We took a break from the Sunday evening catch-up session at the music store to grab a bite to eat.  As we sat ruminating (both physically and mentally), we decided to turn on the television.  The auction marathon was still running on one of the cable channels, so we watched the high drama of estimating and selling for a few moments.  This highly scripted “reality” television genre continues to multiply, expanding on the “Antiques Roadshow” phenomenon.

We watched as a gentleman carried in a box of items, most of it junk, and then drew out a pendant, which turned out to be a pencil in an artfully designed gold case, complete with diamonds and a ruby worked into the design.  As the story unfolded, appropriately timed and contrived to pique the viewers interest, we learned that it was made by a famous Russian jewelry maker.  At the conclusion of the show (after an annoyingly large number of commercials), the now very desirable bauble sold for something around twelve thousand dollars.  Of course, by this time we are jaded with hearing the stories, the original television series having repeated the pennies-spent to thousands-earned tale many times over.  Nevertheless, I am once more struck by the real story here; the narrative of ignorance and enlightenment.

It doesn’t always work the way the shows tell it.  Many of these treasures are sold and resold numerous times for a pittance, with neither the buyers nor the sellers recognizing the real value.  Frequently, this is because of the utilitarian mindset we have, merely recognizing the use we can gain from the item, but not perceiving the inherent value.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard a flea market patron remark, “Sixty dollars!  I’ve got one of those in the cupboard at home!”  Ultimately, as it turns out, it’s a good thing that most people still have those in their cupboards, since the rareness on the market is what drives up the price, but that’s not really the point.  The principle is that we don’t know the real value of what we have until we are enlightened, either accidentally or by seeking education.

Tower Bridge by Paul Bisson

I’ve told you before that I’m a lover of paintings of bridges.  I’ve even said that I don’t like to have prints on the wall, because I want the original works of art.  That said, I do make exceptions from time to time.  I remember a day, when we were walking through one of the nearby flea markets, listening once again to the astonished remarks from the shoppers.  We took a detour through the art section, not expecting to find anything, but you know, “just in case…”  As we browsed through the awful oils and acrylics, and even a velvet Elvis, the Lovely Lady picked up a pretty little print of the Tower Bridge in London, England and showed it to me.  “It’s a print,” I remarked, disdainfully.  “I like it, though.  It’s only fifteen dollars,” came the reply.  We bought it.  I secretly figured we could always hang it up in the guest bedroom, where I wouldn’t ever have to look at it.

Even though I didn’t care anything about it, when we got home, we examined the print a little closer and found that it was signed by the artist.  It also gave evidence of being hand-colored, a fact corroborated by the label, also signed by the artist, which we found under the paper on the back.  I did some research on this artist, finding that he is a very well-known English painter, with his prints demanding fairly high market prices.  The newer, more common ones regular sell for hundreds of dollars, with potential for his older, rarer prints to bring many times that.  My opinion of the little print is somewhat changed.  What a beautiful piece of art!  Have I told you how much I love prints?  

Wow!  Isn’t it amazing how a little illumination in the darkness gives a different perspective?   I will tell you honestly that I wasn’t raised to be open-minded.  Mine was a black-and-white environment, with decisions made and matters closed.  In the strange movie “O Brother, Where Art Thou?”, when the estranged wife of the protagonist, Everett says, “I’ve said my piece and counted to ten,” I see myself.  I’ve spent most of my life stubborn and intractable, telling all the world that I know I’m right and no one can prove differently.  I’m happy to say that the older I get, the more often I see the light bulb of new information lighting up the room.  I’ve changed my stance on quite a few subjects, although some have also been reinforced again and again, so they’ll not be changing.  My faith, in spite of a few relevant questions on occasion, remains firm and I’m content for it to be so.  Some things just aren’t open for revision.  But the peripherals, the non-essentials?  Talk to me about them.  There’s room for new ideas. 

