Last Goodbyes

By Mack Grubbs
 
As we flew home from a family gathering in Washington we settled in for the flight and my family members were soon enjoying a nap. I plugged some music into my aviation headset and began to listen and let my mind drift. Much of country western music is about saying goodbye. I thought of the goodbyes we had just exchanged at the airport before heading for home. Since today was about goodbyes my mind began to focus on last goodbyes. I didn't realize at the time they were occurring that some of my goodbyes were last goodbyes. Saying goodbye to Karen Young, my high school girlfriend, when I left for the mission field was supposed to be "till we meet again" but it wasn't. Other goodbyes were the last time I visited my grandparents before their deaths. Then there was Bill McMahan who died unexpectedly. He and I had a prepaid hunting trip to take that would never be. I reflected on the last time I spoke with him, his laugh, and his mischievous smile.

Life can and does take unexpected turns. Some of those turns appear without any warning or signals. Each of the goodbyes I mentioned above were meant to be "till we meet again" goodbyes. I didn't realize that they were actually "till we meet beyond this life" goodbyes. On June 5th, 2000, I dropped by Karen Young Frady's home and defied the goodbye we shared some thirty-five years earlier. We had a pleasant visit on her front lawn. As I started to say goodbye once again, she said, "Don't say goodbye. Say, till we meet again." At her request, I uttered those words but I knew I was saying goodbye.

Sometimes goodbyes are okay but what I look forward to are the "hellos." The day I get to say hello to those I have had to say goodbye to is a day I look forward to. A favorite poem of mine suggests that when there are more people we are looking forward to saying hello to than there are people left here to say goodbye to, death will not be so painful, so dreaded. I'm not to that point yet but I sure miss those who have had such an impact on my life and are not around to hold, enjoy visiting with and express appreciation to. Maybe the key is to hold that special person, enjoy sharing time with him or her and express love and appreciation before that last goodbye occurs whether it is truly a last goodbye or just "till we meet again." You can make a difference in their life and yours.

Situational Ethics

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

On November 28, 2003, the day after Thanksgiving, I boarded a plane for Columbia, South Carolina. I was on my way to attend a memorial service. I had a forty-five minute layover in Atlanta, Georgia. I overheard a man pleading for help while I was in the restroom of the Atlanta Airport; I came around the corner of the restroom partition to get a better view of the problem. The man asking for help informed me that he had the head of a tick imbedded in his groin area. He was fearful of contracting Lime's Disease before he could get to his doctor to have the tick's head removed. He could not see to do the task himself because of where it was located. I couldn't understand what he was so concerned about but it wasn't my groin or my tick. It is easy to disassociate yourself when the problem belongs to someone else.

I knelt down to see if I could help. It is funny now as I think back and try to remember what the two of us must have looked like: him with his pants down to his knees and me kneeling in front of him trying to find the head of that tick. It was difficult to extract the head of the tick with no sharp tool or knife to work with. The airline industry was not allowing any sharp objects on board the aircraft since the 911 attack. He survived my probing and gouging, pulled up his pants and went on his way to catch his connecting flight and I resumed my journey to Columbia. I chuckled to myself as I thought of another encounter I had with ticks long ago.

Years ago my brother Bill, my cousin Lana, and I were down in the west pasture of Granny's home playing along the creek bank. We realized we were covered in tiny creatures crawling all over us. We would later discover that those little creatures were sand ticks. We ran to the house to get help from Granny. She took us into the garage, made us remove all our clothes, and then she bathed us all over in gasoline. It burned like the dickens. I'm sure you know what "the dickens" means.

This was my earliest recollection of what I would later come to recognize as "situational ethics." Just a few weeks prior to this experience, Bill, Lana and I had received the "big lecture" for going skinny-dipping in the creek. Mother said we were too old to be taking our clothes off in front of members of the opposite sex. I was scratching my head and thinking about what mom had said in that lecture and there we were bare naked in front of Lana again. I guess it was okay to take our clothes off in front of Lana if an adult told us to but it wasn't okay if we made our own decision to remove our clothes. Adults must have a tough job keeping all these rules straight: the when you can and when you can't of life.

Well, I got the head of that tick out of the man's groin in the Atlanta Airport restroom and I finally figured out it is okay to take your clothes of in mixed company if you are covered in ticks. These are my tick stories and I'm sticking to them, much like a tick sticks to you if he is given a chance. You will have to decide what you get out of the story. My wife Kaye has a fire ant story she could share with us and she certainly came out of her clothes right there in front of mixed company.

Worth the Risk

By Mack Grubbs

Withering in pain from smashing my finger, I heard the words from inside my head, “Buck up and take it like a man.” Gritting my teeth, taking deep breaths and moaning softly, I did take my pain like a man. As the initial moments passed, the sharpness of the pain began to subside. Putting my finger in my mouth actually seemed to help soothe the throbbing. I knew that ice would be a better solution but at the moment I just wanted immediate comfort.

