I love to tell stories.  Oh, I know I’m not always good at it; missing important details, muffing essential conversations.  But still, I have these memories in my head, and they want out.  So, I type them out, giving shape to the vague and not-so-vague snippets of time which still linger inside my head.  There are so many more that have yet to be told, but most them would be of no interest to you:  The neighbor girl who whined “Don’t step on my toes!” constantly as we boarded the bus behind her…The two high-school age brothers who had fist-fights frequently in their front-yard…There’s even Tony and his old three-wheeled mail cart giving me rides home after school.  All these and more are stories which remain in the musty files of my memory, perhaps to be trotted out and perhaps to stay put.  Time will tell…

But, it wasn’t my intention to talk about the true stories tonight.  Those are just narratives, a recounting of events as they happened.  I’m thinking about lies tonight.  A few years ago, when someone believed that you were lying to them, they would say “You’re just telling me a story.”   I don’t hear the word “story” used in this context quite as much today, but it’s safe to say that I’ve done my share of that kind of storytelling, too.  One of the best (or worst) examples I can think of came in first grade.  A rainy day had driven us inside the cafeteria to wait for the bus and as we waited, a couple of us went up onto the little stage to play around.  I happened to notice an inflatable globe on the floor under a desk which was shoved up into a dark corner.  The two of us played with the sadly deflated, glorified beach ball for awhile and then a voice yelled through the door, “Bus number three is here!”  As I grabbed my lunch box, I also grabbed that globe, in effect stealing it.  I remember thinking, “Well, it’s just lying on the floor.  Nobody wants it,” as I took it.

I boarded the bus and immediately, one of the fifth graders noticed the globe in my arms and grabbed it from me.  It was handed to the bus driver and word got back to the teacher the next day.   I got sent to Mr. Rhodes office pretty quickly.  Confronted with my crime, I had made up a story for my teacher, telling her that it had been a birthday present.  Consequently, she sent me straight to the principal’s office (some “pal” he turned out to be).  The lie, coupled with the theft, was enough to earn me a paddling.  As I walked back into my classroom, rear end still tingling, Mrs. Reid asked aloud, for all the class to hear, “Well, what did you figure out?”  Of course, you realize that this was in a day before sensitivity training, and different methods were used.  The criminal was expected to confess his crime publicly.  Well, this criminal wasn’t confessing.  In fact, the story was added to,  “It was a birthday present.  It must just look like one from the school. Yep, that’s it.  We decided that it’s mine”

Almost before the words were out of my mouth, she was talking to the office on the intercom system.  Back to the principal I went.  The paddle was plied once more and I made the long, painful trip back to the first grade wing.  This time when the question was asked, the facts were imparted, instead of the story.  “It’s not mine,”  came the words softly.  I refused to say anything else.  In one short sentence, the liar and thief was exposed.  It’s a lesson I will never forget.

Have I told other lies?  Absolutely.  Have I stolen anything else?  Affirmative.  I didn’t say the lesson was learned, just that I remember it vividly to this day.  Liars lie.  Thieves steal.  They get better at their craft or they receive more punishment.  But, it was a turning point.  I understood the shame of exposure and the pain of punishment.  I also understood what I was.  I never again argued with anyone about being a sinner.  I’m thankful that lying thieves are offered Grace.

You know, there’s something else about storytelling.  No, not the lying kind.  I’m back to the original ones now.  As I put down the words of this story tonight, I realized that for years, I have blamed Mrs. Reid for embarrassing me.  In telling the story, I’ve had a catharsis of sorts.  She was really doing what she believed was best for me and for the other students.  For me, because I needed to own up to my actions; that much is clear.  It didn’t hurt that the exposure before the rest of the class would curtail any other such actions by other class members when they saw the embarrassing result.  No, the only one to blame for this predicament was me.  After all this time, I see it clearly and that dear lady, certainly passed on by now, is finally off the hook.

So, you see; stories do have their benefits.  I think I’ll keep telling them.  The narratives, I mean.  I’d probably just have to “fess up” to the other kind, so I believe I’ll stick to the truth for the foreseeable future.

