Cranky

August 17, 2012March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The electric guitar on my workbench belongs to a customer. “Just change the strings,” she said as she left it with me today. Finally! A job I can do without becoming bogged down. Twist the buttons of the tuning machines, insert the ends of the individual strings, and tune it up. No sweat. This will be a breath of fresh air after the clarinets and flutes, and saxophones of the last few days. On those terrifying projects, one adjustment leads to another, which leads to replacing a piece of cork, or a pad. Springs are broken, keys bent, and screws are frozen in place. The simple task of putting an instrument in playable condition (we call it “PC” in the music business) is never quite simple. I am weary. And, ready for an easy string replacement on a guitar.

After removing the old strings, one of the first things I do to the guitar is to clean the grime from the top of the instrument. The job is difficult to do at any other time, but easy to accomplish with no strings obstructing the surface. As usual, I spray the guitar cleaner on a rag and wipe the surfaces for a moment. As I brush the volume knob, I notice that it is loose and spinning in its mount. This could be a problem if not attended to, since the wires attached underneath will break loose with the excess motion over time. An easy fix…simply remove the knob and tighten the control nut which is underneath. I slide a flat pry bar under the edge of the knob and gently twist. Immediately, I hear a loud cracking noise and the knob pops loose, but something is wrong. The metal shaft of the volume potentiometer is sheared off, with pieces of it remaining in the center of the knob. Looking closer, I see evidence of a popular metal glue called J-B Weld on the sheared off pieces. It was broken before and a sub-par repair had been made. My easy, relaxing job has turned into a repairman’s nightmare.

Of course, you know what I did. Yep. I sat down to write this post. I know what they say about “when the going gets tough”, but I’ve had it. I’m past tough and moving rapidly into cranky. And, like any good procrastinator, I know when it’s time to sit down and do fun things instead of essential ones. I love to write. The words flow from my brain into my fingers and right onto the screen. There is nothing to break, nothing to bend, nothing to replace. I think that I may just stay here and ignore all of the work that is piling up around me for the rest of the hours I have to spend tonight.

If all you know of me has been acquired through the posts you read here, you might think that I am a rational creature, a realist who thinks through each action and considers the ramifications of every move, always selecting the optimal route to completion of each task. I am not such a person. I am often an escapist, a dreamer who wishes and hopes for a different world in which to live. I eschew hard work and conflict, and I embrace ease and serenity. Alas, that will never be the world in which I move and dwell. The rebel in me insists that I can do as I please, while the pragmatist acknowledges that I will never be able to do that. Even as I write these words, I know that I must soon return to my once attractive, now distasteful, task.

I will reluctantly push up from this comfortable seat and move to stand once more in front of the guitar. Instead of a simple string replacement, I will disassemble the electronic section (about 20 screws to remove) and unsolder wires, removing the broken potentiometer, or pot. Re-soldering wires, mounting a new pot, testing the new circuit, and inserting the screws once more, I will then be ready to begin the task I started an hour or two ago.

If you are still with me after my poor-poor-pitiful-me rant, I applaud your tenacity. I’ll make just one point and then you may make your determination of how profitably your time has been spent. My guess is that I spend a fair amount of my time while writing this blog in building up my reputation, in crafting a facade that I want you to believe of me. What you need to know is that all of us are human; we all get cranky and cantankerous. The test of our character is not necessarily in our initial response, but in the disposition of the matter, when it is completed. I am reminded of the example which Jesus gave of a father and two sons. For some reason, it is not an example we use often, especially with our own children, since we want them to respond positively every time.

The father asked his sons to go and perform a particular task in the field. One son replied, “I won’t!” and turned away. The other son, wishing to gain his father’s favor, simpered, “Father, I’ll be happy to do the job.” End of the story? Bad son, good son? No! As it turns out, the son who sassed his dad went out afterward and did the job. The son who gained the advantage early with his reply simply didn’t do the work at all. Who accomplished the job? Who gained the ultimate favor of his father?

Well, my play time is over. I have a job to face and complete. Let me know if you can’t figure out the answer to the puzzle above. Obviously, I’m confident that you already have. Now, is there some task you’ve been avoiding? It’s not too late.

As I’ve said many times before, where there’s life, there’s hope. You’re still breathing, aren’t you?

“And he answered, ‘I will not’, but afterward he regretted it and went.”
(Matthew 21:29~NASV)

“…the best form of tenacity I know is expressed in a Danish fur trapper’s principal, ‘The next mile is the only one a person really has to make.'”
(Eric Sevareid~American journalist~1912-1992)

Gonna Walk Around

August 14, 2012March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I saw my good friend the other day. He had read my recent post that featured the Saint Bernard dog. It was his story. As we shook hands, he spoke sternly to me, “What are you doing, digging up stuff from ancient history?” I knew he was joking, but still…it got me to thinking. What if all I’m doing with these posts about the past is “digging up bones”? You know what I mean. Dredging up memories that, for most people, are long dead and buried–forgotten in the far away and rapidly dimming past. Memories that might cause embarrassment, or recriminations, or even outright shame.

As I thought tonight, my mind was drawn to a country song of the twentieth century which used exactly that phrase, digging up bones. The singer spoke of “exhuming things that are better left alone.” I couldn’t help but realize that the famous singer who had a hit with that song has been in the news recently, entangled in a situation which, one day, he will wish to leave buried like those old nasty bones. Mr. Travis is having some problems with alcohol and maybe has already been digging up a few bad memories himself. I think though, that his current experience (or something like it) is actually the reason that I go on digging up the bones of the past, not to wallow in misery like some pig in his sty, nor even like the drunk crying in his beer. I bring up the past again and again simply to instruct myself (mostly) and a few of you readers who find the lessons enlightening as well.

