It was a dark and stormy night.  Okay, I know.  It’s purported to be the worst opening line ever used in fiction writing.  I just happen to love the Peanuts cartoons in which Mr. Schulz had Snoopy sitting at the typewriter and trying out various first lines.  He always settles on the much maligned “It was a dark and stormy night” configuration, to the consternation of Lucy and several others.  I’m with Snoopy.  Go with what you know.

So, while the wind cracks and the lightning wails outside…no, no.  Scratch that…turn those around.  Anyway, I do want to spend a few moments in consideration of one or two more original thoughts.  Perhaps, I’ll even be able to get them arranged in a rational order as I peck along at the keyboard.  You’ll be the Lucy to my Snoopy and may critique away, as you choose.  I just realized that this blog is turning three hundred…posts old, that is.  Yes, ’tis true.  I’ve frittered away three hundred perfectly good late nights as I’ve regurgitated my thoughts and memories for you.  One of my favorite critics told me recently that he thought I had “hit my stride”.  For some reason, I’d always believed that I had actually hit the ground running, but now, I’m fairly sure that one or two (maybe even a hundred) of these posts have been more than a little clumsy and inept, much as Snoopy’s attempts at novel writing.  I’m grateful that you’ve stuck with me.

I never could understood why Mr. Schulz had Snoopy labor so hard at writing without success, nor why it was that Charlie Brown, again and again, attempted to kick the football as Lucy held it and pulled it away at the last minute.  He pursued the Little Red-Haired Girl without ever coming close to winning her, and pitched the baseball (badly) without success as his team deserted him and rain drenched the pitcher’s mound.  One would almost think that the Peanuts comic strip was written about losers.  But, as I consider it, I’m fairly certain that a comic strip about losers would never have had the popularity that the Peanuts series did.  Charles Schulz drew and authored the strip for over forty-nine years to continued popular acclaim.  Although he died in early 2000, the reruns of the cartoons still appear in countless daily newspapers to this day.  Just as the author himself identified with the characters he brought to life, readers still see their own struggles and defeats, as well as the courage to get up and do it all again tomorrow.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I have no illusions of greatness, no thoughts that my silly posts rival (or ever could) the import of those amusing and thought-provoking little cartoon characters.  No, I’m thinking that I’m more like Snoopy himself, dragging out the old Remington typewriter over and over, indefatigable in his intent to write.  Let the critics turn up their collective noses.  He wrote.  Again and again.  Certainly, he wrote badly.  I can identify.  But, he thought a little and wrote a little, then thought a little more before writing a little more.  As the complete sentence was born, he opined, “Good writing is hard work.”  While I can’t claim the “good” part of that, I can certainly attest to the fact that writing is hard work.  But, I’m taking my cue from Snoopy and keeping at it.  You will have to be the judge of the result.

You should be advised.  I will keep at this.  I have no great hope of becoming famous, which is a good thing.  I simply aspire to be like those lovable non-losers, Snoopy, Charlie Brown, and even Linus with his kite-flying fiascoes.  They stand as monuments to getting up and trying again. It’s a goal that should be within reach.

Losing a battle is not the same as being defeated.  The Apostle had it right when he described us as “struck down, but not destroyed.”  Where there’s life, there’s hope.

Fair warning:  Number three hundred and one is on the way…

“Yesterday, I was a dog.  Today, I’m still a dog.  Tomorrow, I’ll probably still be a dog.  [Sigh] There’s so little hope for advancement.”
(Snoopy~created by Charles M Schulz~American cartoonist~1922-2000)

“…but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.  They will soar on wings like eagles.  They will run and not grow weary.  They will walk and not faint.”
(Isaiah 40:31)

