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Just a Little Cracked…

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The old Chevy sat out in the middle of the horse pasture.  I had let slip to a customer that I had a 1962 Impala that I was going to restore, and he immediately volunteered the information that he owned the same make and model and would be willing to sell it.  I didn’t need another car and started to move on in the conversation, but he steered it right back.  “No, I would sell it for parts.”  I asked him if the car was complete and he replied, “Right down to the hubcaps.”   I didn’t need any hubcaps, but there was one thing I knew I would have to have before the restoration was complete on my car.  “Is the windshield good?”  I probed.  The answer came back immediately,  “Perfect.  Not a single crack or star.”  I knew that a new windshield would cost me a hundred and fifty dollars if I installed it myself, so I made an offer.

“I’ll buy the car for a hundred dollars, on one condition.”  He wasn’t impressed with my offer, but wanted to know what the condition was.  “I’m going to take all the parts off that I want and leave the rest of it where it is.”  It wasn’t much of a proposal and I really didn’t expect him to jump at the opportunity to be used as a salvage yard, but his wife was a few feet away, nodding her head vigorously.  He accepted my offer.

A week or so later, my little girl and I made our way through the rickety gate back to where the old flivver sat; a derelict in the middle of the overgrown field, with a few wildflowers scattered around and three or four horses grazing at the back fence.  The car really was in too good a condition to be cannibalized, but I was fixing up my Grandpa’s old car, not some other vehicle with an unknown history.  The little girl played nearby, as I started removing trim inside the passenger compartment.  I really wasn’t worried about her, but I thought I was keeping an eye peeled for trouble.  Evidently it wasn’t good enough, because all of the sudden she screamed and ran for the car where I was.  It seems that horses are just as curious as humans, and they weren’t sure what to make of this miniature person invading their bailiwick.  They had gotten fairly close before she noticed the movement and looked up to see a giant creature towering over her.  In the safety of Dad’s presence and the car’s interior, she calmed down quickly and was soon chattering on about the beautiful animals and whether she would ever be brave enough to ride one or not.  I finished removing the trim from around the windshield and then decided that the last step of the removal process needed two adults, so we picked up the small parts I was taking and headed out.  The horses escorted us out, so the young lady elected to be carried to the gate, a rare occurrence with that one. 

In another day or two, I returned, sans daughter, but with a brother-in-law to assist.  We cut the gasket around the glass and pushed gently on the upper edge of the windshield inside the car.  It gave a healthy amount, so we worked together, the Lovely Lady’s brother outside with his fingertips in between the rim of the glass and the channel in which it normally laid, and me pushing a moderate amount at about the same place as he was pulling, only from the opposite side of the glass.  The process was much slower and more difficult than we anticipated, and we were winded well before we had progressed a fourth of the way across the top side.  We took a breather and talked it over.  “Why don’t we use a little more pressure on the inside, this next go-round,” the brother-in-law suggested.  I was just as eager to be done with the job as he and wondered aloud if it would hurt to use my feet.  The soft rubber soles of my Converse sneakers could do no harm, surely.

Those, as my mother would say, were “famous last words”.  We returned to work and he grasped the glass from the outside once more and this time I placed my size 10 1/2s on the interior side and pressed gently.  Okay, maybe it wasn’t so gently.   The disastrous result was an instantaneous “POP!” and just as rapidly, a crack appeared from top to bottom of the precious windshield, about ten inches over from where we had applied the pressure.  The only thing I needed from that car was ruined!  My razor-sharp bargaining skills had netted me nothing but a few hours work and a huge disappointment, to say nothing about the hundred dollar-sized hole in my pocket!  I pried the hubcaps off the car and left.

I laughed on the way home, though.  Somehow my mind seldom leaps to similar situations before I get myself into trouble, but on the road back to the shop, I recalled that fateful Sunday afternoon a few years prior, when my good friend and I were trying our hand at replacing one of the flat windshields in the old church bus.  Easy-Smeazy, right?  Flat piece of glass, new rubber gasket…What could go wrong?  We had set the gasket and glass almost into place and were just popping the final inch or so of glass into the place where it would be perfectly flush all the way around.  The large glass was reluctant to settle into place, but, hey!  The rubber gasket would give some around the edges wouldn’t it?  That’s what rubber does, right?  We forced the glass into place the last sixteenth of an inch and the job was complete.  Both my friend and I stepped back to admire our workmanship.  It was whisper-quiet, but we both heard it…the tiniest “zzzzzip” reached our ears and we searched for its source.  There.  Right in the middle and at the bottom edge of the three-foot tall glass panel, a crack about 1/4 of an inch in length was showing.  No…It was 3/8ths of an inch long now…then 5/8ths, creeping its way from the very bottom of the glass inexorably toward the top.  “Drill a hole!  That will stop it!” he suggested excitedly.  The only problem with his solution was that we were out in the country and had no power tools at all.  We jumped in his truck and tore down the dirt road, three miles cross country and three miles back with the drill, to find that the time it had taken to get the drill was just exactly the amount of time it took the crack to traverse the pane of glass.  We watched in dismay as it disappeared under the lower edge of the rubber gasket across the top.  When the church sold that bus ten years later, it went to its new owner with a cracked windshield on the passenger side.

Is there any lesson to be drawn from these two episodes?  Not really.  Oh, I guess you could work out something really deep from it, but I actually only mention them in the hopes that they are as funny to you now in the light of day, as they have been to me, squirreled away in the secret vault of my memory.  While they were happening…Disaster!  But we get over these mini-disasters and faux-catastrophes in time and then, looking back, see them for what they are, just good memories of spending time with friends and learning a lesson or two along the way.  If I had the power of the Doctor in that quirky Brit Sci-Fi series, “Dr. Who?”, and was able to travel back in time, I wouldn’t change a thing about either event.  I’m grateful for friendship and companionship along the way, sharing in my ineptitude, as well as in my accomplishments. 