“Hamlet:  It is as easy as lying. Govern these ventages with your fingers and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music.”
(William Shakespeare~English playwright~1564-1616)

“Life begins at 40 – But so do fallen arches, rheumatism, faulty eyesight, and the tendency to tell a story to the same person, three or four times.”
(Helen Rowland~English/American writer~1876-1950)

“Whatcha doin’, Don?”  The question is tossed out, even though there is no one named Don around.  I look over at the Lovely Lady, smiling at me from the couch.  Of course, I know the proper answer, so it comes unbidden, “Washing dishes.”  Quite obviously, the answer isn’t the truth, since I have just awakened from an evening nap in my recliner, but I have satisfied the requirements of the repartee and we lapse into our comfortable silence once more.  I wasn’t around when the little sketch was developed, but it has been a part of our repertoire for many years. 

The Don in question is a cousin of the Lovely Lady’s who spent a semester or two in his college years living with her family.  He was pestered continually by the much-younger cousins, who just wanted his attention.  Of course, they resorted to the time-honored, “Whatcha doin?'” to start a conversation.  Don, developed the response as a mechanism for communicating the idea that the question was a silly one.  The response would always be the same, whether he was eating supper, or studying, or tying his shoes.  The reply, “Washing dishes,” would invariably be met with, “No, you’re not.  You’re ____________!” followed by his retort, “Well, if you knew, why’d you ask?”  I’m guessing that such logic was lost on the two little girls, but it must have satisfied his exasperation at the interruptions,and the little tableau entered the halls of immortality in the Lovely Lady’s family, and so into mine.

Not my favorite activity, washing dishes.  I grew up in a family of seven, with the five children shouldering the washing up responsibilities as soon as each of us was able to reach the dish tub which was placed in the old chipped ceramic sink and filled with hot, soapy water.  Five children – five weekdays, so my day as the youngest was always Friday.  The weekends were on a rotating schedule which was always written on the calendar which hung on the back of the cupboard door nearest the sink.  My turns were marked with whining and carping, along with a bit of creative dirty-dish storage.  Under the sink worked for awhile, then behind the canned goods in the pantry took its turn.  The last straw was the time I hid the unbelievably crusty casserole dish in the oven.  The next day, the oven was preheated as supper was prepared, only to fill the kitchen and house up with the incredible stench and smoke from the smoldering mess.  The backside a little sorer, I took another shot at the dishes that day too and never tried that again.  Did I mention I don’t like to wash dishes?

Fast forward forty years or so and the situation hasn’t changed much.  My pleasure at owning a dishwasher cannot be overstated.  I still balk at loading the monster, since obviously I have no concept of the term “full dishwasher”.  I insert the glasses where the pans should go, and the plates take up twice as much space as necessary.  The pans?  Well, don’t get me started on that!  Needless to say, the Lovely Lady has graciously agreed to take the responsibility for this task, leaving me to rinse the dishes and place them on the counter, ready for her puzzle-solving abilities in fitting them in.  Why do I rinse the dishes (essentially washing them before washing), when we’re told that dishwashers clean them quite adequately without the added step?  Because it’s a lie, proven by the spots and little stuck-on particles which remain if they are not rinsed.  So, whether it’s considered “green” or not, I’ll continue “washing dishes” before they’re actually washed.  You’ll thank me, if you’re ever lucky enough to be invited over to enjoy one of the amazing dinners for which the Lovely Lady is famous.