Chameleons, we called them (although they aren’t really related).  The little green lizards were quite prolific in the part of Texas in which I spent my formative years.  My mom had a jungle of plants on the screened-in front porch of our home and the green anoles were grateful for the environment.  Like chameleons, they could change color if threatened, but they were limited to shades of green and a few browns.  We were adept at seeing them no matter what their color and would catch and torment them with regularity.  Oh, I don’t mean that we tortured them; they were protected in this environment by the head gardener (and we knew better than to mess with her).  It’s just that no wild creature likes to be caged or held.  They would open their little mouths and snap them shut on our fingertips; all to no avail.  They were powerless against their captors, but eventually, the easily distracted young men would release them to move on to bigger and better pastimes.  Once more the little amphibians were free to move around freely and catch the gnats and flies which also frequented the porch.  I told you that my mom protected them.  She knew that they were harmless and in fact did her a great service, as they eliminated the threats to her precious plants and helped to reduce the number of insects that made their way into the house.   The unique coloration and the ability to change it has served the species well, since it is in no danger of extinction anytime soon.  They’re not super-intelligent, though.  One other trick we would pull on these guys was to hold a mirror in front of the males.  They would often actually try to attack the look-alike in the mirror, sensing a threat in the newcomer. 

I found another chameleon the other day.  The young man brought in the case, shaped oddly enough, like a coffin, which contained the strange creature.  This chameleon wasn’t alive, though.  I opened the case to find an electric guitar which was clearly intended to appeal to the heavy-metal rock crowd.  The extreme angles and sharp points are all, as far as I’m concerned, calculated to hook the young wannabe stars.  It is a well-built guitar, with industry standard construction and all the desirable features.  Hot pickups and a vibrato tailpiece which will either raise or lower the pitch of the strings; lock-downs at the top of the fingerboard to keep said strings in tune as the “whammy bar” is slammed to the guitar’s surface; even the sharkfin inlays on the fingerboard…are all calculated to grab the fancy of the player and induce him or her to spend the eight hundred dollars which a new one will set the purchaser back.  I’ve seen all of those features before.  On this day, the young man needed to sell the guitar and I was agreeable.  This is a guitar which is sure to attract the attention of enough guitar players that it’s worth hanging on the wall, even if the price tag is more than most of them can afford.  Sometimes, you just purchase instruments to have them as a conversation piece, something sure to draw the warm bodies into the store.  As I started to write up the paperwork for the purchase however, I realized that I had a problem.

Our town recently enacted an ordinance which requires all businesses that purchase or trade used equipment to record all such transactions.  It is a little bit of an inconvenience, but more of an embarrassment for me, since I have to ask customers with whom I have done business before (sometimes for many years) to show me a state-issued ID.  At the end of each business day, I must upload a report of all the purchases to a website which shares information with the local law-enforcement agencies.  As I mentioned, this particular guitar gave me a bit of a problem, though.  The form asks for the color of the instrument.  I started to write that it was green.  Then I moved the guitar and decided that it was brown.  But no matter what I did, the color wouldn’t stay the same.  The guitar actually changes color, depending on the angle at which you view it.  Brown, green, yellow, even a little red are all visible in the finish.  As a good friend of mine always says, when faced with a question for which the answer is still not completely settled, “You pays your money and you takes your choice.”  I did a little research and find that the guitar manufacturer actually calls the finish for this little beauty “Chameleon Red”.  I like to describe it as “shifty”.

The real chameleon (and his cousin, the green anole) relies on his coloration and the ability to change it for his very existence.  Lacking any other real protection, the necessity of blending into his environment is absolutely essential.  The coloration of the guitar, on the other hand, is just an interesting subject for conversation.  There is no fundamental imperative for the guitar to change colors; single-color guitars have existed for a long time without the species becoming extinct.

All of which leads me to wonder about the human equivalent of the chameleon.  Oh, you know what I’m talking about.  Most of us have done it at one time or another.  We take on the character of the person or persons we are with.  Party crowd?  We’re the life of the party, telling jokes and fitting in.  Religious bunch?  It is amazing how quickly we can find a scripture verse which is apropos, preferably intoned in a reverent speaking voice.  Sports mob?  I can scream “Kill the ref!” with the best of them (and have done so on several occasions).  We’ve even seen the extreme, and are likely to see a lot more of it in this election year, in the guise of politicians.  These chameleons promise to be fiscally responsible, until they stand in front of a group they need to impress.  Then they promise them the moon…sometimes literally.  It happened, just a few weeks ago.  I’m not picking on the man who did that, but just pointing out the fallacy of the chameleon tendencies in this particular group of people.