I read daily in the social media of friends who are having horrible days.  I hope that recording them in a public forum now, doesn’t preclude these times from becoming just more amusing and educational memories years down the road.  We all need the opportunity to laugh at ourselves and enjoy life, with all its bumpiness, for what it is…an adventure not to be traded for any perfect fairy-tale ever imagined.

Today is yet another chance for us to fashion more good memories on the road to our final destination.  Why don’t we settle in, ignore the cracks, and enjoy the trip!

“…The most dreadful of all Bilbo’s experiences, and the one which at the time he hated most – which is to say it was the one he was most proud of, and most fond of recalling long afterwards…”
(Excerpt from “The Hobbit”~J.R.R. Tolkien~British author~1892-1973)

“Try not to have a good time…This is supposed to be educational!”
(Peanuts character Lucy Van Pelt~created by Charles M Schulz~American cartoonist~1922-2000)

Buying the Lie

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I’d like to sell my Les Paul.”  The words were said with a knowing smile and I realized that something wasn’t right.  I took the beautiful electric guitar from the hands of the young man and glanced at it, taking in the classic lines of the carved top, the typical “speed knobs” that adjusted the volume and tone for the two humbucking pickups.  Everything was in its proper place, but somehow the quality I expected wasn’t showing up.  The wood grain was ho-hum, the black lines which alternated with the off-white plastic in the binding around the body weren’t crisp and clean.  I glanced up at the young man and realized that he was waiting.  Aha!  I saw it!  The quintessential script logo on the face of the headstock leapt out at me, a jarring testimony to the ineptitude of the counterfeiter.  In his clumsy attempt to create the illusion of a top-quality, high-dollar professional guitar, instead of the usual inlaid mother-of-pearl logo, this joker had used black tape and a decal.  I looked up at the young man standing in front of me, now with a huge grin on his face.  It was never his intention to cheat me with the guitar, but he wanted to see how long it would take me to recognize the fakery.  In that instant, my mind skipped back to the day, many years ago, when I wasn’t so quick to spot just such a sham.

I was in a pawn shop in the big metropolis of Dallas.  It was my habit to haunt these shops on a regular basis, since the online market had just opened up to many of us and the bargains in the city shops were often easy money on the world-wide market.  The Gibson acoustic guitar hanging behind the counter was calling my name.  As any other “picker” would do, I diverted my attention away from it to keep the shop-keeper from knowing my real target.  After inquiring about a few other instruments nearby, I asked to look at this beautiful vintage instrument.  The selling price was well below the market price, the label inside was genuine, and the logo on the headstock left no doubt in my mind.  Knowing beyond question that the guitar was real and would net me a tidy profit, I laid down my four hundred dollars and left the shop, clutching my treasure.

Back home in Arkansas, I laid the guitar down on my workbench to clean and restring it in preparation for a few photographs that would help to market it at a sizable profit.  As I cleaned, questions began to form.  What had only looked like a smudge in the dingy light of the hock shop, actually appeared to be dried glue near the heel of the neck when viewed under the bright light on my bench.  Upon closer examination, it was evident that the neck didn’t fit very well on the body.  And, the label inside the soundhole, while genuine, almost certainly had been attached with something other than the normal adhesive.  I got my adjustable mirror and a flashlight to take a look inside the body.  The bracing was all wrong!  A visit to a friend who is actually an expert in vintage instruments led to the truth.  The neck was genuine, as was the label, but everything else was something very different than what I had expected.  The cheaply copied Oriental body, made attractive only by the marriage to the neck of the real thing, was worthless.  I was devastated, to say nothing of the embarrassment.  It was an expensive lesson.  I did eventually get the shop owner to give me a refund, but only at the cost of his good will, and with a promise never to darken the door of his establishment again.  I’m happy to keep the promise, since it doesn’t seem to make sense to deal with a man who will knowingly cheat his customers.  He blamed my greed, an argument which had the advantage of being correct, but it did not excuse his dishonesty.  I’ve never been back.

So, sadder but wiser, I muddle on.  Happily, I don’t encounter such fakes often, but experience is often the best teacher.  I did make a trade with the young man for his “Les Paul” the other day, but only for the value of the parts, a miniscule price compared to what the authentic model would have set me back.  It has been interesting to see the reaction of customers who walk into my store and see it on the workbench.  The awe in their eyes has been replaced over and over again with shock and dismay when I have them look closely at the points which are obviously faked.  It’s amazing!  From a distance, the guitar is an incredible work of art, guaranteed to attract the admiration of nearly every customer who sees it.  Only as they approach it and examine the workmanship, does the truth sink in.  They’ve been had!  The valuable and desirable object of their adoration from afar is nothing but a worthless, offensive piece of junk up close!

At the risk of being obvious, I would invite you to examine the real lesson of the counterfeit Les Paul guitar.  It has nothing to do with the guitar and everything to do with all of those other objects of our affection and desire with which we surround ourselves, and with which we torment ourselves, in covetous pursuit of the same.  It would seem that life is full of such “fakes”, from people to possessions; from dresses to dreams.  From a distance, many of these things are exactly what we have searched for, but upon closer examination, the reality becomes evident.   The glitz and glitter of the showroom floor soon dissolve as the the flaws and shortcomings make it painfully clear that we have fallen for counterfeits and cheap imitations. 

At my cash register, I have a special pen which I use to test money (especially the big bills), before it goes into the drawer.  The special ink with which the pen is filled checks the content of the “paper” money.  Our currency is actually made of cloth and is completely unlike regular paper, which is constituted of wood components.  One mark from the pen and a counterfeit bill will show a black line on it, while the genuine money shows brown.  I remember one afternoon, as I struggled with exhaustion from a busy day, I grabbed a similar-looking marker and touched it to a customer’s hundred dollar bill.  Black!  I looked suspiciously at the man and told him that he had a fake bill.  He denied it angrily, insisting that the bill had come directly from the bank.  I glanced in my hand and recognized the different marker, sheepishly admitting my error to the man and then accepted the bill and placed it into the cash drawer.

