justice isn’t built to full height because she must often balance the scales of justice with less than a full measure of truth. How challenging that assignment must be. She is blindfolded as a symbol of impartiality. I still haven’t figured out why she has her right breast exposed.
Stepping up to examine the former Lady Justice a little closer, I noticed she had sustained three bullet holes. One bullet passed through her neck, one through her right breast just below the nipple and a third bullet penetrated near a depression in the robe covering her female fold. Stepping around to the rear of the statue I saw where the bullets passed completely through the statue leaving jagged protruding tares in the bronze metal. “What is the story behind Lady Justice being shot?” I asked the clerk at the desk. “I have no idea,” she replied. The young blond with her sparkling blue eyes and hair pulled back under a gold clip made me feel younger just looking in her eyes. She probably wasn’t even born when Lady Justice was assaulted. Striving to be helpful she said, “Vera, the oldest member of our staff may know something about the bullet holes. She works up on the second floor in the court clerk’s office if you would like to check with her.”
I took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and opened the door to the balcony that overlooked the foyer below. From where I stood I couldn’t see Lady Justice tucked away in the alcove but just knowing she was there was a reminder to me that truth will always tip the scales toward the right decision. “Clerk of the Court” said the sign over the door that lead to the office where I was looking for Vera. An older woman with her eyes and hands busy with a stack of papers looked up as I entered the room. “Are you Vera?” I asked. She nodded an affirmative gesture and her eyebrows raised but didn’t speak. “I was told that you might know why Lady Justice down in the foyer has three bullet holes in her,” I said. “What makes you think I know anything about that?” she said almost expressionless and returning her attention to her paper work. I wanted to say that the young lady in the tight sweater downstairs said that she was the oldest hen in the house and if anyone knew something it would be her, but I didn’t. I said, “The lady downstairs said that you had worked here the longest and you might know more than she did.” Vera looked up at me and asked in a cold impersonal voice, “Why do you want to know?” I was caught off guard by her question and my mind went back to many years ago.
As a small boy I sat in the window seal of my grandmother’s kitchen and asked her a thousand “Why” questions. Years later, as I returned to visit my grandmother she would tell me the story over again how I was the little boy so full of questions. Here I was like that little boy again, I didn’t have a real reason, I just wanted to know. “I guess you might say it is just curiosity,” I said. “Curiosity killed the cat,” replied Vera. I smiled and said, “I’m not a cat.” Her countenance softened and she invited me to sit down. What had started out as a stern expression that said, “Don’t bother me; I’m busy and I have important things to do,” melted into a warm friendly expression of, “Okay.”
It all happened in 1957, Vera began. I won’t give you their names because who they were isn’t the important part of the story. He was eighteen and she was seventeen and ten months old when it all started. No, not when it started but when they appeared before what you call Lady Justice. They had just graduated from high school. He was leaving for college in the fall and she was working at the J.C.Penny store in town. They planned to marry as soon as he graduated. He was accused of statutory rape. The charges were brought before this court by her father. She was in love and refused to testify against the only guy she had ever seriously cared about. They had dated all through high school and it was only by accident that the depth of their relationship was discovered. I think I understood what Vera meant when she used the term depth of their relationship. I had heard sex described in many ways but this one was a new one on me.
Her father was furious and placed all the blame for the violation of his daughter on the young man. The young man didn’t hire an attorney and one was appointed by the court. The day of his trial arrived and he took the witness chair, raised one hand to the square and placed the other on the bible and swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. He testified that they were both minors when their relationship first deepened and that he was guilty of such activity with her after his eighteenth birthday. When asked questions about the young woman’s participation and willingness in the activity, he declined to comment. He never spoke a word that would shed a negative light on her regardless of the humiliation and embarrassment they both were being exposed to in open court.
He was sentenced to five years in the state penitentiary and was removed from the courtroom in handcuffs. Before exiting the courtroom the judge asked if he had anything to say. He turned and faced his accuser, the father of the only girl he had ever loved, and said, “I’m so sorry. I would have gladly accepted a sentence twice as long if it would have saved your family this embarrassment. I will always love your daughter. I hope that someday your family will be able to heal from my selfish acts.” From that moment on he looked straight ahead and left the courtroom without uttering another word. The following morning he was transported to the Wyoming State Penitentiary where he began serving his sentence.
Early the next day three shots broke the still morning air over the town. When business as usual began at the courthouse, a note was found beneath a rock on the front step. It said, “I shot her three times, I hope I killed her.” No one understood the note. They thought it was a prank or someone confessing to a murder that would soon be discovered. Then a second note appeared one week later. It said, “Justice is indeed blind in this town. Look up you fools. I shot her in the neck as a symbol that her head and her heart weren’t connected in last week’s court decision. I shot her in her breast as a symbol that the beauty of justice was destroyed last week. I shot her in the appropriate spot, not in an attempt to violate her, but in hopes that she will never again reproduce the kind of justice that was delivered on a young man last week. If you find me, don’t expect me to do as he did, to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I will lie, I will deceive, I will hire the best attorney my money can afford and I will beat your system that you call justice. I want your bronze statue, Lady Justice to stand as a witness of the two lives that were destroyed last week by an insensitive father and an insensitive justice system.”
The court tried to keep the notes that were found on the steps secret but eventually the public became aware of what had happened to the bronze statue and why. The unknown shooter became a local hero of sorts. He was talked about in the restaurants and bars around town and members of the community expressed the sentiment that they hoped he was never caught. An all-out effort to find the shooter and bring him to justice was mounted. The angles of firing line were studied and eventually the hillside knoll was discovered where the shots had been fired. Three empty 30-30 rifle cartridges were still lying on the ground. Next to the brass cartridges were two small white crosses, each had a ribbon and bow attached to it, one pink and one blue.