But, lest we think that such comparisons make us look better, we need to look in the mirror for a little while.  Hopefully, we won’t attack the person in there, but the changing colors don’t look so fine on us, do they?  We were intended to be who we are, not to try to fit in with everyone we meet.  More than once, I have been gratified when I was able to say, “No, thanks.  That’s not who I am.”  The momentary embarrassment was more than offset by the lack of personal shame in the morning.  It’s a color with which I can live. A time or two, as the crude jokes and lewd talk about wives or girlfriends started, instead of joining in, I’ve had to say, “I’ll see you guys later.”  It wasn’t all that easy, but I can still look the Lovely Lady in the eye and know that I’ve never degraded her in the presence of anyone.  I like that color!  I’m not bragging that I have never played the chameleon, but I can assure you that the times I have stood firm and unchanged are a lot more enjoyable to recall than those other times.

I am not a lizard.  Nor, am I a guitar.  I’m just an aging man who is still learning right from wrong.  And, this aging man is grateful for second chances and for Grace.  I may even be starting to stand out in the crowd.  At the very least, I’m learning to be who I am intended to be.

And, in a world of shifting colors, I’m pretty sure that’s the way it’s supposed to work.

“We are a puny and fickle folk.  Avarice, hesitation, and following are our diseases.”
(Ralph Waldo Emerson~American poet and essayist~1803-1882

“Does a fig tree produce olives, or a grapevine produce figs? No, and you can’t draw fresh water from a salty spring.”
(James 3:12)

“I feel good.  I knew that I would!”  It’s probably not what James Brown had in mind when he penned the lyrics, but it is nice to have a day in which the dipstick for my mental health shows at the “normal range”, instead of seeping down below the “add” mark.  There have been more than a few recent days when the levels were depleted below the safe point.  Today was a welcome bright spot.

The day started out normally enough, with the sun shining bright, which is always a plus in my view.  I checked the obituaries in the paper and didn’t find my name there, so that was good.  Okay, that might have been yesterday, but the feeling of well-being carried over anyway.  The morning passed without any serious complications; no irate phone calls, no poison emails, just normal conversations with customers who were fairly docile. 

Early afternoon brought another bright spot, with a visit from Addison and her mom.  I’ve written before about Addison, whose mother cleans the windows at the music store.  As frequently happens with little girls, Addison has reached the age when she is ready for an education, so I don’t see her much anymore.  Today was a short day at school, so she wanted to come with Mom and visit while the windows were being sparkled up.  Turns out, the windows weren’t the only thing sparkled up by their visit.  As she came through the door, she called out, “I brought you a flower.”  It was really only a weed, but there aren’t many bouquets sold at the florists which would rival its beauty, as far as I’m concerned.  Even tonight, the little purple blooms have completely wilted and lost their charm, but the moment hasn’t lost any of its brilliance in my mind. 

Later in the afternoon, the beautiful weather drew me outside.  I had determined, as the day unfolded, that this would be the day that an old enemy was faced.  Many of you will remember that I had a cycling accident in late summer last year.  I have struggled to make myself throw a leg over the bicycle a few times since then, but my fears wouldn’t allow it.  The accident, with a head injury to go with other, more visible scars, has been one of the most frustrating episodes I can remember.  I still don’t recall what happened, and the lost hours, spent stumbling alone in the darkness, have left me with an unreasonable anxiety about riding again.  Today, I would face that fear.  In the splendor of the warm, clear afternoon, I pumped up the tires of the long-neglected bike, pulled on my helmet, and, sitting astride the scary contraption, pedaled my way down the street.  You think it was a small thing, but even now, my heart is pounding as I write.  It pounded this afternoon, too.  I even shook a little as I rode all of a mile.  As battles go, it is likely to go unreported.  No history books will recount it.  The day may come when I’ll even be a little ashamed that I had such a problem getting back on the bicycle.  Today though, I feel like I can beat any adversary.  I sucked it up and rode! 