When we get the item from the proper source, we’re assured of having the genuine article in our hands.  Come to think of it, that’s not bad advice for living, either.   

“Pleasure may come from illusion, but happiness can only come of reality.”
(Nicolas Chamfort~French playwright~1741-1794)

“You say, ‘I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.’ But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked.  I counsel you to buy from me gold refined in the fire, so you can become rich; and white clothes to wear, so you can cover your shameful nakedness; and salve to put on your eyes, so you can see.”
(Revelation 3:17,18~NIV)

Short. Sweet.

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

An hour and a half.  Just sitting and thinking.  My mind runs up one rabbit trail and follows it to a dead end.  I pick up the thread of a thought a moment later and hold it in my head for a few moments, but…it is nothing.  I sat down in front of the computer to write and, as determined as I am to accomplish the task, nothing comes.  Perhaps it’s just as well.  There have been a few nights that I have forced the ideas onto the screen in front of me and they fall reluctantly into place, griping and complaining all the while.  The finished product is less than spectacular.  You’ve probably read one or two of those over the last few months. 

The other night as we stood studying the campfire, my grandsons begged to roast their own marshmallows.  I agreed to help and so, we headed for the edge of the fire, marshmallows ensconced on skewers, to take a shot at roasting the perfect marshmallows.  It was a mixed success, which is to say, it was a disaster.  The younger of the two children, always the adventurous one, placed his skewer right down next to the coals even as I warned against a conflagration (in easier to understand words, of course).  The older one, not wanting to brave the heat of close proximity, barely held his over the flame at all, so it was a slow, painstaking process.  As expected, soon the puffy roasters belonging to the younger boy burst into flame.  Quickly blowing out the flames and asking him to wait, I again turned my attention to the older boy, intent upon cooking his to perfection.  After a few moments, he agreed that they were a probably okay (even though there was no outward sign of them being done) and he was content.  We headed for the table to build the ‘Smores with chocolate bars and graham crackers.  The younger lad finished making his and began to consume it with fervor, despite the extremely charred exterior.  As the older child finished his creation, he put it to his mouth, only to draw it immediately out.  “Oh!”  He exclaimed.  “What?  Is it too hot?” his mom asked.  “No.  I just remembered.  I don’t like marshmallows.”  He refused to eat any of it.

So, lest that also be your response to a poorly thought out post, I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead.  No incinerated, overdone thoughts, thrown desperately into place; not even any undercooked, barely warm ideas, which need more time to simmer and soften.  Maybe tomorrow’s menu will be more appetizing and better planned.

One can always hope.

“In laboring to be concise, I become obscure.”
(Horace~Ancient Roman Poet~65 BC-8 BC)

Improving the View

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was the worst vacation ever!  The baseball game at Turner Field was delayed by rain, the water coming down almost sideways, soaking us as we huddled under the canopy, trying to figure out why we were still here.  As we went back to the hotel that night, in those days before GPS, we got hopelessly lost, driving down the streets in seedy parts of Atlanta, wondering if we’d ever emerge alive.  Then, as we left town the next morning, I was distracted as I drove and didn’t notice that the traffic light was changing until it was too late to avoid bumping the car in front of us.  My bumper just kissed hers, but there were two tiny circular marks from my license plate screws on her rubber bumper, and she insisted that a citation should be issued.  Right about then, I discovered that my driver’s license had expired three weeks before that.  I was moaning about going to jail and the kids were crying.  It was the worst vacation ever!

Whoa!  Back the truck up a bit!  Can we talk about this a minute?  We had a week’s vacation, split between Atlanta and then on to Myrtle Beach in South Carolina.  The episodes I described took up a grand total of one, maybe two hours of the entire week.  One week of Six Flags, Underground Atlanta, World of Coca Cola (avoid the “Beverly” drink at all costs!), a great hotel (really cheap price), a wonderful time at the beach (even got in a couple of romantic walks in the moonlight with the Lovely Lady), miniature golf, amazing all-you-can-eat seafood, and a stop in rural Georgia to visit with a fantastic bunch of people having a family reunion at the lake.  It was one of the best vacations ever!

Why is it that whenever we talk about that vacation, we remember the negative events, no matter how small a part they really played?  If I stop and think for a little while, the great time we really had comes back into focus, but the image that jumps to mind initially is sitting by the side of the road, waiting for the cop to write the ticket and/or throw me into jail, the latter of which he elected not to do.  I think he was really sorry that we had to get a citation at all, since we were on vacation in his city.  He seemed happier as he wrote her one for driving without insurance. Regardless, for years I’ve allowed that to be the image of our vacation that year.

Today, a young friend brought the issue back to mind for me, unaware that she was doing it, of course.  She has spent the last few days in an island paradise, reporting on the fun activities including water sports, relaxing on the beach, and the like.  Today it took her sixteen hours to make the trip home, a maddening journey that should have taken less than half that.  I found myself hoping that this wouldn’t be what she remembered of the great adventure she had enjoyed over the last several days, only to see that she has already expressed the opinion that this wouldn’t tarnish her memories in any way.  Good for her!  But, it brought back memories for me.

Tonight, I’ve been replaying that long ago vacation in my head, and I think I’ve got it straight now.  I’ve decided that it was a great trip, with a couple of minor glitches which ought not to outgrow their level of importance.  One little event springs to mind that helps me to put the negative into perspective.  As we tried (unsuccessfully) to stay dry at the ball field, waiting for the storm to pass, our attention was drawn down to the baseball diamond, which was covered by a huge tarp.  Of course there was a lake of water standing on the plastic, but a couple of the Atlanta Braves ballplayers, bored by the lack of activity, had made their way out onto the infield.  They parodied a pitcher and batter as they stood in the ankle deep water.  We cheered them on as the faux-batter smacked the imaginary ball and took off, running the bases, splattering water as he ran.  Finally rounding third base, the would-be pitcher pantomimed catching the ball from a non-existent outfielder and it was a nail-biter to guess who would get to home plate first.  As we cheered and yelled, the runner ducked beneath the clumsy tag and slid into home, his chest pushing a wall of water which mounted high into the air in front of him.  Talk about turning a disaster into enjoyment!  These guys weren’t going to let a little rain get into their souls and dampen their spirits.  And they carried the crowd with them, right out of the dark of individual disappointment into the light of corporate amusement and glee.  What a great public service they performed that night!