Vera rose from her chair signaling that our visit was over. As I stood to leave, she came around her desk and gave me a hug. With a smile that could have melted my heart she said, “Thanks for asking.” As I turned to leave she said, “What’s your name?” “Why do you want to know?” I asked. “Remember, curiosity killed the cat.” “But you aren’t cat,” she said. “You are the only person I have ever told my story. I was that seventeen year old girl.” I stepped back toward her and we held one another once more, this time with more understanding. I felt her body trembling against my chest. She was struggling to hold back tears the way some people do when they feel like if they let one tear fall, a floodgate will open and they will not be able to stop. I said goodbye and stepped through the door and out of her life.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Do I Know You?
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
A phone call I received at 12:14 pm . . .
Phone ringing . . . (Me speaking) This is Jerry.
(Caller speaking) Who is this? (Me) Jerry Grubbs. Who were you looking for?
(Caller) I dialed 910-8986. (Me) No, you dialed 910-8989. You misdialed.
(Caller) I dialed 910-8986 so why did you answer the phone? (Me) You didn’t dial 910-8986, you dialed 910-8989. You need to hang up and redial the number you were trying to dial.
(Caller) Who are you? (Me) I’m Jerry Grubbs.
(Caller) Do I know you? (Me) No, I’m the guy you called by mistake.
(Caller) Are you a directory assistance person? (Me) No, I’m just the person you called when you misdialed.
(Caller) If you aren’t a directory assistance person, how do you know what number I should dial? (Me) You told me the number you were trying to dial when you misdialed and called me instead.
(Caller) Should I try to dial the other number 272-6781? (Me) I don’t know who you are trying to call. You just need to hang up and redial the original number 910-8986.
(Caller) Who is at that number? (Me) I don’t know, you were the one who told me that number.
(Caller) Should I try to call the other number? (Me) Which number?
(Caller) 272-6781. (Me) Just hang up and redial the same number you were trying to dial when you called me.
(Caller) Whose number is that? (Me) I don’t know whose number that is. You are the one who gave me that number.
(Caller) What number? (Me) Look, you just need to hang up and dial your same number 910-8986 again.
(Caller) I already dialed that number and you answered. (Me) No, you dialed 910-8989 which is my number not the number you were trying to dial.
(Caller) Are you a directory assistance person? No, I am Jerry Grubbs, the person you called by mistake.
(Caller) Who did you say you were? (Me) I’m Jerry Grubbs.
(Caller) How did you get my number? (Me) I didn’t get your number, you called me. Who are you trying to call?
(Caller) Loa. (Me) Who is Loa?
(Caller) My wife. (Me) Would you like for me to call your wife and have her give you a call?
(Caller) Do you think I should call her? (Me) No, I asked you if you would like for me to give Loa a call?
(Caller) Do you know her number? (Me) Yes, I have your wife’s number.
(Caller) Where did you get my wife’s number? (Me) From you.
(Caller) I didn’t give you Loa’s number. (Me) Would you like for me to call her and have her call you back?
(Caller) Okay.
Phone call I made at 12:21 pm . . .
Dailing 910-8986 . . . ringing . . . (Recorded Voice) I can not come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I will return your call.
(Me) Loa, this is Jerry Grubbs. You don’t know me but I have been speaking with your husband and I think you should give him a call. He seems to be confused about a few things. You are welcome to call me but please give your husband a call. I repeat, he just seems confused but I didn’t get the feeling that he was having an emergency.
Phone call I received at 12:38 pm . . .
Phone ringing.
(Me) This is Jerry. (Loa) Hello, Mister Jerry. This is Loa Clawson the person you called earlier.
(Me) I’m not a mister, I’m just Jerry. Loa, did you get my message? (Loa) Yes, and I am so sorry that my number is close to your number. My husband has Alzheimers and he has been very confused today.
(Me) Loa, please don’t apologize, that is the beauty of the telephone. If I hadn’t wanted to help I could have just hung up. What you are facing is much more challenging than a misdialed phone number. I wish you the best in your life’s struggles and challenges. (Loa) Thank you Jerry for being kind to my husband.
(Me) Loa, how would you have treated my mother in a similar situation? (Loa) With kindness.
(Me) Then we are even aren’t we. (Loa) Does your mother have Alzheimers?
(Me) Loa, that isn’t the point. The point is that you would have treated her with kindness. (Loa) But you didn’t know that when my husband called you.
(Me) I treated your husband the way I chose to see him. (Loa) I hope you never get this awful disease.
(Me) Me too. (Loa) Goodbye Jerry and thank you again.
(Me) Goodbye Loa.
Phone call at 1:49 pm . . .
(Me) This is Jerry. (Dad) Hello son. Where are you?
(Me) It is good to hear your voice dad. I’m glad you still know who I am. (Dad) What did you say?
(Me) Nothing.
A phone call I received at 12:14 pm . . .
Phone ringing . . . (Me speaking) This is Jerry.
(Caller speaking) Who is this? (Me) Jerry Grubbs. Who were you looking for?
(Caller) I dialed 910-8986. (Me) No, you dialed 910-8989. You misdialed.
(Caller) I dialed 910-8986 so why did you answer the phone? (Me) You didn’t dial 910-8986, you dialed 910-8989. You need to hang up and redial the number you were trying to dial.
(Caller) Who are you? (Me) I’m Jerry Grubbs.
(Caller) Do I know you? (Me) No, I’m the guy you called by mistake.
(Caller) Are you a directory assistance person? (Me) No, I’m just the person you called when you misdialed.
(Caller) If you aren’t a directory assistance person, how do you know what number I should dial? (Me) You told me the number you were trying to dial when you misdialed and called me instead.
(Caller) Should I try to dial the other number 272-6781? (Me) I don’t know who you are trying to call. You just need to hang up and redial the original number 910-8986.
(Caller) Who is at that number? (Me) I don’t know, you were the one who told me that number.
(Caller) Should I try to call the other number? (Me) Which number?
(Caller) 272-6781. (Me) Just hang up and redial the same number you were trying to dial when you called me.
(Caller) Whose number is that? (Me) I don’t know whose number that is. You are the one who gave me that number.
(Caller) What number? (Me) Look, you just need to hang up and dial your same number 910-8986 again.
(Caller) I already dialed that number and you answered. (Me) No, you dialed 910-8989 which is my number not the number you were trying to dial.