After that rush of adrenaline, the afternoon settled into normalcy, or so I thought.  Until the girl and her father came in.  “I’d like to make a payment on my layaway,” the pretty teenager told me.  They’ve been in a few times over the last few months.  Just a few weeks ago, they had to ask me if I could give them a little extra time on the transaction, since the deadline was approaching and it was obvious they wouldn’t meet it.  They explained that their financial situation was deteriorating, due to a work slowdown.  I was happy to allow an extension and expected nothing more than a small payment today.  The young lady took out an envelope and pulled out her payment; one dollar bill after another, until the stack in front of me equaled what she had told me to expect.  I wrote out a receipt, complete with the balance still due, a sizable amount.  Then her dad, with a big grin, looked over at her and told me, “She doesn’t know it, but now, I’d like to pay off the rest.”  Her reaction was classic.  The mouth dropped open, the eyes opened wide, and in an instant, her grin matched her dad’s.  After the instrument was loaded in the car, she came back in, to stand behind me as I worked at the computer.  “I just want to thank you for everything,” the elated girl said.  I didn’t do anything for her, except to sell her a musical instrument she really desired to play.  She and her family had paid the whole price. But I wouldn’t trade the enjoyment at sharing her excitement for anything.  Some days, I love what I do!

The minor victory of successfully repairing the old washing machine tonight hardly merits a mention in the litany of bright spots.  And yet, it brings a feeling of accomplishment to my mind; the exclamation point to an emphatic statement of a day.  It was a day to fill the tank and to revel in feeling good.  I know that there are some who are muttering to themselves as they read this, “But, what of joy?  That’s not dependent of circumstances.  It doesn’t come from feelings.”  I don’t disagree.  I understand the difference.  But, just in case you haven’t noticed, I am human.  And, that means that I am an emotional being; subject to highs and lows; experiencing the full spectrum of feelings that come with changes in circumstances, physical condition, even environment.  The Creator made me this way.  Days like today are gifts from Him, just as the days that test our mettle are.  I am content.

Today, I experienced the enjoyment of a number of different things at work in my life.  There are things beyond the control of anyone, like the weather, which can lift the spirits.  The interaction of people who care about me and show it, as well as the joy of helping others, is something without which we cannot live.  Battles are fought and won.  Goals are reached, bringing a feeling of competence, fleeting though that may be.

On this day, all of these things merged to bring up the level on the dipstick.  It is now as close to the full mark as it has been for a little while.  I’m pretty sure that, unlike the one in my car, there is no caution to abstain from overfilling.  I’ll look for more of the same tomorrow, even if the sun doesn’t show its face.

I may even try to shine a little light in other lives.  It can’t hurt to spread this around…

“Good day sunshine.
I need to laugh and when the sun is out
I’ve got something I can laugh about.
I feel good, in a special way.
I’m in love and it’s a sunny day.
Good day sunshine…”
(Paul McCartney~British songwriter/singer)

“Delight yourself in the Lord and He shall give you the desires of your heart.”
(Psalm 37:4)

“If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow, why, oh why can’t I?”  The final strains of the wistful tune float off into the ether and I, in a black mood, mutter, “What a bunch of hogwash!”  There are some days when dreams have been relegated to the trash bin, and imaginary worlds are nothing but party balloons which have lost their buoyancy and hang, limp, on the floor.  In some ways, on this day, it seemed that even Nature was in cahoots with the mental pattern.  I awoke to bright, sunny skies and warm, springlike temperatures which lulled the spirit into hopefulness, but by afternoon the sun was nowhere to be seen and the dark skies whispered their dreary spells.  Just so, reality has a way of sneaking in and dispelling the fluffy cumulus clouds of hope and fantasy from the sky, replacing them with the dark thunderheads of stark, somber certainty.  In this reality, there are no bluebirds, no “dreams that you dare to dream” coming true.

How did I get here from there?  This is the boy who had finished every “Oz” book by the age of ten.  As an adult, I have read all of the “Chronicles of Narnia” aloud to my own children and have worked my way through the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy at least six times.  I have always devoured fantasy books, reading voraciously about other worlds, other creatures, other realities.  Just so you understand; I’ve never really believed that any of them existed.  I have always had my feet firmly on the ground in the here and now.  I just enjoy the idea of “what if?” and that has continued through the many stages of my life.  The dreams of other worlds, worlds to which one can escape in mere moments, have a fascination and are, in fact, healthy to an extent.  To a young boy, vistas were opened before my eyes that the hot, dusty world of reality could never offer.  There were possibilities, instead of dead ends; potential where there had been only disapproval.  As an adult, the fantasy world offers a respite from the hard, cold realities of the grown-up world. Unpaid bills can be forgotten for an hour or two, failures in the business world fade into the dreams of kingdoms and success beyond the realm of what is possible in real life.

