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)

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)

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)

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)

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)