One day when you have the time and you walk into the music store, finding me at my workbench restringing my umpteenth guitar for the day, and are foolish enough to ask what I’m doing, don’t be surprised if I answer with the foolish words, “Washing dishes!”  Well, ask a silly question…

“A question that sometimes drive me hazy; Am I, or are the others crazy?”
(Albert Einstein~American physicist~1879-1955)

“Can a mortal ask questions which God finds unanswerable?  Quite easily, I should think.  All nonsense questions are unanswerable.”
(C.S. Lewis~British scholar and novelist~1898-1963)

“It will grow out,”  I hear the words from the Lovely Lady’s lips as she talks on the phone with my daughter.  The pictures posted  earlier that day told the story.  Two boys, believing that they understood what their younger sister’s hair should look like, found the scissors and took care of the job themselves.  The result was not the picture of beauty they had envisioned.  To say that their mama was unhappy would be a slight understatement.  The little girl had spent two plus years growing the crop of hair she had and still had not yet had her first hair cut.  It was finally to the point that a barrette could be placed on the side of her head and elicit comments about the beautiful girl and her pretty hair.  Now, the uneven sides were joined by lopsided bangs and if you looked at the back, the scalp could be seen in places.  I think even Grandma may have had tears in her eyes as she listened to our dismayed daughter describe the fiasco.  It was a disaster.

What is it about hair that elicits such emotion?  My generation grew up fighting our parents constantly about the length and style of hair.  I remember a time when one of my brothers was angry enough to consider running away one night after a run-in with our father over hair and its acceptable length.  I even remember one of my most embarrassing moments which was precipitated by a bad haircut.  I realize that the picture included with this post shows what also should have been an embarrassing hair style (to say nothing of the amazingly fantastic slacks), but it was what I wore most of my years in school.  The haircut I’m remembering actually occurred very soon after this picture was taken.  I grew up with my parents cutting my hair, so this one was to be just like the multitude of cuts I had received before.  Dad must have been at work, so Mom took her turn with the barbering chores this time.  As she cut, she was careful to leave enough at the front that it could come down almost to, but not quite in, the eyes.  The problem came as she moved down from the top of my head to the sides, tapering the longer expanse on top to the shorter hair that would go down to the nape of my neck.  For some reason, she just couldn’t get the taper to come out on one side and the short area moved up that side further and further as she worked.  Finally, she said, “Well, it’s done.  Maybe a little worse than usual, but it’ll grow out.”  I took one look in the mirror and realized that it looked like she had laid a cereal bowl at an angle on the very top of my head and cut around it.  Long on top and immediately close cropped on the left side and a low fringe hanging down over the right.  There was no way I was going to be seen dead like that!

I returned to the chair I had just vacated.  “Cut it all off!”  I requested curtly.  Mom protested for a while and then complied.  The buzz cut had been a familiar sight on my  head in my earlier years, but the changing styles as I got older made that an unpopular option.  Nevertheless, it was what I requested this time and it was what I got.  In moments, all my hair laid in a circle about me on the floor and I was repenting my hasty decision.  I looked in the mirror, listening to Mom’s quiet reassurance once more, “It’ll grow out.”  It didn’t help any.

All I could see as I gazed in that unfriendly glass was the reception which was awaiting at school the next morning.  There was no doubt that the other kids would laugh.  My friends would be sure to pin me down and give me “nuggies” unmercifully.  Nuggies?  You know; when someone rubs your scalp roughly with their knuckles. Not only is it painful, but just the thought of the humiliation…Well, no matter.  I had a plan.  By this age, I had been wearing the “kicker” boots (pointed cowboy boots) for a couple of years, so I would just wear a hat to match.  I figured if I wore an old straw cowboy hat I had, no one would notice the haircut.  I had no idea!

In the morning, I stepped off the bus at the edge of the portico, where most students waited for the first bell to ring.  The concrete expanse was crowded and the hope that no one was looking was a false one as I crammed the old hat onto my stubbly head.  If I thought they would laugh at the haircut, that was nothing to the immediate reaction the ridiculous hat evoked.  The roars followed me back around the side of the building to the band room entrance, where I ducked in as quickly as I could.  Needless to say, the hat was relegated to the locker all that day and never made another appearance.  The wisecracks were endured, the nuggies borne and the following day, it was if the haircut had never happened.  How could I not know that’s what would occur?  What was all the angst about?