But, for a little while tonight, I find myself calling “foul” and recognizing that the counterfeit world of fantasy and imagination can sidetrack us from the task at hand.  Young ladies await their knight in shining armor, only to find that he is a fraud; merely a figment of the imagination, replaced quickly in a relationship by the unrecognizable bumbling, selfish human being that all of us mortal men actually are.  The fantasy beauty queen that we men envision waking up to each morning for the rest of our lives is also a fraud, hidden behind makeup and mountains of implements necessary to achieve the illusion each day.  That said, when the truth becomes evident on both sides, I’m pretty sure the reality is actually better than the storyline, since we can relate better and, recognizing the shortcomings of each other, better accept our own limitations.

No, the Emerald City doesn’t exist, the Wizard who can grant all our wishes is a humbug, and there are no ruby slippers to be found in all of creation whose heels can be clicked together to take us home.  “There’s no place like home,” is a nice sentiment, but the only way to get there is through.  Through the tough times.  Through the hard work.  Through the desert and sometimes over the mountains.

I’m really not depressed.  I’ve just come to the conclusion that “happily ever after” (at least, in this lifetime) is an illusion which needs to be exposed for the deception that it is.  For all of our lives we have a purpose, at which we must work, to fulfill.  Every day is a continuation of the process, a fresh opportunity to make progress.  Reaching the goals in front of us won’t cause a cessation of the labor, but will lead to bigger and loftier goals.  This is what we were made for!  It is part of our DNA, our destiny, if you will.  The ongoing task is not a disappointment, not a failure on our part to achieve the ideal.  It is the ideal.

I’m pretty sure that I’ll still take a breather occasionally to get lost in a dream world.  Rest and recreation…both are part of our needs as humans.  It does no harm to enjoy the idea of what might be at the other end of the rainbow.  The Irish have speculated for ages; our parents did the same in their time with Dorothy and the Wizard; our children had their go at it with the Muppets.  But, we don’t get to stay there.  If you’ll look carefully at the picture I included above, you’ll see that for me at least, the end of that celestial arch is actually the green-roofed music store at which I labor daily.  Odd how that works out, huh? 

For today, at least, I’m headed along the road to home.  My Real Home.  I hope you’ll travel along with me.  You never know where there will be lions, and tigers, and bears.  Oh, my!

“You can’t depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus.”
(Mark Twain~American humorist and author~1835-1910)

“I rejoiced to find some of your children walking in the truth, just as we were commanded…”
(2 John 1:4)

“They killed him.  They just ran him over on purpose.”  The disgust in my father’s voice could almost be taken for sadness.  He had just come in the front door of the house and was obviously unhappy about the event.  We didn’t know what or who he was talking about, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.  There had been no sirens from an ambulance or police car, making it a cinch that he wasn’t referring to a human being.  So, it had to be a beast of some sort.  I’ll admit, ever since Grandpa’s little dog had been run over while in my care, I hated hearing about any animal being hit with a car.  But, I was sure this couldn’t be our dog.  Mitzi was a she, not a he, and I knew the family mutt was safe in the backyard.  And, it couldn’t be a cat.  While there were a few of those around which we kids had adopted, Dad disliked cats generally, and I was pretty certain wouldn’t feel any sadness about there being one less feline in the world.  What in the world could have been killed that would disturb Dad so?