(Caller) Are you a directory assistance person? No, I am Jerry Grubbs, the person you called by mistake.
(Caller) Who did you say you were? (Me) I’m Jerry Grubbs.
(Caller) How did you get my number? (Me) I didn’t get your number, you called me. Who are you trying to call?
(Caller) Loa. (Me) Who is Loa?
(Caller) My wife. (Me) Would you like for me to call your wife and have her give you a call?
(Caller) Do you think I should call her? (Me) No, I asked you if you would like for me to give Loa a call?
(Caller) Do you know her number? (Me) Yes, I have your wife’s number.
(Caller) Where did you get my wife’s number? (Me) From you.
(Caller) I didn’t give you Loa’s number. (Me) Would you like for me to call her and have her call you back?
(Caller) Okay.
Phone call I made at 12:21 pm . . .
Dailing 910-8986 . . . ringing . . . (Recorded Voice) I can not come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I will return your call.
(Me) Loa, this is Jerry Grubbs. You don’t know me but I have been speaking with your husband and I think you should give him a call. He seems to be confused about a few things. You are welcome to call me but please give your husband a call. I repeat, he just seems confused but I didn’t get the feeling that he was having an emergency.
Phone call I received at 12:38 pm . . .
Phone ringing.
(Me) This is Jerry. (Loa) Hello, Mister Jerry. This is Loa Clawson the person you called earlier.
(Me) I’m not a mister, I’m just Jerry. Loa, did you get my message? (Loa) Yes, and I am so sorry that my number is close to your number. My husband has Alzheimers and he has been very confused today.
(Me) Loa, please don’t apologize, that is the beauty of the telephone. If I hadn’t wanted to help I could have just hung up. What you are facing is much more challenging than a misdialed phone number. I wish you the best in your life’s struggles and challenges. (Loa) Thank you Jerry for being kind to my husband.
(Me) Loa, how would you have treated my mother in a similar situation? (Loa) With kindness.
(Me) Then we are even aren’t we. (Loa) Does your mother have Alzheimers?
(Me) Loa, that isn’t the point. The point is that you would have treated her with kindness. (Loa) But you didn’t know that when my husband called you.
(Me) I treated your husband the way I chose to see him. (Loa) I hope you never get this awful disease.
(Me) Me too. (Loa) Goodbye Jerry and thank you again.
(Me) Goodbye Loa.
Phone call at 1:49 pm . . .
(Me) This is Jerry. (Dad) Hello son. Where are you?
(Me) It is good to hear your voice dad. I’m glad you still know who I am. (Dad) What did you say?
(Me) Nothing.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
All But One
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
My occupation involves discouraging migratory waterfowl from landing on toxic water. These migratory birds fly at twelve to fifteen thousand feet. They travel from as far as the North West Territories of Canada to Mexico where they spend the winter months. Then as the ice comes off the northern waters, they take flight and head back to those fresh, clear, fish filled lakes where they were born. As the birds grow weary from flight during the migration they begin to descend in altitude to look for a place to rest, drink and feed in order to restore their energy. Today I counted forty-seven Canada geese as they approached a pond that I was doing service work on. Or rather, the radar counted forty-seven targets. The radar picked them up long before I could see them. As the flock grew closer I went outside the radar trailer and watched as they circled into the wind to land.
The strobe lights flashed, the loud speakers squawked, and the manikin falcons flapped their wings just like the hazing system is designed to do. Although the geese had set their wings in preparation for landing, when the system activated, those energy-depleted birds aborted their landing and with much exertion changed their plans and flew on. Laboring to gain altitude, the geese gradually established formation and continued north-bound. They don’t fly in a “V” formation just because it looks good or the lead bird is the only one who knows the way home. The lead position is rotated and each member of the flock gets a chance or responsibility to fly at the point of the “V”. They rotate because the lead bird does a third more work than the others. Each bird trailing just behind and off to the side of the bird ahead receives what is called “free lift” from the downward thrust of the wings of the bird directly in front of it.
Watching the geese was like watching a graceful dance in the sky. If I believed in reincarnation, I would want one of my return trips to earth to be as a bird. The peaceful witnessing their flight was shattered by one lone goose that was struggling to form up with the rest of the flock. One bird was too exhausted to continue on. It aborted its initial landing and labored to join the others but it never gained more than a few feet of altitude off the water. As the goose approached the far end of the pond it gave up and landed in the toxic water. If it was too weak to continue on with the flock, it would never leave that poison water without help.
I abandoned my work, slipped on my life jacket and took Uncle Buck down to the water’s edge. Uncle Buck is the name I call my work boat. For the next two hours I chased that goose around the pond. I didn’t have a net with me to scoop it up so I had to get close enough to grab it with my hands. I knew that chasing the bird would only add to its exhaustion and lessen its chance of survival. I also knew that without help it had no chance of staying alive.
Eventually I was successful in getting the goose into the boat. It didn’t want to be there so I had to hold it down on the floor with one hand while I tried to steer the boat with the other. Once I got to shore I took the goose up to the maintenance shop and washed its feathers in warm soapy water. Soap strips the oil from the feathers and leaves a bird vulnerable but soap must be used to remove the harsh chemicals from the bird’s body.
The environmental officer at the coal fired electrical power plant where I was working said, “I hope you don’t plan to charge us for the half a day you wasted getting that bird out of the pond? We’re allowed a certain number of bird mortalities with your BirdAvert system in place you know.” “I’ve decided to charge the bird,” I said. Ignoring my response, he said, “The system saved all but one and that’s good enough for us,” I suppose you are right unless you are the one left behind,” I said. “It’s just a duck,” he snapped.
There has been someone there to help me when I was tired and hungry and couldn’t seem to find the energy to go on. I’m glad that that someone didn’t shrug their shoulders and say, “He’s just a duck,” or say, “I would stop and help but there is no way he could ever repay me.” The goose didn’t leave a forwarding address so it will be difficult to find where to send the bill for getting him out of the pond. It doesn’t matter. I was paid in full when, after a couple of hours of drying, I took the goose out of the makeshift cage and watched it fly up, circle to obtain its bearings and head north, hopefully to catch up with the other forty-six birds.