Isn’t that a picture of us all through life?  Every bad situation that comes up is the worst, causing consternation and stress.  Then when it’s past, we wonder what the fuss was about.  We jump the hurdle, the obstacle in our way and go on, stronger because of it, rather than damaged.  But, for some inexplicable reason, the next time such a circumstance is to be faced, we go through the emotions once again.  You would expect that we could learn from experience.  For some reason, it seems that we’re only really calm when it’s someone else going through it.  We glibly offer the words, “It will grow out”, “Don’t worry”, and the like, only to have them fall on deaf ears.  It appears that we each have to face our own embarrassments, our own hurdles, our own obstacles to get through to the other side.

That said, you may consider this my advice if you’re in such a situation.  It’s not original, but it bears consideration…Trouble will come to pass, but it will pass.  You will get through this.  Easy for me to say?  Don’t take my word for it.  “…Weeping may stay for the night, but joy comes in the morning.”  The words of the writer of Psalms give comfort and promise.  Bad haircuts aren’t life threatening illnesses; they aren’t the pain of separation.  But they do give us a clue as to the nature of our lives.  It will grow out.

“But that’s not all.  We gladly suffer, because we know that suffering helps us to endure; and endurance builds character, which gives us a hope.”
(Romans: 3: 4.5)

“Expect trouble as an inevitable part of life and repeat to yourself the most comforting words of all:  this, too, shall pass.”
(Ann Landers)

When did I decide that nature was “icky”?  My playtime in the water and mud last week has gotten me thinking.  There was a day when nothing was taboo to pick up in my hands.  Well, nothing that didn’t have fangs or a stinger.  It was all fair game for my grubby hands when I was a kid.  I couldn’t count the number of lizards and horny toads I have chased down and caught.  Toads and their reputed wart producing capabilities were nothing to shy away from, nor was there anything to fear from a bevy of insects.  Everything from cicadas to grasshoppers to lightning bugs were targets for most of the boys and not a few of the girls I knew while growing up.  We played with them in the palms of our hands, until they were slipped into the jars, holes punched in the lids to provide oxygen, that would keep them available for entertainment again later.  That’s all in the past, now, it would seem.

I have spent the last few years of my life avoiding any contact with creepy crawlies.  Bugs, amphibians, and any other assorted repugnant wildlife have been removed from my list of enjoyable things with which to associate.  The pest control folks come on schedule every few months to eradicate every hint of the nasty things in my business and home.  Crickets are swept out unceremoniously with the broom, spiders destroyed without a second thought.  And, slugs!  How to express my feelings about these abominable gastropods?  I have fought against these slimy, grotesque creatures for many years without success.  They leave liquid trails behind their long bodies on the sidewalks and walls of the buildings, as well as the side of the family dog’s food dish.  If I wasn’t half convinced that it would be a cruel thing to do, the sidewalk would be sprinkled with table salt daily.  These snail-like creatures are mostly water and the salt actually drains away the water by osmosis, causing them to die in much the same way as if they were in the hot, burning sun.  If I had grown up with them around, I’m sure that I would have delighted in the process, mean little child that I was.  Alas, there were none of the gooey, wet critters in South Texas, due to the extreme heat and lack of natural moisture.

I may be repenting of my hatred for the common slug.  Much like my epiphany in the rain the other day, this awakening to the joys of exploration was precipitated by an afternoon spent with my grandchildren.  The Lovely Lady decided that the front of the music store needed some dressing up, so the grandchildren were invited for a flower planting party.  For the last couple of years, this has been their domain, along with the Lovely Lady’s.  The kids love getting dirty (as if that’s a surprise), and this job is tailor-made for that.  The flower containers are wheeled into the backyard, emptied, and refilled with fresh potting soil.  Their Grandma has provided small garden trowels for this purpose, but hands are much more fun.  The new flowers are set in the dirt, placed there with either hands or trowels, then they are watered.  After this, Grandpa helps the dirt-covered urchins wheel the containers back out to their accustomed posts on the sidewalk.   During this process, the old man needs to find something to do while the kids are sharing quality time with the Lovely Lady.  Yesterday, the time was filled with moving some monster pieces of an old stump, which was cut over a year ago.

