The pain was instantaneous.  I was daydreaming, as usual; walking along delivering my papers as I did every week and hadn’t really been paying attention to the landscape.  We were supposed to walk up the drive to each house to place the paper on the door, returning to the street and up to the next house, but that was way too time consuming and involved almost twice as many steps as cutting across every lawn on the block.  As I meandered past the stand of oleander bushes in this particular yard, I was completely unprepared for the bared fangs that ripped into my calf, tearing my best blue jeans in the process.  The medium-sized dog seemed as surprised as I, turning tail and running around the house as fast as he could when I spun to face him.

I yelled.  The folks in the house were out on the stoop in a moment, wanting to know what had inspired the ruckus. By this time, I was in control of my faculties again and told them calmly that their vicious dog had mounted a surprise attack on me.  The blood was flowing freely and the ripped jeans were easy to see.  They quickly took me inside and helped to get the laceration cleaned up, bandaging it as well as they could.  The worried family insisted that I stay and wait for my folks to take me to the doctor, but time was a’wasting and I had a route to finish.  You may think that noble, but it was just that I knew I wouldn’t get paid if the papers didn’t get delivered.  Thus is was that, mere moments after being bitten by what was quickly growing in my mind to be a huge animal, I was limping my way down the road again.  I didn’t get far, because the worried folks called the newspaper, which in turn, called my folks and they picked me up within a few moments anyway.  So, all I got for my trouble was a scar on the back of my leg (and patched jeans) and a short paycheck for the week.

The next Tuesday, I was on my route again, almost as if nothing had happened.  Amazing how we heal up when we’re young!  What hadn’t healed was my fear of that monster dog.  As I approached the house, I began to watch for him, checking the bushes and even spying out the neighbor’s yards as I neared the fateful spot of my injury.  No dog.  I did hear a voice call out from the front steps of the house, though.  “He’s here, Mom!”  Oh no, I was going to be in trouble for cutting across the yard and surprising their sleeping dog, an error I was not repeating on this day.  But, that wasn’t it at all.  The lady of the house came out of the front door with a small, placid-looking canine on a leash, calling for me to come over to the porch.  I complied and she explained.  Knowing that I had had a traumatic experience there the week before, she thought it necessary that I get acquainted with my attacker, so we could avoid a repeat performance.  As I approached cautiously, the happy little creature lifted his head, sniffing of my hand and licking it.  I knelt down and patted him on the head and he responded by burrowing in close to me and begging for more of my attention.

We were good friends for the rest of the time I walked that route. What could have been a continuous sense of fear or dread every single time I approached that neighborhood, turned into a joy and the anticipation of spending a moment or two with a great little dog each week.  All because we got the issues taken care of quickly and without giving time for fear and dread to do its work. 

My good friend, Dave brought my bicycle back to me today.  My recent accident had done a little damage and I wanted to get it back into shape.  Dave loves to fix bikes and had a real knack for it, so he was the logical choice to make things right again.  After a few moment’s conversation, he left the bike in front of the music store as he departed.  I decided to put it away a few moments later.  I have never been afraid to lift my leg over the bar of a bicycle in my life.  This time as I began to swing my leg over, one of the more persistent injuries in my right thigh reminded me momentarily of the trauma my last ride had inflicted.  I walked the bike around to the storage building and pushed it inside.  I think there was a little cold sweat on my brow as I locked the door.  Maybe in a day or two, I’ll see if I can get reacquainted with the vicious machine.

As I remembered the story of the dog biting me when I was a kid, all kinds of other illustrations came to me.  There are so many applications to be made.  I think I’ll let you make your own connections this time.

I need a little time to learn the lesson anew for myself.   I’m hopeful that it won’t be long before I’m back in the saddle again.  I’ll let you know.

“There never was a horse that couldn’t be rode; never was a cowboy that couldn’t be throwed.”
(American cowboy wisdom~attributed to Will James~cowboy author~1892-1942)

“For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love, and of self-discipline.”
(I Timothy 1:7 NIV)

Five late-night sessions at the keyboard.  I should clarify.  Five fruitless, frustrating, you might even say futile, attempts to kick start my nightly habit of sharing a little piece of my life and heart with those of you who choose to muddle through these sometimes light-hearted and frequently pedantic posts.  I have been trying to blame my recent failure on a bicycle misadventure which I managed to get myself into just over a week ago, but tonight, I’m thinking that may just be a convenient scapegoat.  Time will tell.