We need to find the good in negative situations, not in a trite way – not even ignoring that some events are actually really bad.  It just helps if we can tell the difference.  Too often we allow our joy to be stolen from us by the thieves of inconvenience and annoyance.  Those are red herrings, put in our way to make us lose our focus on the good things that have been given.  Don’t be fooled.  Time spent in enjoyment with loved ones should be a memory we hold close; the disappointments thrown in here and there can be discarded as nonessential.  It’s not that they didn’t happen, just that they don’t matter nearly as much as we allow them to.  Too Pollyannaish?  You know, the little girl who thought that the serious sermon texts should be discarded for the “glad” texts in the Bible, which didn’t make people feel bad?  You might think that’s what I’m saying, but I also have a text to support my conclusion.  “…if anything is excellent or praiseworthy–think about such things.” It’s significantly more beneficial for us to dwell on the positive and good, than on the negative.

I’ve spent an enjoyable couple of hours tonight, going through the other good memories of that great trip.  I may have to remember to talk about “the rest of the story” the next time the opportunity presents itself with the family.  Maybe we can even laugh about those other little inconveniences…

As Clarence reminded George Bailey in the movie, “You see, George.  You really had a wonderful life!”  Okay, that was Pollyannaish!

“Between the optimist and the pessimist, the difference is droll.  The optimist sees the doughnut, the pessimist the hole!”
(McLandburgh Wilson~American poet)

“There are some days I practice positive thinking and other days I’m not positive I am thinking.”
(John M. Eades~American author)

Of Floaties and Flowers…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I brought this just for you, Mr. Paul!”  The twinkling eyes of the little four year old matched the ear-to-ear grin on her face as she handed me the cone-shaped Culligan cup.  I was a bit confused for a moment and then I glanced inside the cup, to find a lone scraggly clover blossom scrunched up way down in the bottom.  Little Addison was back again with her mom, visiting with me about everything under her sun as Mom washed the windows at the music store.  After every one of her visits, I have a different perspective on life.  Addison is not one of those children who fits the mold, who is concerned about doing things “just so”.  She is definitely a free spirit and one whose thinking patterns run outside the barriers we adults tend to place on children.

When she and her mom arrived this afternoon, I thought at first that she had not made the trip today.  Her mom got her equipment out and started washing the windows with no sign of a little girl to be seen.  A few moments later, the door opened almost silently, simply because she wished it to be that way.  The little imp knows that there is a set of bells attached to the inside door knob and she loves to try to beat our makeshift alarm system by opening the door as gently as possible.  I heard the slightest hint of a jingle and smiled at her beaming face peeking in.  Of course, she headed for the candy bucket as soon as she came in.  “I hope you have some better suckers today,” she stated sternly.  The last time she was here, the bucket was a bit sparsely populated, mostly with flavors that none of the kids were interested in.  She was surprised to find that the contents had changed shape a bit, with nary a stick to be found.  “What are these things?” came the surprised voice.  “They look like floaties!”  I explained that they were called Lifesavers, and that they were called that because of the shape.  “They look like what I wear around my tummy when I swim!”  she exclaimed, grasping the concept immediately.  As we talked, I told her that she could pick out one to eat if it was okay with her mom.  She dutifully sought out her mother and told her that she was going to have some candy, leaving no chance for a negative response from that quarter.

As she approached the counter again, I held the bucket down below her line of sight so she could pick a color.  The girl had ideas of her own though, grasping the entire bucket in her pudgy little hands and pulling it from my grip.  “If I’m going to choose, I want to see them all,” she insisted, and took the metal container over to the children’s table, dumping the contents out.  Somewhere in the process, she noticed that there were only a few different colors, although there were many individual candies, so she decided to count all of them while she wrestled with the decision of which was the most desirable color.  Laying them out in lines of ten each, she got as high as thirty and had to have help with the rest.  “Mom, what comes after thirty?”  The words came out of her mouth, but almost as quickly, another thought hit her and she got up abruptly, heading out of the front door.  We watched her go out to the car and climb up into the high vehicle, exiting it just a moment later.  Her mom saw what she had in her hands and said quietly, “I was hoping she had forgotten it.  I’m sorry…”  The next thing I knew, the water cup was in my hand and I was searching for the right words to express my wonder and gratitude.  Her mom, confusing my hesitation for embarrassment, was quick to apologize again, but I assured her that I wasn’t offended at all.

“Did you know that these flowers are the bees’ favorite this time of year, Addison?”  I asked.  She shook her head, and I went on.  “I think I like them just as much as the bees do.”  With that, she was satisfied that her gift was properly appreciated and turned back to her counting, as if nothing had happened to interrupt it.  “Did you say forty comes after that, Mom?”  A few moments later, when it was time for her to leave, she picked out one of the green pieces of candy without asking for any more and headed out the door.  “Mr.Paul, I won’t be here next time.  I’m going to the babysitters. ‘Bye!”  And, she was gone.

My father-in-law used to tell about the prominent professional in town to whom he sold a piano.  After he had delivered the piano to the man’s home, he went to his place of business to collect the price for the instrument.  The man handed him a few bills and, coming up a good bit short, took him back to his office.  There, he proceeded to take a wad of bills out of the file cabinet and, getting down on his hands and knees on the floor, began to count out the twenties and tens and fives into piles, until he had the proper amount to hand to the Lovely Lady’s dad.  In an even more odd episode, some time later when he moved his office from one building to another, he made many trips up and down the sidewalk, pulling a little red wagon loaded down with file folders.  We would call this man “eccentric”.  I wonder what that kind of freedom would feel like.  No concern for what others are thinking, he was perfectly comfortable doing things his own way.  I could tell you of several other examples of his “free spirit”, but I think I’ll save those for another day.

