By Jerry Mack Grubbs
On three occasions I have had a friend go the extra mile as he endeavored to introduce me into an activity in which I had little previous interest. Definition of going the extra mile means gifting me all the necessary equipment to properly participate in the activity. On each of those occasions I evaluated the friend, not the gift, and decided if I truly wanted to spend additional time with that person. There is an old saying, "If you are with someone whose company you truly enjoy, the activity you share becomes secondary, but if you find limited enjoyment in their company, you better really enjoy the activity."
The first experience came from a former employer who was convinced that I would find as much enjoyment in the game of golf as he had derived. I repeatedly declined his invitations to play. One day as I entered my office I found a set of new golf clubs, carrying bag and golf shoes sitting on my desk. Along with this gift was a certificate for golf lessons at Uintah Golf. My construction company had built the Uintah Golf store the previous year and I knew the owner very well. I visited with Gordon, the store owner and asked him what was so exciting about trying to get a ball into a hole. He said, "The game of golf has little to do with getting the ball in the hole and a lot to do with who you spend your time with." I don't know if that statement describes most golfers but it made a lot of sense to me. I gave Gordon the certificate for golf lessons and suggested he share it with someone who desired to learn the game. I had made a decision that my former employer wasn't someone whose company I enjoyed enough to spend additional time with, golfing or otherwise.
Hopefully, I'm not viewed as placing myself above my former employer. He is a good man. He placed trust in me through the years and provided me with opportunities. He even chose me over his own grandson when the chips were on the table. His wiry twenty-two year old grandson Bill thought he didn't have to take orders from anyone in the company except his grandfather and demonstrated that attitude by throwing a punch at me on a construction site. At the conclusion of the altercation I fired him and ejected him from the property. When complaining to his grandfather that I fought dirty he simply answered by saying, "You might not be able to trust that Texan to fight clean but you can trust that you are fired. Better start looking for a job somewhere else." The subject was never brought up again. Years later his grandson and I went to lunch together and laughed about the incident. But his grandfather wasn't someone who I wanted to spend more time with other than occasionally sharing a lunch or brief visit. The golf clubs are probably in one of my son's garages or at the hangar. I have lost track of them.
I see my former employer Clayton Mills only rarely. I visit him during the Christmas season and call him occasionally. He still enjoys the game of golf a couple of times a week when the weather permits. He watches the tournaments and tries to emulate the swing of his favorite players. I'm watching a tournament also but it is a different tournament. My desire is to not only watch and learn from the tournament of life but to also contribute. There is a time to give and a time to receive. There is a time to learn and a time to teach. The man who has not learned should not teach. When I am making a decision whether or not to commit a significant amount of time in an activity with a friend, I ask myself, will I be a better person or will I have made a difference in that friend's life from the time spent together.
I was going to share my other two experiences of friends aggressively encouraging me to enter into activities with them. But I have taken enough of your time. Maybe some other day I will tell you about hunting big game and fly fishing. But more importantly I hope to be able to share with you what I learned from those who introduced me to those activities.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Sunday, August 6, 2006
Looking Back
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Prologue
Today is August 6th and it is a special day. In fact, every day of the year is a special day to someone. It is someone’s birthday, anniversary, or other celebrated event. Below I have shared a few of my reminiscings that took place on this day of the year.
Chapter I - Serious
On August 6th, 1973, thirty-three years ago today, I attended the funeral of a special friend. She died of liver cancer. She said she was surprised that it wasn’t lung cancer taking her life since she started smoking at the age of seventeen. Her attitude about death reminded me of some of the brave men and women who stoically went to their executions in the sixteenth century as they fought for human rights against the tyrants who ruled the land. She did not fear death, nor was she angry about the circumstances in which she found herself. Although our lives had separated I knew I would miss her.
In August of 1993, twenty years after her death, I finished writing a series of short stories about her that I titled “Legacy of a Lady.” One day while on a flight into the backcountry, I tossed those stories out of the plane one by one. I was chided for my behavior but I knew something that no one else knew; the stories were only lost on paper not lost from my mind. I had written them for an audience of one (me) as a tribute to her. I read them to my family and then returned them back to where they belonged, in my heart and in my mind.
As human beings we have failings and we disappoint one another from time to time. As a teenager I disappointed this lady on occasion but our relationship was such that we could talk about the situation and she often dispensed motherly advice to me. There is a saying that states, “The surest way to turn teenagers off is to tell them something they already know.” Since teenagers already know everything it becomes challenging to find ways to get them to listen, accept and modify their behavior. In reality, teenagers are only students of their parent’s behavior. Remember the old familiar statement about giving adults suggestions, “Advice not requested is rarely heeded.”