As I sat once more tonight and considered a subject appropriate for writing (and reading) about, I glanced over a couple of recent, unfinished posts and came across one with the title you see above this column.  Opening the field which should have yielded a clue to the actual subject for the aborted discourse, I found…absolutely nothing.  I still had nothing at all in the way of explanation of my original intent for the orphaned title.  My mind, like the blank field I found myself faced with, was empty.  Upon further examination of events of the last week however, I’m coming to believe that I may actually be a prophet.

The answer to the question above, of course, is “Yours Truly”.  After all, what seemed a spectacularly brilliant idea, night riding to avoid the intense daytime heat, returned a spectacularly dismal result.  Because of the nature of the accident, I have no memory of what actually occurred.  Regardless of the details, which may never be known, it was not a successful  implementation of a new regimen for staying fit.  Perhaps it was a case of poor research, resulting in a faulty conclusion.  It may have even been a great plan, but just poor implementation.  Either way, I will tell you the same thing the Lovely Lady reports that I blurted out to her, just before we headed for the Emergency Room:  “Well, that wasn’t such a good idea…”

A lifetime it seems, of Steve Urkel–type utterances (“Did I do that????) has, at times, led me to consider myself a clumsy, blundering oaf.  But tonight, I would actually like to propose that it is the Steve Urkels of the world (you know who you are…) who achieve the feats worth celebrating.  We clumsy, blundering oafs who pick ourselves up and go at it again will never, ever attain the status of the conquering hero.  If anything, we will be remembered more for our failures than for our successes.  That said, I’m finding (over and over) that it takes more determination and courage to keep trying when you’re not well suited for the task than it does for any talented and skilled superstar to do what comes easily to them.

So, if you’re thinking that the title of this post is about my accident last week, you’re mistaken.  The thing I’m sorry about is wasting time repenting of trying.  I’m sorry that I have felt (temporarily) like a failure again and again, when I’ve simply fallen short in a single event in the long marathon of my earthly sojourn.  There are other things I am sorry about…miscues in personal relationships, goals I’ve given up on, etc., but I’ll have to work my way through those one step at a time.  I hope you’ll stick with me through the process.  I couldn’t make it without you.

The bike riding thing?  I think I’ll give it another try after some equipment repairs and a new helmet.  Oh!  And a bit more physical healing!  I may regret it temporarily, but I’ll take that chance. 

“…one thing I do.  Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”
(Philippians 3: 13b, 14 NIV)

“How long should you try?  Until.”
(Jim Rohn~American entrepreneur and motivational speaker~1930-2009)

My first year in business and already I was a failure.  The man on the telephone was filling my ear full of his opinion of me and my business practices, and none of it was particularly complimentary.  The words I heard were “liar”, “cheat”, and I think there might have been an “idiot” thrown in there, too.  I was devastated.  And confused.

A few weeks before, I had taken a keyboard in on trade from a local music teacher.  I had allowed one hundred dollars on the trade, so that was the price I asked for the keyboard when it was placed on the floor for sale.  The teacher had informed me that he had paid two hundred dollars for the instrument, so it seemed fair to offer him about one half of the new price for it.  I did so without the aid of any “blue book” or other value appraisal.  In the intervening years, I have learned that some of my biggest mistakes are made when I “fly by the seat of my pants”, rather than finding corroborating information to support my assumptions.

An interesting thought, flying by the seat of your pants.  Originally used as a term to describe pilots who flew without the aid of a radio or instruments, it might have meant literally that when one felt the friction of the ground on the backside, it was time to pull up and gain a bit of altitude.  It was a term used to describe Douglas Corrigan, a pilot in the 1930s who gained notoriety for filing a flight plan for Brooklyn to Los Angeles, and instead, ended up in Dublin, Ireland.  He’s known to us today as “Wrong Way” Corrigan, one of the most infamous of the “fly by the seat of your pants” pilots. 

I felt like “Wrong Way” something, but I certainly wasn’t deserving of the excoriating language being directed at me now.  The man had come in and purchased the keyboard, perfectly happy to buy it at the same price I had allowed for a trade, leaving a trade-in item of his own and only paying a fraction of the cost in cash.  I thought the transaction was complete until he telephoned the next week.  It seems that he had found the same keyboard (now discontinued and being sold on clearance) at a shop in another town at less than my price.  Only, this one was new.  He was livid!  I was in his sights!  And, he pulled the trigger.

