Putting Down Roots

October 28, 2011October 28, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We lived in that little house for the first six years of our married life.

It was just a rental when we moved in, but after three or four years, we were happy to be able to purchase the two bedroom cottage. By today’s standards, it was spartan, even a little rustic, but to us it was an estate, our fortress against the world.

Time has changed our standards in housing, but, thanks to those early experiences, I still think of home as a place of refuge, a sanctuary where we can be ourselves and let down our defenses. We were happy, even as we struggled to make ends meet.

The pride of ownership pushed us to work at keeping up the large lot around the tiny house. Not too much—just enough to be able to face the neighbors.

It was on one of the periodic workdays that we found the sapling.

Many of you who have done yard work know about volunteer plants. Frequently, we call them weeds, since the volunteer classification includes dandelions and crabgrass, as well as many other undesirable varieties of plant life.

The reason they call the season spring is that everything springs out of the ground as if to make up for the lost time spent in the dark and cold soil all winter. It’s a messy process, causing a lot more work than a naturally lazy guy like myself thinks is appropriate.

Regardless, this particular spring day, the Lovely Lady and I were clearing out the fence-row to allow the rose bush there to have some space to spread out. We noticed a volunteer plant which was a little more substantial than most of the weeds being pulled.

Still, the little maple seedling had little to make it stand out from the multitude that popped through the earth every spring after the helicopters spun off the mature trees by the thousands. I’ve mowed down more of them than anyone could count and never given them a second thought.

I reached for the loppers to chop this one off at the ground, but, after a brief discussion with the Lovely Lady, thought better of it. There was a shovel in the shed nearby, so I headed over and brought it back. The shovel sliced neatly into the ground in a circle around the sturdy-looking sapling, standing about two feet high.

Freeing the roots from the ground, we looked for a more suitable place for it to grow. Within a few moments, another hole had been dug through the sod in the middle of the open yard and the little tree was a volunteer no more.

For three more years, we tended to that little maple tree, giving it extra water when the summer droughts came, clearing the vines and grass from around the tiny trunk, being careful not to damage it while mowing. It grew fairly rapidly and was a graceful (if a bit spindly) ten feet in height before we knew it. Straight and proud, it seemed to claim that section of the yard as its own, becoming the focal point there.

The volunteer weed had become a tree, providing shade and adding beauty to the property. But after a few years, our family had grown from just the two of us to an expanding household of four. We had to find a bigger home, since two bedrooms were no longer adequate.

When we sold the house and moved our little family, I wondered what would happen to the young tree. Would the new owners see its value? Or, would they decide that it was an eyesore and chop it down to make way for some other bush or more flashy ornamental tree? I needn’t have worried.

Numerous times over the next few years, as we passed the house, we were unhappy about what had been done to the house itself, but the tree flourished. The trunk thickened and grew taller, the branches spread out and the leaves multiplied. The tree still stands today.

I drove past the old place just last week and looked for my old friend.

There it stands, a mature thirty year old maple, reaching into the sky more than forty feet, covered with the beautiful distinctively shaped leaves, now changing to yellow, soon to be orange and even red. The leaves will fall, leaving the naked limbs to face the harsh season to come.

But, the winter will pass (quickly, it is to be hoped). The new season will see it preparing its seed pods, the helicopters, for their characteristic and prolific descent to the ground once more.

Perhaps one of those seed pods has a chance to become a beautiful, stately tree like its sire, thus keeping alive the heritage begun in that line of maples many, many years before we stepped in and aided in the process.

I used to think that our lives are something like a stone thrown across the surface of a lake, skipping over and over again; each point of contact with the water leaving ripples moving outward, some of them even reaching each other and causing more turbulence as the little waves collide.

The problem with that analogy is that the ripples eventually disappear, actually quite soon after the rock has rebounded for its last time, resting on the bottom of the lake. I’m fairly certain that our lives are not that unimportant; that our passage through this world does not go nearly as unnoticed as that stone, forgotten almost as quickly as its movement is stilled.

The tree analogy now—I believe that’s a little closer to describing what our life and its impact is like.

We grow where we are planted, sometimes springing up in the hedges and fence rows, unnoticed by passersby, but still growing.

Sometimes we are transplanted to have an effect in a different part of the wide world in which we live. Regardless, we impact our environment, whether the focal point of attention or fading into the scenery.

Throughout different seasons, we perform different functions, but we are always working to bear fruit, to do exactly what we were made for.

After we are gone, it is possible that no one will remember our names or what we looked like.

No matter.

For generations to come, season after season, year after year, the heritage will continue, the bloodlines will survive. All because we are faithful today, doing what is required of us, be it drudgery or drama, taxing or trouble-free.

Sure and steady, we continue on the path set before us.

There are times when I wonder if it’s worth it.

Life is hard. It requires discipline.

Sometimes, I watch others having fun and being irresponsible and I want that carefree life, without any obligations. Then I remember that history won’t stop with me; the heritage I leave behind matters.

I think I kind of like being planted and having deep roots.

And yeah, I’m pretty sure it is worth it.

I’m the wrong shape to be skipped across a lake anyway. A hop or two and I’d sink like a . . . Well, you get the picture.

That person is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither— whatever they do prospers.
(Psalm 1:3 ~ NIV)

When you start about family, about lineage and ancestry, you are talking about every person on earth.
(Alex Haley~American author~1921-1992)

Like a Sack of Mail

October 25, 2011March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Hey man! You need a ride home?” It was a dumb question. Of course, I needed a ride home! It was either ride the bus (puleeze!) or walk the two miles carrying a stack of books, so I was obviously waiting around for someone to offer. Leave it to my buddy, Tony to notice my glaring lack of transportation. It was still a year until I would make my quantum leap to the 1972 Chevy Vega which was to be my first automobile, but Tony had wheels. Well, Tony had wheels of a sort. I will admit that today, in my advanced state of nerdiness, I think the vehicle Tony drove to school was totally cool. It was a little different then, if only because any of his riders had to be willing to submit to a bit of embarrassment. That, and a few contortions. But, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?