Another time when I just wanted comfort was on a fairs wheel at the Gilmer Yamboree. I don’t actually remember the experience but I feel as though I remember because of the vivid recollection my mother has of the event. Gilmer, Texas is where I was born and spent the early years of my life. TheYamboree was a county fair that set up right in the town square and for a few days our lives were transformed by the rides, the lights, cotton candy, tent freaks and games of chance. As the years passed and we moved away from Gilmer, we always returned to enjoy the Yamboree with our extended family.

As a four year old, my Aunt Lela took me on the fairs wheel for what she thought would be a great thrill for me. From the moment the operator pushed the lever and the fairs wheel started to spin, I began to scream with a cry that brought my mother running. She begged the operator to stop and let her take me off the fairs wheel but he refused. I creamed until the ride stopped and Lela returned me to the arms of my mother. Nothing would console me until I was back where I felt safe.

Where physical pain can be medicated to the point its sharpness can be dulled, emotional pain is more difficult to soothe. I can pack my bruised finger in ice or even hold it in my mouth but where can I place my emotional hurt? I can’t put it in my mouth to be soothed or pack it in ice. Even if I temporarily push that pain deep down in a dark crevice of my mind, when I least expect, it will rise back to the surface and squeeze my heart with a pain that only time can dull.

There are blessings that come with pain. Physical pain helps you learn to be more careful where you put your finger. Experiencing emotional pain reveals that you were willing to place your feelings at risk. The person who has never experienced emotional pain has never shared enough of their innermost feelings to become truly connected to another human being. My earliest recollection of emotional pain came in the fourth grade. I was in love with my teacher, Miss Mormon, at Valley View Elementary. I was going to marry her when I grew up. She was the prettiest person I had ever seen and she showered me with attention. Mother tried to tell me that it was not possible for my dream to materialize but I refused to listen.

During those blissful days of the fourth grade, my heart was shattered like a crystal vase with the announcement that Miss Mormon was getting married and would be taking a two-week leave of absence for her honeymoon. I didn’t know what a honeymoon was but I was sure I wasn’t going to like the answer mother would give me when I got home. I refused to accept the fact that she would betray my dreams. I never called her by her new married name but continued to refer to her as Miss Mormon no mater how many times she corrected me. I never asked about her honeymoon either.

Although my relationship with Miss Mormon was totally a product of my imagination, the pain was still real. I would have gladly traded my emotional pain for a smashed finger that I could poke into a bag of ice to diminish the throbbing. But not even the loving arms of my mother could console me this time. No rescue came from the emotional fairs wheel I was riding with the loss of my dream of marrying Miss Mormon. I had opened my little naive heart and only time would heal the open wound. My injury would have to heal from the inside out.

Today, these many years later, I can still close my eyes and see Miss Mormon standing before our class dressed in her white blouse and yellow skirt as she introduced us to her future husband. I disliked him immediately. With time that dislike mellowed, as did my hurt over Miss Mormon’s betrayal of our future together. That experience taught me that emotional pain is survivable. It is not only survivable but also healable. It takes more time to heal than a mashed finger or a frightening ride on a fairs wheel. My memories of Miss Mormon are cherished. What I learned along that part of my journey of life became an inspiration and strength to me. I healed from that pain and learned that the rewards of risking the heart are worth the potential future pain that might follow.

Should you think my story is a product of fiction just check out the index finger on my left hand. You will find the evidence of the blood spot under my fingernail and the need I had at that time to “buck up and take it like a man.” I plan to be more careful where I place my finger in the future but I will continue to share my feelings and risk my heart. It’s worth the risk.

Dressed

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

The word “egg” is a noun. When you take that noun and throw it at someone, the word becomes egged. The word “dress” is also a noun. When you put that noun on someone, the word becomes dressed. As a young Cub Scout, the thought of being dressed in a dress was more distasteful than having rotten eggs hurled at you from a passing car. You could always wash the egg off. You could even throw away the soiled clothes if necessary. But for a young boy to be caught wearing a girl’s dress would be unbearable. We played cowboys and Indians, climbed tall trees, dared each other to do risky things, even chased hogs around the mud wallow, but we never put on a dress and pretended to be a girl.

At least no one in our Cub Scout troop wore a dress until the cub master, my mother, decided that we were going to put on the play, The Wizard of Oz. Our troop had a big problem. The principal character in the story was Dorothy. Dorothy was a girl, a girl who wore a dress. No one wanted to play the part of Dorothy. Mother almost had a mutiny on her hands. Each Cub Scout scrambled to put dubs on one of the other parts. I chose the part of the lion. I didn’t care that the lion had lost his courage. Any part would be better than having to wear that Dorothy dress in front of all my friends. The lion would eventually get his courage back. How could you ever overcome having worn a dress? Whoever had to wear that dress would never live down the shame.

Mother said it was just a play and no one would remember a cub scout wearing a dress. I didn’t believe her and I told her I would run away and live in the woods before I wore a dress. She knew I was serious because mother also knew how petrified I was of the woods in the dark of night.