I did the only thing that I knew to do.  As calmly as I could, I told him that I had priced the instrument in good faith and he was welcome to bring it back and I would return his trade and cash to him.  He retorted that he would be in the next day and hung up without another word.  I nervously awaited his arrival, which thankfully, came at a time when no other customers were present in the store (actually a very common occurrence in those early days).  As I talked with him and made a receipt to document the refund, I tried once more to explain my quandary, but he was having none of it.  “Fine.  I’ll just call my lawyer!”  I was standing in front of him with his cash and trade-in instrument ready to hand to him, but he refused to concede that I was acting as honorably as I could.  I knew that he was a church-going man, so as he walked out of the store, I followed him to the door and suggested that as Christians, we shouldn’t leave matters in such a way between us and asking for his pardon, stuck out my hand to grip his in a handshake.  Ignoring my hand, he stalked out, saying that he would never trade in this thieving establishment again.

I was crushed.  And, still confused.  My assumption had always been that fair dealing and a quiet answer would turn aside the anger and acrimony of any issue.  I was doubly sure of that when we both shared the same faith.  I was wrong.  The depression I felt was palpable.  The Lovely Lady knows when to leave me alone and this was one of those times.  I moped for days before just sucking it up and moving forward.  Even today, I still wish that the ordeal had ended otherwise.  But, it didn’t.  There has never been a reconciliation.

It seems that there are just some people who want to bear a grudge.  They know that they are right and cannot countenance a miscalculation by the people with whom they deal.  I understand that; even understood it before this episode.  I just don’t want to live in that world.  It turns out that I do live in just that world.  What to do?

I’ve come to the conclusion that I, at least, have to live my life with integrity.  I will do my best to be aboveboard in all my dealings with my fellow humans, but more than that, when I learn of my errors, of my sins, if you will, I will make amends.  The rest is up to those folks with whom I deal.  How they respond, if I have done my part, is all on them.  Forgiveness and reconciliation between humans is a two-way street that doesn’t just allow, but requires, traffic from both directions.  I want the happy ending, the equitable outcome, but it’s not up to me.  And, in the end, I can live with that.

Too heavy today?  Well, I did preach at my church this past Sunday, so I must still be in that mode.  At least, I didn’t tell you the corny joke about the shovel and the octopus.  Pity the poor congregation!  Anyway, I can promise you this; lightheartedness will come again, along with more preachiness too.   

You’ll just have learn to take the bad with the good.

“If you have integrity, nothing else matters.  If you don’t have integrity, nothing else matters.”
(Alan K Simpson~American politician)

“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”
(Romans 12:21)

After a hiatus of more than one or two days, and with a looming deadline past and met, I believed that tonight the words would flow from my head and heart, and the morning would find you with an impressive post to dig into.  I won’t be surprised if you’re more disappointed than impressed.

What is it about meeting a goal that seems to leave us empty and directionless for a period of time thereafter?  I have seen this happen more times than I care to think about; the most notable being university graduates who crash and burn after completion of their studies, their emotions drained and their physical “gas tank” empty.  Every goal that their life has been planned around to this point was achieved by walking across the stage to receive that diploma, and now they wonder who they are or will become.  Students no more, they have to make the very difficult shift to what we call real life with its treacherous tangle of potential traps and snags.  This happens on a much smaller scale with many workers who have finished a long-running project, only to be faced with the prospect of another and another, and yet another.  Although we tend not to be aware of each occurrence, I think it happens to all us on an even smaller scale throughout our lives.

For the last week and a half, I’ve had numerous times when ideas for a post would spring into my head unbidden.  Having no time to contemplate the subject, I told myself every time that I would have no problem remembering them and putting them into language suitable for your perusal.  No such luck tonight.  The creative process is short-circuited by the knowledge that the aforementioned project was successfully completed and the realization that I don’t have that to work on anymore.  Strangely, the realization evokes a feeling almost of disappointment.

When I was a child, my mother would occasionally take out the cleaning tools to sweep, mop, and wax the living and dining room floor.  At some point, she would find that either the desire or the energy were not sufficient to the job.  It would be at this juncture that the enterprise would be shelved, with the words, “Well, a lick and a promise will have to do for today.”