We didn’t have to wait long for the explanation.  “They ran over the bull snake!  It was crossing the road and they ran over it on purpose!”  That’s all it was?  A snake?  Snakes were once plentiful where I grew up…before the urban sprawl took over.  Our house was actually right next to the city limits, and we were surrounded by fields and orange groves at first.  Over the years, that had changed and the neighborhood had been built up.  Subdivisions had sprung up, with new paved roads and manicured lawns occupying the space where once buffel grass and mesquite trees had grown in abundance.  Most of the citrus trees had been bulldozed and on property where the only human activity had come from the farmer’s effort to ensure a good crop (and a few barefoot boys intent on sneaking an orange or two), now children and their pets played in fenced yards.  For the most part, the snakes and lizards, including the ones we called the horny toads, had disappeared; either moving to less tumultuous locales or being killed and dying out as their territory shrank in on them.  The only animals not driven out by the development were the rats and mice who thrived on the food and trash which human beings are talented at leaving behind.  Most of the people we knew were happier with the taming of the landscape and the disappearance of most of the varmints.  Dad was not a member of their club.  For years, he maintained the one and a half acre tract on which our house sat and the two acre lot across the street as a wildlife sanctuary of sorts.  No one was allowed to carry a gun of any sort, not even a BB gun, on the property.  We just didn’t kill animals without a very good reason.

In a way, the two pieces of property, separated by the paved street, were the cause of the episode which distressed my father so much on this occasion.  The huge bull snake enjoyed the hunting on both sides of the road, finding adequate mice and other rodents, perhaps even the occasional bird caught unawares.  On this day, the six or seven foot giant, which looked remarkably similar to a rattlesnake (part of its natural protection) had been crossing the street when a passing motorist noticed it in the other lane.  The enterprising fellow swerved into the wrong lane and ran the evil snake over.  According to Dad, who had been working in the yard, the driver even circled the block and came back for another pass.  Still not sure he had finished his task, the culprit returned for one more insurance run, but by this time, my Dad was out at the road and waved him off.  It was too late.  The big guy was dead.  Dad was disgusted.  He understood the good that a snake like this could do, keeping the destructive rodents away.  He also didn’t understand how someone could be so ignorant as to think it was a good thing to kill such a creature.

The driver, no doubt, thought that he was doing a service to the community.  Anyone could see that the beast was dangerous!  Truth be told, the bull snake is an aggressive reptile, opting often for attacking, rather than retreating.  Its body is marked much like a rattlesnake, and many humans coming upon one in the wild, mistake it as the dreaded rattler for more reasons than just the markings.  The bull snake will often flatten his head to appear as a pit viper (even though it has no venom at all) and form its body in the menacing striking position of a rattlesnake.  It even makes a rattling sound with its breath and shakes its tail to imitate its distant cousin, usually all to the unfortunate snake’s detriment.  The harmless, huge faker is often killed for its trouble, all because some human beings can’t discriminate between an actor and the real thing.  In this instance, the snake killer was likely just doing what he could to keep the neighborhood kids safe, even though he was sadly misguided.

I often wonder if I’m not a lot like that driver.  You may or may not be surprised to know that I have gone off half-cocked on many different occasions.  I like that term “half-cocked”, because it describes exactly what happens.  I believe that I see a problem which needs to be addressed and I’m aggressive about confronting the issue.  But, just like a pistol with a hair-trigger, being handled by an untrained shooter, I’m not sure of my target.  I’m not even sure that there are no innocent bystanders.  I just start shooting as fast as I can and hit everything in my line of vision (and a few things not in it).  I find that I have to apologize a lot.  I’m trying to learn the lesson, but it’s a slow process.  Ask questions first, then shoot; not shoot first, then ask questions.  I’m guessing that all of us take the latter choice at one time or another, but there are some of us who are extremely slow studies and do it again and again.  I’ve killed more than a few harmless snakes in my time.  (You do understand that I’m talking metaphorically, right?)

You see, some snakes need to be destroyed.  When we, and those for whom we are responsible, are threatened with eminent danger, we must be courageous and act.  But, there are also times to slow down and think.  Some snakes can be left alone or perhaps only relocated, gently.  We just need to keep our wits about us and discern the difference. 

I’ll try to keep working on that.  Maybe you can bring along the guidebook to help me to identify the real venomous creatures, as well as the harmless ones.  Are you up for the job?

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
Courage, to change the things I can;
And wisdom, to know the difference.”
(Reinhold Niebuhr~American theologian~1892-1971)

“He who guards his mouth and his tongue keeps himself from calamity.”
(Proverbs 21:23)