In the town in which I grew up, the U.S. Post Office (not yet the U.S. Postal Service) utilized a number of ways for moving the mail, but for years you could see little red, white, and blue three-wheeled carts zipping up and down the streets, delivering the mail to homes and businesses. These handy little motorized trikes were made by the Cushman company in Nebraska and got great gas mileage. As it happened, they could also tip over. And they did. More than once. The mail carriers complained about the vehicles being dangerous and underpowered and eventually, the Post Office replaced them with Jeeps. They sold off the unwanted and unnecessary little three-wheelers by the dozens. My home-town Post Office was no exception and thus, Tony acquired his “wheels”. It was a bit of a departure from the norm, but if you knew my buddy Tony, you would understand that it was the perfect vehicle for him. Tony was no rebel, but he wasn’t about to fit anybody’s mold. I got to know him in band, where he owned the only trumpet in a section full of cornets. He was a strong advocate for his church’s tenets and we butted heads over those occasionally. He was also a good friend. We still talk, thanks to today’s social media. I like the idea of not losing touch with people who impacted my life in positive ways. But I think that I’ve once again followed a trail which was not in the original plan, haven’t I?

Where was I? Oh, right! Contortions and humility. Well, accepting a ride from Tony in his three-wheeler meant that one had to open the sliding door in the mail storage section at the rear of the trike and clamber in. We tried it once with both of us riding side by side on the front seat, but that was a little closer than we wanted to be for that amount of time. Reputations and all that, you understand? So, it was the mail storage for me, the whole skinny six feet of me, folded up and squeezed into the little cubicle. Around corners, and over bumps, it was a little nerve-wracking and uncomfortable to be in that closed-up space. I really don’t have a problem with claustrophobia, but in my memory, there was always a sense of relief at being released from the confining box. It seems to me that, although I trusted Tony’s driving, I felt the need to see where we were going and to be able to do something about an emergency headed my way. I was totally at his mercy while the ride lasted. That said, like many of my childhood recollections, I wouldn’t give up the memory of those rides home for anything.

What is it about putting ourselves in someone else’s hands that shakes us to our core? Self-reliance…that is our mantra, our armor. It keeps us in control. It keeps others from controlling us. We don’t like giving up control in any way. As I write this, my mind goes unbidden to my experience a couple of months ago as I lay helpless on the hard “bed” in the emergency room, unable to function on my own, the victim of a bicycle accident and resulting concussion. The Lovely Lady answered questions for me, the attendants wheeled me through the halls to an examination room, where I was thrust into a machine…no, a torture chamber of electronics and metal and glass. I cringe inside right now as I consider it. My distaste is not only for the experience at the hospital, but for the hour and a half that I wandered the cycle path, attempting to return home without any awareness of where I was and what I was doing. The experience is easily one of the worst in memory for me – not because of the pain or time spent healing, but because of the knowledge that for once in my life, I was not consciously in control of my actions or their result. The sense of helplessness was (and is) intensely unsettling.

I could spend a lot of words here, reminding you of One in whose strong hands our very existence rests. Let me say only this: Self-reliance is a myth, a web of deceit woven around us by our culture, and reinforced by our media and entertainment. We are dependent from the day we are born, until the day we lie in our graves, but we fool ourselves and build walls and fences to maintain our sense of strength and self-sufficiency. It will come as no surprise to you that I am unwavering in my faith in a Creator who holds our days, all of them, within His loving hands. His Grace also is none of our doing, but a gift given to a race helpless to redeem any part of itself. With that, I’ll cease my preaching and move on.

It would seem that a stint of complete dependence once in awhile can have a positive result, once the initial shock is overcome. But even after granting that, I’m not anxious for another tumble from my bike anytime soon, nor am I expecting Tony’s arrival at my door in the little Cushman Mailster to be my chauffeur in the foreseeable future. Some lessons are best learned from and not repeated.

Thanks for the ride home, Tony!

“Let’s face it. In most of life we really are interdependent. We need each other.”
(Greg Anderson~American best-selling author)

“This is not your own doing, it is the gift of God. It is not of works, so that no one may boast.”
(Epehsians 2:8b9)

Calling in Sick

October 20, 2011March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I wanted to write a blog today. Really, I did. But, not feeling well and deciding that sleep might be a necessity, leads me to think that a re-run might be in order. Looking back over the last year of posts, this one stands out to me, not because it was so good, but just because I like remembering people I loved.

Give Me a Chance to Catch My Breath

The problem started about three or four years ago. Most people I know with this affliction have it when they are children and then it lessens in severity as they get older, but leave it to me to wait until my waning years to acquire an infirmity that I should have outgrown instead of grown into. I have asthma. Oh, not the full-blown, struggle to inhale, think you’re going to black out, wheezing asthma, but enough to cause shortness of breath and an annoying tight cough, which can’t be relieved by regular cough medicines.

I’ve got my father to thank for it…well really, his father…come to think of it, I shared it with my son too, so there’s enough paternal blame to go around on this one. Heredity seems to have played its part here. My father had to take an early retirement due to respiratory problems brought on by allergens in the workplace. Long before that, his dad (my Grandpa Phillips) was stricken with emphysema, a lung disease far more serious than my touch of bronchial asthma.