I’ve spent a lifetime tied up in the knots of doing what society says is proper and acceptable.  I’m hoping that as I age, I may be able to throw off some of  those constraints and live in such a way that I can show people what I really feel.  Who knows?  Someday that may be me in the middle of a task, stopping suddenly as the thought occurs to me, just like little Addison, and performing a random act of love and kindness for someone nearby.  I can think of worse ways to act as I move into my golden years.  How about you?

May we grow ever more childlike!  Let love be multiplied!

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle.”
(Plato~Ancient Greek philosopher~428 BC-348 BC)

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.  Against such things there is no law.”
(Galatians 5:22,23)

Neither Rain, Nor Snow, Nor Petulant Customers…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m going to have to call the Post Office tomorrow to apologize.  That’s what you do when you make mistakes, jumping to erroneous conclusions before examining all the evidence.  It’s a common situation for me to find myself in, but I still haven’t figured out the cure.  After fifty-some years of making the same kind of error, over and over, I still look at an event and make a determination, then hastily act upon that determination.  As they say, history repeats itself.  What’s the other quote?  Oh, yeah…”The only thing we learn from history is that we don’t learn anything from history.”

I wasn’t rude as I talked with the nice lady at the Post Office last week, but I was frustrated.  Several times during my busy day, the toll-free line had rung with a customer on the other end wanting to find out tracking information for their package.  We shipped out a large quantity of orders last week and we always pay a little extra to track every package, just so we can answer the customer’s inquiries.  “When did you ship it?”  The click of a button and entry of a name brings the information.  “Where is it now?”  The answer to that one is already in front of us after completion of the first operation.  “When will it be delivered?”  That extrapolation comes after examination of the first two answers, but is usually fairly easy to arrive at.  This day, for some reason, none of the information was visible for the packages about which the customers were inquiring.  The program which was usually so informative only showed our initial printing of the label. 

I knew the answer immediately.  All last week, a new substitute Postman had run the route and picked up our bins of outgoing mail.  The regular Postal employees know that all the packages have to be scanned into the system and usually do that onsite, either inside the store or out in the parking lot.  Since I hadn’t seen that happen with the new guy and now the information wasn’t showing up on my computer screen, the obvious had occurred; the rookie hadn’t done his job and now we were paying the price as our customers lost confidence in our ability to do ours.  I made a call to the supervisor at the Post Office, apprising her of the situation.  I didn’t accuse the young man, but told her what my computer screen was indicating and led her, not so subtly, to the same conclusion I had drawn.  “No, we’re not mad.  We just need things to be done correctly.”  Those were my words, but I was mad.  And, it was certainly his fault.  In reality, I didn’t want the young man to get in trouble, I just wanted him to do his job.

Turns out, he was doing just that.  Today, I looked at the records in that program again, finding that every single entry from our shipping last week showed exactly the same thing.  According to our tracking program (from a third-party, not the Postal Service), not a single package had reached its destination last week.  My initial reaction was anger.  I was even more convinced that the new guy had flubbed his job completely.  I even snapped out to the Lovely Lady, “How can they be so incompetent?”  I almost reveled in my misery (some of us are put together like that, you know) for some time, until the bright light of lucid thought pierced the darkness of my mood.  Maybe there was something wrong with the program!  That’s a possibility.  Our online postage service has had one problem after another with a new version of its software they released just over a month ago.  Could that be it?  I quickly changed to the Postal Service’s website and checked the tracking of several packages.  There it was in black and white…the rookie had done his job on every single one of them.  The packages which should have been delivered had been; the locations of the others were listed, just as we normally expect.  It wasn’t a personnel problem!  It was a technology problem!  I was ecstatic!

Then it hit me!  The news, which was good for my business, wasn’t so good for me personally.  I now have to make amends.  The apology will have to be made and I will hope that no lasting damage has been done.  And, once more, I have to give myself a good talking to.  Why, just recently I stood with friends and told them what a good job the Postal Service does with our packages.  Their on-time rate is exceptional.  Our customers are constantly calling and emailing us to share their joy and surprise at the quick delivery time of their orders.  I know the organization to be competent in their performance.  But at the first sign of problems, I place blame and make phone calls.  I am ashamed. 

I am hoping that this will be the last time I have to learn this lesson.  I am fairly certain that it will not be.  But I will attempt to remember this and the myriad of examples that have come before, the next time I’m tempted to jump to the conclusion.  Why should we expect competent folks to be incompetent?  Why would we accuse people we know to be honest of dishonesty?  I’m convicted by what the old professor says in “The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe” when the other children believe that Lucy is lying about the world inside the wardrobe.  “…a charge of lying against someone you have always found truthful is a very serious thing, a very serious thing indeed.”

We are taught to expect the worst in others, both by our experience and by our role models; even by the media and the world around us.  I live in hopes that I may one day break out of that conditioning and assume the best about people.  Rose-colored glasses?  Nope!  Good advice is to be found in the Bible, when we’re told  to “consider others better than ourselves.”   I think I’ll work on that in the days to come.  I’ll let you know how it goes….

I’m pretty certain that this battle will rage as long as I breathe.  I’m glad I don’t have to face it alone.  Do you fight the same type of battle over and over?  Good.  Then, you know what I’m up against and can help me do better.  I’ll try to do the same for you.

“Learn from yesterday; live for today; hope for tomorrow.”
(Albert Einstein~American physicist~1879-1955)

“(Love) does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” 
(I Corinthians 13: 6,7)

From Where I’m Standing…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The telephone jangled, interrupting the relative quiet of the morning hours.  “Could you tell me the value of a dulcimer?” the female caller asked.  I assured her that I could and would, and asked a few pertinent questions.  Brand?  It was a name I had never heard as a maker, but no matter. Condition?  Excellent! No scratches, very nice finish.  Anything broken?  No nothing, except it was missing a string. 