By some form of bribery or trickery, a secret buried with time and shame most likely, mother convinced my brother Bill to play the part of Dorothy. Everyone else breathed a sigh of relief. Mother took me aside and made me a promise. She said, “If you make fun of your brother I will beat the livin’ tar out of you.” I didn’t know what the livin’ tar was but it didn’t take much imagination to figure out that extracting the livin’ tar from my body was going to be painful.

Mother worked tirelessly on our costumes. Bill’s dress and my paper mache lion head were ready before the first dress rehearsal. There was just one problem. Living in East Texas, we were plagued with humid weather. That humidity worked it’s magic on my paper mache lion head. It mildewed on the inside and smelt like raw chicken parts tossed in a garbage can and left for days in the hot sun. It was too late to make another paper mache lion head so I begged mother to let me do my part without the lion head but I lost the battle. The lion head went on with me holding my breath as long as I could.

Regardless of all my suffering on stage in that hot, smelly, cowardly lion head, I was happy as a toad in a cool pond. All I had to do when my happiness began to sag was look over at my brother dancing around in that Dorothy dress and once more I was content. The play ended and Bill led us all back on stage for a curtain call. It didn’t matter that the loud applause was from the hands of our family members. What mattered most was that I would be able to get out of that stinking lion head.

After the play was over and the threat of someone else having to wear that dress and play the part of Dorothy had passed, we kidded Bill without mercy. Mother said that everyone would forget about Bill being “dressed.” We were going to make sure that no one ever forgot. But time passed and Bill’s dress was gradually forgotten. But I never forgot the lesson I learned on stage that hot summer evening as I tried to breathe inside that paper mache lion head. When I began to feel sorry for myself all I had to do was look at my brother Bill “dressed” up as Dorothy and I was immediately happy to be where I was, just a lion who had no courage. Down deep inside, I knew that Bill was a bigger person for agreeing to do what was necessary to make the play a success but what the heck; mother could have chosen a different play. The year before we had been dressed as Indians and warhooped around an imaginary campfire on stage and got just as loud an applause.

Today I would choose to be “dressed” instead of being “egged,” but try to convince an eight-year-old boy of that while his friends are standing around just waiting for an excuse to make fun of him. Maybe those eight-year-old boys should rethink the definition of friend. The word “friend” is a noun. When someone wraps the arms of that noun around you does that mean you are “friended?”

Weed & Water

By Jerry Mack Grubbs
 
We have had a family garden since 2002. I forget which day is my assigned day to weed and water but if I were there by assignment only, I wouldn't be involved anyway. Growing up I spent enough hours in a garden against my wishes. As a young boy, gardening and other unpleasant chores created an atmosphere that stimulated my imagination. Whether I was hoeing in the garden, shelling peas or washing canning jars, my hands would be doing the assigned task but my mind would be far away.

I find the same thing happening now in the garden. As I water and weed the rows, I allow my mind to wander to different times and places. I think of times spent in the garden with those I love. I think of things we talked about. I reflect on the first sprouting of new plants as I witnessed the miracle of a seed. I remember the first ear of ripe corn eaten raw right off the stalk. I also use this garden time to contemplate the challenges and opportunities that are before me. As an adult, the time spent in the garden isn't dreaded. It is actually therapeutic for me.

Just as life has its challenges, we have had problems with our garden seeds spouting this year. Some rows of corn have been planted three times and we still do not have a satisfactory showing. The sparse growth hasn't dampened my desire to spend time in the garden. But maybe I have been doing too much daydreaming and to little weeding these past weeks because the weeds were getting out of control.

Today I put on my gloves, picked up my hoe and went to work. My neighbor dropped by and with a chuckle said, "Looks like you've lost your touch, Grubbs." He often struggles with his garden and has always claimed that our family garden puts his garden to shame. I never thought about feeling shame over a garden, nor did his disparaging comment make me feel uncomfortable or resentful. I knew his heart and he would never intentionally wound me; we enjoy chiding one another.

The hoe is a marvelous tool that allows you to do much of the weeding in a standing position instead of bent over. But when the weeds are close to the tender garden plants it is necessary to get down on the ground and pull those weeds by hand. Today, grabbing weeds by the handfuls, I inadvertently pulled a bean plant. It wasn't a very big plant, scrawny compared to the other plants in the row. Saddened by my mistake and realizing that every plant was precious because of our sparse sprouting experience this year, I quickly pushed the bare roots of the bean plant back into the damp soil all the time knowing that it would not survive. It's like jerking a child out of the womb before it is mature enough to survive and quickly replacing it after the umbilical cord has been severed. Or taking a newborn nursing pup away from its mother before it has learned to eat other food.

The earth serves as a substitute mother to that bean plant. Without the nourishment that the earth provides, the plant cannot survive. I want that bean plant to do more than just survive. I want it to flourish, blossom and produce beans to be enjoyed by those who share the garden; thus, fulfilling the measure of its creation. Just like the bean plant, we as human beings need to do more than just survive; we need to flourish also.