Looking back, I do not recall one instance when she and I had one of our little chats that I did not follow her counsel. She had a way of reaching out; making sense of a situation without getting her panty hose twisted around backwards. She helped me see where a small adjustment on my part today would produce significant benefits tomorrow. This lady who shared my mother’s name and treated me as her son was dead at fifty-nine. Her funeral thirty-three years ago today was a sad moment for me but looking back, oh how precious are the memories.
Chapter II – Not Quite So Serious
On August 6th, 2003 while on a solo hike up Rattlesnake Canyon I received a call to meet a friend at the Salt Lake City Cemetery. My wife Kaye would say, “Now Jerry, was that a call from a real person or one of your imaginary friends?” From her question you might get the idea that I was walking with a slight mental limp. Well, it doesn’t matter. After the call I turned around and headed back down the canyon to enjoy a different adventure. Maybe that call was destiny keeping me from being bitten by a rattlesnake that day.
Arriving at the cemetery, I went over and visited my long time friend Bill McMahan. This place had become a respite from the world for me since Bill was buried here. I try to come at least once a month and enjoy the solitude. I have lost other people dear to me, grandparents, the lady who treated me as a son, and even Kaye’s parents but they are all buried elsewhere. So there I stood, in front of Bill’s grave. I reflected on our adventures together that began thirty years ago. I also thought about some of the things we had shared since his death.
I often brought things to the cemetery to share with Bill. When I left the house that morning to hike Rattlesnake Canyon, I didn’t know that I would be visiting the cemetery so I struggled to come up with something that I could share. Bill had only one sweet tooth in his head and he never wasted it on candy bars and other treats. His sweet tooth was for honey. Bill didn’t like just any honey but favored a honey that was locally produced. After his death, his wife granted my request and let me have some of his honey.
I realized I had that honey in my survival pack that day. I also had two bananas in my lunch. I had never mixed honey and bananas but I heard a voice say, “Go for it.” Coming from the hot car, the consistency of the honey was thin. Pealing the first banana I stuck it all the way to the bottom of the honey jar, twisted it up and down and back and forth making sure that it was fully covered.
If the honey could talk it would have complained about that cold banana. But the coolness of the banana just made the honey stick with a heavier coating. I ate that banana covered with honey and began pealing the second one so I could plunge it into the honey jar also. But this banana would be for Bill. As I coated the banana with honey, I began to rationalize in my mind. The honey would make a mess on the grave marker and attract flies.
To solve this problem I would eat the second banana and leave Bill a note telling him how great it was. I didn’t think he would mind. Never before or since that day have I mixed bananas and honey but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. It was what some call a virgin experience. One day Bill and I will laugh about some of these experiences. Some things happen without any forethought or planning; the moment is just right. When that moment passes it becomes a sweet memory of looking back. It’s hard to get much sweeter than honey on a banana.
Chapter III – Serious Again
My mother-in-law was born on August 6th and I have many memories of our time together as she spent the final months of her life in our home, in our care, in our hearts. In anticipation of her own passing she often said, “I do my crying in private and my smiling in public.” That lesson I haven’t learned very well. I still cry in public.
Epilogue
The fact that these things all occurred on August 6th isn’t what is important. That these special people lived and loved and touched my life in so many ways is what is precious to me. Looking back while at the same time looking forward, I am excited about the future and thankful for the past: the lady who treated me as a son, the man who introduced me to honey and bananas, a mother-in-law who taught me by example how to die with dignity.
Prologue
Today is August 6th and it is a special day. In fact, every day of the year is a special day to someone. It is someone’s birthday, anniversary, or other celebrated event. Below I have shared a few of my reminiscings that took place on this day of the year.
Chapter I - Serious
On August 6th, 1973, thirty-three years ago today, I attended the funeral of a special friend. She died of liver cancer. She said she was surprised that it wasn’t lung cancer taking her life since she started smoking at the age of seventeen. Her attitude about death reminded me of some of the brave men and women who stoically went to their executions in the sixteenth century as they fought for human rights against the tyrants who ruled the land. She did not fear death, nor was she angry about the circumstances in which she found herself. Although our lives had separated I knew I would miss her.
In August of 1993, twenty years after her death, I finished writing a series of short stories about her that I titled “Legacy of a Lady.” One day while on a flight into the backcountry, I tossed those stories out of the plane one by one. I was chided for my behavior but I knew something that no one else knew; the stories were only lost on paper not lost from my mind. I had written them for an audience of one (me) as a tribute to her. I read them to my family and then returned them back to where they belonged, in my heart and in my mind.
As human beings we have failings and we disappoint one another from time to time. As a teenager I disappointed this lady on occasion but our relationship was such that we could talk about the situation and she often dispensed motherly advice to me. There is a saying that states, “The surest way to turn teenagers off is to tell them something they already know.” Since teenagers already know everything it becomes challenging to find ways to get them to listen, accept and modify their behavior. In reality, teenagers are only students of their parent’s behavior. Remember the old familiar statement about giving adults suggestions, “Advice not requested is rarely heeded.”