Satisfied with her answers, I placed her on hold for a few moments and did a little research.  Finding no such maker in the bluebook, I turned to that most influential of all marketplaces today, Ebay.  There were a couple of dulcimers with that name which had sold and I arrived at an approximate market value.  I returned to the telephone, and related the results of my search to the young lady.  She agreed that she would be interested in selling me the instrument if I could offer a price in the vicinity of what we discussed.  Before she hung up, I reminded her that the number was not an offer.  The actual offer amount would depend on the item matching her description.  She was satisfied and assured me that she would be here later today.

A few moments after I opened (very few), the SUV pulled up and a young man and young lady got out, each going to the back seat to grab something.  The man came in soon thereafter, carrying a very small baby, mere months old.  She followed immediately after, carrying the dulcimer in a case and a cheap electric guitar.  It was the usual situation; expenses were mounting for the baby and there was no job to be found for either of them.  I determined to keep my mind on the appraisal of the instruments before moving to their need and began to examine the dulcimer.

Wow!  Have you ever heard the ancient story from the Far East of the blind men examining an elephant?  It has been retold for a number of years now to demonstrate the alleged fallacy of absolutism.  The blind men all feel a different part of the behemoth and each has a different description of the same animal.  One says a rope (the tail), the next a tree trunk (the leg), still another a fan (the ear), and on and on.  The story is supposed to illustrate the danger of believing in absolute truth, when we have a limited knowledge of the subject.  Well, this dulcimer was a prime example of that!  The young lady undoubtedly had been truthful as far as her knowledge went, but she was wrong about every single point we discussed!

The name she threw out as the maker of the dulcimer was simply the name of the author of an instruction book on playing the instrument, which happened to be in the case.  When the dulcimer was taken out of the case and turned over, the label plainly said “Made in Taiwan, Republic of China,” leading me to think that doubtless this fine instrument had been manufactured in the center of the Appalachian Folk Music world, where the finest dulcimers have always been made.  (Sorry, just my poor attempt at irony.)  Strike one!  No matter; I was on to the overall condition.  Of course, the first thing I had noticed as I opened the case was the high gloss of the finish.  This is a huge red flag on an instrument of this type, since it indicates a heavy spray coat of varnish, which inhibits the tone of the dulcimer significantly.  Also, the heart-shaped sound holes cut into the top were clearly poorly cut and sanded using power tools, leaving an irregular look to them.  It was obvious that this was a factory-made, cheaply-built instrument, intended only to entice uneducated novices into opening up their wallets in the hopes of purchasing a quality dulcimer for a low price.  Strike two!

At this point, I thought it prudent to warn the couple that we were not going to be purchasing the instrument for the price I had mentioned earlier, since it did not meet any of the standards we had discussed.  We had one other criterion to meet; the question of whether anything was broken or not.  The broken string was a given, but could be easily remedied.  I asked why the other strings had no tension on them, another red flag when purchasing any stringed instrument.  They couldn’t answer, since neither of them had attempted to play it (it had belonged to Grandma, now deceased, you see).  Noticing a slight separation in the finish near the connection point for the strings on the body, I nevertheless started to tune it up, finding it necessary to tighten up the screws on the friction tuners before completing the task.  For some reason though, the pitch continued to drop as the strings were tightened.  I immediately stopped tuning and looked more closely at the finish separation.  A huge gap had opened up between the top layer and the body!  If I had continued tuning the strings up to pitch, it probably would have pulled the fingerboard completely off.  No wonder the tension had been completely off the strings!  And, Strike three, You’re out!

Stop a minute to consider…This young lady hadn’t told me a single lie, but had answered, as truthfully as she knew how, every question I had asked.  Yet, she had been wrong on every single detail!  The wrong maker’s name, poor condition (from poor manufacturing), and broken beyond reclamation to boot! 

According to the proponents of the elephant allegory, the young lady wasn’t wrong at all, just giving me the facts as she saw them.  In fact, she was in error on all points.  Her ignorance of what she was holding didn’t change reality one iota.  In most other areas of discussion also, we do everyone a disservice to posit that perspective changes truth.  It is possible to be completely convinced of the truth of something, all the while believing a complete fabrication, to our ultimate harm. 

The instrument the good folks believed should sell for a handsome price will never go up for sale as a musical instrument in my store.  I do, however, now possess a very nice piece of art which looks surprisingly like a dulcimer.  It could be purchased for a very reasonable price, if you care to hang it on your wall…

“The truth is incontrovertible.  Malice may attack it, ignorance may deride it, but in the end; there it is.”
(Winston Churchill~British orator, author, and Prime Minister~1874-1965)

“And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
(John 8:32)

The Bright Side

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

Tornado alley.  What a benign name for such a terrifying place.  Can’t you just hear the old guy at the gas station giving directions?  “Well, you go down the road a spell ’til you get to where the old rendering plant used to be.  Take a left there and go past the old Parson’s place; you’ll know it by the forsythia that blooms in spring.  Well, no.  It’s not spring now, but you should see it when it is!  Keep going another mile or two and you’ll see Tornado Alley.  You can’t miss it!  It’ll be the one with all the people running for their “fraidy holes” tonight!” 

I’ve got to tell you; I’ve lived here for over 34 years now and somehow tornado alley doesn’t seem so benign right now.  As I write, the immediate threat of a tornado is past, but for an hour or so tonight, the combination of lightning and thunder and wind and strange sounds up in the air made for a few tense moments.  The tornado sirens in town and the loud beeps of constant weather bulletins on the television didn’t lessen the tension any, either.  You’ll pardon me if I waste the next few moments on levity now, just to achieve a sense of balance in my psyche.  And, if someone will just turn down the volume of the thunder rumbling up above, I’ll be able to shift gears.

Someone wrote online tonight that tornadoes kill more adult males because men go outside to see the storm instead in staying under cover.  Well, of course we do!  What kind of real man could stay inside hiding in a closet when there is no sign of danger except for the sirens going?  Why, just tonight, the mayor of our town wrote on Facebook that the sirens were only sounding to caution us, not because any tornado had been sighted.  I think it may be as my son-in-law phrased it when describing his babies who wouldn’t go to sleep at night.  “They are afraid that something might happen while their eyes are closed.”  Come to think of it, that could explain my lack of sleeping hours, too!