Catching up will be difficult because this straggler goose will have no bird ahead of it providing additional lift like we talked about. It will be as though it is flying lead position in the “V” for the entire journey until it catches up with the flock. Catching up isn’t likely. It has a better chance of forming up with another flock. Before you get too teary eyed thinking about the fact that geese mate for life, remember two things: first, if that goose had a mate in the flock it would have circled back, landed and remained with it’s partner until it was ready to move on or died, and second, the key word is mate “for life,” or “until death do you part.” Sound familiar?
My occupation involves discouraging migratory waterfowl from landing on toxic water. These migratory birds fly at twelve to fifteen thousand feet. They travel from as far as the North West Territories of Canada to Mexico where they spend the winter months. Then as the ice comes off the northern waters, they take flight and head back to those fresh, clear, fish filled lakes where they were born. As the birds grow weary from flight during the migration they begin to descend in altitude to look for a place to rest, drink and feed in order to restore their energy. Today I counted forty-seven Canada geese as they approached a pond that I was doing service work on. Or rather, the radar counted forty-seven targets. The radar picked them up long before I could see them. As the flock grew closer I went outside the radar trailer and watched as they circled into the wind to land.
The strobe lights flashed, the loud speakers squawked, and the manikin falcons flapped their wings just like the hazing system is designed to do. Although the geese had set their wings in preparation for landing, when the system activated, those energy-depleted birds aborted their landing and with much exertion changed their plans and flew on. Laboring to gain altitude, the geese gradually established formation and continued north-bound. They don’t fly in a “V” formation just because it looks good or the lead bird is the only one who knows the way home. The lead position is rotated and each member of the flock gets a chance or responsibility to fly at the point of the “V”. They rotate because the lead bird does a third more work than the others. Each bird trailing just behind and off to the side of the bird ahead receives what is called “free lift” from the downward thrust of the wings of the bird directly in front of it.
Watching the geese was like watching a graceful dance in the sky. If I believed in reincarnation, I would want one of my return trips to earth to be as a bird. The peaceful witnessing their flight was shattered by one lone goose that was struggling to form up with the rest of the flock. One bird was too exhausted to continue on. It aborted its initial landing and labored to join the others but it never gained more than a few feet of altitude off the water. As the goose approached the far end of the pond it gave up and landed in the toxic water. If it was too weak to continue on with the flock, it would never leave that poison water without help.
I abandoned my work, slipped on my life jacket and took Uncle Buck down to the water’s edge. Uncle Buck is the name I call my work boat. For the next two hours I chased that goose around the pond. I didn’t have a net with me to scoop it up so I had to get close enough to grab it with my hands. I knew that chasing the bird would only add to its exhaustion and lessen its chance of survival. I also knew that without help it had no chance of staying alive.
Eventually I was successful in getting the goose into the boat. It didn’t want to be there so I had to hold it down on the floor with one hand while I tried to steer the boat with the other. Once I got to shore I took the goose up to the maintenance shop and washed its feathers in warm soapy water. Soap strips the oil from the feathers and leaves a bird vulnerable but soap must be used to remove the harsh chemicals from the bird’s body.
The environmental officer at the coal fired electrical power plant where I was working said, “I hope you don’t plan to charge us for the half a day you wasted getting that bird out of the pond? We’re allowed a certain number of bird mortalities with your BirdAvert system in place you know.” “I’ve decided to charge the bird,” I said. Ignoring my response, he said, “The system saved all but one and that’s good enough for us,” I suppose you are right unless you are the one left behind,” I said. “It’s just a duck,” he snapped.
There has been someone there to help me when I was tired and hungry and couldn’t seem to find the energy to go on. I’m glad that that someone didn’t shrug their shoulders and say, “He’s just a duck,” or say, “I would stop and help but there is no way he could ever repay me.” The goose didn’t leave a forwarding address so it will be difficult to find where to send the bill for getting him out of the pond. It doesn’t matter. I was paid in full when, after a couple of hours of drying, I took the goose out of the makeshift cage and watched it fly up, circle to obtain its bearings and head north, hopefully to catch up with the other forty-six birds.
Catching up will be difficult because this straggler goose will have no bird ahead of it providing additional lift like we talked about. It will be as though it is flying lead position in the “V” for the entire journey until it catches up with the flock. Catching up isn’t likely. It has a better chance of forming up with another flock. Before you get too teary eyed thinking about the fact that geese mate for life, remember two things: first, if that goose had a mate in the flock it would have circled back, landed and remained with it’s partner until it was ready to move on or died, and second, the key word is mate “for life,” or “until death do you part.” Sound familiar?
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Lacquer & Chrome
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Harold was excited to tell me about the twenty-two coats of lacquer over the jet black paint on his vintage Harley motorcycle. The deep shine of the paint reflected my image as clearly as the polished chrome that trimmed out this beautiful road machine. When I looked at Harold a little closer, I wondered why he took so much pride in his motorcycle yet took so little pride in his personal appearance.
On the knuckles of his right hand were the letters H.A.T.E. etched from a home-made tattoo. On his left knuckles were the letters L.O.V.E. printed in the same fashion. On his right arm was a tattoo of the American flag and on his left arm was a swastika of the German Reich. When I asked the significance of his tattoos he said, “I love America and I hate Nazis.” “Who are the Nazis in your life?” I asked. “Anyone who doesn’t accept me just the way I am,” answered Harold.
I was about to make a comment about Harold’s statement when his biker partner emerged from the convenience store. She had a carton of cigarettes and a six-pack of Budweiser beer. It was actually Bud Light. I don’t know the difference between Bud and Bud Light but if it has anything to do with calories, she should have made a different choice of beer. She needed all the calories she could get. This hardened biker looked like dried up leather. So that’s what years of riding in the wind and sun does to the skin. Ignoring me, she said in a harsh voice, “Scoot back Harold.” Without a word, Harold slid to the back of the bike seat while Brenda climbed aboard. I assumed her name was Brenda or she was wearing Brenda’s sleeveless leather vest because that was the name stitched across the back in red letters. So much for those images of halter tops pressed against tight firm skin as Harley motorcycles race down the highways of America. You know what I mean.