And, that will have to do for you, my readers, today also.  It’s not a finished product, but it will suffice until one comes along.  I took a half-hearted lick at it and my promise of better efforts to follow is all you will get tonight from this once-and-future blogger. 

Patience is a virtue, you know.

Hic iacet Arthurus, rex quondam, rexque futurus — “Here lies Arthur, king once, and king to be”
(from the tomb of King Arthur as described in Le Morte D’Arthur, by Sir Thomas Malory)

I was the king of the control room!  “We’ve been listening to 101 Strings playing a beautiful rendition of  ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ from South Pacific.  Stay tuned for today’s weather coming up after these announcements.”  What an ego trip!  Sitting in front of the suspended microphone, I was flipping switches and turning “pots” to move from the mic to the turntables (yeah, vinyl even), to the cart machine with it’s stack of PSAs (public service announcements) lined up for each scheduled break of the afternoon.  I just knew there were thousands of avid fans glued to their radios at home and in their cars.  They had to be riveted by my voice and style.  Casey Kasem had nothing on me!

It was 1972 and I was volunteering at a little Christian FM radio station which was broadcast throughout south Texas and northern Mexico.  The management was so desperate for weekend workers that they allowed this fifteen-year old geek to sit at the controls and spin easy listening records, along with reading the news from the old teletype.  That’s right…A teletype, exactly like the one in “Good Morning, Vietnam”, only without the red lines drawn through the stories.  It was a dream come true for this nerdy, musician type.  I sat there, a faceless voice, and didn’t worry at all about anyone teasing me about being skinny, or wearing unfashionable glasses, or even noticing an acne problem.  It was me and the equipment, being transmitted sans visuals into the homes and vehicles of listeners all around the area.  This, I could get used to!

My work had its boring side too, since I had also obtained a provisional license to run the transmitter which was in the big warehouse-like area just outside the control room.  Actually, my duties were limited to taking readings of the meters every hour and making minor adjustments to the ancient dials if any levels were amiss.  I usually did this for a few hours on Saturday afternoon, just after my stint at the control board.  Sometime during those hours, the broadcast would switch to the Spanish language until later in the evening.

Did I say it was boring?  Well, that was generally true, but one evening I was reminded that, like the Boy Scouts, I needed to “Be Prepared.”  No, there wasn’t a disaster with the equipment; I was ready for that eventuality.   It seems that it’s always the things for which we don’t plan that cause us the most problems.  As the Spanish language announcer talked to his audience in the next room, I passed the time in an activity I always enjoyed.  I had brought a book of piano transcriptions with me and I sat down at the wonderful Yamaha piano in the big studio which was used for broadcasting large groups and live music programs.  As the Spanish words droned on through the tiny monitor on the wall, I turned to a familiar page and began to play.  My skill level was not stupendous, but as my late Father-In-Law used to put it, I enjoyed playing “for my own amazement” from time to time.  I went through one song and began on the next.

Happily engrossed in the music, I didn’t notice that the droning voice had stopped, nor did I see the red “on-air” light shining on the wall for several minutes.  When I finally became aware of the changes, I glanced through the big soundproof plate glass into the control room, to see the announcer smiling at me and pointing to the microphone beside the piano.  I was on air!  A near-perfect rendition of “It Is Well With My Soul” became unrecognizable for a few seconds as the stage-fright hit me.  Then realizing that he wasn’t going to relent and turn off the mic, I settled in and ably finished the last few pages of the transcription I had been practicing, but was now performing.  When I finished, I took my hands off the keys and raised one up to my throat, bringing it across in the universal signal to “cut” the broadcast.  The announcer shook his head in refusal, so I was forced to begin another arrangement.  It went pretty well, with just a minor glitch as I turned a reticent page.  As the notes died out from the second song, I once again signaled the man to turn off the microphone.  This time, I refused to put my hands on the keys again and he was forced to return to his monologue to avoid any more dead air.  The red light was extinguished as I heard the voice in the monitor saying something about  the “station engineer, performing on the piano in Studio C” and then I moved away from the piano.  My first and last live piano performance on the radio was over that quickly.