I am afraid that I am just as much a “looky loo” about the weather as I am about other events with people involved.  I don’t want to be the only one who didn’t see it as it happened.  Who wants to be the one to say, “That was right outside my window.  I didn’t see it because I was hiding in the bathroom, but it was right out there next to me”? 

I hope you won’t think the facetiousness misplaced.  I know that many people have died or lost possessions in the storms of the last few days.  That said, I find that humor and self-deprecation is one of the ways we can get through bad times without losing our sanity…although, as you are no doubt already aware, I have taken leave of my senses long ago (hence, the title of this blog).  It has been a trying few days and I’m working at staying out of the dumps.  That’s the place in which I tend to linger when events have gotten the better of my spirits.  There’s not much good to be found there, anyway.  While we’re in the vicinity though (of the dumps, that is), I will mention that we’ve had to say goodbye to a good friend, since our faithful family mutt, Strider died unexpectedly last night.  It’s a personal sadness that won’t soon be banished, but I had the chance to contemplate the temporal nature of pets with you in a recent post and I’ll not make you dredge that up again.  He was an indefatigable puppy all of his life and we enjoyed him immensely.  We should all be so happy-go-lucky.

So, if you happen to be driving by my place the next time there’s a tornado warning and I’m standing outside looking at the sky; honk your horn and yell at me to go inside. No, wait!  What are you doing out driving in that kind of weather?  Maybe you should stop and watch with me.  That way we could all head for the fraidy hole together if we see that big, bad twister coming at us…



There’s a technical term for a sunny day that follows two dreary, stormy days.  It’s called Monday.

Whatever happened to the cow that got carried away in the tornado?  Udder disaster!



Stay Sharp!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

He got out of his car and walked behind it, opening his trunk.  I never know if this is a good sign or not.  If he’s bringing in a guitar for repair, I’m not excited.  It’s not that I don’t enjoy rescuing disabled instruments, but more that I don’t really have the time to keep up with repairs these days.  Come to think of it, I guess if I enjoyed it more, I’d take the time, but that’s a discussion for another day.   He closes the trunk and comes toward the front door of the music store and I’m encouraged.  I recognize the case as one that should carry a nice instrument.  If he wants to sell that one, I’m definitely interested.  Not like the majority of the musical instruments which come through my doors on any given day.  Mostly, they’re sad economy models which should never have been manufactured, much less bought and sold.  But then, you’ve heard that complaint from me before, so, like the discussion of time management, that will wait for another day to be aired again.

I’ve never seen the man before, but he does want to sell the instrument.  New in town, he, like most of the others hawking guitars, has a hard-luck story.  Also like many others, the story involves a vehicle and the need to get it from one place to another.  I look over the instrument and start to offer him a price, when he reminds me that the guitar is American-made.  “They’re going on Ebay for a couple of thousand,” comes the claim.  I flip the guitar over and sure enough, there is the “US” in the serial number.  I see no sign of the dreaded “Made in Korea” lettering I had expected, so I’m ready to revise my offer.  He makes sure that I know he’s not going to demand book price for the instrument, since he just needs enough to get his truck out of the impound lot.  After hearing his price, I decide it’s an equitable amount to pay for a professional grade instrument and the transaction is completed.  He walks out counting his hundred dollars bills and I put the guitar on my workbench to clean it up for resale as I get a few free moments later.

After awhile, I find time to start on the clean-up and flip the guitar over on its face, much like I did when I examined the serial number earlier.  This time, I notice a sticker in an odd place and decide to remove it.  Much to my chagrin, when the paper finally comes off, I see some lettering that looks suspiciously like the end of the name “Korea”.  The rest of the lettering is obliterated by a substance that looks much like a glob of lacquer, no doubt placed there to eradicate the evidence that this guitar is, indeed not American-made, but the much cheaper oriental-built model.   My expectation of a reasonable profit margin for the guitar has flown out the window faster than the shyster had carried the instrument in earlier this afternoon.

It would be an understatement to say that I was angry.  But, it might surprise you to learn that the ire was aimed exclusively at one person…myself.   I tried to work myself up to blame the former owner, but realized that it was a lost cause.  I’m the one that should know better.  I’ve bought thousands of guitars by now and I know; people lie.  For whatever reason, they lie.  It may be to generate enough pity to convince me to pay more than I normally would, possibly to cover up that fact that they’re selling stolen or borrowed instruments (it’s happened a number of times), or as in this case, to misrepresent the model and extract more cash from me.  Whatever the rationale, I know that a fair percentage of the folks I buy from will lie to me during the process.  “Fool me once; shame on you.  Fool me twice…”  Yep, there’s no fool like an old…  But, here I go speaking in adages again and beating around the bush (another one?).  I want to trust folks, but I know better!  That’s why I keep books.  That’s why I have the internet to research the instruments I purchase.  There is no one to blame but myself. 

By now, you know that I readily admit to not being the sharpest blade around.  I’m starting to think that I make these mistakes habitually just to prove that I have nothing about which to brag.  My intellect falls short time after time, leaving me to make up the difference by hard work and God’s provision, the latter being far more dependable than the former.  On this day, as I was contemplating my ignorance and berating myself, a certain customer came to mind.  This young man is especially fond of the style of guitar I had just purchased, regardless of whether it happened to be made in the United States.  While he won’t pay more than such an instrument is worth, he can usually be counted on to be interested in those that I purchase.  As I mused about whether to call him or wait for him to come in eventually, a car pulled up in front of the music store.  I laughed in spite of my agitated state of mind.  It was that young man, arriving mere moments after I thought about calling him.  Of course, he was interested!  After trying the guitar out for a short period of time, he assured me that he absolutely wanted to buy it! Quite reasonably, I won’t be able to sell the guitar for what I once thought it worth, but I won’t have to “take a bath” on it either.