I was reminded of the time back in June when I helped my son Trevor move his family to Kentucky. I was driving the largest Penski haul-your-own-furniture rental truck that is available. It was about 10:00 in the morning and there was still chill in the air. My mind was on cruise control. I was eating my cashew nuts one at a time making sure that the can would last the entire journey. A familiar sound began to gradually bring me back to the present. It was that deep throaty rumble of a Harley pulling along side of me in the truck. As I looked down it wasn’t just one Harley but two passing by me. I took a double look because those two bikes were being ridden by young women. They both looked up at me at the same time and smiled just like the scene had been choreographed.
The bikes were black and polished to perfection. There were leather tassels attached to the ends of the raised handlebars whipping in the wind. The women’s hair was cut short and flowing back behind their heads like soft moss in a swift moving stream. The lady on the motorcycle closest to me was wearing a thin white halter top and the wind pressed the material tight enough against her body to reveal no other clothing beneath. She was traveling very light and I’m not just referring to her clothing. All she had for luggage strapped to her motorcycle was a rolled up sleeping bag.
The lady on the other bike wore a pair of cutoff blue jeans and a white tee shirt rolled up to reveal her midriff. There had to be goose bumps the size of grapes on her exposed skin from the chilly air but I couldn’t see them. She had a small backpack bungeed to the backrest of her motorcycle seat. As they moved past me I was puzzled by how skimpy they were traveling. Between the two of them they had one sleeping bag and one small backpack. They wore no helmets and no protective leather chaps in the event of a mishap. Traveling at seventy miles an hour I shuttered to think what would be their fate in an accidental slide on the asphalt.
As the two female motorcyclists moved out past me, I was thankful that they weren’t two of my loved ones out on the highways of America traveling all alone, smiling up at truck drivers as they passed. What would posses two women to wear so little, travel so fast and unprepared in the chill of the morning air? I have this old saying, “If it doesn’t make sense it’s because you don’t have all the facts.”
Before I could slide too deeply in thought along came two men on black Harleys. They were overloaded with gear; backpacks, sleeping bags, and spare helmets. Suddenly I realized that these two men who were completely covered in protective gear against the morning chill were the backup team of the ladies who just passed a few minutes earlier. The two ladies riding out front didn’t resemble Brenda but they weren’t old enough to have been biking for thirty years. Brenda probably once wore halter tops as she cruised the highways of America. Back then she was most likely riding her own bike out ahead of old Harold or some other casual partner while he hauled all the personal gear.
If those guys tagging along behind their women, carrying all the gear could see old Harold today and hear Brenda say, “Slide back Harold,” they may just take a slight detour and end up some where far far away from Millie and Mollie Motorcycle. Now those aren’t their real names. I don’t know their names, but Harold and Brenda have helped me see those young women’s wind blown, sun dried future if they continue to spend their days cruising the highways of America.
I paused to reflect on what highways I am traveling and where I will end up if I stay on the same course in life. Will I end up one day with my own version of twenty-two coats of lacquer and polished chrome as my most prized possession?
Epilogue:
Remember the old saying, “If it doesn’t make sense, you don’t have all the facts.” There is probably more to the Harold and Brenda story. Traveling along I-84 in the wide open spaces of Wyoming last year a Harley passed me with two riders. The man casually looked over and nodded as he passed. His companion also looked over, smiled and slid down the strap of her halter top and shared with me her endowment. I doubt her partner had a clue what had just taken place. Maybe that’s why Harold was riding on the back; to keep an eye on Brenda.
Harold was excited to tell me about the twenty-two coats of lacquer over the jet black paint on his vintage Harley motorcycle. The deep shine of the paint reflected my image as clearly as the polished chrome that trimmed out this beautiful road machine. When I looked at Harold a little closer, I wondered why he took so much pride in his motorcycle yet took so little pride in his personal appearance.
On the knuckles of his right hand were the letters H.A.T.E. etched from a home-made tattoo. On his left knuckles were the letters L.O.V.E. printed in the same fashion. On his right arm was a tattoo of the American flag and on his left arm was a swastika of the German Reich. When I asked the significance of his tattoos he said, “I love America and I hate Nazis.” “Who are the Nazis in your life?” I asked. “Anyone who doesn’t accept me just the way I am,” answered Harold.
I was about to make a comment about Harold’s statement when his biker partner emerged from the convenience store. She had a carton of cigarettes and a six-pack of Budweiser beer. It was actually Bud Light. I don’t know the difference between Bud and Bud Light but if it has anything to do with calories, she should have made a different choice of beer. She needed all the calories she could get. This hardened biker looked like dried up leather. So that’s what years of riding in the wind and sun does to the skin. Ignoring me, she said in a harsh voice, “Scoot back Harold.” Without a word, Harold slid to the back of the bike seat while Brenda climbed aboard. I assumed her name was Brenda or she was wearing Brenda’s sleeveless leather vest because that was the name stitched across the back in red letters. So much for those images of halter tops pressed against tight firm skin as Harley motorcycles race down the highways of America. You know what I mean.
I was reminded of the time back in June when I helped my son Trevor move his family to Kentucky. I was driving the largest Penski haul-your-own-furniture rental truck that is available. It was about 10:00 in the morning and there was still chill in the air. My mind was on cruise control. I was eating my cashew nuts one at a time making sure that the can would last the entire journey. A familiar sound began to gradually bring me back to the present. It was that deep throaty rumble of a Harley pulling along side of me in the truck. As I looked down it wasn’t just one Harley but two passing by me. I took a double look because those two bikes were being ridden by young women. They both looked up at me at the same time and smiled just like the scene had been choreographed.
The bikes were black and polished to perfection. There were leather tassels attached to the ends of the raised handlebars whipping in the wind. The women’s hair was cut short and flowing back behind their heads like soft moss in a swift moving stream. The lady on the motorcycle closest to me was wearing a thin white halter top and the wind pressed the material tight enough against her body to reveal no other clothing beneath. She was traveling very light and I’m not just referring to her clothing. All she had for luggage strapped to her motorcycle was a rolled up sleeping bag.