Tonight, for some reason, old song lyrics keep popping up in my head, themselves a kind of bone being dug up. The problem with these bones is that they are largely unattached to each other, just like the dry bones that the old prophet saw. It is an event immortalized in the old negro spiritual, ‘Dry Bones”. “Dey gonna walk around, dem dry bones (oh hear de word of de Lord)…” Those bones too, were scattered and dead, but they became connected once again. Flesh once more covered them and then breath was given to them anew as they stood alive and whole. In a way, my hope is that this is what happens with the old bones which I dredge up now and again.

The connections are made, the story fleshed out, and the living tale stands before us to instruct and warn and convince us to avoid the errors of the past. Some of the memories simply bring back warm thoughts of people no longer with us, reminding us of lives shared and love given. Some make us laugh and feel the joy of times we would not like to lose as we move into the future. It would be nice if all of the old bones I dig up ended up like these. Alas, that doesn’t always happen.

Again, a short lyric comes to mind. I hear a bouncy, rhythmic instrumental background as a voice calls out stridently, “Caldonia, Caldonia. What makes your big head so hard?” I don’t remember any other part of the song, but it is enough. This one phrase speaks to me. Perhaps to you too?

I jest, but there is a serious bent to my humor. I’m a hard-headed human being, insisting on my own way again and again, ignoring the road signs and past history with disdain. I am smarter than that boy and later, the young man, that I used to be. Those old bones hold no messages for me. History could never repeat itself. I suspect that many of you are nodding your heads as you read along. You too, have insisted that you are beyond the foolishness that snared you before, but continuing in the same path, you are bogged down time and time again.

So, I think that I’ll keep digging up the past, if only because my hard head needs the repetition. Yes, I’ll dig up the past, even the Saint Bernards, and the pizza eaten once in a blue moon, and wondering what actually is the function of the fulcrum. Not so that we’ll focus on events long completed, but so that the future will be profitable and bright as we learn from our errors, and gaffs, and triumphs.

You never know what old bone I’ll be digging up tomorrow. Let’s hope that it’s not one of those really embarrassing ones…either for me or for you!

“De toe bone connected wid de foot bone,
De foot bone connected wid de anklebone,
De anklebone connected wid de leg bone,
De leg bone connected wid de knee bone,
De knee bone connected wid de thighbone,
Rise an’ hear de Word of de Lord!”
(Old Negro Spiritual~”Dem Bones”~traditional)

“…The fool is obstinate, and doubteth not: he knoweth all things but his own ignorance.”
(Akhenaton~Egyptian King~14th Century BC)

Pocketful of Funnies

August 10, 2012March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“I can’t install this nut. You’ll have to get someone else to do it for you.” Chuck stood in front of me, electric guitar in hand, with a look of abject disappointment on his face. I couldn’t control the grin that spread across mine, nor could I keep him in suspense more than a few seconds. “Okay. I’ll install it for you, but take a look at this label and think about what it would mean if it really were accurate.”

I took the guitar nut he had handed me (that’s the bridge piece that sits at the top end of the fingerboard), fancy plastic packaging and all, and read it to him verbatim. “Permanently lubricated guitar nut. Precision engineered with Teflon, the slipperiest substance on earth…” Trying hard to curb my laughter, I explained to him the difficulty I would have keeping the material in my vise. Imagine the trouble I would encounter as I clamped down onto the slippery piece. Why, it would be shooting out and ricocheting off the ceiling in nothing flat. And, when I tried to shape it with a file? I’d be likely to find myself smashing into the wall as the file (and me with it) slid off the top of the teflon. It was permanently lubricated, mind you.

Chuck and I laughed, and I installed the part he had purchased from some online supplier. The hype might have something to it, but the fifteen dollar price tag for a one dollar part smacks of snake oil sales technique to this old fashioned instrument repairman. He was very happy as he tried the guitar in my store today, so either the nut was great or my fitting job was superb, but regardless, as they say today, it’s all good.

I gather up the funnies like coins. This kind of currency is indispensable to me. It’s what keeps me going when the days bring unreasonable customers, as happened today, or I find myself overwhelmed by the sheer mountain of work waiting for my attention. The list of times when I have need of these coins to spread around seems to be growing as I age. It only seems fair that there are so many things with which to be amused. It would be a great shame to miss them in the midst of circumstances that threaten to smother and snuff out the joy of living every day. I’m still trying to figure out the exchange-rate, but I think the inflation of the difficult times has made the coins I have saved up worth much more in the present day.

The Lovely Lady’s father kept me going with his funnies all the time I worked with him. I would be repairing a guitar back at the workbench and drop a tool with a loud clatter. From the front of the store, I could hear his voice call out, “Did you lose a filling out of your tooth?” In similar fashion, a customer might drop her keys on the concrete floor. “I think you lost the set from your ring!” he would offer. While the Lovely Lady and her siblings had heard them all and would just groan, I delighted in these gems. I find myself using them more and more in daily life. Why, just the other day, I belched after eating something my doctor would have disapproved of completely and the words from my mouth came unbidden. No, it wasn’t the customary “Excuse me” I’ve been taught to say from my childhood. Rather, the hilarious words popped out (much like the sound which preceded them), “What did you expect to hear? Bells?”

Is life serious? You bet! There are so many junctures which demand sober attention and clear, pensive thought. That said, it’s essential that we be able to discern the moments that are solemn occasions and those that are not. Appropriate humor, shared in an appropriate manner, can diffuse tense situations, and relieve a combative encounter or even a frightening one. I still have a problem telling the difference sometimes, but I tend to think that to err on the side of humor will cause less problems in the long run than the alternative.