I thought about Grandpa today. I had helped the Lovely Lady with a reception for a friend of ours and was carrying boxes out to the car. The extreme change in temperature from inside the building to the frosty air outside was enough to bring on another attack and before I knew it, I was straining to breathe. I felt a kinship with Grandpa that I had never thought about before as I saw him in my mind’s eye, struggling to breathe from the exertion of walking 10 feet across the room. He would stop and lean against a table, or chair, or desk with his torso heaving, the over-developed chest muscles forcing air in and out of the diseased lungs. I must admit that as a child, I didn’t sympathize well. This was just how he had always been in my memory, and I assumed that it was his own fault. Grandpa had been a heavy smoker, his brand of choice, filter-less Camels. A he-man’s cigarette if ever there was one. But for a person predisposed to breathing issues as seems likely, the habit was a slow killer. I’m not a smoker and my problem doesn’t begin to approach the gravity of his, but just for a few moments this evening, I felt an empathy, a bond with my Grandpa that I never considered when he was living. And, I missed him again.

Grandma and Grandpa lived across the street from me when I was a kid. What a great blessing, to be able to grow up so close to your grandparents that you can run across the street and sit with them on the screened-in front porch, or maybe watch an episode of “I Love Lucy” or “Gunsmoke” on television with them. Two channels on TV then, with the signal literally coming through the airwaves and being picked up by a pair of “rabbit ears” on top of the tiny black & white set. Every time an airplane would approach the local airport (we were in the flight path), the static and wavy lines across the screen would interrupt the program. But the best thing was listening to Grandpa tell stories about people he knew. He loved to talk–even talked about talking…“So, I says to him, says I, …”, was one of my favorite phrases I heard him use when describing a conversation with someone else. If I weren’t such a language snob, I would incorporate that into my own speaking. Maybe it’s best to keep that as a memory instead. But I think I get my penchant for story-telling from him and, from where I’m standing, that’s not a bad legacy. The reader is free to agree or not…

The asthma won’t go away, but I carry an inhaler with me when it flares up and a couple of puffs on it usually relieve the symptoms within a minute or two. I’m not happy to have the problem, but tonight, I’m actually a little grateful for the walk down memory lane. We’ve all got memories that live in our heads and hearts; some sad, like Grandpa’s ultimately fatal affliction, but also some happy ones too, like my memories of life with him so close. There are times when I think it would be great if all our memories were like the latter, but I’m reminded of a song I heard as a teenager which pointed out that hardships make us value the good times more; just as we cherish coming home because we had to be away in the first place. I think memories are often like that, the bittersweet giving way to the heartwarming, actually making the happy occasions seem more bright.

Next month, we’ll celebrate Thanksgiving, another of the memory-fraught times of the year for most of us. I’m going to be remembering my Grandpa’s dinner prayer as we approach the holiday. “Our Gracious Heavenly Father, we thank thee for the many blessings which Thou hast bestowed upon us…” When I was a boy, it was only remarkable in that the language never changed. As an aging man, now a grandfather myself, the message of those words has lasted well beyond his mortal years and still resonates today.

“Many blessings” indeed.

“To live in hearts we leave behind, is not to die”
(Thomas Campbell, from his poem “Hallowed Ground”)

Counting

October 17, 2011March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

What a week! I don’t mean that in a good way either. Well, actually it was a pretty good week in the way of encounters and interactions with people. I learned new things. I accomplished some jobs which had been waiting for me for a long time. But if the week were put into one of those old style balances, the kind with two platforms, one on either side of a fulcrum, I think the negative side would be hanging down a lot lower than the positive.

What happened? Who’s to blame for this negativity, this pessimism? If you must know, I’m pretty sure the blame lies with the guy typing these words out on his keyboard. It seems that a few unwise business choices, more than a little procrastination, and one or two (or several more) instances of misguided benevolence may have converged to form a financial situation with which I’m not happy. You see, last week we had to pay a sum of money to the government in the form of taxes. That in itself isn’t such a strange occurrence. It’s just that the amount we paid was much more than expected. No, even more than that. Thus, my dark mood.

What we discovered, to put is simply, is that we have too much junk. Not too much money. I’m not sure that could ever happen. My memory goes back to the financial adviser who once stood in my church and made the statement, “I know just how much money every single one of you needs.” As we stared at him in disbelief, he continued, “A little bit more!” And, of course, he was right. We’ll always take a little more; will always believe that happiness lies just one pay-grade above us; will always convince ourselves with the myth that just that next step will be all we’ll ever need. It will never happen.

No, I don’t have too much money, just too much stuff. We bought too much inventory last year and the government thinks that an inventory gain is profit. Now I’ve never known a bank that would let me deposit a trumpet like hundred dollar bills, but to the IRS it is the same thing. Thus it was that we signed the checks to empty the bank accounts last week, surrounded by inventory which the Lovely Lady will never in a million years be able to make into a tasty enough meal to tempt me. I would almost say that I am depressed. Oh, not in a clinical way. It’s just that I can’t make myself see a return on that money, can’t consider it an investment which will pay back any financial dividend. I’m really not happy.

The thought of inventory in my store being the same as money got me thinking, though. Many in the world think of all of us as rich. Our culture counts riches as dollars in the bank. The rest of the world looks at all the accoutrements with which we surround ourselves and considers us wealthy beyond belief. We look at a number; a million, a billion, fifty billion…to determine how wealthy the man is. Most people around the globe look at the belongings and marvel at our wealth. Two sets of silverware? What madness is this? Many never hold a utensil in their hands. Ten, twenty, fifty pairs of shoes? Is it possible? One pair, repaired and patched over and over again is all most can claim. Walk-in closets packed with clothes for each season and every occasion? Wealth beyond their wildest dreams! Food to throw away after a meal? Foolishness! Their children go to bed crying with hunger and they themselves go without the nourishment they need, simply to keep those children alive.