I’m fairly sure you’ll never make me like Picasso, but give it a shot.  They do say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder…

“Remember that the most valuable antiques are dear old friends.”
(H. Jackson Browne Jr.~American author)

“A great many open minds should be closed for repairs.”
(quote from The Toledo Blade)

The CJ5 Jeep was out of control, the dirt and rocks spraying up as it veered back and forth from one side of the gravel road to the other.  As we headed for the bar ditch at the side of the road, I had a quick vision of the beautiful, blue, open vehicle flipped upside down in the field, with two bodies lying under it, crushed and bleeding.  Right now, I know you’re asking, “What’s a bar ditch?”  I can just sense the word nerd in you wanting to know the etymology of that term.  Well, when I was growing up, most of the country roads in South Texas had a ditch paralleling them on each side, which we called a bar ditch.  We didn’t know why then, that was just what we called it.  As is true with most words though, there’s a reason for the name.  Legend has it that the word actually might come from one of two related sources, either a “barrow ditch”, or a “borrow ditch”.  The barrow term refers to the day before road graders, when farmers would use a shovel and wheelbarrow to dig a trench along the lane and build up the roadway above the ditch.  The lane would be built either with “barrow” dirt or “borrowed” dirt, thus giving the trench it came from it’s name.  Time has shortened the name to bar ditch and in that hot and dry climate, it serves a very real purpose of carrying water, both for drainage of the rare, but sudden deluges of  rain, and for irrigation which comes from the nearby Rio Grande.

What’s that?  Oh, you weren’t interested in the word nerdery, you want to know about the bleeding bodies.  Well, let me start at the beginning.  I was working for the pharmacy at the time and the breathtaking Jeep was my delivery vehicle.  Yeah, it was pretty awesome!  For an 18 year old, the possibilities were endless.  Mud, dirt, even pavement were all playgrounds, waiting to be romped through.  The mud and dirt need no explanation, but on the pavement, this beauty, in the hands of a daring young teenage driver, was dynamite!  The short wheelbase made it maneuverable beyond belief, so bumper to bumper traffic was simply a Checkers game, darting past car after car, then squeezing into spaces which were barely adequate for its length.  And, the torque this jewel had from a stop!  You have never seen rubber laid on the pavement unless you’ve seen what could be done with mud tires and the first and second gears of  this little doozy.  I remember a black mark almost one block…But, once again, I’ve chased a rabbit trail, and you’re still waiting for the blood and guts.

On this particular day, my boss had asked me to pick up his daughter, herself a young beauty, from a friend’s house and deliver her to his home, which was about a mile down a gravel road.  The girl was only fifteen and was learning to drive.  As we turned onto the unpaved section of road, she begged me to let her drive.  “Daddy’s taught me how to use the clutch and I’m a good driver!  Please…”  What was a young man to do?  What a predicament!  Obviously, I had no choice, so we stopped and exchanged places in the car.  As she sat in the driver’s seat, looking nervous, I realized that she wasn’t as experienced with driving as she had led me to believe, but there was no turning back now.  “Move the shift lever to first gear,” I instructed, and she did so, clumsily.  This wasn’t looking so good.  “Now, give the accelerator some gas, and ease the clutch out.”  She revved the engine and popped the clutch.  We jerked forward and the motor died.  After a restart and a little more instruction (you do remember that I’m not much of a teacher?), she tried again, this time lurching forward a few more feet than before.

The final time she started the Jeep, and frustrated, she listened to my “ease the clutch out” speech one more time.  This time, although she revved the motor until it screamed in protest, the clutch eased out and at last we were moving forward…albeit accelerating at an extremely high rate of speed.  Did I mention the great low-end torque this car had?  Wide-eyed, the young lady knew beyond a doubt that she was finally moving, but she was absolutely not in control of this juggernaut.  As she careened this way and that, I screamed at her to push the clutch back in, but it was too late.  We hit the bar ditch at an angle, thankfully not overturning, but seemingly flying through the air for many feet, before coming to rest with the tires still on the ground and not in the air spinning, as I had visualized during the terrifying seconds (which seemed like an eternity) prior.

We sat there stunned.  After a few moments, she started to laugh and reached down to restart the motor.  “Not on your life!” I shouted between gasps of breath.  “You ride, I’m driving”  With her still laughing, we drove slowly out of the bean field and down the gravel road to the boss’s house.  It took half an hour to get the delivery packages back into any semblance of order, and finally I was back on the road, weaving in and out of traffic, darting into tiny spaces to make turns and accelerating out of the way of the braking, gesturing drivers around me.