My father-in-law had a little poem (from an old folk song, I think) which he would quote frequently. It may have annoyed his wife, but I thought it amusing. “When I was single, my pockets would jingle. I wish I was single again…” To my knowledge, he had no desire to be single again, but he was tickled by the sentiments that there was no extra money for the married man. I understand (and identify) with the tongue-in-cheek verse, but I want you to know that tonight my pockets are jingling with all the funnies I’ve been saving up. I intend to keep spending them as needed. I’m pretty good at collecting them, too. Not much danger of going broke here.

With that, I’ve wasted about enough time on this for now. I’ve got to get back to my hog-killing…(yeah, one of his, too. What a great inheritance!)

“I am thankful for laughter…except for when milk comes out of my nose.”
(Woody Allen~American comic and film director)

“The person who knows how to laugh at himself will never cease to be amused.”
(Shirley MacLane~American actress)

Photo: Kheel Center, Cornell University

Originally posted 6//24/11

A Long, Dry Spell (Petrichor!)

August 9, 2012March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment


Photo by peasap

Petrichor!

The thunder is rumbling reassuringly somewhere in the sky overhead, while the rain does a drum roll on the metal roof above me. Today is the first time in many weeks that there has been measurable precipitation outside my door and, while it is not enough to break the drought we are in, for tonight, I am content. It has been a long, dry spell.

As I went outside to experience the joy that the earth must be feeling right now, the scent of a long delayed rain on the thirsty ground hit my senses. I never knew that the smell of freshly fallen rain had a name. It does.

Petrichor.

The scientific name comes from the Greek word for stone–petra–and the Greek word for the liquid said to flow through the veins of their gods–ichor. I like it!

Petrichor.

The scent certainly has an emotion attached to it this time, too. I breath in deeply–well, as deeply as I can with the borderline asthma which the weather pattern has stirred up–and the feeling of well-being returns. It has been a while. Yes, a long, dry spell.

Interesting how that phrase is tossed around. A long, dry spell. The word spell is used to mean an indefinite period of time here, and is not from the same root as the word which means to use letters in the forming of words. I am always amused at how our language is arrived at. What’s that? Oh, I’m sorry; must have had a spell of geekiness.

Long, dry spell. We use the phrase to describe many things. Some of them are from a more base and more coarse perspective than we will touch on here, so we’ll skip past them and get quickly to the ones which speak to our experiences.

Salespeople talk of a long, dry spell when they’ve not been able to convince anyone to purchase their goods for awhile. It is a time when they don’t have the income, but more to the point for many of them, a time when their egos are fragile, especially if other, rival salespeople are not going through the same dry spell. The successful sale which breaks the drought is cause for jubilation, frequently in the form of a celebratory get-together with friends.

Athletes go through long, dry spells when they are not successful at achieving their goals in the sport in which they participate. A batter who cannot get a hit is in one; the basketball guard who draws down on a three-point shot again and again, but can’t hit the side of a barn (much less the backboard) is in one; the quarterback who hasn’t thrown a touchdown pass in several games is certainly in one. It usually takes more than just one success to break the dry spell, but sometimes the first one is what the athlete needs to break the mental barrier which is holding them back.

As a wanna-be writer, I understand the idea of long, dry spells. Many times, I have sat myself down to write, but have been foiled, as no cogent train of thought will cooperate and make its way in an orderly manner to the page. There are some writers who spend weeks, months, even years, awaiting that first downpour of inspiration which will break their mental drought.

There are many more examples of this dearth we call a long, dry spell. You’ve experienced them. Perhaps you’re in the middle of one right now. You’ve been stuck in a rut for longer than you can remember. You haven’t felt the thrill of discovery, of success, for ages. You may even have resigned yourself to living in this barren desert of tedium; may have abandoned the hope of rain ever refreshing the dry, cracked soil of your life.

Ah, but the rain will come again! And then?

Petrichor! Blood from a stone!

Where there was no hope, seemingly no chance of joy ever raising its noble head from the dust, the showers come. Refreshing, cooling, life-giving water cascades down from on high. We don’t bring it. We can’t force it from its lofty vantage point.

Just as we observe in nature, our Creator brings the relief, the invigoration from His vast, unmeasured store of blessings. Sometimes, we just have to wait out the drought, have to face the long, dry spell head on, knowing that there is a time of relief, of rejuvenation ahead, perhaps just around the corner.

Stay the course! Keep the Faith! Rain will come again!

I’m not naive enough to believe that the drought which our part of the country is suffering through will be broken by one short rain. I am confident that this is the way it will happen, though. One rain, followed by another, and then another, will see the end of this long, dry spell. The earth will flourish once more.

I’ll anticipate that future time with enjoyment, storing up in my memory the smell of the thirsty earth as it welcomed this first healing rain today.

It’s a hope worth keeping alive. Both in the natural world, as well as in the spiritual.

Hope springs eternal!

“There shall be showers of blessings,
Precious reviving again.
Over the hills and the valleys,
Sound of abundance of rain.”
(“Showers Of Blessings” by Daniel Webster Whittle~American evangelist and lyricist~1840-1901)

“For he gives his sunlight to both the evil and the good, and he sends rain on the just and the unjust alike.”
(Matthew 5:45b~NLT)

Bright and Keen

August 7, 2012March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Hmmm…Plow won’t scour.”

I turn my head and look to my right at the person who has spoken those words dishearteningly. You would not be surprised if I told you that the speaker was a weathered old farmer, grown aged before his time by battling the unforgiving elements and the uncooperative earth. It is the kind of phrase that such a person would utter.