The lady on the other bike wore a pair of cutoff blue jeans and a white tee shirt rolled up to reveal her midriff. There had to be goose bumps the size of grapes on her exposed skin from the chilly air but I couldn’t see them. She had a small backpack bungeed to the backrest of her motorcycle seat. As they moved past me I was puzzled by how skimpy they were traveling. Between the two of them they had one sleeping bag and one small backpack. They wore no helmets and no protective leather chaps in the event of a mishap. Traveling at seventy miles an hour I shuttered to think what would be their fate in an accidental slide on the asphalt.
As the two female motorcyclists moved out past me, I was thankful that they weren’t two of my loved ones out on the highways of America traveling all alone, smiling up at truck drivers as they passed. What would posses two women to wear so little, travel so fast and unprepared in the chill of the morning air? I have this old saying, “If it doesn’t make sense it’s because you don’t have all the facts.”
Before I could slide too deeply in thought along came two men on black Harleys. They were overloaded with gear; backpacks, sleeping bags, and spare helmets. Suddenly I realized that these two men who were completely covered in protective gear against the morning chill were the backup team of the ladies who just passed a few minutes earlier. The two ladies riding out front didn’t resemble Brenda but they weren’t old enough to have been biking for thirty years. Brenda probably once wore halter tops as she cruised the highways of America. Back then she was most likely riding her own bike out ahead of old Harold or some other casual partner while he hauled all the personal gear.
If those guys tagging along behind their women, carrying all the gear could see old Harold today and hear Brenda say, “Slide back Harold,” they may just take a slight detour and end up some where far far away from Millie and Mollie Motorcycle. Now those aren’t their real names. I don’t know their names, but Harold and Brenda have helped me see those young women’s wind blown, sun dried future if they continue to spend their days cruising the highways of America.
I paused to reflect on what highways I am traveling and where I will end up if I stay on the same course in life. Will I end up one day with my own version of twenty-two coats of lacquer and polished chrome as my most prized possession?
Epilogue:
Remember the old saying, “If it doesn’t make sense, you don’t have all the facts.” There is probably more to the Harold and Brenda story. Traveling along I-84 in the wide open spaces of Wyoming last year a Harley passed me with two riders. The man casually looked over and nodded as he passed. His companion also looked over, smiled and slid down the strap of her halter top and shared with me her endowment. I doubt her partner had a clue what had just taken place. Maybe that’s why Harold was riding on the back; to keep an eye on Brenda.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Don't Ruin My Reputation
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
I think it was Tom Hanks in the1994 movie Forrest Gump that made the statement Stupid is as stupid does famous. I don’t like the word stupid but sometimes there just isn’t another word in the English language that does justice to some of the things we do.
The year was 1973. My son Todd was three and my daughter, Leslie was just a few months old. Our little family was gathered around the dinner table for the evening meal. We were struggling financially to pay off the debts of one of my previous adventures. In the middle of dinner I casually said that I would like to get my pilot’s license. My wife Kaye stopped eating; looked over at me and said, “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Realizing that right now might not be the most opportune time to discuss this idea; I dropped the subject and said nothing more about flying. What Kaye didn’t realize was that each day after work I had been dropping by the airport and watching planes taking off. I had been going to the airport long before Kaye came into my life. There was a small private grass runway near our home that I visited as often as mother would let me ride my bike that far. Many of my childhood dreams contained flights of fancy.
The local airport advertised sucker lessons. A sucker lesson is an introductory flight where you only paid for the gas that the plane used for your first ride into the air. From then on, grab hold of your wallet because you were going to be opening it every time you got near one of those fancy flying machines.
Whether the plane was fancy or not, flying was an expensive hobby. My first flight was in an old Piper Cherokee 140. As we climbed into the cockpit I notice that the wing had missing rivets and oil smears along the cowling of the engine. But I was hooked. Yes I was one of those suckers but I worried about those missing rivets and oil streaks on that old plane. The answer to my worries came the next day when the flight manager showed me a little 1967 Cessna 150 that was for sale. It was just what I needed. Well, I also needed a partner to help pay for this little bird of the sky. The answer to that problem came in the form of Mike Hill. Two days later we were the proud new owners of N2701S. In aviation jargon the plane’s call sign was November 2701 Sierra or for radio transmissions the abbreviated call sign was 01 Sierra. I lovingly referred to our little plane as 01 SugarBabe. I later flew 01 SugarBabe to Utah when I moved there and I still see her occasionally at the Salt Lake Airport. But I am getting too far ahead of my story.
Mike Hill and I studied for the written exam together. Well, Mike studied and I read aviation magazines. One day he informed me that he was ready to take the written exam and wanted to know if I desired to tag along. I agreed. Once at the testing center I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to see if I could pass the test without studying. A score of 70 was required to pass the exam and I suppose I was fortunate to only make 67. Had I scored 70 I know that I would have never cracked the books and burned those concepts into my brain.
Next came the actual flight training. I had the misfortune to pick a teacher who just received his instructor’s license. I was his very first student. I think he was more nervous than I was. Or maybe I was too naive to be nervous. We flew hour after hour and each lesson I would ask when I would get to solo (fly the plane all alone). He would put me off by saying something like maybe next time. To me next time seemed like it would never come.
In frustration one day I finally said, “If you don’t let me solo today, I am going to fire you as my flight instructor. I don’t care how many hours we fly or how many landings we practice, when the sun goes down if I haven’t flown this plane solo, tomorrow I will start looking for a new teacher.” “You can’t intimidate me to send you into the air all alone before I think you are ready,” said my instructor. “I’m not trying to intimidate you, I’m telling you what you need to do if you want to keep your job as my instructor,” I said.