As I look back, I remembering being angry…and proud.  I would never have agreed to be in that position if he had asked, but I was pleased that I was able to finish well.  It wasn’t a radio-worthy performance, but it certainly wasn’t a disaster.  It’s funny – the conflicting thoughts that go through your head after such an incident.  “I hope no one heard me.”  “I hope all my friends were listening.”  “That was the stupidest thing!  Why in the world would he do that to me?”  “That was kind of neat!  I did okay!”  When I got home, my Mom told me she had heard the incident.  I could tell she was proud of me.  As usual, the praise went to my head, but she counterbalanced that quickly as she said, “It would have been nicer if you had quit chewing your gum so loudly while the microphone was on.”  Then I remembered…the mic had been set up for a vocalist at the piano and was not aimed right at the instrument.  It picked up the notes just fine, but it did a better job of amplifying the smacking of my Dentyne gum, which kept rhythm the whole time.

I’ve heard the saying all my life:  “The devil is in the details”, meaning that it’s the details that trip us up.  We get the main thing right, but the little things we forget about cause the problems. What might have been a memorable performance in its triumph, was simply turned into another life lesson about keeping my mind on the whole job, not just the flashy, impressive parts.  Actually, I’ve learned that the original saying was “God is in the detail” and it has been turned around only in later years.  I like the original better.  It reminds us in a positive way that all of what we do is important to Him.  Every minute detail has the potential to bear fruit, has promise of producing a positive result.

In spite of the gum smacking, I still fancy that I did okay for a fifteen-year old.  I like to think that I would do better now.  That said, I’m not sitting at a piano anywhere near a microphone, especially not in a radio studio.  I really don’t want to find out if I’m right or wrong.

“It’s the little details that are vital.  Little things make big things happen.”
(John Wooden~American basketball player and coach~1910-2010)

Technological incompetence rules supreme.  Did that say “save to disk”?  Or was it “clear all files”?  What does “critical error” mean?  Can I keep surfing the web anyway?  Evidently not, since the screen is now frozen.  Control, alt, delete.  Control, alt, delete.  CONTROL, ALT, DELETE! 

I joke about it, but once again the situation is very real.  Our accounting computer has corrupted files on the hard drive.  No chance of a restart, since the files are critical to rebooting.  The Lovely Lady has fled the region, gallivanting off with her grandchildren.  My clumsy attempts to fill her shoes are almost laughable, but I’m not amused.  I struggle to cope with customers streaming in the doors, while the telephone clamors for its share of attention, sometimes two lines at once.  “No, I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you what your account balance is.  The computer is indisposed.”  “I’m sorry, but she’s not here today and won’t be placing an order this week.” I try to remember to smile.  All the experts say that even people talking to you by phone know when you’re smiling.

The comedy of ineptitude is magnified by the woes of folks at the other end of the phone or in front of me.  One of our main suppliers has no power, thus no ability to answer the phone or receive a FAX.  Them, I did have an order to share with (of course, prepared by the Lovely Lady before her exit), but it will not be forthcoming.  The lady in Virginia needs the product tomorrow for a funeral, the fellow standing pleadingly in front of me has to have the guitar repaired by tomorrow evening.  And all the while, that dead computer sits there, nibbling away at the edges of my still outwardly calm demeanor.  What am I going to do?  Miraculously, the work day comes to an end; the light of the “OPEN” sign is extinguished and the door locked against further intrusion.

KNOCK! KNOCK!  Someone is at the door and wants in.  I cower in the darkness at my desk and consider my options.  Could I slink out of my chair and into the back room without being seen?  Maybe I could just yell, “We’re closed!” and let them leave angry.  Neither choice seems to be appropriate, so I open the door to find my computer-guru son standing there.

We start the process to retrieve the information lost and decide to go get some supper while the files are being exchanged between sources.  As we get in the car, the Lovely Lady calls to announce that she and her captors had made it safely to their destination.  Already, the load is lifting.  A good meal and good company complete the process.  I recall the candy bar commercial, currently being shown in different incarnations, where one of the characters is  portrayed as a “diva”, a demanding, complaining attention-hog.  His friends hand him the candy bar and all is right with the world once more.  No more complaining, apologies all around, and peace reigns.  How did I become that diva?  And, how many times do I personally need to see the truth to recognize the situation when it begins, instead of after it’s settled?

Regardless, I’m content tonight in the knowledge that our lives are one experience of grace after another; one more chance to do better than the last time.  Hard things come into our lives for a reason.  Hopefully, we grow and learn from them.  Some of us are more stubborn than others and have to work our way through the lessons more often.