Looking back, I do not recall one instance when she and I had one of our little chats that I did not follow her counsel. She had a way of reaching out; making sense of a situation without getting her panty hose twisted around backwards. She helped me see where a small adjustment on my part today would produce significant benefits tomorrow. This lady who shared my mother’s name and treated me as her son was dead at fifty-nine. Her funeral thirty-three years ago today was a sad moment for me but looking back, oh how precious are the memories.
Chapter II – Not Quite So Serious
On August 6th, 2003 while on a solo hike up Rattlesnake Canyon I received a call to meet a friend at the Salt Lake City Cemetery. My wife Kaye would say, “Now Jerry, was that a call from a real person or one of your imaginary friends?” From her question you might get the idea that I was walking with a slight mental limp. Well, it doesn’t matter. After the call I turned around and headed back down the canyon to enjoy a different adventure. Maybe that call was destiny keeping me from being bitten by a rattlesnake that day.
Arriving at the cemetery, I went over and visited my long time friend Bill McMahan. This place had become a respite from the world for me since Bill was buried here. I try to come at least once a month and enjoy the solitude. I have lost other people dear to me, grandparents, the lady who treated me as a son, and even Kaye’s parents but they are all buried elsewhere. So there I stood, in front of Bill’s grave. I reflected on our adventures together that began thirty years ago. I also thought about some of the things we had shared since his death.
I often brought things to the cemetery to share with Bill. When I left the house that morning to hike Rattlesnake Canyon, I didn’t know that I would be visiting the cemetery so I struggled to come up with something that I could share. Bill had only one sweet tooth in his head and he never wasted it on candy bars and other treats. His sweet tooth was for honey. Bill didn’t like just any honey but favored a honey that was locally produced. After his death, his wife granted my request and let me have some of his honey.
I realized I had that honey in my survival pack that day. I also had two bananas in my lunch. I had never mixed honey and bananas but I heard a voice say, “Go for it.” Coming from the hot car, the consistency of the honey was thin. Pealing the first banana I stuck it all the way to the bottom of the honey jar, twisted it up and down and back and forth making sure that it was fully covered.
If the honey could talk it would have complained about that cold banana. But the coolness of the banana just made the honey stick with a heavier coating. I ate that banana covered with honey and began pealing the second one so I could plunge it into the honey jar also. But this banana would be for Bill. As I coated the banana with honey, I began to rationalize in my mind. The honey would make a mess on the grave marker and attract flies.
To solve this problem I would eat the second banana and leave Bill a note telling him how great it was. I didn’t think he would mind. Never before or since that day have I mixed bananas and honey but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. It was what some call a virgin experience. One day Bill and I will laugh about some of these experiences. Some things happen without any forethought or planning; the moment is just right. When that moment passes it becomes a sweet memory of looking back. It’s hard to get much sweeter than honey on a banana.
Chapter III – Serious Again
My mother-in-law was born on August 6th and I have many memories of our time together as she spent the final months of her life in our home, in our care, in our hearts. In anticipation of her own passing she often said, “I do my crying in private and my smiling in public.” That lesson I haven’t learned very well. I still cry in public.
Epilogue
The fact that these things all occurred on August 6th isn’t what is important. That these special people lived and loved and touched my life in so many ways is what is precious to me. Looking back while at the same time looking forward, I am excited about the future and thankful for the past: the lady who treated me as a son, the man who introduced me to honey and bananas, a mother-in-law who taught me by example how to die with dignity.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Footprints
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
As I stepped off the curb I punched the button on my stopwatch to begin the monitoring of my morning walk. The goal is four miles in an hour. At the two-mile mark if I am ahead of time I slow down and if I am behind, I speed up for the remaining two miles. For six in the morning the day was already beginning to heat up. I was thankful for light raindrops falling on my face. Putting on my headset I cranked up the volume to the song “Georgia Rain” which was befitting the occasion. While lost in thought during my walk, a sweet familiar fragrance drifted over me. Instantly I knew that the smell was coming from the pink flower of a mimosa tree.
We had a mimosa tree in our front yard when I was growing up. I stepped over to the tree and took a deep breath. With that breath came memories marching around in my mind. I won’t bore you today with any of those memories other than to say they are precious to me. Many hours of my life were spent out there in the shad of that tree. As I stepped back onto the sidewalk from the damp grass to continue my morning walk, I looked behind me and saw that my wet shoes were leaving footprints on the concrete. Within six or seven steps the footprints began to fade. I was still walking on the sidewalk, my tennis shoes were still making contact with the concrete but there was no visible evidence being left behind.