You could almost see him struggling behind a team of horses, fighting to keep the plow deep in the soil. The old plow blade is no longer smooth and shiny as when it was new, but has seen better years. The pits and creases lend their aid to the gummy clay dirt which clings stubbornly to the surface, refusing to slide up and over the top as the blade rives the soil. Again and again, the old man has to halt his team, reaching down to clean the plow, performing the job which the action of plowing itself should accomplish. What a frustrating task!

But the person on my right is no weathered farmer, simply a petite, retired piano teacher, her hands now unsuited for even the slightest amount of physical labor. The object of her dismay is not a plow, splitting the dirt in a wheatfield, but a serving spoon, lifting rice from the bowl in front of her. The sticky material is not cooperating, leaving clumps of the white grain behind on the spoon, making each successive trip to the serving bowl less productive. She is not plying the spoon herself, but it is an annoyance she cannot abide. I snicker a little as her hand reaches out with her own spoon to clean off the errant rice. Satisfied once more, she allows the bowl and spoon to move out of her reach on down the table.

Plow won’t scour?

I will admit that I was confused the first time I heard the term from my mother-in-law’s mouth many years ago. I raised my eyebrows and looked at her expectantly, knowing that an explanation would follow. She told of watching farmers plow in the unforgiving soil of the Badlands in South Dakota when she was a girl. Many times, they would have to stop the machinery to clean the blades, knowing that the time spent in cleaning the blades would pay off in time saved later on and a job done more efficiently. In the unforgiving world of the farmer, it was foolishness to ignore trouble and put off finding a solution until the damage was done. The furrows had to be clean and deep to allow the seed to take root and flourish below the surface, producing the crop that was essential for the farm’s success. The way to make those furrows clean and deep was to keep the plow bright and sharp.

Probably the most famous use of the phrase is rumored to have occurred at the battlefield of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. Immediately following the delivery of what was to become one of the most famous speeches in American history, President Abraham Lincoln supposedly turned to his bodyguard and told him that his speech, “like a bad plow, won’t scour.” It is possible that he thought it a poor showing on his part, but time has certainly put the lie to that sentiment. Many of President Lincoln’s opponents immediately held his words up to ridicule, but the intervening years have allowed us to see how cleanly and deeply the words have cut through the soil of our country’s experiences.

Who among us is not moved by hearing the opening words to that short, but powerful speech? “Four-score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” I’m pretty sure that the plow still scours just fine, Mr. President.

I’m no farmer, but I understand how important it is that the rows in the wheat field run straight and true. The whole process of growing a crop depends upon it. Beyond the frustration and additional labor at plowing time, if the furrows are not uniform in depth and plane, the seeds will not be dropped in an even pattern, the plants won’t grow far enough apart to allow cultivation, and the crop will not be accessible to the combines as they move through the fields to reap the harvest. At the very start, the plow must scour.

I get the feeling sometimes that I’m more than a little obvious in the morals with which I bring my stories to a conclusion. If I say no more tonight, can I count on you to consider a minute or two longer the lessons to be drawn in our everyday life here? Will you ponder, just for a moment, the importance of preparation, of diligence, of correction? I’ll leave it with you then.

Who knows? The next time you’re eating dinner, you might even recall the lesson when the serving spoon starts to stack up with rice or cheesy potatoes, too.

Sometimes, the everyday examples are the best ones to help us to remember and to apply life’s deepest truths.

“You can’t plow a field by turning it over in your mind.”
(Old Irish proverb)

“‘Bright and keen for Christ our Savior’,
This our motto true.
We will try to live for him
In everything we do.”
(Christian Service Brigade theme song)

Tempting Fate

August 6, 2012March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The two heads that went streaking past the kitchen window were little more than a blur. The same two heads, recognizable as belonging to a couple of my friends, had gone the other direction mere seconds before. My brother and his wife, along with this young freeloader, were just finishing their noon meal with generous servings of a delicious, freshly baked cobbler. I had assumed that the two fleeing pals would knock on the door, since we had made arrangements for them to pick me up so we could go canoeing that afternoon. And yet, here they were, leaving in an amazing hurry! Without me!


Photo by gabster10

A moment later, we realized the reason for their fleet-footed retreat, as Heidi, the huge Saint Bernard, ran barking wildly past the same window. Assuming that she would stop at the end of her chain, I lazily got up and ambled to the door, pausing to thank my sister-in-law for a delicious meal. Only then did it register that the barking was no longer coming from the place where the length of chain would have ended. The big dog was over at my little apartment next door, still barking and growling. Her snarls were mixed in with the sound of human voices shouting. I slammed the door and raced pell-mell toward the shouts and snarls, to find my friends on the top of their car, with the over-sized canine standing on her hind legs attempting to grab a piece of their tantalizing limbs. As I stood, shaking with laughter, my brother, who had followed me out, called to the dog and she came to him reluctantly, not without a few backwards glances at her two would-be victims who were now clambering sheepishly off the car on the far side, being sure to keep the vehicle’s body between them and the dog. I’m pretty sure that I saw her lick her chops as she turned away from them for the last time and headed around the corner of the house with her owner. She had been hoping for a bite of dinner too, it seems.

When they were able to speak rationally again, the pair told me what had happened. As they walked beside the house, the friend who had been there before told the other, “If the dog chases us, it can only come to right about here,” as he pointed to a spot beside the window through which we had seen them. “If we get past this point, we’ll be safe.” Then, as they turned the corner toward the front door, the dog, who was lying near her house, lifted her over-sized head from between her huge paws and let out a single warning, “Wuff!” They turned back the way they had come, but hesitated to see what she would do. She did it instantly. Leaping up, she headed for them like a freight train. They ran past the point of safety and turned to await her anticipated discomfort as she was drawn up short and flipped to the ground when she hit the end of the chain which limited her freedom. It didn’t happen. The one hundred-fifty pound animal had enough inertia when the end of the chain was reached that it snapped like a string and she continued on to where they stood, now frantically scrambling to get out of her reach. The car was the only place of sanctuary they could see and the frightened duo were on top of it within a second or two. I honestly believe that if we had been a few seconds slower coming to their rescue, she would have found a way to climb up there after them.