This week I read a book about the child foster care system. It was about a boy who was born in prison and remained in the foster care program until his eighteenth birthday. It was disheartening to think of one child suffering as he did but all the while knowing that there are thousands of children out there in similar circumstances. Reading the book caused me to want to gather my loved ones close and just hold them. I am thankful for the opportunities I have to be weeded and watered by those who care about me. There are certainly times when I am daydreaming and probably don't give as much in return. Regardless of that fact, I am grateful for the garden I live in and the tender love and concern that is shown me. My daydreaming these days is often directed toward those I hold most dear. Thank you for being patient with me as I learn to be a better person. Thank you for the love that is expressed in so many ways.

Please don't mistaken me for a weed and cast me out of your garden. I'm still trying to blossom. In some ways I'm just a scrawny bean plant trying to catch up with the rest of you as we grow in the garden of life.

Something Sweet

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

"I've already searched and you won't find anything sweet in this house," said my daughter Julie. "As long as there is sugar in the kitchen, I can make something sweet," I said. My wife Kaye has all this literature about the disadvantages of consuming refined sugar. How could something with the term "refined" attached to it be so harmful? I try to have a little of this refinement occasionally so I can remain part of the control group in the family. This attitude isn't out of rebellion; once in a while I just get a hankering for something sweet.

With my sweet tooth aching, I went in search of something that would go well with sugar. What I discovered took me back in time. Sitting on the shelf of the fridge was a large ripe tomato. I hadn't sprinkled sugar on a tomato in years but today, that tomato was going to become my dessert showered with a healthy dose of those refined crystals. I remembered the very first time I had sugar on a tomato. It was supposed to be some twisted form of punishment administered by my dad but it ended up being like Bare Rabbit being tossed into the briar patch.

My cousin Lana was having dinner with us. She came to see the nine new pups our dog had delivered. We played and played with those puppies. We named each one of them against mother's caution. "You might get too attached to them and we are not going to keep all of them," she said. I couldn't understand mother's logic. I named my pet pig Benji but we still butchered and ate him so how much worse could it get. The names of the nine puppies have long since left my memory but I do remember sitting at the supper table next to Lana. I never figured out why they called it the supper table. We ate breakfast and lunch at that same table. Mother never said, "Mack, come to the lunch table." But dad often said, "Don't come to the supper table without a shirt or without combing your hair."

Our supper table was small and Lana was crowded next to me sitting at my left. There was a large plate of freshly sliced garden tomatoes on the table. Lana asked if she could have some sugar to sprinkle on her tomatoes. I thought sugar on tomatoes was ridiculous. I took the saltshaker and helped myself to dousing her sliced tomatoes with salt and suggesting that she would like that flavor much better.

Dad, being the wise old sage at least thirty, without saying a word, removed the salted tomato slices from Lana's plate and also removed the salted slices of tomatoes from my plate. He then placed new slices on each of our plates and positioned the sugar bowl in front of Lana for her to season her tomatoes. Afterwards, he gave me the opportunity to sugar my tomatoes. I use the word "opportunity" very loosely. See, dad hadn't read any of those parenting books that teach you to praise in public and reprove in private. I glared at him but he just ignored me. I protested having to put sugar on my tomatoes and in response he gave me the "opportunity" to eat sugared tomatoes or leave the table.

I hated having my agency stripped from me. I was too angry at the moment to understand the principle dad was attempting to teach me. Although I was pretty upset, I wasn't nearly as upset as when he butchered my pet pig Benji. Or the time when dad shot all nine pups and the mother dog after they came in contact with a dog suspected of having rabies. But in time I did understand all those things. From the first bite of that sugared tomato, while still glaring at my dad, I realized the taste was heavenly. I don't remember when I stopped the regular practice of sprinkling sugar on my tomatoes and returned to seasoning them with salt. But I have never forgotten the lesson dad taught me at the supper table that summer evening so long ago.

A lightly sugared slice of garden grown tomato is delicious but not as sweet and rewarding as my childhood memories of a father who was short on words but long on example and a mother who was short on disobedience but long on forgiveness. The true sweetness of those growing up years was not the seasoning on the tomatoes but the "opportunities" to learn that I was given.

Friend in Life/Friends in Death

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

“Better get out the maps Jerry, we need to find a place to refuel,” Bill said. “I didn’t bring any maps. You’re the one who wanted to fly this thing home,” I said. “What kind of a pilot are you to not have any maps on board?” Bill asked. “Look who’s flying right seat,” I said. He laughed. I laughed. There was an easiness between us that had been there from the first time we met.

We were ferrying home an airplane we had purchased together in Houston, Texas. I had gone down first and checked out the airplane and after deciding it was what we were looking for Bill had flown down to meet me. Since neither of us was checked out in this type of plane we previously decided that we would have someone else ferry it back to Salt Lake.

With his customary self-assurance Bill said, “If between the two of us we can’t get this little plane home, we shouldn’t be flying anything.” With a brief checkout from the previous owner, we lit the fire in that little bird’s engine and headed for home. This was in 1987 before the days of GPS and all the fancy navigation devices found in small planes today. We droned along headed in a northwesterly direction that would eventually bring us into territory that would be familiar to us.