The music in my headset began to fade from my consciousness as I began to reflect on all the people who have walked across my life and left footprints on my heart. Many of those people are no longer physically close to me but their influence on my life is still present. I am thankful for the invisible footprints that continue to lead me in my life.
The familiar fragrance of the mimosa tree drew me back in my mind and helped those early footprints become visible once more. Mark Twain once said, “ I am a part of all I have met.” How blessed I am for those I have met. How blessed we are to be able to choose the best part of all we meet. My experience this morning brought about a desire to walk more tenderly through life. Whether my footprints are visible or invisible, I desire that they lift, encourage, carry and lead. But most importantly, I want my footsteps to follow in the steps of those who have been such a positive influence on me.
As I stepped off the curb I punched the button on my stopwatch to begin the monitoring of my morning walk. The goal is four miles in an hour. At the two-mile mark if I am ahead of time I slow down and if I am behind, I speed up for the remaining two miles. For six in the morning the day was already beginning to heat up. I was thankful for light raindrops falling on my face. Putting on my headset I cranked up the volume to the song “Georgia Rain” which was befitting the occasion. While lost in thought during my walk, a sweet familiar fragrance drifted over me. Instantly I knew that the smell was coming from the pink flower of a mimosa tree.
We had a mimosa tree in our front yard when I was growing up. I stepped over to the tree and took a deep breath. With that breath came memories marching around in my mind. I won’t bore you today with any of those memories other than to say they are precious to me. Many hours of my life were spent out there in the shad of that tree. As I stepped back onto the sidewalk from the damp grass to continue my morning walk, I looked behind me and saw that my wet shoes were leaving footprints on the concrete. Within six or seven steps the footprints began to fade. I was still walking on the sidewalk, my tennis shoes were still making contact with the concrete but there was no visible evidence being left behind.
The music in my headset began to fade from my consciousness as I began to reflect on all the people who have walked across my life and left footprints on my heart. Many of those people are no longer physically close to me but their influence on my life is still present. I am thankful for the invisible footprints that continue to lead me in my life.
The familiar fragrance of the mimosa tree drew me back in my mind and helped those early footprints become visible once more. Mark Twain once said, “ I am a part of all I have met.” How blessed I am for those I have met. How blessed we are to be able to choose the best part of all we meet. My experience this morning brought about a desire to walk more tenderly through life. Whether my footprints are visible or invisible, I desire that they lift, encourage, carry and lead. But most importantly, I want my footsteps to follow in the steps of those who have been such a positive influence on me.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Chasing a Sunset
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Stepping out of the building where I had attended a New Testament class with the young adults of my church, I looked to the West and saw what was the making of a beautiful sunset. Without any mental bantering of what was the best way to spend the next few minutes of my life, I hurried to my car and headed for the airport.
Opening the hangar door, I shoved my plane into the open air and without so much as a preflight inspection I fired up the engine and headed toward the West, the setting sun. I climbed with all the power my plane could produce until I reached 18,000 feet and chased the setting sun. Gradually the disappearing ball of fire outran me so I winged over and headed for home, descending back through that same air space I had just traveled.
I was flying out over the Great Salt Lake. The air was calm and I was alone with my music, my thoughts and the drum of the aircraft engine. My favorite country western artist was singing her lyrics in my headset but she was not the person I shared that sunset with. I often ask my daughter whom she sees in her sunsets. At first she was puzzled by the question but then she understood.
Whether a beautiful sunset or some other event or activity stirs your emotions, reach for it and share it with your special someone even if that someone is beside you only in your mind.
Stepping out of the building where I had attended a New Testament class with the young adults of my church, I looked to the West and saw what was the making of a beautiful sunset. Without any mental bantering of what was the best way to spend the next few minutes of my life, I hurried to my car and headed for the airport.
Opening the hangar door, I shoved my plane into the open air and without so much as a preflight inspection I fired up the engine and headed toward the West, the setting sun. I climbed with all the power my plane could produce until I reached 18,000 feet and chased the setting sun. Gradually the disappearing ball of fire outran me so I winged over and headed for home, descending back through that same air space I had just traveled.
I was flying out over the Great Salt Lake. The air was calm and I was alone with my music, my thoughts and the drum of the aircraft engine. My favorite country western artist was singing her lyrics in my headset but she was not the person I shared that sunset with. I often ask my daughter whom she sees in her sunsets. At first she was puzzled by the question but then she understood.
Whether a beautiful sunset or some other event or activity stirs your emotions, reach for it and share it with your special someone even if that someone is beside you only in your mind.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, July 9, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, July 2, 2006
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.
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?”
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?”
Sunday, June 18, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, June 4, 2006
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.
"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.
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