We still laugh about that event, decades later, but I’m pretty sure that those two men learned an important lesson that day. I haven’t asked them, but my guess is that they no longer trust the shackles that keep dangerous animals in their place. I would think that the sight of those slobbering jowls and exposed fangs, connected to such a large and vicious sounding animal, would be enough to serve as a reminder for many years. It doesn’t pay to trust your safety to a chain that you haven’t installed and tested yourself.

“That was a close call!” How often those words are uttered, usually by folks who have pushed the limits, have tested the length of chain, only to find that safety was not to be found where they thought it would be. I’m not only talking about the daredevils, the Evel Kneviels, of the world. I’m speaking of everyday people, just like you and me, who take unnecessary risks; risks that put our reputations and our relationships in harm’s way. We push the limits, anxious to prove that we can withstand temptation. We tempt fate, so to speak, in an effort to show that we won’t be limited by anyone else’s definition of normal or safe.

The road of life is littered by those very reputations and relationships which have been shattered, as the beast which was thought to have been shackled broke loose and mauled yet another victim. You don’t need me to provide a list; just check the news; think back to the people you have looked up to and respected, only to find that they had mistakenly marked the safety zone and gotten caught where they should never have ventured in the first place. Pastors, politicians, actors, and even the man or woman next door. We all think we can walk right past those slobbering jowls and not be touched. Sometimes, that is the case. Many times it is not. I just believe that the risk is too great, the consequences too extreme to put ourselves in danger.

I think often of the advice from the Apostle to his young protege’ as he urges him to run as fast as he can from the lusts that tempt him as a youth. He goes on to encourage his promising young companion to pursue several lofty goals. It strikes me that if we are testing the limits on the dangerous side, we can’t be pursuing anything positive at all. Even if we succeed in avoiding the pitfalls, we will accomplish nothing of import. I also know that even at my advancing age, the warning to flee from danger is sound advice. Believe me, temptations still abound.

Oh! If I’m remembering correctly, it seems to me that the next time my friends came to pick me up for something, they remained in the car and honked the horn until I came out. I’ve got some wise friends.

Maybe we could all take a lesson from them. Discretion, after all, is the better part of valor.

“Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”
(Alexander Pope~English poet~1688-1744)

“Discretion will guard you, understanding will watch over you, to deliver you from the way of evil, from the man who speaks perverse things; from those who leave the paths of uprightness to walk in the ways of darkness.”
(Proverbs 2: 11-13~NASB)

Music With Friends

August 3, 2012March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The young lady was aghast. “How can you enjoy singing in a crowd like that? You can’t even hear your own voice!” I had to chuckle. Somehow, that was just the point. We had just spent the evening in a beautiful auditorium, listening to different groups perform. There were even a few soloists who demonstrated their prowess in the vocal domain. It was all very nice. But afterward, I had the gall to admire verbally the part of the affair which I thought was the highlight of the evening. “By far, the best thing tonight was when we all sang together,” I had been bold enough to confess. The young lady, with aspirations of being a soloist herself, was vehement in her disagreement. After a moment or two of a back and forth tussle for superiority, we realized that this was a stalemate, with neither of us having the ammunition to settle the argument. We walked away friends, but still both firmly believing that our own position had more merit than the other.

My memory of that evening, the purpose of the musical session itself long lost in the fog of the past, is of the awe of being part of that huge instrument, made up of almost a thousand voices singing in harmony. We sang the old hymns of the church, many now almost lost to a generation brought up on more popular, less structured songs. On that night, voices were raised up, building from the customary hesitant start, with everyone singing melody, as the individuals in the crowd timorously got a feel for the parts and other singers around them. You could almost feel the confidence take root, as here and there an alto voice split off from the sopranos and then, by the end of the first line, a tenor went up to the high notes. By the time we got to the middle of the second line in the song, the parts were solidly in evidence as the harmony built and equaled the melody part. Every time we sang together that evening, it seemed to me that the feeling of being one huge choir built even more, until the last song almost lifted the roof above us. One could almost imagine that it was just a little like Heaven will be one day.

I have been a musician since childhood, from my first disastrous attempts at piano solos in church, to horn solos and all kinds of ensemble playing in between. I have always preferred playing or singing in a group. For me, it is an amazing thing to blend my voice or my instrument with other musicians, all with a unified purpose in mind. I don’t really enjoy performing, but I do relish being part of a group that is intent on making music together. I am starting to formulate some thoughts about the basis for this feeling.

Today, a young friend of mine asked me if I was ready for a community concert in which he and I are taking part later this month. I admitted to being slightly less than agog at the prospect. It will be a performance, with the people on the stage, soloists and ensembles, producing music for the consumption of the audience. The performers are practicing, preparing themselves to do the best job they can when their turn comes to take the stage. The ensemble in which I am participating has been rehearsing for the last month or so, working through the rough spots, checking intonation, and attempting to blend the voices of our instruments, so that the performance will be as perfect as it can be. I’m still not excited. I asked the young man, a guitarist, what he thought of my dilemma. More specifically, I asked him if he was passionate about performing in front of an audience. He considered for a moment and admitted that he was much more comfortable when making music with others, than with the idea of just playing for people to listen to. I have decided that there is hope for this generation of youngsters coming up, after all.