We started looking for an airport where we could refuel and purchase a few aviation maps. We thought we were somewhere over southern Oklahoma. When we landed we discovered that we were in Perryton, Texas. We laughed at the idea that we hadn’t had a clue what state we were even in. There was no one at the little airport. The door to the office was unlocked and there was a sign on the counter that said, “Be back in a few minutes, make yourself at home.”

After thirty minutes of waiting, Bill became impatient. He had been pacing the floor since we arrived, looking around the little cluttered office. “Let’s call a cab and go to town,” he said. “What will we do in town?” I asked. “We’ll get a motel and get something to eat. Then we’ll make a plan that will hopefully work better than the one we are following now,” he said.

After being dropped off and registering at the only motel in Perryton, we strolled down Main Street looking for a restaurant. Main Street was also the only street. We certainly weren’t going to get lost. There was only one choice of eating establishments. It was a combination bar and grill. Sliding up to the counter, Bill ordered himself a beer and a glass of milk for me. “My partner here has never been weaned so he’ll only be having milk tonight,” he chuckled to the bartender. I think the comment was meant to embarrass me but I merely said, “If you have very many of those beers I’ll have to do all the flying tomorrow.” Finding little else on the menu board over the bar, we ordered hamburgers and fries. With each beer Bill ordered, he ordered me another glass of milk with the same comment rolling off his lips, “Bring him another milk, he’s never been weaned you know.”

With nothing else to do in Perryton, Texas, we remained in the bar with Bill drinking his tall glasses of draft beer and me sipping my milk. The beer loosened Bill’s lips over the course of the evening and the fact that we were sitting in a bar with me drinking milk became more and more comical to him. He let everyone in the bar know that I was a little Mormon boy from Utah who had never been weaned from his mommy. Such behavior could have strained a less entrenched friendship. But that was almost twenty years ago and I am still not weaned. If he and I were to sit in a bar in Perryton, Texas or anywhere else today, I would still have my milk while he sipped his draft beer. Our friendship wasn’t tied up in a little neat package that required us to strive to be like each other. Our friendship was born of deeper roots. I believe the tips of those roots reached beyond this world and we just connected somehow.

Those roots are still connected and I think of you regularly, Bill McMahan. It isn’t just Memorial Day that brings out the memories but all the times we spent together, looking at ranches for you to buy or flying your helicopter to islands in the Great Salt Lake. I even remember some of the sack lunches we shared that my wife packed for us on our little jaunts of discovery. But I also want you to know that I am still not weaned. In fact I am drinking your share of milk since you aren’t here to enjoy it. I wish you were here but I would still want your portion of milk. I have never tasted beer but I can’t imagine it being better than milk. We were friends in life and we are friends in death. I miss you. I miss your kidding. I miss the easiness in which our friendship resided. Thanks for your share of the milk.

Writing the Book of Life

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Purple friendship bracelets filled a basket in front of the picture of a young man. A statement had been placed next to the picture explaining that Cameron would dearly love to be here celebrating his brother’s wedding day if his life had not been cut short. Cameron was sixteen when he died in a four-wheeler accident. I thought it odd that the first thing you encountered coming through the door of the reception center was a memorial to a deceased brother. We were encouraged to take a bracelet and wear it in memory of this young man. I took one of the purple bracelets and slipped it on my wrist in honor of this young Cameron whom I did not know and also in memory of another Cameron who had lost his life at an early age. I promised myself that I would wear the purple bracelet until I told you my story.

This story began in 1976. Parents are often driven to provide for their children what they longed for when they were children themselves. Although I had not heard the word go-kart when I was seven years old, I felt certain if go-karts had been around in1953, I would have dreamed, wished, and even written Santa in hopeful anticipation of having a go-kart of my very own. I would have been tempted to make a deal with the Devil himself for a go-kart. I would have even agreed to share it with my older brother. In time I did have a go-kart and spent many hours of pressing the throttle and feeling the wind in my face.

There were two limiting factors to my pleasure rides…gas for the engine and mother making sure that I was a well-rounded boy. By well-rounded, I am not referring to things like sausage gravy smothering all the biscuits I could eat. Mom didn’t think it was healthy for me to go through life without a few responsibilities. Gas was another matter. It cost nineteen cents a gallon but that was when nineteen cents was nineteen cents. But a gallon of gas would bring me several hours of heaven on earth. You notice I was careful to not capitalize the word heaven. Mother taught me that there was nothing on earth that could compare to what Heaven would be like. Secretly, I was hoping there would be go-karts in Heaven.

When I became a father, I felt certain that my children would not be able to grow unto healthy adulthood without experiencing wind in their face behind the wheel of a go-kart. I gathered the necessary parts, welded them together and the children began that phase of their education, the burning of fossil fuel, the coordination of throttle and brake, but most important, the sharing what they had with others. The kids of the neighborhood wore out three engines over the next few years.

As the boys discovered girls and the girls discovered hair spray, the go-kart became a relic of the garage, collecting dust and hiding the memories of many joy-filled afternoons. Eventually, I was able to let go of the go-kart and just keep the memories. I found a family with boys young enough to think that girls were yucky. They were excited to receive this well-worn, loose steering vehicle of pleasure. They experienced the miracle of motion that comes to a young boy as he pushes on the throttle and feels the engine rev to life.