I’m not really a quick study, I guess.  I am coming to greatly appreciate those people who come alongside and hand me a candy bar.  That’s a lesson learned today.  We’ll see what comes tomorrow.

“When God give us tribulations, he expects us to tribulate.”
(Anonymous)

“Trouble is temporary.  Time is tonic.  Tribulation is a test tube.”
(William Arthur Ward~American pastor and teacher~1921-1994)

The vehicle rolled into the parking lot today a little oddly.  Most drivers power on up to the front of the store, hitting their brakes only at the last minute, seemingly to avoid scraping their bumper on the front wall of the building.  This SUV rolled off the street slowly, losing speed as it traversed the asphalt, finally easing its way to a stop almost in a parking spot, but not quite.  The man got out of his vehicle, talking on a cell phone and walked around to the passenger side, gesturing with his hands, as if the person on the other end of the connection could see his emotional state.  Taking a little girl out of the child seat, he hung up the phone with a final exaggerated motion and headed into the music store.

I greeted him and told him I would be happy to help if he needed anything, half expecting the perennial, “I’m just looking.”  To my surprise, he didn’t beat around the bush at all.  “I ran out of gas and wanted somewhere to get my girl out of the heat while someone brings me some more.”  We talked a minute.  I offered to give him the couple of gallons I had available, but he demurred, saying that a family member was already on the way with some.

I got busy with other things and didn’t think about how long he had waited, until I heard his cell phone ring.  He wasn’t happy as he explained (not quietly) to the caller that, no he didn’t want the small container, it had oil mixed in it.  He wanted the 3 gallon can, and why wasn’t it already here?  Since it was obvious that I couldn’t have missed the gist of his “private” conversation, I again offered help in the form of a couple gallons of gas, which were stored in a can about 20 feet away from where our conversation was occurring.  Again, he refused and I went about my business.  Quite some time later, while I was talking with other customers, he noticed a familiar vehicle turning in.  Exclaiming, “It’s about time!” he went out the door, once again with his arms gesturing his displeasure at his predicament and the extended time it had taken for the young man, obviously his teenaged son, to arrive with aid.  Both vehicles left the parking lot shortly thereafter.

The episode, a minor part of a busy day, has been bothering me all evening.  You know what I mean…There are lots of other things that demand your attention, but something niggles at your mind.  I wasn’t sure what the problem was, but something just wasn’t sitting right.  I left the Lovely Lady working craftily at her handwork a few moments ago, to come and write, suggesting that I might be a little too tired to come up with anything tonight.  Truth be told, I’ve had a lot of evenings like that recently.  I love writing; love the mental exercise and the satisfaction of the flow of ideas, snatched from the nebulous current of my thoughts and then expressed in black and white on a page or computer screen.  It’s actually hard work, but with a great emotional reward under normal conditions.  But, I’m tired, physically and mentally; battered by too many days without rest and too many short nights.  Come to think of it, I’m running out of gas.

It hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks!  The man and his little girl came into my music store for my benefit today.  That was what had been bothering me all afternoon and evening.  The tank is empty and needs to be filled.  And I’m too stubborn to accept any help except that which I can control.  I could pass the buck and remind you that the stubbornness is hereditary.  It wouldn’t be untrue, but it’s an incomplete answer.  Who my father and his father and his father before him were does impact who I am, but I have lived enough years on this earth to accept responsibility for my actions and reactions today.  And, since the reserves are obviously about used up, I’m just going to have to admit that the solution to my energy crisis doesn’t lie within, but will come from another source which I don’t control.

I’m going to take a little time off to refuel.  It’s likely that there will be some time alone with the Lovely Lady involved in the process.  We may just wander around the countryside for the long holiday weekend, but there’ll be no long-distance calls from New York or Wisconsin, no customers to show guitars to in the store.  You may be aware by now that my profession and daily schedule are a big part of my comfort zone, but they’re also how the fuel gets used up at times.  So, I’m headed to the service station to see about getting the tank filled up, both physically and mentally, and that means a move out of my little box.  I think I can handle it. 

I’m guessing none of you will miss my little sketches much.  They might even improve in readability after a few days off for refueling.  Time will tell.

“I will do my best.  That is all I can do.  I ask for your help, and God’s.”
(Lyndon B. Johnson~American President~1908-1973)

“Hope oft deceives…yet twice blessed is help unlooked for.”
(J R R Tolkien~English author~1892-1973)