I don’t want to beat this horse for too long (I hope it’s not dead already), but one of the comments my young friend made has given me pause. “I sometimes feel like people are looking for things that I do wrong when I perform,” was his statement. There is little doubt that he is correct. We have become a society of spectators, demanding entertainment, but offering no assistance with the program. When we only sit and listen, we are much more likely to notice the mistakes, much more likely to critique the style and delivery. We somehow believe that being part of an audience gives us carte blanche to determine (and point out) what is wrong with the performance. It is a problem which has become epidemic in our day; not limited to musical performances, but extending to sporting events, politics and government, and even to service organizations like homeless shelters and food pantries. The list could go on. Non-participants become critics and experts, never getting in the game and helping at all themselves.

When we participate, we understand the hardships. We comprehend how difficult it is to memorize lyrics, how much work it is to listen for the other voices, how important it is to carry our own part. We are so much less likely to criticize and significantly more inclined to aid in getting through the tough parts. When we are a part of the music, we take personal responsibility and even personal pride in every single participant who does well. Because we have “a dog in the hunt”, so to speak, we do our part to make it better.

I will certainly do my best as I perform with my friends and family later this month. I still will continue to anticipate so much more, the times we can get together and simply appreciate making music together.

Someday, I’m going to finish that discussion with the young lady. I just might win this time.

Okay…I wouldn’t hold my breath.

“Loving God, loving each other…
Making music with my friends.
Loving God, loving each other…
And the story never ends.”
(“Loving God, Loving Each Other” by William J and Gloria Gaither~American songwriters)

“Do more than belong: participate. Do more than care: help. Do more than believe: practice. Do more than be fair: be kind. Do more than forgive: forget. Do more than dream: work.”
(William Arthur Ward~American pastor/author~1921-1994)

Blue Moon Pizza

August 2, 2012March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Hey Daddy! I’m pretty sure that the moon is blue.” The two urchins were holding open the front screen door and looking up hopefully at the sky. “Please be blue–Please be blue,” the younger one whispered again and again, under his breath. Dad crossed the concrete floor of the porch and gazed up at the brilliant full moon. He stood for a moment in thoughtful consideration, aware that the two lads were considering his face with the same rapt attention he was feigning as he looked upward. “I think…” he stopped and looked down at the boys. “I think…that it might just be blue!” A grin crossed his face, just about the time that the same grin split the faces of both boys. There was even a sound of joy that came from someone inside the house at the pronouncement. A blue moon was something to celebrate at the house in which I grew up!

Photo by halfrain

Moments later, we were all stuffed into the Ford station wagon and were headed to the local pizza parlor for a rare treat. Unlike the age in which we live, there was not a franchised pizza place on every corner. The people of my parent’s generation didn’t care much for pizza and it was certainly not high up on my father’s list of favorite places to dine. Thus, the concern for the blue moon among the children. A chance statement, taken too literally and turned into family lore, became the decisive factor on every occasion when someone asked for pizza. “I’m only going to eat pizza once in a blue moon,” was what Dad had uttered on that fateful day in the distant past. It was slim, but it was hope and we latched onto it, nurtured it, and played it for all it was worth, watching the sky for just such a moon as had appeared on that night. The pizza was wonderful!

My thoughts went back to that era in my life earlier today as someone mentioned that this month has a so-called blue moon in it. Typically there is only one full moon in any given month since our months are roughly the same length as a complete cycle of the moon. However, with the additional days which are left over each month, sooner or later there will be two full moons in a month. It doesn’t occur often and, when it does, we call it a blue moon.

I looked out tonight and the moon is full and bright, so bright that, were my eyes a bit younger, I believe I could read outside by its light. As I walked into the rays of the brilliant light, I cast a shadow, distinct and dark, on the sidewalk. Later this month, we have the same beautiful sight to look forward to as the moon revolves in the sky around this huge orb and reflects the sun’s rays back to us throughout the dim nights. It’s not a world-shaking event, but I’m looking forward to having a second full moon up in the night sky above. I might even go for pizza.

The description of this second full moon, the “blue moon”, is a little obscure in its origins. It is speculated that the name comes from a time when the clergymen in the Catholic church were responsible for determining if the new moon in the Spring was the “Easter moon”, which meant that the people could conclude their Lenten fasting, or if the moon was a “belewe”, or betrayer, moon which would force them to fast for another month. The phrase first came to light in the sixteenth century as one author bemoaned the fact that they had to depend on the clergy to tell them if the moon were “belewe”. Only in the last century has the title come to mean the second full moon in a month. And, of course, we use the entire phrase, “once in a blue moon” to mean any event which is rare in its occurrence.

I stop for a moment and consider that I have done it to you again. As with my last post, I have spent way too much time following a rabbit trail up which few of you will want to venture with me. I love word origins and want to illuminate the meaning of common phrases, but I realize that many of you do not share that curiosity. But, if you’re still tagging along anyway, why not go just a bit further?

The young boys, just as the medieval masses, were dependent upon the judgement of someone to determine the moment at which they could end their fast and enjoy the food they desired. Five hundred years after the priests declared that the correct moon was in the sky, their father did much the same thing. As all of them gazed up at the moon, hope rose in their hearts.

I don’t depend on the moon to tell me when it’s time to eat pizza anymore. Most folks in the church don’t depend on the moon to end their fasting, either. That said, we all have something upon which we are pinning our hopes. I know people who hope in their chances at winning the lottery, or the games of chance at the casino for financial security. Some trust in their own intellect or physical prowess for success, others in presidents and legislatures for peace and well-being. Every one of those finite entities is unreliable and will disappoint eventually. What a disheartening thing it is to have your hopes dashed again and again by trusting in the wrong thing.