I’m still not great at refusing beautiful ladies their requests, especially one in particular, but terror has a way of teaching caution.  There were no more driving lessons, until a few years later when the Lovely Lady requested that I teach her to drive a standard shift car.  With visions of that oncoming bar ditch in my mind’s eye, I assented.  We may or may not explore that experience in future writings.  Probably not…

“Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.”
(Alfred Lord Tennyson~English Poet~1809-1892)

“Treads rush in where wise men fear to fool”
(Bad 20th Century play on words)

The shimmering, treble-heavy chords rang out as the man sat with the beautiful rosewood and spruce guitar.  He was a skilled guitar player, executing difficult barre chords and arpeggios in between the melodic passages of the popular song he was playing.  He was enthralled, not with his own playing, but with the incredible sound of the 12-string guitar.  Because of the unique tuning method the twelve-string guitar employs, it has a chorus-like effect when strummed.  The octave-tuned bass strings add an upper harmonic tone to the lows, while the unison treble strings seem to add a hint of vibrato to the highs, with the overall effect being almost like hearing a choir which is heavy on the female voices.   “I love it!” he exclaimed.  “It has an amazing tone and the action is really close and comfortable, but I don’t hear any fret buzz.”

It didn’t hurt that the guitar maker had selected an amazing, figured Brazilian rosewood for the back and sides of the body.  Never mind that no one else would see the beauty of that view, since all that showed to any onlookers was the natural, almost white top, beautiful in its own way.  The straight grained Adirondack spruce had none of the showiness that the rosewood boasted, but this solid piece of wood was selected for its resonance, not for looks.  If you tapped on the top without plucking the strings, there was almost a “boom” of sound, the tone enhanced by the hand carved braces on the underside, each one serving a dual purpose; that of distributing the sound generated by the bronze and silvered-steel strings all the way to the edges and also the very important task of providing stability to the instrument.  The pull created by the twelve strings stretched up to tension is something over 250 pounds of pressure, so a weak top and inadequate bracing are just not acceptable.

The guitar wasn’t inexpensive, but this fellow had a plan.  As we haggled over the price, he excused himself and went out to his car, returning presently with a nice six-string guitar.  “I’d like to trade this in,” he suggested hopefully, knowing that my answer would determine whether he would be leaving the store with the coveted 12-string or merely with what he had carried in.  I examined the guitar, checking all the potential trouble spots before offering a fair trade-in value.  He asked me to give him a moment and I left him alone.  Mere seconds later, mental calculations made, he called me back over to announce, “I’ll take it!”

In the course of the transaction, I discovered that this gentleman only owned the one guitar he was trading in.  He certainly didn’t follow the pattern of most of my customers, who have the mantra “You can’t have too many guitars” tattooed in indelible ink on their brains.  Nevertheless, I took his only 6-string guitar and hung it on the rack, while he excitedly placed the beautiful 12-string in the case and carried it proudly out to his car.

Another satisfied customer…and I had a few dollars going into the bank, with a nice guitar on the rack to boot!  Life was good!  But, if memory serves, it wasn’t more than three weeks later that the fellow walked back into the store.  “I want to buy my guitar back,” he said sheepishly.  I was just too curious.  “Did something happen to the 12-string?”  He hesitated a moment.  “Well…no.  It’s just that I’m pretty tired of the sound of that guitar.  No, not pretty tired…Very tired!”  We worked out an equitable price for his old guitar and he headed out the door.  I waited until he was in his car and leaving the parking lot to break out laughing.  Of all the ridiculous situations!  How do you fall in love with a guitar, only to fall out of love with it inside of three weeks?

As it happens, the very same thing that attracted him to the guitar in the first place was what drove him back to his first love.  The shimmery, bright sound of the 12-string is amazingly enticing in small doses, but a steady diet quickly turns to annoyance, as the edgy, treble-y tones begin to grate on the nerves.  I also wouldn’t discount the labor intensive task of tuning, either.  Unison strings are notoriously difficult to match to each other, the octaves only slightly less demanding.  I couldn’t count the number of times that 12-string guitars have been carried into the store, strung with only half of the strings.

The best 6-string acoustic guitars are wonderfully designed and executed works of art, whose beauty is not primarily in the aesthetic elements, but in the balanced, evenly projected tone quality.  The bass strings provide the foundation necessary for full chords; the treble section doing its part to fulfill the melodic demands of the instrument.  When played together, the blend is heavenly.  Neither is overbearing, but both are essential partners in creating a pleasing musical experience.  The 12-string guitar is an accent instrument, fulfilling a purpose, but not well-suited for continuous use.  Too much of it and the listener is annoyed, rather than soothed.