I’m not writing this to make you feel guilty (it accomplishes that though, doesn’t it?), but simply to help us understand that sometimes a change in perspective can be beneficial. I’m feeling sorry for myself because there are fewer numbers to look at when I glance at the bank statement today. Funny…I had clothes without holes in them with which to cover my body this morning. An amazing repast offered by the Lovely Lady weighed down the table at dinner time this afternoon. I took a Sunday afternoon nap in comfort as I reclined in front of an entertaining football game on the big-screen TV (I think it was entertaining, but really don’t remember). I could go on, but you get the picture. Cars, clothes, food, stereos, cameras, homes…the list is endless. Our wealth is astounding. We are blessed beyond belief.

It’s trite, I know. You have problems and don’t have time to be reminded that you’ve been blessed. I don’t really understand why it is so much easier to focus on the negatives than on the overarching positives, but we do it continually. I know I do. Sick children, aging parents, errant pets, demanding customers; these and many other niggling problems weigh on my mind and rob me of joy every day.

Can I be trite for a moment more? I love the advice that Bing Crosby offered in a musical way in the old movie “White Christmas”. It seems stupid until you stop and get a little shift in perspective. “When I’m worried, and I can’t sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep.” We are blessed beyond the wildest dreams of most of the world! How is that not worth remembering? And celebrating?

The government can have the dirty old dollars. I’ve got the Lovely Lady. And my children. And grandchildren. And friends (not just “close friends and acquaintances” on Facebook either, thank you!). I’ve even got a brain that functions passably well (for now). And, the grace of a loving Creator has been showered upon me and all who accept it. I don’t have any stuff or any sum of money worth more than those.

I’m guessing you don’t either.

“The question for each man to settle is not what he would do if he had means, time, influence, and educational advantages, but what he will do with the things he has.”
(Hamilton Wright Mabie~American essayist~1846-1916)

“The unthankful heart discovers no mercies; but the thankful heart will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings”
(Henry Ward Beecher~American minister~1813-1887)

Gutter Language

October 14, 2011March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

If there were gutter guards back then, we didn’t know about them. Oh, you know what I’m talking about. Those bumpers at the side of the bowling lane which are pulled up when children are bowling to keep the ball from going in the gutter every time it is sent spinning toward the pins. Actually, the historical record shows that these modern contrivances came along in the 1980s, first as carpet rolls set in the gutter, then as inflatable bumpers, and most commonly seen today as pull-up fences which guarantee no zeros on the score card (oh sorry, overhead display) for any young, sensitive child. But back in the 1960s, when I really, really could have used them, children were expected to learn the hard way, by experience. So, no gutter bumpers. It led to one of my most embarrassing memories.

My family went to a small church, with few families who had school-age children, so to get a decent-sized group, we did many activities with the high school and junior high school and even the elementary school kids all together. This particular night, we were bowling. With the restrictions many churches put on questionable activities in those days, I wonder that there were no eyebrows lifted at all those impressionable kids trooping into the bowling alley, with its bar along the back wall and the air so permeated with cigarette smoke that even a non-smoker could almost have made his own smoke rings in the space above his head. But there we were, from the lofty and sometimes haughty seniors all the way down to a lowly third grader who was haughty in his own way, being positive that he was going to make a bucketful of strikes to impress said seniors this night. It was not to happen in that manner, alas. No, the night was destined to be one of shame and disappointment for the young lad.

I stood, as I had seen the others do, with my rented shoes on the arrows pointing the way to the lane. The ball had been carefully selected for fit and weight. It was held with the fingers of the right hand and resting on the palm of the left, then was lifted and swung back as I moved toward the point of release. Exactly in the middle of the lane and, careful to stop before the foul line, I let go. The ball hit with a gentle thump, rolled down the center of the lane for a few feet, then headed sharply right and smacked the side of the chute as it slid dishearteningly into the gutter. What? How could this be? I was flummoxed for a moment, but recovered quickly, knowing that I had a second attempt to make at upsetting the ten pins way down at the end of the alley. No matter. They would all go down with the next roll. The ritual was the same; stand, lift, swing, release. Thump! Down the lane the ball rolled and abruptly headed for the left gutter. Zero! Zip! Nada! I had netted not a single pin for my first frame on the score sheet. Oh well…it was bound to get better, wasn’t it?

“Better” was not how I would put it. In all of that game, one pin went down the entire ten frames. One, single, lonely, mortifying pin. If memory serves correctly, it was on a gutter ball too. The ball rolled off the lane as it reached the pins and snuck back in to knock over the 10 pin. I was crushed. The older kids had a great time with it for most of the game, teasing and mocking as gutter ball after gutter ball rolled down toward the pin-setting machines (certainly not toward the pins!). As the game progressed, however, the taunts and gibes lessened and the sympathy began to flow. It was worse than the jeering. I remember leaving the bowling alley and sitting on the front steps until it was time to go…just to get away from their expressions of understanding and encouragement. I couldn’t get home fast enough that night!

Of course, you won’t be surprised to learn that I never bowled again and that I detest the game to this day. Actually, I’m happy to tell you that I bowled many more times with the other young people from my church and I really enjoy the sport (I can call it a sport, right?) to this day. No, the nature put into me and most of us, by the Creator is not the sort of spirit that quits when it is defeated. If anything, we seem to be more defiant in the face of battles lost, ready to do better the next time. Sometimes slowly, but often quickly, we improve, finding ways to avoid the embarrassing performance that lives on in our memories. Failure is an amazing professor, teaching an abundance of lessons, from technique to strategy, from humility to perseverance. I am suspicious of folks who have an easy time of life, realizing that their success is shallow, having come easily and without cost. I find myself to be a great admirer of those who achieve success through hardship, overcoming failure time and time again to rise above the crowd and to excel.