I did solo that day. I think my instructor was more frightened than I was. After multiple landings he told me to bring the plane to a stop. My instructor opened the door of the plane, stepped out and said, “Don’t ruin my reputation.” I was scared and excited at the same time. Singing at the top of my lungs I pushed in the throttle and away I went. From there I went on to get my private pilot license which meant it was legal for me to entice other people to squeeze into the tiny cockpit and put their lives at risk.
On the day that I got my license I called Kaye and told her to see if mom could watch the kids because I wanted to take her out to dinner. I failed to mention that after dinner I was going to take her for a night flight over the city in our airplane. We went to dinner. We flew over the city. The lights were beautiful. But by the time we got home I knew that this was a very stupid idea. Well, I knew it was wrong from the start but remember, stupid is as stupid does.
Have you ever heard the saying I can forgive but I will never forget? I somehow knew that tonight would be one of those events. She didn’t blackmail me. She didn’t threaten me. It’s like she has a hidden card that can be drawn out of her back pocket and played at any time. It would be okay if the card could only be played once and it would be all over but that isn’t the case. After the card is played it is put back into the pocket and the game can begin all over again.
If you are stupid enough to buy a plane and learn to fly without telling your wife, don’t expect her to congratulate you on your accomplishment.
I think it was Tom Hanks in the1994 movie Forrest Gump that made the statement Stupid is as stupid does famous. I don’t like the word stupid but sometimes there just isn’t another word in the English language that does justice to some of the things we do.
The year was 1973. My son Todd was three and my daughter, Leslie was just a few months old. Our little family was gathered around the dinner table for the evening meal. We were struggling financially to pay off the debts of one of my previous adventures. In the middle of dinner I casually said that I would like to get my pilot’s license. My wife Kaye stopped eating; looked over at me and said, “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Realizing that right now might not be the most opportune time to discuss this idea; I dropped the subject and said nothing more about flying. What Kaye didn’t realize was that each day after work I had been dropping by the airport and watching planes taking off. I had been going to the airport long before Kaye came into my life. There was a small private grass runway near our home that I visited as often as mother would let me ride my bike that far. Many of my childhood dreams contained flights of fancy.
The local airport advertised sucker lessons. A sucker lesson is an introductory flight where you only paid for the gas that the plane used for your first ride into the air. From then on, grab hold of your wallet because you were going to be opening it every time you got near one of those fancy flying machines.
Whether the plane was fancy or not, flying was an expensive hobby. My first flight was in an old Piper Cherokee 140. As we climbed into the cockpit I notice that the wing had missing rivets and oil smears along the cowling of the engine. But I was hooked. Yes I was one of those suckers but I worried about those missing rivets and oil streaks on that old plane. The answer to my worries came the next day when the flight manager showed me a little 1967 Cessna 150 that was for sale. It was just what I needed. Well, I also needed a partner to help pay for this little bird of the sky. The answer to that problem came in the form of Mike Hill. Two days later we were the proud new owners of N2701S. In aviation jargon the plane’s call sign was November 2701 Sierra or for radio transmissions the abbreviated call sign was 01 Sierra. I lovingly referred to our little plane as 01 SugarBabe. I later flew 01 SugarBabe to Utah when I moved there and I still see her occasionally at the Salt Lake Airport. But I am getting too far ahead of my story.
Mike Hill and I studied for the written exam together. Well, Mike studied and I read aviation magazines. One day he informed me that he was ready to take the written exam and wanted to know if I desired to tag along. I agreed. Once at the testing center I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to see if I could pass the test without studying. A score of 70 was required to pass the exam and I suppose I was fortunate to only make 67. Had I scored 70 I know that I would have never cracked the books and burned those concepts into my brain.
Next came the actual flight training. I had the misfortune to pick a teacher who just received his instructor’s license. I was his very first student. I think he was more nervous than I was. Or maybe I was too naive to be nervous. We flew hour after hour and each lesson I would ask when I would get to solo (fly the plane all alone). He would put me off by saying something like maybe next time. To me next time seemed like it would never come.
In frustration one day I finally said, “If you don’t let me solo today, I am going to fire you as my flight instructor. I don’t care how many hours we fly or how many landings we practice, when the sun goes down if I haven’t flown this plane solo, tomorrow I will start looking for a new teacher.” “You can’t intimidate me to send you into the air all alone before I think you are ready,” said my instructor. “I’m not trying to intimidate you, I’m telling you what you need to do if you want to keep your job as my instructor,” I said.
I did solo that day. I think my instructor was more frightened than I was. After multiple landings he told me to bring the plane to a stop. My instructor opened the door of the plane, stepped out and said, “Don’t ruin my reputation.” I was scared and excited at the same time. Singing at the top of my lungs I pushed in the throttle and away I went. From there I went on to get my private pilot license which meant it was legal for me to entice other people to squeeze into the tiny cockpit and put their lives at risk.
On the day that I got my license I called Kaye and told her to see if mom could watch the kids because I wanted to take her out to dinner. I failed to mention that after dinner I was going to take her for a night flight over the city in our airplane. We went to dinner. We flew over the city. The lights were beautiful. But by the time we got home I knew that this was a very stupid idea. Well, I knew it was wrong from the start but remember, stupid is as stupid does.
Have you ever heard the saying I can forgive but I will never forget? I somehow knew that tonight would be one of those events. She didn’t blackmail me. She didn’t threaten me. It’s like she has a hidden card that can be drawn out of her back pocket and played at any time. It would be okay if the card could only be played once and it would be all over but that isn’t the case. After the card is played it is put back into the pocket and the game can begin all over again.
If you are stupid enough to buy a plane and learn to fly without telling your wife, don’t expect her to congratulate you on your accomplishment.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Eighty Proof
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.
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.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Hopefully Forgiven, Never Forgotten
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.
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.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Chesters Chicken
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Exhausted, I pulled into a truck stop, the only place open at 2:00 A.M. in Wamsutter. Wamsutter is in the middle of Wyoming not close to anything you've ever heard of. The little town boasts a population of 68 and an elevation of 6709 feet. Main Street is comprised of two truck stops and a 1950's Maw and Paw Café. The café booths have the original upholstery decorated with cigarette burns along with cracked and frayed cushions. I had eaten there on a previous trip to Wamsutter and noticed that the owners must take great pride in the carvings of initials and love notes in the wooden backs of the booths. I saw one that dated back to August 6th, 1951. But this story isn't about the café; its windows were dark and a neon pink sign flashed "closed" on the side of the building.