What a picture of life!  We hold in our hands the necessities, the essentials for satisfaction.  But in the distance, the siren call of the exotic beckons.  And, believing that we’ve found the answer to all of our seeking, we abandon the necessary, only to be sated all too soon by the rich taste of the desirable.  Balance is a tricky thing.  But it is absolutely essential to harmony and sanity.  Just as in a good meal, where the quantity of the indispensable meat and vegetables far surpasses the small portion of dessert, life requires careful choices. 

Just a reminder…I do have a couple of 12-string guitars to sell in my store, which I’d love to show to you any time.  Just don’t bring your only 6-string in as a trade-in.  I don’t want it.

“In everything, the middle course is best; all things in excess bring trouble to men.”
(Titus Maccius Plautus~Roman playwright~circa 254 BC-184 BC)

 
“Nothing, in excess.”
(Ancient Greek proverb)

Bedtime was eight o’clock.  The clanging of the ancient Seth Thomas mantle clock downstairs seemed to reverberate through the whole house as it announced midnight.  I was still awake, as usual.  The sweltering South Texas heat wasn’t the culprit, but it certainly didn’t help.  The old hassock fan in the middle of the converted attic room did little more than swirl around the suffocating air, and not even much of that since my older brother had put some books under the leg on his side to aim the airflow up to his level.  The heat was incessant, an ever-present condition, but that couldn’t explain my sleeplessness.  Come to think of it, the sleeplessness was also incessant, a chronic predicament for me.  Every night, it was the same.  Headed up the stairs with my three brothers, two of us to a room, to be abed by eight o’clock.  The logic evades me today, much as it did way back then.  Perhaps the early bedtime was like the Sunday afternoon nap; not so much a necessity for the children as it was a respite for the exhausted parents.  Who couldn’t use a quiet hour or two without five kids underfoot, as they were all day?

The time to relax and unwind probably wasn’t all that restful for them, though.  Within minutes, the arguments upstairs would start over picayune matters.  The position of the fan comes to mind, but there were other situations, insignificant now, but of weighty import to an eight or nine year old intent on not conforming to this “early to bed, early to rise” philosophy.   Any argument which could pass five minutes meant less time to wish I were doing something more profitable than lying in the (to me) useless bed.  The inevitable footstep at the bottom of the stairwell and the stern, “Boys!” would also soon be heard, with a resultant hush for a few moments, only to have the melee break out anew within a short period of time.  There might be one more vocal warning before more drastic measures were taken, but even the trip downstairs for a little corporal punishment didn’t serve the purpose intended, since I was more wide awake than ever when I returned to bed. 

One of my older brothers in the other room was always oblivious of this activity, since he was usually asleep when his head hit the pillow.  My eldest brother, in the second bed in that room, was so much older than I (four years), that he didn’t deign to be drawn into the petty activities often, but I do remember a few incidents which included his presence.  Once in awhile, wide awake and restless, we would scheme and then would slip out of the house via the window and roof.  The converted attic rooms we were in utilized a dormer design which put the roof right outside our window at a convenient height to step out onto, allowing us to traverse the length of the house at the highest peak to a conveniently placed tree at the back corner.  I remember late night bike rides, flags raised on the mailboxes up and down the street, doorbells rung, and even a close escape from the police in town one night.  All too soon (or not a moment too soon, depending on your perspective), Dad discovered the nighttime forays and nailed the window screens shut, putting a stop to that nocturnal activity.

We grew up, with the bedtime curfews moving later with our ages, but still it was never late enough for me.  Even today, decades later, I will freely admit that I function best during the nighttime hours.  My thought processes seem more lucid, the creativity flows in a way it never does during daylight.  The musical instruments beg to be employed after bedtime for normal folks, the books call to me from their repose on the shelf.  I’m even ready to follow my regimen of physical exercise more often as the wee hours arrive, with the added benefit that the late night walks and runs allow me to observe the nocturnal habits of some of the more shy wildlife.