I wish that I could tell you that this describes me. It doesn’t…yet. I’m still working on it. In some ways, you might say that I’m a plodder. I just keep working at it, giving up and then returning to the task, time and time again. I may never rise above the pack. And, that’s okay with me. I love the old maxim, learned long ago in childhood days: “Virtue is its own reward.” We don’t do what is right because of the pay-off, or because of the glory. We do it because it should be done. Not a popular line of thought in today’s climate, but it still works.

Life getting the best of you? Been knocked down a few times (or more than a few)? Okay, it might be time to try a different plan of attack, but if you’re still breathing (and you probably are if you’re reading this), it seems to me that you still have time left to take another stab at it. Embarrassment? Disappointment? Hurt? Each one is just another hurdle, another opportunity to show your mettle. The sympathy and encouragement coming from the bystanders are there to help, not harm. Up and at ’em! Folks who love you are right beside you!

I’m going to keep plodding. I’ll keep learning. I’m fairly certain that I’ll keep failing…and trying again. There is still time for a few successes between here and there. Bring it on!

“To succeed in life, you need two things: ignorance and confidence”
(Mark Twain~American author and humorist~1835-1910)

“There are no secrets to success. It is the result of preparation, hard work, and learning from failure.”
(Colin Powell~American General and Secretary-of-State)

It’s Only a Scratch…

October 11, 2011March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You realize this means that I’m going to have to sell all of my Johnson & Johnson stocks, don’t you?” My supervisor looked at me seriously, but the twinkle in his eye belied his solemn tone. “What do you mean?” I queried. “Well, if you’re not working for us anymore, they’re won’t be making any profit on production of Band-Aids and the stock will go down the tubes,” he quipped, now beginning to chuckle. It was my last week at the old job of working with the electrical contractor. I chuckled right along with him, but I knew he was wrong. The monster health-care products manufacturer was safe. You see, as long as I have any jobs to do that involve manual dexterity and tools, I’ll be needing their services. Frequently.

It was a long standing joke that the company’s shopping list always included a fresh supply of the little adhesive bandages while I was employed there. I have told you before that I am a klutz, but when you add tools to the mix, there is every chance that blood will be involved. Unless I burn myself first. Soldering irons and hot-glue guns are also self-inflicted wounds waiting to happen in my hands. My self-proclaimed mantra concerning the glue gun is, “There’s a reason they call it ‘hot-glue’.” Why, just two evenings ago, the Lovely Lady asked me to help position a piece of cardboard for a project she was working on and I stuck my thumb right in front of the gun as she moved toward her first glue point. Rule of thumb (just so you know and yes, pun intended): You should always let the glue cool off before attempting to remove it from your skin. Hot glue spread around only makes the third-degree burns cover a larger area.

Again, a few moments before I sat down to write tonight, I found myself scrambling for one of the ubiquitous bandages to stem the flow of blood from my fore-finger. I understand how to use tools. Really, I do! I know the rules for safe usage of all the hand-operated implements in my work bench. I just don’t follow them. I comprehend completely that the item held in your hand is not a safe surface on which to apply pressure with a screwdriver, but placing it on the bench makes it harder to see (and takes extra time to clear a space), so now I have an inch long laceration on my finger which throbs as I type. Somehow, it is easier to use a razor blade when you cut toward, rather than away, from your body. The list goes on. Files, hack-saws, pliers…all have contributed to the periodic blood-letting and frequent howls of pain. Even the tape dispenser has played its part in the sad tableau a time or two. No, the investors at Johnson and Johnson can rest easy. Their funds are safe.

Why do I repeat the dangerous actions time and time again? You have no doubt heard that one definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, while expecting a different result. I don’t really think my sanity is seriously in question (yet), but this does beg the question, does it not? I cut corners to save time, but pay the price in pain. I take the easy way to work on a project, only to spend the next few days wincing every time I move the injured appendage. I’m just not sure how to modify my behavior after all these years. Maybe I never will.

I’m not sure if it fits, but I recall a story another supervisor told me years ago about his shop teacher in high school. The shop teacher was a stickler for safety, insisting on eye protection and hard hats when appropriate. He was constantly correcting unsafe procedures around the table-saws and other power tools and giving instructions regarding the use of utility knives, awls, and hammers. All of that was undone in a few seconds one fateful afternoon. As the entire class worked on a project in the shop, the teacher spotted a retractable tape measure, with the tape extended and locked in place, lying on the floor. Pouncing on it quickly, he demanded to know to whom the tape belonged. As the unlucky culprit admitted ownership, the teacher launched into a tirade about how unsafe it was to leave the tape stretched out. Someone might have tripped over it, it might have gotten caught in a power tool, and someone could even cut himself on it. As he spoke, he released the lock. The tape zipped back into its case, gashing the teacher’s hand as it slid past. It took numerous stitches to close the wound, but no amount of time spent in the emergency room could undo the damage done to his reputation as a safety expert. Sometimes, bad stuff just happens, no matter how careful we are.

I guess what I’m saying is that you’ll get no deep spiritual truths from me tonight. No life lessons, no earth-shattering philosophies, just a casual shrug of the shoulders. I’ll probably continue to muddle through life, with a cut here and a burn there. The alternative is for me to sit and vegetate in my easy chair. And, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, I like my easy chair. Naps are good for the soul. That said, I hope that the undertaker has to pry a tool of some sort out of my battered hands when they come to take me away. Sitting in the easy chair is okay for a bit of rest and relaxation. But, I’ve still got some living to do and there’ll be a good bit of work done before I’m finished. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I just hope the Lovely Lady remembers that we need some Band-Aids when she goes shopping later this week.