Inside the truck stop where I now stood, momentarily allowing my eyes to adjust to the bright lights was a combination Subway Sandwich/Chester's Chicken eatery. That's where I met Marlene. I was burnt out on Subway because that is where Kaye always wants to stop. She thinks you can live on lettuce, cucumbers and tomatoes on a whole wheat bun. Subway calls it a veggie delight. I call it getting hungry thirty minutes after you've eaten.
I chose to eat at Chester's Chicken. Marlene was working behind the counter. I told her I wanted a Number 5 which consisted of a thigh, a drumstick, mashed potatoes, gravy, coleslaw and a roll. Marlene said that Chester's was closed and I would have to order a Subway sandwich. I wasn't sure I wanted Marlene making me a sandwich. She had a large bandage on her wrist, wore no gloves or hairnet and was smoking a cigarette. I asked her if Subway ever let a customer come behind the counter and make their own sandwich. She informed me that the Board of Health didn't permit customers in the prep area. I decided I wouldn't eat.
As I turned to leave, Marlene said, "Is your heart set on fried chicken mister?" Before I could answer, she said, "We're out of drumsticks, potatoes, gravy and corn on the cob. You'll have to settle for two thighs and two cups of coleslaw." "How long has the chicken been sitting there?" I asked. "We don't date stamp our chicken," she responded, not showing the least bit of offense by my question. I ordered a Number 5 with the substitutions and sat down in the eating area that was shared by Subway and Chester's Chicken.
"Mind if I join you?" asked Marlene as she slid into the seat across from me. Since there were no other customers at 2:00 in the morning she decided to take a coffee break and pass the time. I was about to say that she could sit down if she ditched the cigarette but I held my tongue. I had been reading a book that spoke about choosing whether we see individuals as objects or as people. She brought me a large root beer that I had not ordered. She told me about her life. I was thankful that I made the choice to see her as a person not as an object, listening to someone who needed an attentive ear instead of holding myself aloof.
Marlene's break ended forty-five minutes later when a sleepy truck driver staggered through the door. He had the worst case of bed head I had seen since I looked in the mirror the previous morning. Sliding out of the booth I poked my half eaten dinner into the trash. The chicken was terrible. I'll never eat there again but I will stop in to see if Marlene is on duty, working behind the dual counter of Subway and Chester's Chicken. All she asked was a little of my time and a listening ear. I gave her what she asked and received much more in return. Besides the free root beer and some second hand cigarette smoke, listening to Marlene's story, I gained a greater appreciation for my own life, my opportunities, my education, and my family and friends who continually enrich my life.
Exhausted, I pulled into a truck stop, the only place open at 2:00 A.M. in Wamsutter. Wamsutter is in the middle of Wyoming not close to anything you've ever heard of. The little town boasts a population of 68 and an elevation of 6709 feet. Main Street is comprised of two truck stops and a 1950's Maw and Paw Café. The café booths have the original upholstery decorated with cigarette burns along with cracked and frayed cushions. I had eaten there on a previous trip to Wamsutter and noticed that the owners must take great pride in the carvings of initials and love notes in the wooden backs of the booths. I saw one that dated back to August 6th, 1951. But this story isn't about the café; its windows were dark and a neon pink sign flashed "closed" on the side of the building.
Inside the truck stop where I now stood, momentarily allowing my eyes to adjust to the bright lights was a combination Subway Sandwich/Chester's Chicken eatery. That's where I met Marlene. I was burnt out on Subway because that is where Kaye always wants to stop. She thinks you can live on lettuce, cucumbers and tomatoes on a whole wheat bun. Subway calls it a veggie delight. I call it getting hungry thirty minutes after you've eaten.
I chose to eat at Chester's Chicken. Marlene was working behind the counter. I told her I wanted a Number 5 which consisted of a thigh, a drumstick, mashed potatoes, gravy, coleslaw and a roll. Marlene said that Chester's was closed and I would have to order a Subway sandwich. I wasn't sure I wanted Marlene making me a sandwich. She had a large bandage on her wrist, wore no gloves or hairnet and was smoking a cigarette. I asked her if Subway ever let a customer come behind the counter and make their own sandwich. She informed me that the Board of Health didn't permit customers in the prep area. I decided I wouldn't eat.
As I turned to leave, Marlene said, "Is your heart set on fried chicken mister?" Before I could answer, she said, "We're out of drumsticks, potatoes, gravy and corn on the cob. You'll have to settle for two thighs and two cups of coleslaw." "How long has the chicken been sitting there?" I asked. "We don't date stamp our chicken," she responded, not showing the least bit of offense by my question. I ordered a Number 5 with the substitutions and sat down in the eating area that was shared by Subway and Chester's Chicken.
"Mind if I join you?" asked Marlene as she slid into the seat across from me. Since there were no other customers at 2:00 in the morning she decided to take a coffee break and pass the time. I was about to say that she could sit down if she ditched the cigarette but I held my tongue. I had been reading a book that spoke about choosing whether we see individuals as objects or as people. She brought me a large root beer that I had not ordered. She told me about her life. I was thankful that I made the choice to see her as a person not as an object, listening to someone who needed an attentive ear instead of holding myself aloof.
Marlene's break ended forty-five minutes later when a sleepy truck driver staggered through the door. He had the worst case of bed head I had seen since I looked in the mirror the previous morning. Sliding out of the booth I poked my half eaten dinner into the trash. The chicken was terrible. I'll never eat there again but I will stop in to see if Marlene is on duty, working behind the dual counter of Subway and Chester's Chicken. All she asked was a little of my time and a listening ear. I gave her what she asked and received much more in return. Besides the free root beer and some second hand cigarette smoke, listening to Marlene's story, I gained a greater appreciation for my own life, my opportunities, my education, and my family and friends who continually enrich my life.
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