Having sat on the ground for more than a year, it was a safe bet that there was going to be some wildlife under them.  We were not disappointed.  An amazing assortment of the scurrying, slippery varmints were to be seen as the logs were dislodged.   I let out a yell and immediately, the boys abandoned their Grandma and younger sister for the adventurous task of locating every single variety of wildlife there was to be found under the logs.  They chased crickets, pulled out a couple of earthworms to be moved to Grandma’s flower boxes, and stayed clear of the big carpenter ants that shuttled out.  But, the slugs!  They were entranced by the ugly, slow creatures.  They played with them for longer than I’ve ever seen their attention held by any one activity.  The little discoverers had them crawl on sticks in their path, touched them to the accompanying “Ewwws” that were automatically evoked, and then they blew on them.  “Hey!  These little pokey things on his head disappear when I blow on him!” the younger boy exclaimed excitedly, pointing to the slug’s antennae, which indeed were retracted every time the forced air hit his sensitive skin.  When we finally called them away from their occupation, they came only reluctantly, running back every so often to see what their slimy friends were up to.

Once again, the childlike enjoyment of a simple, unexpected distraction has me reconsidering several years of single-minded rut traveling.  I work, and eat, and sleep, rushing from one of these activities to the next, with no consideration of the wide world around me.  When I do turn my nose away from my chosen grindstone, it’s just to notice the aggravations and to determine to eradicate them.  Choices are made on the basis of expediency and the joy of discovery is crushed in the dust behind me.  The little time taken for entertainment is filled with television, music, and books populated with corrupt and toxic ideas and characters; all the while ignoring the wide world around me.  The world which was created by God and still functions as designed, continues to teem with creatures that go about their appointed paths; whether rapidly as with the ants we found, or very slowly as do the slugs, but I have rushed blindly on, heedless to the wonder.

A friend made a remark the other day about how repugnant bats are, calling them “evil little flying gargoyles.”  You may or may not agree, but I’m starting to think that even the bats might be interesting too.  What a marvelous and intriguing world we live in!  I’m just thankful for teachers like my grandchildren, who remind me of its excitement and wonderful inhabitants.

I’m thinking that maybe I should plan a few more afternoons stomping through the mud and playing with slimy slugs.  Who’s with me?

“All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy.”
(Old Proverb, oldest written reference in 1659)

“Will you buy this French horn?” queried the middle-aged woman, obviously quite tense.  “It’s a very nice, brand new horn, but my daughter can’t use it.”   I’m always anxious to buy good quality wind instruments, especially horns, since my primary instrument is a French horn, so I took the proffered item to examine it.  Within five seconds, I knew I wasn’t interested in this particular horn.  Handing it back, I shook my head and told her I was sorry, but it wasn’t the kind of instrument I could sell to my clients.

Now visibly upset, she began to argue that the horn was new; she had just purchased it.  Why wouldn’t I be interested in a perfectly good horn to sell in my store?   I started to describe the bevy of inadequacies which had informed my decision, but stopped short.  “Maybe you can tell me why you’re selling a new horn that you just purchased.”  Sheepishly, she began to explain.  Her daughter wanted a horn of her own, since the one which they were renting from the school was well past its prime.  I’ve seen many such horns; victims of a succession of young teenage musicians.  Let’s face it, I was one of those musicians at one time.  The tussles in the band hall, bumps and scrapes from the marching field, and one too many falls off of the bleacher seats take their toll and the once pristine, gleaming instrument becomes a dented, patched, and tarnished albatross around some underclassman’s neck.  This young lady had convinced her mom that her life wasn’t worth living unless she could have a shiny new horn of her own, so mom had done a little Internet shopping.

It was right there, waiting for her on the first page of the French Horn search results on the popular auction site.  “Lacquered French Horn, German Engineered, Four Valve Professional Horn,” read the heading.  The photograph showed a gorgeous, shiny instrument, ready to find a new home, all for the “buy-it-now” price of three hundred and ninety-five dollars.  Never mind that the shipping was going to be sixty-five dollars extra.  This lady was no fool!  She knew that the music store was going to make her pay over two thousand dollars for a horn that looked just like that!  She just couldn’t believe that those wheeler-dealers at the local shop thought she was that gullible.  This keen shopper knew a good deal when she saw one and immediately clicked the button to end the sale and make this fine piece of German engineering hers.  A couple of weeks later, the instrument arrived by mail ($65 for shipping by Parcel Post?) and her nightmare began.