“Say, do you think they call it a “nail-gun” because it shoots nails?”
(Al, in “Home Improvement”~1990’s Television sit-com)

“Let us then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate.
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.”
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~American poet~1807-1882)

Pay the Piper

October 3, 2011March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The new week stretches out ahead of me, already dark and foreboding. I look ahead and see orders to be placed which should have been completed last week, guitars to be repaired which were scheduled weeks ago, and not least of all…tax reports to be completed and filed. You probably filed your taxes for last year way back in April. Not this brainiac! While you were struggling through your Form 1040s with W2s in hand and maybe even a Schedule C or a Form 1099 looming, I was happily filing an extension. I provided my Social Security number and a signature, and I was done. Quick and painless, just like that, while you were still wrestling with interest and dividends and trying to pin down your donations. Like the grasshopper, I fiddled while the silly ants scrambled back and forth gathering their food to fill their stores. Well, my winter has come and I’m gazing enviously at all of you brilliant ants, snug and comfy in your armchairs, enjoying Sunday and Monday Night Football (or perhaps even an episode of “Survivor”), while I try desperately to find the documents which I know were filed away somewhere in preparation for this fateful week.

Over my lifetime, I have worked diligently to perfect the skill of procrastination, a fact I’ve admitted freely to you before. I’ve also discovered that my affliction is common to many, if not actually most, of us who call ourselves human beings. We love to do the things we love, therefore we dispense with them in a timely manner. Conversely, we hate to do the things we hate and put those tasks off for as long as we possibly can. We’ve talked before about hard lessons and how we learn from them. Tolkien says it laconically, “The burned hand teaches best.” I can only wish that were true of this disability.

I have been here again and again, with a sure knowledge that I shall arrive at this point anew in the very near future. As I write this, I’m trying to conjure up some credible explanation for this habitual pattern. The only thing that springs to mind is the feeling which comes at the completion of a job well done barely in time. It could be that there is also just a bit of the rebel in me and this is my way of flaunting it. After all, what is more satisfying than getting to the Post Office just as the last mail drop is being emptied for the day and being able to drop the packages right into the mail cart? Or…how about being the last customer admitted to the Revenue Office as the doors are locked on the last day of the month in which your tags are due? Possibly…handing that English assignment to your professor at the last minute before the deadline to turn it in? I can feel those heads nodding out there. You’ve done that! You’ve even felt the sense of power it gives you, the satisfaction at challenging the deadline and beating it!

I must also report that Mr. Tolkien said, “It’s the job that’s never started that takes longest to finish.” I hear crazy talk like that from one of my favorite authors and am slightly disappointed, but then I remember that he left behind many unfinished manuscripts. In fact, the beginnings of his masterpiece, “The Lord Of The Rings” appear to have their origins sometime around 1920, but he didn’t actually publish the first of the books until the mid 1950’s. My faith in the man’s genius is restored.

But still, the week stretches interminably ahead. I shall endeavor to repair the damage already done. Oh yes…sometimes I miss the deadlines. Then, for some reason, with no chance of the excitement of last minute victory, the already tardy projects are left to languish, sometimes until the customer (and possibly even a Lovely Lady) demands completion. There is no joy, no satisfaction in completing a late task, simply the knowledge that it is done. Such is the danger of pushing the limits, of daring the deadline. Sometimes, the hand does get burned. I’m just not sure it teaches much in this case.

But I’ll square my shoulders and lift my head…and then? I shall accomplish what I can this week. Sometimes all we can do is what is in front of us to do. Sound simplistic? I just know that if I look at the mountain, I’m overwhelmed. But one by one, the jobs can be peeled away, hopefully to reveal a completed “to do” list. I’ve never been so lucky, but it’s always a possibility. Who can tell?

Oh! I’ll start working on my procrastination problem too. Of course, you know when. Why, tomorrow, certainly!

“…Not all who wander are lost.”
(J.R.R. Tolkien~English author~1892-1973)

“The hasty and the tardy meet at the ferry.”
(Arabian proverb)

Hope Springs

September 29, 2011March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It was past the time when I should have closed up shop. As I usually do when there are customers in the store at closing time, I had not locked the door, simply because I don’t want to rush folks out. Not to disillusion you, but it’s not out of concern for their feelings, but simply because I understand what I call the WalMart Principle. The longer a customer stays, the more they’ll spend. Why else do you suppose that the items you want most in the store are at the back of the building? Sorry, but if I get started down that path, we’ll never get back to the subject at hand, so we’ll leave that as an unfinished rabbit trail. Maybe we can mark it and discuss the philosophies of the business world another day.

Now, where was I? Oh yes…past closing time. As the late customers walked out the door, another car pulled up in a parking space right in front of the door. I have never pulled the shade down in front of an incoming customer and I didn’t start today. The two ladies exited the car and headed through the front entrance, apologizing as they came in for keeping me. The mom and daughter are quite familiar to me, having been frequent customers over a number of years and we greeted each other as friends do. Mom has a sweet personality, usually all smiles and cheerful and her daughter is not far behind. Good character is definitely something we teach to our children and they learn from us well. Come to think of it, bad character gets passed down all too frequently as well, but that’s also a rabbit trail for another day. We found the items they needed and talked jovially of nothing in particular. As she prepared to leave however, I went and spoiled the atmosphere by asking how they were “coming along.” The transformation was almost palpable, her cheerful facial features altered in a trice, replaced by a somber expression. The twinkle I had seen in her eyes a moment prior was replaced almost instantly with the dull look of melancholy.