On a warm Saturday afternoon as the new owners of the go-kart rode around in the church parking lot next door, neighbor boys waited in hopeful anticipation of their turn to ride. This family was learning to share the go-kart just like my children had learned years earlier in our own neighborhood. Cameron was seven and he had never ridden a go-kart. He put on the helmet, slid down into the seat and one of the older boys checked the safety belt. We will not know in this life what took place in Cameron’s mind that day. He was controlling the go-kart like it was second nature to him. The supervising parents slipped into a relaxed posture and let Cameron enjoy his turn at motorized freedom. Suddenly, Cameron swerved and slammed head on into a concrete curb bringing the go-kart to an abrupt halt. The group of kids waiting for a turn to ride all laughed. The next rider rushed to get the helmet in preparation for his turn on the go-kart. Cameron looked up while still seated and said, “I don’t feel very good. I want my dad.” Within moments he became non-responsive and was rushed to the hospital. Although CPR was administered all the way to the hospital, Cameron was pronounced dead in the emergency room. A later autopsy revealed that the force of the impact had torn the aorta from his heart and he bled to death. Even if Cameron had been riding the go-kart in the hospital parking lot adjacent to immediate professional help, his young life would not have been saved.

A neighborhood mourned the loss of Cameron. A grief stricken family called and asked if I could find a different home for the little go-kart that had brought so much pleasure to our family. Feeling partially responsible for a senseless death, I retrieved the go-kart, proceeded to my shop, sawed it into pieces and carried it to the landfill with the declaration, “This go-kart made by my hands will never bring pain and anguish to another living soul.” No one pointed a finger of blame. No attorney was allowed to classify the go-kart an attractive nuisance. No money changed hands in the form of payment for pain and suffering. Friends and neighbors mourned together. A grieving family buried their little Cameron and sought help beyond this earth to console their aching hearts.

With the bits and pieces of the old go-kart rusting in the landfill, I know that the go-kart is not to blame for Cameron’s death. My having built the go-kart is not to blame. My having given the go-kart to another family is not to blame. None of the “if only” and “what ifs” can bring Cameron back. There will be no future memories shared with Cameron. What had been shared before that Saturday afternoon is the book of his earthly life. We are still writing the book of our lives. Accidents occur. Things change. Yesterday becomes our history. Tomorrow becomes our hope. I hope that we will treasure the moments, value our associations and then when change does occur, the only regret we have is the loss of the opportunity to build more memories.

The little go-kart that brought our family so much joy also provided the forward motion that tore the aorta from Cameron’s heart. Let your forward motion move you toward the most important things of life. No! Not things. Let your focus be toward people, your family, and your friends, even people you never met like Cameron who missed his brother’s wedding but who touched my heart and helped me remember another Cameron. Life is precious. Time is irreplaceable. Our time is our most valuable resource; spend it wisely.

The Hayride

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

“What’s a hayride?” asked Darrell. The entire band room roared with laughter. I felt sorry for Darrell but it did seem pretty stupid that a seventh grader didn’t know what a hayride was. Darrell and I played trumpet in the band. Band separates you in classes just like the world does. The world labels you as rich, average or poor. In band, you are either first, second or third chair. First chair trumpet players have the toughest music. Their part runs up and down the music scale darting like a rabbit being chased by my dog Piston. I wanted to name my dog Killer but something was missing in his gene pool. When he got excited he would bounce up and down like he was attached to an invisible pogo stick. His movements also reminded me of the way a piston goes up and down in an engine. I tried calling him Pogo but Piston is the name that stuck. It didn’t matter because mother didn’t like either name. My brother and I decided he behaved that way because his nap sack had only one you know what hanging in it. Well, you get the idea. First chair trumpet players are the cream of the crop and their music is challenging to play. I was the last of the third chair trumpet players. Our music consisted of boring whole and half notes punctuated with long rest periods. The fact that Darrell sat next to me meant he was the second worst trumpet player in the whole band.

Darrell’s humiliation that day was probably overshadowed by my own brother Bill’s embarrassment of having a brother like me in the band. He was an eight grader and he was the first chair trombonist. At least I didn’t further humiliate my brother by blurting out questions like what’s a hayride. When Mr. Marshall, the band director, told us we were going to have a hayride as our yearend activity, if I hadn’t known what he was talking about I would have at least waited until I got home and asked my mother to spell it out for me. Mother often grew tired of my questions but she never laughed at me even when common sense should have given me the answers. If I had never been on a hayride I think I could have figured out that the word “hayride” meant a ride in the hay. Shucks, by the seventh grade I had already been on several hayrides. I even knew what a roll in the hay was although I had never had that experience.