I had always expected that these habits would change as I aged, my bedtime coming more into line with the accepted norms among my peers.  But we sit in meetings that run late and even the young folks start to yawn and stare glassy-eyed as we approach ten o’clock, and I’m ready to keep going.  Bedtime has actually moved later as I’ve grown past middle age.  Unfortunately, the time to arise in the morning hasn’t moved a commensurate amount, so five hours of sleep a night is average, with that amount padded a bit, aided by an evening nap on days when there is opportunity.  My doctor is not happy, but I have tried earlier bedtime with disastrous results.  Lying in bed before becoming tired enough to sleep only causes stress, which causes…guess what?  Yep, less sleep.  I think I’ll continue to go to bed when I’m sleepy and trust that my body will know to demand more rest when it’s necessary.  I have especially enjoyed the late night hours for the last few months, as I’ve had opportunity to put my thoughts into written form in this blog.  If there has been no other benefit, the joy at expressing my ideas in this way has been an exhilarating experience for this old coot.  No doubt, I’ve benefited immensely more than the readers have.  Nevertheless, I thank any of you who have taken time to glean a morsel here and there, too.

Oh! I saw a list of possible causes of sleeplessness recently.  The one that jumped out at me was mental illness, but I’m going to leave that can of worms unopened.  As the folks at Fox say, “I report, you decide.”

 Sleep tight!

“Dawn: when men of reason go to bed.”
(Ambrose Bierce~American journalist and writer~1842-1914)

“Adam laid himself down in Paradise to sleep
While from him was taken a wife to keep.
Adam, poor father of creation’s best
Your first taste of sleep was your last of rest.”
(Matthias Claudius~German poet~1740-1815)

I don’t understand business.  I stumble around in the dark, hoping my latest decision was an intelligent move, but I’m never quite sure.  I’m always amazed when someone calls me a “successful businessman”, since I’m not sure that either term applies.  I’ll accept the compliment, but will dispute any imputation of merit.  Let’s just say that sometimes the Lord lets stupid people do smart things, and leave it at that.

I have realized something in the last year, though.  We’re in a recession.  I’m guessing that’s no surprise to most of you who pay attention to politicians and the commentators who masquerade as newsmen on your televisions.  All of them have been telling us for over two years that the sky was falling, so I should have seen it coming.  For some reason, in all three of the national recessions which the Lovely Lady and I have weathered in running our business, we’ve not felt the effects until most of the country is on the way out of the slump.  This time has been different, though.  Overall, business is still very good.  Customers are still buying, the orders are still flowing in, and our bills are being paid.  So, where’s the problem?

The increase in instruments brought into the music store to sell has been exponential for the last ten months.  What used to be a trickle of customers coming in the front door carrying instruments became a flood almost overnight.  I was startled to find that the local pawn shops have even started refusing to buy any guitars.  It’s sad, but the logic is clear.  When people run out of money, they let go of the most disposable and least necessary items they have, to replenish their cash supply.  The cheap guitars are piling up around here like cord-wood at a campsite and they keep coming.  I remember the day when I anticipated the incursion of individuals bearing instruments under their arms, because there was a sense of adventure about it.  One never knew what choice jewel might be presented when the guitar case was opened.  No more.  These are just shiny costume jewelry and scratched, dirty rhinestones at that.  No treasures to be found here.  Well, not from my perspective, but I’m finally realizing that they are treasures to the folks who wag them in, wishing they could keep them, but knowing they have no choice.

I found myself in a slightly different situation today, as a well-dressed gentleman came in bearing an almost new guitar case.  “I lost my job and have to pay the bills.  I’ve got this almost new guitar and maybe another one if you can’t give me enough for it.”  I had just purchased a guitar from the previous visitor, who was being sued for divorce by his wife.  “I paid fifty thousand dollars for her college education and this is how she pays me back,” he had wailed as he showed me his treasure.  I gave him what I could for the instrument and turned to this latest individual, who quite obviously was out of his element.  I made him an offer, and he accepted it, telling me as he pocketed the check, “I’ve never sold anything this way before,  but what else can I do?  I can’t eat it and the gas company won’t take it in payment of my bill.”  I tried to encourage him as he left, and sat down at my desk.

It’s easy to be discouraged by all these sad people, but I remember being where they are.  Well, not exactly where they are; it’s just to me it seemed about like that.  The Lovely Lady and I had been married for three years and our first baby had just been born.  We were trying to buy our first house, but just hadn’t been able to put back any money in the bank.  She was just out of college, we had bills to pay, and the insurance wasn’t going to pay anywhere close to all the hospital bills from the delivery.  I looked out in our driveway and stared at the 1955 Chevy 2-door sedan.  It was a dream car, but it wasn’t a necessity.  In a way, this one was a no-brainer.  We made the decision and a few days later, walked into the bank with the money for a down payment on our first house.  Our babies were going to have a home!  No, there wouldn’t be a ’55 Chevy parked in the driveway, but some things take priority.  You make hard choices to do what you need to do.  I still miss that car.  But I have no regret for the action we took.  That treasure was expendable.  My family is not.