“Well, we’re making it.” She forced out the words. It was a little uncomfortable for a few seconds, as I struggled to recover too, but we batted a few encouraging words back and forth and in another minute the smile was back, whatever memories she was struggling with back under control and replaced in the mental file they had escaped from. Moments later, the two pretty young ladies headed out the door, murmuring their thanks to me for allowing them to come in so late. I smiled as I locked the door behind them and immediately kicked myself, feeling stupid for causing my friend pain. I knew her situation, the horrible accident a few months ago, the hospital stay, the slow physical recovery, but most especially the horror of having watched another human die in the accident. My simple inquiry about how they were coming along had led to a replay of unhappy memories and emotions, right before my eyes. I was struck by the thought of how fragile the human spirit is.

Words. Just a few common words. A question we ask all the time without thinking was all it took to transport her from the happiness of light banter to the realization, the memory of deep sadness and hurt. But, even as I contemplated the alleged fragility of our emotions, I was struck again with how resilient the human spirit is in reality. For the most part, we bend, but we don’t break. This young lady had experienced a horror beyond that which most of us could ever imagine, but she is functioning. She is recovering.

Does the memory lurk below the surface, ready to awaken at a moment’s notice? Sure. And, once again the spirit sinks, but almost as quickly, it rises to the challenge and rallies. I do not say that the sadness, the depressed spirit is nothing; it is definitely something very real. It has to be dealt with and not just pushed down temporarily, to be reckoned with at another crisis down the path of life. What I am saying is that there is hope. Along with the Apostle Paul, we admit to being “struck down but not destroyed”. Bad things happen, but they are only one battle, not the war. The human spirit was made to fight and again and again we see it do just that…fight its way back from the depths of despair to live and flourish in the light of day.

I’ve always loved the story of the prodigal son in the Bible. Perhaps the best line in the story for me is what he says when he has reached rock bottom and has no way to go but up. Sitting in the filth, in poverty, and in a disconsolate mood, he finally turns his focus from his dire circumstances to his hope of redemption. “I will arise and go to my father…” What a great statement! I’m getting up and getting help. I’ll stay in this pigsty no more. A few of you know that I also struggle with the melancholy moods at times, but frequently all it takes to move into the light is the realization that I have to start moving. I will arise…

Much more could be said on this subject. Perhaps I’ll speak of it again, perhaps not. It would be interesting to me if some of you who take a turn into the dark once in awhile commented about your experiences (anonymously, if you prefer). I’m not sure, but it seems to me that we all share the journey in that direction to different degrees.

Of course, after all my talk about getting up and moving forward, it may actually turn out that the Possum Lodge motto, from the “Red Green Show” on public television, is the better way to approach the problem anyhow: “Quando omni flunkus moritati” Translation? “When all else fails, play dead.” You may decide for yourselves.

“Hope springs eternal in the human breast…”
(Alexander Pope~English poet~1688-1744)

Loquaciousness and Verbosity…Am I Talking Too Much?

September 27, 2011March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I was reminded today that I am not the most succinct of writers. You see, I usually set out to write a few lines, but the result is frequently an essay. The short version of my story often turns into the unabridged version, wandering on, sometimes approaching the main point, but then tottering off again down some little sidetrack, eventually to return to the point again, almost.

I have often considered this issue. I would like to be concise. I wish that I could make a point with clarity and then move on. Many writers are able to do this. They seem to have the ability to say something and then not consider it again. Like the White Rabbit in the Alice stories, they are constantly on a schedule, checking their watches lest they be a second or two late. “I’m late, I’m late, I’m late. For a very important date…” Their lines are said and they exit, stage right, without even waiting to take a bow.

I write a few lines with the goal in mind that I will make my point and move on. Facing toward the final paragraph, I advance steadily, putting my thoughts into words. All goes well until I make the mistake of turning to look back at where I’ve been. I read and re-read. Then I start rearranging. It’s almost the same as when the Lovely Lady takes a notion to create a new look in the living room (a rare event, thankfully). Words get shoved against that margin, illustrations are set out in the middle of the page, then the original thought is nudged here, then there, until I am satisfied that all is arranged as I wish. No wait! That thought would look better over there, maybe leaving out that modifier and adding a pronoun. Yes, that’s it! Now it reads as I had hoped. What? Am I following another rabbit trail? How do I get back to the main theme now?

“Brevity is the soul of wit.” The now-famous phrase has come in our day to describe telling a joke, but in its original usage, Mr. Shakespeare intended it to mean that to be concise is to show acuity, or clarity. The real humor is that, not only have we changed our understanding of the statement, but we don’t realize that it was made by a person we would describe as loquacious, a blowhard, if you will. Polonius, who was spying on Prince Hamlet, was nothing if not long-winded. Full of himself, he intended to impress with the profusion of his words, if not with their brilliance. At no time was he interested in either brevity or clarity, but simply with dazzling his listeners with his rhetoric. Instead of wisdom coming with his advanced age, he had grown more talkative and foolish. There are days when I feel a kinship beyond what I wish to acknowledge in this forum.

Still, although I haven’t yet mastered the brevity idea, I trust that the acuity is coming along. Another famous quote uttered by the chattering old Polonius which is still in common usage today, is our version of his description of Hamlet’s feigned insanity. “Though this be madness, there is a method in’t.” I have long admitted to being not quite all here. (Hence, the title for this blog.) I hope though, that the method to my madness shows through to you, at least in some small part. The wandering about, the twists and turns…all are intended to bring you at last, obviously by the long way around (no short cuts here!), to an understanding of life’s little events, from my perspective of course.