I see that it’s time to step down from my soap box and let you take it from here. Consider though, that there is One in whom hope may be placed, an unmovable Rock, who brings an unshakable kingdom. There’s no guesswork about blue moons with Him, but simply a place you can rest and trust.

Oh! Just to clarify…I won’t be waiting for the end of the month to eat pizza either. Once in a blue moon? That’s when we eat asparagus around here.

“When the moon hits your eye
Like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.”
(“That’s Amore”~Harry Warren/Jack Brooks)

“Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.”
(Psalm 20:7~NIV)

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Adding Ballast

August 1, 2012March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The Lovely Lady was in the dark. In more than just one way. She called her main trouble-shooter to solve her problem. “Can you tell me why it’s dark in my kitchen?” was the query she started with when I answered the phone from the music store next door. I’m pretty sure that she didn’t really think I already knew the answer–wasn’t suggesting that I had done something to the overhead light fixture, but I, being the genius everyone knows me to be, suggested wisely that there might be something wrong with it. A few moments later, I was home and checking to find out exactly what it was that was wrong. It just wouldn’t do to keep the Lovely Lady out of her kitchen. I have come to enjoy my meals over the last few years and it is difficult to cook in a dark kitchen.

A few basic tests ruled out circuit problems, as well as a faulty switch. There was certainly electric current to the wires up in the ceiling. There had been no flashing as fluorescent bulbs will exhibit before failure, so that left one option: the ballast. I wrote down a part number and called an electrician friend of mine. The part was delivered today. I even took a few moments of my evening tonight to install it. I believe that I may be favored with a home-cooked meal tomorrow. Time will tell. At any rate, the lights are shining brightly in the kitchen once more.

I have replaced more ballasts in my lifetime than most folks, simply because over the years, the fixtures in my different business locations have employed fluorescent lamps as a primary light source. I will admit to a stellar lack of curiosity regarding the metal boxes with so many wires protruding. You attach all those wires to the like-colored wires going to the lamps and the result is a circuit that works. Tonight, for some odd reason, I have an inquiring mind. What does that heavy box do? And, one burning question is on my lips. Why in the world is it called a ballast?

I know what ballast is; I’ve read about it with regard to ships. It is the weight that helps to retain balance in sea-going vessels, causing them to ride deeper in the water than would be normal for an empty craft. Sometimes ballast is useful goods, such as extra weapons, or building materials, or even food. It also could be simply dead weight, such as pieces of iron or heavy wood. Its purpose is to help keep the ship upright as it sails across the waves. For obvious reasons, a light, bouncy craft is not easy to control, nor is it likely to fare well in heavy winds without a bountiful amount of weight to keep it stable. Ballast can also be used in hot air balloons, to keep them near the earth and not soaring out of control into the upper atmosphere. Only in extreme circumstances would one ever jettison the ballast, since it is impossible to replace it again, once the emergency is past, until the balloon has landed. Ballast, then, helps to provide stability and control.

Photo by alwyn cooper

I have never before seen the correlation between the type of ballast which these great conveyances employ to assure a smooth journey and the ballast which is installed in the circuit of every fluorescent light you see. A little light reading (my apologies) tonight enlightened (sorry again) me profoundly. The ballast in this particular light fixture does exactly what the ballast in those vessels does; it provides balance, stability. You see, the way a fluorescent bulb functions is that is contains gas and a coating which has fluorescent qualities, both of which are ignited by the electrical current provided as soon at the switch is flipped on. So far, so good. We have light. The problem comes in the physical qualities of ignited gas, specifically that when it is excited by the electrical current, the resistance is reduced almost to nothing. Without control of the current, the gas would glow brighter and brighter, and the current would be drawn in higher and higher quantities with potentially disastrous results. Almost certainly the fixture would be ruined and quite possibly, fires and damage to other electrical components in the circuit would occur.

Enter the ballast, a box containing electronic components and a tar-like substance for noise insulation. No, it is not named a ballast for its great weight, although that explanation had occurred to me. What the ballast does is to limit the amount of current which can flow to the gas in the light tubes. It allows a higher current to start the process and immediately, when it senses a larger than normal flow, chokes it down. Because the power source is alternating current (it flows one direction, reverses, and flows back the other), this process occurs many times per second, but our eyes can’t actually discern the process. Every time the current switches direction (60 times per second) the ballast does its job again. No wonder the Lovely Lady’s kitchen fixture needed repair! Think of how many times that ballast has performed it’s duties over the last ten years, since we installed the light.

Too much technical stuff? Maybe we could switch gears for a moment then. As frequently happens, my mind has jumped to the human condition…well, specifically to my condition, as I have written the words above. How many times have I rushed ahead on a project I have visualized, my little craft speeding and skittering over the surface, only to meet with disaster as I skidded, out of control, into the barrier of reality. The brilliance of the idea has stolen away my normal inhibitions, skirted my customary filters. Knowledge is unleashed and the ballast of wisdom and experience are tossed overboard. The questions of “what if?”, and “should we consider this for a moment?”, are shoved aside in favor of the “full speed ahead” order by the irresponsible captain. Catastrophe awaits without ballast. Balance and control, coupled with enthusiasm and exuberance, will accomplish an incredible amount of work.

I also believe that the ballast concept carries over into the arena of community. I personally know many “idea” people. They are the dreamers, the visionaries, who see what could be. I tend, in community, to be ballast. I ask questions and suggest potential pitfalls. I see what might befall. Together, the visionaries and the questioners make good time on projects, avoiding problems, and achieving the goals. Alone, each of us is plagued with failure after failure. Both are a necessity. Too often, we glorify one and ridicule the other. Perhaps it’s time that we celebrate the team, the body, if you will. The hand is not the foot, but it needs that odd appendage to fulfill its purpose. We are not alike, but we are linked inseparably, and without question, beneficially.