At times, I’m overwhelmed by humanity in need.  Other times, I stand in awe at the resilience of the spirits these people demonstrate.  They’re knocked down, but not beaten.  I’m thinking; these folks are going to make it, as long as they have treasures to let go of, and sappy businessmen to shell out a little cash for them.  The rest is in God’s capable hands.

But if you’re hunting some treasures, come on by and visit me.  I’ve been collecting them from almost a year now…

“One who cannot cast away a treasure at need is in fetters.”
(J.R.R. Tolkien~English author)

“Do not rejoice over me, O my enemy. Though I fall I will rise; Though I dwell in darkness, the LORD is a light for me.”
(Micah 7:8)

I’ve had some real wheeler-dealers in the store before, but this kid took the prize.  Of course, I realized that I had actually put myself in the situation to be cornered by him, but I don’t think I could have changed that.  The young man’s father has been a used-car dealer all of his adult life, which may explain the boy’s bargaining skills a bit, but even I will admit that he was quite precocious in his adroitness.

A few weeks ago, the boy’s father and I had worked out a deal to get him a guitar he really wanted.  Trading in a guitar of less value, the dad and son had agreed that the young man would work for extra money for the next three months so that he could pay off the balance on the guitar within the ninety day layaway period we stipulated.  There was a fair amount of haggling that went on in the transaction, but in the end, the man got what he wanted (a nice guitar at a fair price for his son) and I got what I wanted (a reasonable return on my investment), so we both were happy.  Yesterday, the boy and both his mother and father stopped by.  I assumed that the young man would pay another thirty or forty dollars on the account, but was surprised to hear his mom tell me that they were picking up the guitar a couple of months early.  It seems that his bargaining skills have an effect on more than just hapless music store operators.  Mom paid the balance and I handed over the guitar.  The boy wasn’t through yet.

“How much do you want for the bongos? ”  I checked the price tag and told him what it said.  “Sixty-nine dollars plus tax.  It’s a fair price.”  He looked over the drums for a moment.  “Why would you ask the new price for used drums?”  I was puzzled.  “Used?  They’re new.  You can see the manufacturer’s tags still on them.”  I glanced over at his parents, but they weren’t going to interfere.  I’m not sure, but if I was guessing, I’d say they were proud of him.  I’m pretty sure I saw a smile on his dad’s face.  The kid had learned his lessons well.  He took a breath and continued, “Well, look at the heads.  They’re dirty where people have been playing them.  They might have been new when you put them in here, but they’re used now.  You can see the hand prints on the heads.  What’s the used price?”

Have you ever been backed into a corner?  That’s where I was.  I think this is what’s known as a Catch-22.  A Catch-22 (from a book by the same name) is a situation where you logically cannot win, nor can you escape.  In the book, the protagonist could get out of a deadly situation by claiming to be insane, but by definition, if he asked to be declared insane, he was surely sane, so he could not extricate himself.  My Catch-22 wasn’t nearly as desperate, but nevertheless, I had put myself in that corner.  In order to sell products in the store, I have to allow customers to try them out in advance of their purchase.  If they cannot try them out, they won’t purchase them.  This young man had figured out that if the bongos had been played, they were not by definition new anymore, but were used.  I wanted to sell the new product, but in the process had made them used, so he wouldn’t pay new price for them.  He had me and he knew it.  “Alright then, fifty-five dollars and they’re yours.”  I know when I’m beaten.

I should be unhappy, but I’m not.  This bright young fellow just revealed to me once again that we live in an imperfect world.  We can get tied up in knots by the events in which we find ourselves embroiled, or we can learn from them and move on.  Many times, I have found myself in a “no-win” situation, each time to realize that paralysis is not an acceptable reaction.  We move through those circumstances to what comes after.  Hard lessons learned make for smoother sailing later on.  But, you have to move past them.  I’ve got many more of these lessons to share, but I’ll save them for another day.  It’s embarrassing enough to admit defeat to a twelve year old boy.

And yeah, if you want to try out the instruments, you still can.  But, you’d better have clean hands if you do…

“The difference between school and life?  In school, you’re taught a lesson and then given a test.  In life, you’re given a test that teaches you a lesson.”
(Tom Bodett~American humorist and author)