I decided right then and there I would invite Glenna Butler to go on the hayride with me. Although she was not the dream girl with whom I shared all my secrets, I had been sweet on her since the sixth grade. She was blond, had a pretty face and she lived close by. That living close by stuff was important because the only wheels I owned were attached to a bicycle. Glenna and I both lived on Ann Drive. I lived on Ann Drive from the fourth grade until I left for college and during all that time I never figured out who Ann was. Glenna said she was probably the daughter of the man who made the street. Glenna also said “yes” to my invitation to go on the hayride and I was elated. I think it was the Spearmint gum commercial where the guy jumps into the air and clicks his heels together . . . that’s how I felt. I had been real nervous to ask her because my friend David had gotten the big “no” when he asked Melinda on the hayride. You couldn’t really blame Melinda. David had buckteeth plus he had one of those secrets kids aren’t supposed to keep. I’ll tell you more about my hayride with Glenna later but for now I want to tell you what Mr. Marshall, the band director, taught me the day Darrell asked that stupid question. I have never forgotten the lesson and it had nothing to do with music or band.

Before the laughter had subsided, with poor Darrell wanting to crawl under his chair, Mr. Marshall subdued the class by asking three questions in rapid-fire succession. Before asking the questions he explained that any class members who knew the answers to the questions should raise their hand. With each question, the only hand that went into the air was attached to the long skinny arm of Darrell. I was almost proud of the fact that I was sitting next to this guy. I knew Darrell would not be raising his hand unless he really knew the answers. Forget about the answers, I didn’t even understand the questions. What I didn’t know and most likely none of the class members knew was that Darrell was a math whiz. Mr. Marshall knew this about Darrell and took the opportunity to ask us difficult math questions that he was sure only Darrell would know the answers to. Darrell got emotionally moved to the front of the class that day as far as I was concerned.

In the midst of all this ah and amazement of Darrell’s great knowledge, I still wondered why he was sitting next to the worst trumpet player in the band if he was so smart. I actually don’t know if he was better than the worst trumpet player because I never challenged him for his position. That’s how you get ahead in band. You challenge the person in the seat next to you to a musical sword fight. If you play the selected piece better than he does you get to take his chair and he slides down to your old position. I didn’t want to play a trumpet or challenge Darrel for his seat. I didn’t want to be in the band period. But when you live with a mother who is bound and determined to give you all the advantages she didn’t have growing up, you play trumpet, piano, violin and whatever else she makes up her mind that you need to play. At that age you would even play your fist to keep from getting your plate broke. That’s what my dad use to say, “Behave yourself, Mack, or you’ll get your plate broke and starve to death.”

Was that child abuse? Parents could get away with almost anything in those days. They would even teach you how to lie real good and then when they caught you telling a lie later on, they would threaten to break your plate or tan your hide. I’ll give you an example. I figured out who Santa Claus was and when I announced my discovery, my folks said, “You know that Beebe gun you want for Christmas? Well, if you don’t believe in Santa Claus, you won’t get it.” I became reconverted to Santa Claus so fast you would have thought I was attending a save Santa revival. But I can talk about parents teaching their kids to lie and what that leads to later. Right now I need to finish telling you about the hayride.

Darrell, the math whiz, survived that brutal day in the band room when he asked the stupid question about a hayride. And the day of our hayride finally came. It was ridiculous. I knew what a hayride was supposed to be like but this beat all I had ever seen. Well, it beat all I had ever seen with the exception of when I saw those two pigs rolling in the hay. I don’t know why we have to use code words like “rolling in the hay,” or “getting lucky.” It took me until the fifth grade to figure out who Lucky was. How confusing can that be? No wonder I was sitting last chair trumpet player by dumb Darrell. I never called him dumb Darrell out loud. I just paused and gave myself time to think the word “dumb” before I said his name. That was back before I figured out that thinking something bad was almost the same as doing something bad. No matter how big you are on the outside, putting labels on people makes you small on the inside. And you are the one who has to look at what is on the inside. You can’t get away from you.

Our hayride was in a moving van. No open trailer to dangle your feet off of or feel the cool evening breeze blowing in your face. We were crammed inside a stinking moving van. It was dark and hot. Everyone was throwing hay and sneezing like a cat with a feather up its nose. The darkness was okay because I was sitting next to Glenna. I wasn’t just sitting next to her; I was holding her hand. The only other time I had held her hand was in the sixth grade when we went on a tour of the Grand Saline salt mine. While going down an elevator shaft deep into the mine, smashed together like fish in the last shallow waterhole of a dried up lake, they turned out the lights to let us see how dark Hell was going to be like. There in the dark I took Glenna’s hand in mine. While we were supposed to be experiencing what Hell was going to be like, I was in Heaven. When the lights came back on I let go of her hand. We never talked about it but I often thought about that day. I had planned to wait for my dream girl to come along and hold her hand but Glenna got there first.

Yep, Glenna was my first. Well, she was my first if you don’t count cousins. My friend Buddy said, “Cousins don’t count.” That didn’t make any sense to me but his explanation was so complicated I thought my brain was swimming in a mixture of sand and honey. I guess cousins sharing the same blood make holding your cousin’s hand almost the same as holding your own sister’s hand. Yuk. That’s also why you don’t marry your cousin. When cousins marry, one plus one equals two just like everybody else but when they have a baby they only total two and a half people, not three. Buddy said when cousins have babies they produce halfwits. And that is why you count different when counting cousins, one plus one plus one equals two and a half. Anyway, if cousins don’t count, Glenna was my first.