Ballast would not be the thing I would think to praise, if someone were to ask me what is most important in life. It, however, is a vital part of our existence, both physical and spiritual. Balance is essential. I know. I fall down when I lose mine. In more ways than just one.

Knowledge. Wisdom. The bulb and the ballast that together give light with which to see and to live. It might be a good time to check and see that both are in working order…

“In art and dream, may you proceed with abandon. In life, may you proceed with balance and stealth.”
(Patti Smith~American songwriter/singer)

“‘Po-ta-toes,’ said Sam. ‘The Gaffer’s delight, and rare good ballast for an empty stomach.'”
(from “The Two Towers”~J.R.R.Tolkien~British novelist~1892-1973)

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Paralyzed

July 31, 2012March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I didn’t know what to do.

It was the second time in as many days that I was stumped to determine my next move. The customer had been waiting for a couple of weeks for the parts and subsequent repair to the set of speakers he needed for his sound system. He has a job this weekend for which he must have the system operable. I had made him a promise. “We’ll have it up and going today.” I was, of course, depending on the delivery service to fulfill their promise (which they did) and was also assuming that I would have the time to effect the necessary repairs to the units (which I did, barely). I was also depending on having made the correct diagnosis regarding the remedy for the issue (yeah…not so much). I was still assembling the magnet on the speaker as he walked in the front door. He was understanding and agreed to hang around until I could finish. With the task completed, I reassembled the complete unit and, we plugged in a guitar to try it out.

It was a complete failure. The anemic, distorted noise coming through the newly rebuilt speakers was nothing like the clear, punchy music we had expected to hear. Quite obviously, there was something else wrong which I had failed to take into my calculations. We were a sorry pair; me–the shopkeeper, needing to make a sale, but falling short of the mark and he–the customer, realizing that the necessary equipment for his performance this week was further out of reach than it had been when he walked in the door. Neither of us had a clue as to our next step.

As I sat there on the speaker cabinet, I breathed a prayer for clarity of thought. It may be no coincidence that in that instant, my eye was drawn to another speaker cabinet nearby and a thought hit me. “Hey! Did you know that I’ve got the matching cabinet to the speaker I sold you a couple of months ago? Just this weekend, I bought it from the guy who built both of them.” As he examined the speaker cabinet, the twin to his, his face brightened. “I think this will work just as well as those would have! Can I afford it?” We negotiated a fair price, he purchased some peripheral items, and he went out a happy customer, thankfully, my last one of the day. I was drained, emotionally and physically.

I said it was the second time I had been in the situation recently. The first time was a little more frightening, but in a way, the result was the same. We were about to finish up the singing time in our Sunday morning service. The people had learned a new song and we were going through it one more time, to keep it fresh in our minds. The congregation had done their part well and were singing enthusiastically…“For all your goodness, I will keep on singing. Ten thousand reasons for my heart to find.” In the middle of that phrase, I (along with most people in the church) had our eyes drawn to a strange movement in the center of the building, just behind the front row. A young man, barely in his teens, leaned, turning as he toppled and smacked the concrete floor hard. We kept going for a line of two more, but most had stopped singing and soon, the worship team did that too. For a moment or two, the place was silent, as the health care professionals who were in attendance worked on the young man.

Photo by Leland Francisco

I didn’t know what to do next. For a long moment we stood and then, I was praying into the microphone, asking for wisdom for the workers and a healing touch from the Great Physician. It certainly wasn’t an eloquent prayer. I’m not sure I know how to do eloquent. But, in just another minute or two, the boy was up and being helped out of the worship center to rest in privacy. We were to learn later that he is going to recover just fine. For a few moments there, it was a scary time.

Several people assured me that I had done just the right thing. And, they’re right. What they don’t understand is that, just as I did today when I was at the end of my wits, praying is the natural reaction for every human being I know, when confronted by a brick wall in front of us. When we get to the end of ourselves, we turn to the One we know understands, the One who can actually do something about our circumstances. Prayer is an admission of sorts…an admission that we are powerless and that we need help. The difference is that believers know to Whom they are speaking in those moments.

I’m not going to spend a lot of time and ink here contemplating the effects and the benefits of prayer. There have been volumes and volumes written on the subject. There are even scientific studies which have undertaken to prove or disprove the benefit of prayer. Certainly, there are other facets to prayer than the emergency, crisis-mode pleas described above. All I’m saying today is that, when confronted with these kinds of situations personally, I would be paralyzed without a way to communicate with my Creator. And, I am grateful.

I’ve never been great at thinking on my feet. I need time to consider, time to weigh, time to revise and extend. Some situations don’t allow for that. It is a good thing to have One nearby who doesn’t need the time, but simply the opportunity, to act.

We’re in Good Hands.

“There are no atheists in foxholes.”
(attributed to Ernie Pyle~American war journalist~1900-1945)

“Funny how it seems I always wind up here with you;
Nice to know somebody loves me.
Funny how it seems that it’s the only thing to do;
Run and find the one who loves me.”
(from “Rainy Days and Mondays~ performed by Karen Carpenter~American vocalist~1950-1983)

“You’re rich in love, and You’re slow to anger
Your name is great, and Your heart is kind
For all Your goodness I will keep on singing
Ten thousand reasons for my heart to find”
(from “Ten Thousand Reasons (Bless the Lord)~performed by Matt Redman~British vocalist)