Did he arrive at that moment by chance?  You can make that call, but I know what I believe.  The old cliche “Our disappointments are God’s appointments” comes to mind.  I’ve reminded you before of my Dad’s favorite quote, “Man proposes, God disposes,” which he often used to soften the blow of ill-fated plans.  For some reason, I tend to think that just as often (maybe more often), the application can be made to the unearned successes which we encounter in our bumbling around.  And I’m grateful.

I’m obviously still having to work at keeping my wits about me on a daily basis, a task I don’t seem to take to naturally.  And, now that you know how gullible I really am, I hope there won’t be a rush to take advantage of that, too.

I can trust you, can’t I?

“You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you do not trust enough.”
(Frank Crane~American minister and columnist~1861-1928)

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord.  ‘Plans to prosper you and not to harm you; plans to give you hope and a future.'”
(Jeremiah 29:11)

Still Safe

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Today’s post is a repeat of one from last week.  I hope you’ll pardon the repetition, but a combination of things have made this a weekend of reflection and I’m not ready to put a lot of it into words.  A day of prophecy unrealized, with many thousands of people who are now disappointed and confused, along with a terrible night of death and terror for neighbors to our north were a big part of my reasons for the decision.  On a personal note, my faithful dog was suddenly struck blind this weekend.  Not a momentous event, in the scope of things, but one that brings sadness to me and my family, nonetheless.  A second reading of this earlier writing was helpful to me, so with an edit or two, I present it for your consideration once more.  I’ll try to do better tomorrow…


“Help me, Daddy!”  the terrified young boy screamed.  The family was spending the afternoon at the beach, but things were not going as planned.  The young father had made sure that all of his children learned to swim, at least enough to get out of most normal circumstances they would encounter in the water.  This, however was no normal circumstance.

As Mom and the older sister waded and looked for sea shells, the boys and their dad had opted to swim in the breaking surf.  It was an incredible experience for the boy of nine or so.  He and the others walked out twenty or thirty yards through the breakers; sometimes letting them hit him on the bare stomach; sometimes jumping up in the air as they approached, watching them go past with the white water swirling around his legs.  Deeper and deeper the water became as the shore was left behind.  Chest high, it would reach and suddenly, he would stumble as the ocean floor underneath him rose quickly and he was only knee deep again, yards from the shore.  And the waves!  One after the other, they came incessantly; water piling over on top of water.  Wave after wave pummeling his body, again and again, until he tired of it and just wished for it to stop for a moment.  But, more waves came, wearing the young boys and their father out.

They were spread out a little distance when the father called out to them to head in.  Normally, the call to quit playing would result in a bit of cajoling and coaxing to stay for just a few moments more, but there was none of that this time.  The tired boys headed for the shore.  And then, just feet away from the shore it happened.  The youngest of them suddenly felt the motion of the ocean stronger than he had felt it before.  He couldn’t stand up any longer as he was drawn away from the shore ahead of him.  The beach at South Padre Island is famous for its “rip currents” or undertow, and he was caught in one of those dreaded waves, moving under the surface much faster than it appeared.  The terror was instantaneous.  Along with his brothers, he had learned to swim and was pretty good at it.  Even at that, he was no match for this kind of power.  As his father attempted to swim toward him, he realized the now all-too-apparent phenomenon that accompanied the rip current.  To either side of the outgoing current, the water was still moving strongly toward the shore.  It was immediately clear that he couldn’t reach the boy in time, so he did the only thing he could do.  He yelled!  “Swim!  Swim to the side!  Swim toward me!”  It made no sense to the scared little boy, who was trying to swim directly into shore against the current that was pulling him away from that safe haven, but he turned to the right and swam for all he was worth.  It seemed an eternity that nothing happened, except that he was drawn further out, but stroke by stroke, inch by inch, the lad pulled out of the current and into calm water and safety.

Standing on the firm bottom and shaking from the experience, the only thing he could think about was that his father hadn’t saved him.  All the time he was sure he was drowning, the only thing his father had done was to yell at him.  “Why didn’t you try to pull me out?” he asked accusingly.  The father, no doubt terrified himself, didn’t try to explain his actions, but picked up the little fellow and carried him to shore and his mother.  It would be a long time before the boy understood what had happened that day.  But, he never forgot the experience.

You know, I’ve heard the poem and the song based on it, entitled “Footprints In The Sand” for years.  It’s a tear jerking piece of poetry that talks about a dream of seeing two sets of footprints and the explanation that they were God’s and the writer’s walking beside each other.  But all of the sudden, there is only one set of footprints and the writer accuses God of leaving, only to learn that at those times which represented troublesome events in life, God carried her or him.  All very beautiful and romantic.  And wrong.  You see, what actually happens is that throughout life, God is imparting his wisdom and knowledge specifically to equip us for the difficult times.  And, as harsh as it seems, when those times come, He knows that we have the tools to face them and get through them.  Truly, we often wonder where He is when the night is darkest, when we fear the worst that can happen.  No, I don’t believe that He leaves us to “sink or swim”, but we’ve been trained in the good times, learned the lessons, and His strength is adequate.  We can face the challenges before us and come through just fine.

As I write tonight, I’m grieving for families who have lost loved ones, suddenly and unexpectedly.  My heart is torn apart for them, envisioning the pain they are feeling and even possibly, the sense that God has left them in the riptide.  Right now, they may be drowning in their loss and emptiness.  My prayer for them is that they will recover with the strength and courage that He has already provided and prepared them with.  His strength is perfected in our weakness.  A Father’s love never fails and never deserts us.

I have never forgotten the terrifying experience in the waves, but sometimes I still need a jolt to be reminded of the real lesson there.  We are safe wherever we go, led by our Father’s strong and able hands. 

“…Be strong and courageous.  Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged,  for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”
(Joshua 1:9)

“Comfort and prosperity have never enriched the world as much as adversity has.”
(Billy Graham~American evangelist)