The young lady for whom the purchase was made, snatched the horn out of the case, remarking as she did about the light weight of the horn.  Then she noticed that there weren’t as many slides on this horn as on her old beater.  It did have four valves, but they didn’t work the same as her school horn, each having a metal piece which directly connected the spatula keys with the valves instead of a string linkage.  These clattered loudly when the valves were pressed, unlike the whisper quiet action of her old one.  And, the fourth valve, which should have bridged the upper slides to the lower (non-existent on this horn), only worked a single slide.  The fingerings weren’t the same because of this, making it impossible for her to play the scales as she was accustomed to doing.  As if that weren’t enough, when she figured out the fingerings, the notes wouldn’t play in tune with each other.  And the icing on the cake;  right there on the valve casing underneath the keys, were inscribed the words “Made In China”.  No!  That wasn’t right!  German, not Chinese!  They said the horn was German!  A call to the seller brought the answer.  “German engineered” meant designed in Germany.  It could have been manufactured in Saudi Arabia for all he cared.  His advertising was accurate and there would be no refund.  He said it was lacquered, that it had four valves, and that it was German engineered.  All of those things were true.  The term “professional”?  I’m not so sure about that one.  Regardless, the horn made its way to me.

I apologized that I would not be able to purchase the inferior instrument and left it at that, but she was not to be denied.  “What am I supposed to do with this thing now?” she demanded.  I politely told her that I didn’t know and apologized again; all the while, choking back the accusations that were ready to tumble from my lips.  She knew it was a pile of junk and that she had been ripped off, but she was willing to have me purchase it; first lying to me as she told me it was a good, new horn – and even now when it was obvious that I wasn’t fooled by it, she would have been happy for me to defraud yet another customer as long as she got her money back.  What was she thinking?  But, the words remained unspoken and horn in hand she left, still disappointed with my refusal to be taken advantage of.

Did I feel sorry for the woman?  Of course I did, but her willingness to commit the same fraud which had been perpetrated upon her was frustrating.  Would I have been any more likely to buy the horn if she had been honest?  Not at all, but that was completely beside the point.  The old axiom “Two wrongs don’t make a right” seems to apply, but even that misses the mark.  She wasn’t trying to make anything right.  She was trying to pass the buck.  She had been ripped off and wanted to get her money back, but instead of pursuing the individual who swindled her, she decided to perform her own little swindle on the local music store.  She’s not the first one to try that, nor will she be the last.  That said, I’m happy to report that most of the people I deal with are honest and straightforward.  Happy, because I don’t ever want to have a cynical attitude about every person who walks through the door of my business.

This is where theory becomes reality, folks!  When it costs us to keep our integrity in the real world…that’s when we see if we really believe what we claim to believe in the discussion groups, Sunday School classes, and as we instruct our children.  I guarantee you, the girl for whom that horn was purchased knows what her mother believes.  I’m sure that as she taught her daughter, she said something like, “Always be honest in your dealings with others.”  What the girl learned from reality is, “Be honest when it benefits you.  Otherwise, cheating is acceptable.”  Which lesson do you suppose she’ll retain?

I’ve said before that integrity is doing what’s right, even in the dark.  Integrity is also doing what’s right in the light of day, even when it costs us.  Some lessons are clearly more expensive than others.  But, failure to act with honor in all of our dealings may carry with it a price tag which is much higher than we are able to pay. 

“Honesty is the best policy.  If I lose mine honor, I lose myself.”
(William Shakespeare~English playwright and poet~1564-1616)

“The sure way to be cheated is to think one’s self more cunning than others.”
 (Francois de la Rochefoucauld~French author~1613-1680)