I wanted to finish telling you about my hayride with Glenna but it is getting late and my brain has quit working. My story has waited all these years to be told so I guess it can wait a little longer. Think about this in the mean time. Do you laugh and make fun of others because you think you are smarter than they? Think of Darrell, the math whiz. Do you teach your children to lie? Think about Santa Claus and the Beebe gun. Do you label people and fail to see the harm it causes you? Remember, no matter how big you are on the outside; your actions can make you appear pretty small on the inside. Does any of this make sense to you or am I just a halfwit even thought my mother didn’t marry her cousin? See you later, maybe.

Sam and the Stranger

By Jerry Mack Grubbs
 
As I walked back to my office from a nearby park, I passed the Sugarhouse Boys & Girls Club where a group of young boys were playing behind a chain link fence. One of the boys called out, "Hey, what's your name?" I turned to see a rosy-cheeked little boy with a big smile on his face. I said, "My name is Jerry, what's your name?" Before he could respond, another boy about the same age grabbed him and said, "Stop talking to strangers." Ignoring the comment of other boy he said to me, "My name is Sam." Turning back to his friend he said, "He's not a stranger, his name is Jerry." Then calling out to me again Sam asked, "You're not a stranger, are you?" "I am a stranger to you because we don't know each other yet," I said. As I turned and continued to walk down the street, I could hear Sam's friend scolding him for telling a stranger his name.

Strangers are just friends I haven't met yet is a quote attributed to Will Rogers. To view everyone as a potential future friend is certainly a positive outlook on life. A friend is someone we would never intentionally wound. A friend is someone we would stop and allow into slow moving traffic. A friend is someone we would never speak despairingly about. The list could go on and on but I think you understand my train of thought.

Sam had been taught the right message. From behind a chain link fence with his adult supervisor standing nearby, Sam could see the world as a safe place. His playmate focused on the specific rule…don't talk to strangers. Through the safety of the fence, Sam saw a stranger as a possible future friend. His playground buddy saw a stranger as a potential danger regardless of the protective fence. Which of the two boys had the right perspective depends entirely on who the stranger was. It is sad that we live in a world where we need to teach our children to fear strangers. But it is the world we live in and strangers mistreat unsuspecting children every day. But it isn't just strangers who mistreat children. Some children are mistreated by those who should be their greatest protectors.

I grew up thinking that the world was a safe place. I don't remember my parents cautioning me to avoid strangers. We left our home unlocked when we went on vacation and told the neighbors to just toss the mail in on the kitchen floor. We didn't lock our car doors at home or when we went to the store. Our outside storage shed was never locked. Mother tells the story that the only time she recalls having something taken from our home was when my brother and sister (twins) had their baby clothes stolen from the clothesline. Mother simply said, "To steal baby clothes, their need must have been greater than ours." Life went on and we grew up not fearing the world.

As kids, I remember riding our bikes thirty miles to our grandparents home. On those winding backcountry roads we must have passed dozens of those strangers, friends we hadn't met yet. We played in the backwoods for hours on end without being checked up on by worried adults. We were turned loose at the county fair with a few dollars in our pockets to enjoy the rides and experience the thrills until the carnival closed for the night. It never crossed our minds that someone was lurking behind a vehicle or hiding in a darkened corner to reach out and forever destroy our feeling of safety and security.

Sam, my little talkative friend, didn't remind me of myself as a child, but he did remind me of my brother. I was much shyer than my brother but I didn't fear strangers. My fear was of the dark and no one had to teach me that. My imagination could run wild in the dark. At night I wanted to sleep with the light on but my mother always said no. With her helpful suggestions, I gradually gave away my fear of the dark.

I wish that our children didn't have to be taught to fear strangers. I wish that all those fears were just imagined and could be given away as I gave away my fear of the dark. Sadly, that is not the case. There is danger in the world and we have a responsibility to teach our children to be observant of their surroundings and what action they should take when necessary. Our challenge is to teach our children to be safe while at the same time instilling within them that the world itself is not a dangerous place. Danger is not lurking around every dark corner. No boogey men ever grabbed me as I made my way from our home to the outhouse and back again. It wasn't because I outran them. It was because the boogey men only existed in my imagination.

We can't eliminate all the dangerous men in the world but as adults we can make the world a better place by adopting the philosophy of Will Rogers. Imagine a world where every stranger is just a friend we haven't met yet. Imagine a world where children can run barefoot and free all day long without worry that some stranger will harm them. Imagine a world where there are no real boogey men. Until our imagination is reality and all the boogey men are gone, we must vigilantly teach our children of the potential danger of strangers.

The shaping of a child's view of the world is one of our most sacred stewardships. Thank you Sam for that little reminder of what the world was like when I grew up. I miss that world but I can only turn back the pages of time in my memory.