It is further to be hoped that you find the trip worthwhile. True…a shortcut might have gotten us to the conclusion more quickly, but let’s be honest here; we wouldn’t have nearly as much fun that way. I still have lots of stories to tell and “concise” and “to the point” are not well suited to story-telling.

A friend reminded me today of another Paul who was long-winded and wordy. Things worked out well for him, what with jail and trials before Caesar and all. Hmmmm…maybe a change is called for. Nah, probably not.

Queen: “More matter, with less art.”
(Hamlet~Act 2, scene 2~William Shakespeare)

“The last stroke of midnight dies.
All day in the one chair
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged
In rambling talk with an image of air;
Vague memories, nothing but memories.”
(William Butler Yeats~Irish poet~1865-1939)

A Tale of Two Musicians

September 26, 2011March 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

My friend sent me a link to a video the other day. He sent it to me because a guitar I sold to him was being used in a concert in front of more than fifty thousand people. I should tell you that I’ve sold maybe thousands of guitars in my lifetime. I remember selling very few of them in particular. The majority are a jumble of customers’ faces and instruments, cases, and accessories. The ones I recall the best are the first few I sold, now well over thirty years ago, when I was a green kid, newly initiated into the music business.

These days, I’m reminded constantly of a story another friend told some time ago. A professor at the local university, he was in his office one afternoon when a student came by. “Dr. P, do you remember when you said…” My friend stopped him in mid-sentence. “Just a minute. Was it more than ten minutes ago?” he queried. “Yes,” came the reply. The good professor continued, “Was it less than ten years ago?” Again, the answer came, “Yes.” The old man replied abruptly, “Then, I don’t remember it!” I call him old even though he is only slightly older than I am, but I understand perfectly and can identify completely. The short term memory has gone, so much so that I sometimes don’t remember customers who have purchased instruments just a couple of days ago. At the same time, I can remember names and faces, along with details of interactions that happened decades ago. All I can say is that it’s a confusing time in life, this getting older.

What’s that? Oh yes! The guitar I sold to Toby….Well, he sent me a link, thinking that I would be excited because the guitar, which had hung in my shop for a period of time some months ago, was played in a huge crusade held recently in Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles. At first I was excited, watching the screen to catch glimpses of the old electric guitar, exclaiming when it appeared on the stand behind the guitarist from time to time (I couldn’t really remember what it looked like until then). Finally on one of the songs, the guitar was being played. There was even a close-up shot of it as the music progressed. I showed the video to a couple of guys who had seen the guitar in the store back when it had been for sale. But as we watched it, I realized something. I’m a whole lot more excited because Toby, a young man who I’ve known for several years and whose progress in the music field I’ve watched with more than a passing interest, was playing guitar with one of the best Christian artists performing today. That the guitar was one I had sold to him was of interest to me, but what I’m really happy about is that Toby is doing so well in his career. The guitar is made of pieces of wood, metal, and some electronic components. Toby is flesh and blood, a human being who I am pleased to call friend. I’m excited for him. He’s playing in front of thousands and with some of the top musicians in the business! That’s amazing!

It’s a tribute to his humble spirit that he didn’t send me the video and say, “I’m playing for such-and-such an artist in this huge crusade!” No, he thought that I would be interested to know that the instrument I had sold to him had been involved. Not every musician I know would be so unpretentious. I’m pleased to see that, at least as far as I can ascertain, the success has not gone to his head. I trust that it will remain so.

Even though I’ve talked about it before, will you let me talk about this principle for just a moment again? People are more important than things. The other day another musician, who is not so successful as Toby, came timorously in the front door of the music store. “I know I owe you money that you advanced me on that equipment,” he started, “but I’ve lost my job and my wife needs to go to the doctor.” Thinking that I would be angry with him, he went on to apologize for the delay several times. I assured him that it wasn’t important and that I wouldn’t have any problem with waiting for awhile. He was surprised and grateful. As he prepared to go, he mentioned that his wife’s medicine might have to wait also. I’m not always so speedy on the uptake, but before he got out the door, I happened to think that I could help with that too. When I offered, he was visibly taken aback. You see, he came anticipating that I would be like any other creditor he had ever encountered. He was expecting an angry, demanding lender who wanted to be repaid now, regardless of his circumstances. He might even have thought that the fact that he considered himself a failure would influence how I saw him and responded to him. The only explanation for why I don’t see him that way is that I have been (slowly) learning the principle. People are more important than things. I’m far from proficient in practicing the principle yet, but as more opportunities are encountered, I’m picking it up.

I’m proud that my friend Toby is excelling in his chosen profession. On the other hand, I’m looking forward to the day when I can be proud of my less fortunate friend’s progress. You see, indigence isn’t cause for disrespect or cruelty any more than success is cause for fawning or flattery. Neither affects the value our God places on them one whit, so it shouldn’t change our evaluation of them, either.

And, it’s kind of nice to get to play a part in each of their lives. I hope that you have relationships with both the successful kind as well as the needy kind in your life, too. Each serves to keep us humble. I’m guessing we could all use a little more of that. I know I can.

“Your own safety is at stake when your neighbor’s house is ablaze.”
(Horace~Ancient Roman poet~65 BC-8 BC)

“Suppose a man comes into your meeting wearing a gold ring and fine clothes, and a poor man in shabby clothes also comes in. If you show special attention to the man wearing fine clothes and say, “Here’s a good seat for you,” but say to the poor man, “You stand there” or “Sit on the floor by my feet,” have you not discriminated among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts?”
(James 2:2-4)

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